Dangerous Games

The stately manor stands above the unwashed masses of Corellia, aloof, apart, and wholly iconic, a remnant of those bygone days where kings ruled with iron fists, and the nobility were all but gods, answering only to themselves and, when it was convenient, their sovereign. The inside, however, has been wholly transformed, though only those that had been here before would notice that. Well, not wholly; the foyer is still the same, with the exception of several heavily armed guards that stand at various locations. Two at the door, checking for weapons that may be missed by the sensor; two at the bottom of the stairs, and two at the entrance to the ballroom. It is here that the look deviates from usual. The room is now a tribute to Corellia, the great planet that has made so many contributions to the galaxy, positive and otherwise. Waiters dressed as CEC technicians mill around with trays of drinks, and a huge buffet is spread with fare from every corner of the galaxy. In the center of the room sit three large tables, set up with stasis fields and manned by dealers dressed in various costumes, appropriate to the theme of their location. And in the midst of all the goings-on stands Smitherbodkins. He has put aside his usual basic black in favor of a CEC jumpsuit not unlike that of the waiters, though his is tailored to fit him as immaculately as the gloves he usually wears. At the moment, he is speaking with another uniformed security person in hushed tones.

Giles GILES PENDLETON The man's legacy is as large, dark, and complex as any within the New Order. He is practically a myth, and certainly his name still inspires dread among those who can recall the early days of the Rebel Alliance. His resume is extensive: he began as an associate with the SAGroup, a recruiter of young people for Imperial projects and energy (and certainly later, who can deny his steadying influence over the Empire Youth project?). Of course he had worked with the Imperial Security Bureau, in its capacity of protecting the Empire's citizens. Of course he had worked with CompForce! But these were blunt instruments, and this man? It is evident that he is an instrument of subtlety and influence. He is perhaps best known for his work in the Brak Sector, where he worked tirelessly for years to tamp down the ill-conceived rebel terrorist cell that threatened the Imperial world of Demar (though the rebels remember him as a monster). Giles wears the completely black uniform of the COMPNOR Select Committee. A small silver pin is worn at his throat, an Imperial logo positioned upon an array of stars -- the Vadimus Cluster. His hair is lustrous and styled, brown with only a hint of gray. He must be nearing sixty years of age, but his marble-smooth skin is perfect. His teeth are overly large, perfectly square and neatly aligned. The man shows steady confidence in his bearing, posture, and expressions. He is wearing a short purple cape, the rich fabric draped stylishly over one shoulder.

Sabacc games on Corellia in the opulence of a stately manner? It's going to draw the occational rif-raf just by the sheer weight of audacity, though it's likely a large portion of them will be waved away. Alac Y'all steps in through the positioned security at the doors, going through their check list with the dirty dressed grifter and waving him through with a twitch of their hand towards the festivities proper. Once through, his hat is adjusted a bit as it sits upon his brow, scanning across host and guest in a lazy sort of manner that obviously draws him to the food.. free food.. next stop, booze. It's a check list one must take care of systematically.

Lynae gives one more careful tug at the mass of red curls that have temporarily replaced her own much darker locks, the fingertips of one hand pressing against the pins that hold the hair in place in a tower of curls unlike anything she'd ever worn before. Another small adjustment to the gown she's wearing before she makes the approach through security and passes through into the great room, ball room she presumes, where all of the guests are gathering. With no weapons to declare she passes through without muss, fuss or tension, and almost immediately spies the large gaming tables and feels a smile form on her face.

A convoy of speeders arrive, each of them shined to a mirror gloss, each one identical. The convoy pauses at the gate and is admitted. A number of sharp-dressed Imperial step out of the speeders, along with what must be other business associates? Human men in shiny, contemporary business suits, a little too fashion-forward, men with barrel chests, heavy jowls, and the humorless scowls of thugs. One opens the door on the center landcenter, and out springs Giles Pendleton. He has the carefully managed good looks of an IGN anchor and the perfectly arrayed clothing of a military man. He turns, every move an affected gesture, slick and smarmy, throwing his cape over his shoulder to one side. "What a dump!" he announces to the men in his group, who offer up a perfunctory laugh. "Ok, where's this game? How do you play sabacc again?" He waves them off and heads inside, alone. By the time Giles has passed security, he has handed over a pair of holdout blasters that did not look like they could have fit where they were concealed. He also hands over a large keychain with some furry portion of a creature hooked to it. Giles gets that returned to him for the event. He enters the Ballroom, directly, wearing a huge smile. He pauses at three or four groups before he makes it all the way in, foisting himself on people, working the room like a politician. "Well well! Lord Geophreigh. Fine of you to host, very fine."

It's not that often that the Imperial Navy grants shore leave on his home planet, at least in the current state of affairs. After getting liberty approved, getting on the guest list was a piece of cake. Calyx Drogyn adjusts his jacket slightly before being cleared through by the guards. He makes his way into the ballroom, glancing around curiously as he watches more and more people arrive, though doesn't seem too eager to throw away his hard earned pay just yet.

The guests are arriving. Smitherbodkins peels himself away from the guard, who steps back, standing almost flush against the wall, as unobtrusive as such a large man can be. The host turns, reaching toward one of the passing waiters whose tray contains several short glasses of a rich amber liquid. He takes a sip, his eyes scanning the room, before his attention is caught by the boisterous entrance of Giles. He begins to make his way toward the man, step by agonizing step, a smile on his half-hidden face. "Mr. Pendleton," he says once he's near enough to be heard over the buzz of the room, "So good of you to join us tonight." He inclines his head in a practiced bow, "Please. Have a drink." The slightest raise of his eyebrow is all it takes for one of the waiters to change direction, quickly offering Giles a tray of various choices. "I do so hope you'll have a good time."

Alac sets out large portions onto a little plate juggled easily in one flat palm, even double dipping a couple times in a few of the sauces. Discreetly, since this is a fine party and all, but he does it. It happened. We've gotta move forward with that knowledge. His mouth germs are all over one of the sauces, and he's not even going to mention which one. It's gingivitis roulette at the dinner table people, keep that in mind. With his plate balanced and his mouth full with some sort of fishy finger foody sort of appetizer, he makes his rounds towards one of them waiters holding amber liquid glasses. "Wuh inn'ere?" Motioning with a dripping shell towards the glasses. Shell goes onto the plate, fingers go into his mouth, a glass is taken for a drink. Discreet. Sip.. "Mm, good stuff." Not even apologizing for speaking with his mouth full because he's a rebel.

Calyx grabs a wine glass from a passing waiter, free hooch, attractive women, gambling. It's a sailors dream come true. The NCO makes his way futher into the party, sipping his wine and checking out the more notable guests, "Nice party, huh?" He comments to Alac as he ends up near the other man clearly not in his native habitat.

Lynae wanders along the edge of those already gathering around the tables, a curious and faintly speculative gleam in her eyes a she watches the game. A passing water offers a tray laden with glasses containing some manner of sweet wine and she selects a glass, overs up a quiet murmur of thanks before taking a small sip from the contents. A quiet, "Hmmm," of appreciation is voiced while continuing to study the game.

Giles curls his lip and backs up slightly at Smitherbodkins's mask. "What are you supposed to be? Wait, is this a costume party?" He laughs suddenly, gives Smitherbodkins's a practiced haymaker to the shoulder, and turns back to face the room. "No seriously. This is a nice place. What's this set you back? I could see coming up here, maybe doing a week or two of vacation, something low key, when you really want to get out in the middle of nowhere, you know? I mean -- it's like we always say: Corellia? Not like the old days, Geoph." Giles hooks the glass he wants, waves off the waiter, and takes a sip at it. "Ffah! Wow," he utters, gasping, before running off to ostentatiously chase down the waiter and return the glass. "Do you have anything that doesn't taste like it came out of a nerf's wrong end?"

The friendly (sort of) punch nearly upsets the delicate balance that Smitherbodkins has managed to strike between good leg, bad leg, and cane, but he manages to catch himself, if somewhat inelegantly. That gracelessness, more than the actual threat of falling, makes him wince. "Costumes were encouraged, but not necessary. I feel it gives these things such a nice flavor, don't you agree?" Hopefully better than Giles found the flavor of the drink he just spat out. Of course, the host is not so gauche as to comment on it. "Thank you," he says with another nod, "It was quite costly, I'll admit, but worth it." He surveys the decor with satisfaction, taking another sip from his glass. Once he's swallowed, he gestures to the table decked out like a Corellian Corvette, "Please, make yourself comfortable. I shall join you shortly, but I must make the rounds. You know how it is." He chuckles, but his eyes have already fallen on that mass of red curls, and he blinks, going visibly paler. His brow furrows; is it...no. Clearly not. And he shakes his head, as if to clear it, beginning to walk toward the woman in question. "Ms. Cassius," he says, his smile growing, "You look lovely."

Alac looks over to Calyx from beneath the brim of that long hat worn on dirty hair, "Sure, yeah. Good food.." Sliding his pinky along the outside edge of his backteeth, "Nice booze too.. Betterin' the swill I'm use to anyhow.." With a little cough into the edge of his thumb his head perks up a bit, "Think they got a couple extra bottles sittin' over at the bar.." Which, incidentally, passes eyes across Giles and Bod standing together discussing the quality of the offered beverages and opulence. Snort laughing around the tail of another crustatious food dipped in some sort of spicy orange fungus looking sauce, "Nice view of the forest too." Said with a flick of his wrist in the Imperial Officer's direction. "Tree growin' right up that one's backside, huh?" Corellia: We've got class coming out of our ears. Also, apparently, we're oblivious. "Sorry... Manners." Which he shows he has by wiping his dirty hand down the front of his slacks to extend out to Calyx, "Candor Olyx. Gonna be the one walkin' outta here with everyones credits."

Entering wearing a barely formal getup, Harmon is wearing a black masquerade mask. Regardless if out of place he doesn't seem to care one way or another as he makes his way through the different 'clicks' of people without so much as a second glance before hunting up a glass of dark liquor from either a waiter or the bar, whichever is more easily accessible as he scans the room, in an attempt to pick out the various players that may take part in the sabaac tournament.

Calyx laughs,"Those types usually do." He finishes off his glass before grabbing another one, "name is Calyx Drogyn. I haven't decided if I am gonna lose my money tonight or not, though another couple of drinks and that choice will probably be made for me." He shakes the man's hand, responding, "Nice to at lease see some other normal people here."

Even without the guise of costume and the trappings of finery and fete Lynae would recognize the tone of voice and the elegant application of cane to floor to aid the walking of one Lord Smitherbodkins, this evenings host of hosts. "Good evening, my lord," she offers in return, a smile cast to the encostumed host and a small curtsy is offered, the glass of wine held delicately in one hand as she does so. As she straightens she is careful to again make sure that the elaborate hair style remains in place, her other hand lifting briefly to make sure of same, a unusually fussy gesture and not the sort she's prone to. "Thank you, and you look quite the dashing figure yourself." Her eyes narrow subtly as she studies the black jumpsuit, "I can't decide if you're dressed like the other CEC personnel to blend in and make it easier for you to mingle or in an older set of the style that these newer models are based upon," she admits after a thoughtful study.

Giles Pendleton goes to the table, looks it over with a disapproving 'mmm.' But, he seems to have found his place. He does a half turn of his body, an elaborate gesture with his arms that seems a knot at first, but ends with his cape being removed in a flourish. The COMPNOR senior official takes a moment and seems to be carefully arranging his cape on the back of his chair, perhaps to reserve this one as his, but the most careful observers would note that he is making a barrier between himself and the chair surface, which has accommodated who-knows-what.

Once acquiring his drink, Harmon makes his way to the game-table and taking a seat. No flourish, and definitely no cape, as he simple sits with his glass in front of him. He chews on a toothpick as he looks around, noting Lynae and Smitherbodkins briefly before turning his attention to the table.

The gentleman gives Lynae an appreciative once-over; not lewd, just admiring. He bows in response to her compliment of his attire, though it's only a very slight bow, more of a bob than anything. "You are too kind," he replies, "but I see that I am quite outshone." It's clearly fine with him, when the one doing the shining is as beautiful as her. He places a hand on her elbow, leading her, should she allow him, away from the center table where Giles and Harmon have seated themselves, toward one of the other tables in the room. Whether that's on purpose or merely incidental is difficult to say. "I shall look for you later," he promises, turning back toward the CEC table and shuffling toward it, taking a seat and nodding to Harmon, then Giles, in turn. "Shall we, gentleman?" The dealer at the table begins to shuffle the cards, and the statis field clicks on with a low *hum*.

A tall figure pushes in through the door, dressed to hopefully detract from her presence in all black, her head ducked down at the same time she looks around as if hoping to see at least one familiar face. Frowning some as she realizes she isn't going to find anyone off hand, Leate wanders slowly in, hands slipping into the pockets that have been sewn into her pants. Maybe she'll be lucky enough to find some form of entertainment.

Alac swallows the mouth load of saucey boss style fish dish and chuckles at Calyx's relative compliment. "Definitely addin' a level of mystery to the place, wha' with my high noon shadow.." 'Show case' fingers running slowly down either cheek to indicates his unshaved face. "All part of my well craft't plan to throw the competition off their game.. Oh no, the grifter's bluffin' cus he's always scowlin'." Draining one glass as a waiter comes into view so that he quick grab another, motioning with a slosh of liquor towards the table. "Let's grab a seat with them fancy lookin' fella's. They're the ones with the credits."

Lynae hands her empty glass of wine to one of the passing waiters and accepts a full one in return, giving Smitherbodkins a mildly curious and faintly amused look but finds no immediate cause to cry foul and create a fuss. But then, public scenes aren't her idea of fun. Instead she heads away from the gaming tables and toward the buffet laden with delicacies from all the far flung worlds, spying a bottle of what she thinks may be a nice caridan rum she's particularly fond of and heads in that direction.

Giles Pendleton settles down, but his back is erect, and his face is still perfectly pleasant. "Let's play, sure." He finds a pair of high denomination credit sticks somewhere on his person and places them on the table with a soft thud. "That should get us started." And more. It's enough money to buy a house, a fine speeder, maybe a ship in some places. Certainly far more than the minimum buy-in, and a very showy display. Giles leans forward, places his elbows on the table, and takes on a very serious look. "I'm trying to think the last time a Corellian cheated me at sabacc, Geophreigh," Giles notes through the stasis field, glancing sidelong at Harmon. "I don't think it ended well for him. Well, then. Betting phase?"

Calyx's shoulder rise and fall. "Why not." He follows Alac towards the table, dropping into one of the seats, this time he goes for a Corellian Whiskey glass from the passing tray of liquid refreshment. "It's good to be home." He comments more to himself than to his new friend, "I will probably watch a couple of hands before throwing in."

Harmon glances to Giles and offers a polite nod as he settles in to the table, taking another healthy swig from his whiskey. About that time there is a bit of a ruckus as a very large dog trots through the ballroom. It has a rag and is of an obvious 'large' attack breed. It sniffs around, growling at people that approach it before finally approaching Harmon and simply sitting down. Harmon looks baffled, most obviously unfamiliar with the animal. He starts to offer a hand to be sniffed only to be growled at briefly before he removes his hand and shrugs, deciding to ignore the dog even though it remain seated near his chair Harmon continues to ignore the dog and nods at giles, produces a modest pile of credits, "Alright, betting it is. Try not to take all my money, not all of us are as rich as you appear to be." he says with a grin.

The display from Giles doesn't even get a blink from Smitherbodkins, and he reaches into one of his pockets, removing a credstick of his own and tossing it onto the table. "I assure you, sir...I abhor cheating." It makes it so much less satisfying when he wins. Something that does get a blink, however, is the arrival of the large Nek battle dog, who seems to be with the man at his table. "Is that, ah, animal, yours?" He doesn't ask Harmon to get it to leave; in fact, he seems much more amused than annoyed. He gives the two men who join them an absently glance, turning back to Giles...and then back to the two other men once more. More specifically, to Alac. "Shall you join us?" he inquires, his gaze boring into the man's face, as if he thinks that he might burn a hole in it if he looks long enough. Of course, he hasn't learned that trick yet. The dealer shuffles, beginning to pass out the cards to the players.

Alac arrives at the table, just about the moment that big ol load of serious credits touches the felt, "Oh, oh yes.." Brow perked nodding, pointing across the table towards Giles with a finger extending out from his glass of whiskey, "This is my kinda guy, there.. Pops down his big guns right at the start of the game? Man.." Pulling out and sitting down into a chair in one shifting sweep of his hand and body around the edge. "Imma about to handle every financial debt I've accumulated over all of my years.." Cocky Corellians are a dime a dozen. "I won't even cheat... I could.. but I won't." Grinning, there's a piece of fish in his teeth. And sauce stains on his jacket. The glare draws his attention enough for Alac to reach over to and swat the side of the host's chair, "This your party?" Thumbing over towards the table, "Them's some good eats."

Calyx steeples his fingers in front of him, watching credits turn into chips and the game start. he doesn't put an ante in yet, wanting to get a feel for the table before throwing in, "This is good single malt." He comments before taking another sip of his drink, looking over that the other people at the table, "Hi." He offers, "Name's Calyx."

"A glass of the Caridan rum, please," Lynae is saying politely to one of the servers in charge of the libations. She finishes the glass of wine and sets that aside in exchange for a heavier glass of the rum that she asked for instead. A closer look at the label on the bottle tells her that it's a especially favored vintage, and she makes a small sound of approval before having the glass topped off and carrying it with her toward the buffet table. Best to add some food as ballast to the alcohol before her brain starts to swim entirely. Or, perhaps, starts to float entirely higher than it already is.

Giles purses his lips, lacing his fingers together as he watches the cards fly out. He is not the galaxy's most accomplished card player by any stretch, but he is certainly an accomplished gambler. He looks to Smitherbodkins, rolls his eyes minutely, and looks back at the cards. The game is on, now: phases, calculation of odds, bluffing, reading, betting. This is a deep mental exercise, and he has done it so often, with stakes so much higher, that this is almost effortless. Too easy. That is, until the animals arrive. The nek battle dog and Alac chief among their number. They both earn the same glower of distaste. "Honestly, Geophreigh," he murmurs, glancing at his hand. "Have the trash taken out, will you, and let's get down to business." When he introduces himself, Drogyn earns Giles's appraising glance, but is spared condemnation. For now.

Crowds are not exactly the Rattataki's strong point, a face that she's reminded of when she gets bumped into a server which in turn causes her to bump against the table she was trying to walk past. "Ah poodoo," Leate hisses once her teeth stop aching from being jarred together, those strange gray eyes of her sweeping the faces of those currently sitting there. "Frell. I'm sorry," she adds hastily, looking worried. Hopefully she didn't spill anyone's drink.

"Now, now, Mr. Pendleton," the gentleman chides, reaching forward to lift his cards from the table, "this is a friendly game." Calyx's introduction earns a nod from him, and he says, "Mr. Calyx, a pleasure. Place your bets, gentlemen, or sit this round out." This last is addressed to both of the newcomers, and now that the shock of seeing Alac here has worn off, the smile returns to Smitherbodkins' face, with what may even be more pleasure than before. This was turning out to be quite the event. He turns back to his cards, settling in to play in earnest. The unhidden portion of his brow furrows, and he tosses one of the cards into the statis field absently, placing another nearer to the dealer. "I shall take one, if you would be so kind."

Harmon finishes his whiskey and flags over another waiter, "Tatooine gut rot, if you've got it." he says, ordering perhaps the closest thing to strong bourbon you can find before taking a glance at his card, his face remaining almost entirely blank though it is most likely due to the random battle dog that has decided to hover around his side. He idly shuffles his chips with his free hand in between sips of his new drink.

Alac knows when he's being ribbed and is no stranger to a gambling table himself. So when Giles starts in with the taking him out with the trash, the gruff Corellian actually smirks like a shock boxer who's got a few more charges on his gloves than his opponent might think. "I bet you had your staff write that one up for ya, huh?" Nudging the chair beside him with a glance towards Calyx and a jerk thumb pointing across the table. "Guy talks like a politician.. Politician credits spend better'n any in the galaxy.." When his cards come out and his credits, not nearly so big and intimidating a pile (by a long shot) as the other players, he tosses in his ante and shifts his head from side to side. "I wish I had one the them thirty credit suits you're wearin'." Holding up a two fingers after tossing a pair of them into the stasis field. "We're all friends here, right? That's how friends play in my neck of the woods.. game at a game if there ain't no banter at the table."

Harmon casts a casual glances around the others seated at the table as he studies his cards for a few moment, "Some days are better than others." he says, directed more down to the dog at his side who gives him a somewhat puzzled, 'are you drunk?' look before residing itself to lay down at the foot of his chair. Harmon just shrugs a bit, laying his cards face down in front of him, apparently at least having sat at a few card-tables in his life. He's a little hard to get a read on, like any gambler who's lost some credits in bars around the galaxy.

Calyx lets the cards pass him by this round, attention shifting from the Nek to the other players, before sitting down in the open chair, " Yeah yeah, some things never change." As he is almost drenched in his drink as Leate walks by, "Hey watch it." He barks out in Corellian, old habits die hard for the Imperial Trooper.

Lynae turns slightly, hearing the barked tone that speaks to imperial trooper, something that stamps the tone of voice more than just any local constabulary training. Her eyes, temporarily blue-green, widen slightly and she shifts her attention toward the woman wearing nerf hide racing gear that bumped into to table. She gives a sympathetic sort of smile in that direction then turns back to the buffet and selects a plate and starts sampling her way through exotic fruits and fancy cheese. She who thinks rations are ideally suited for the best possible nutritional intake and perfectly tailored to the targeted dietary needs for each species to which they are assigned... has a weakness for fresh fruit.

Giles studies his hand casually, a little too swiftly, tossing one into the stasis field. His dark eyes lock on Alac, at first intrigued that the low-stationed man is speaking to him. But that is quickly replaced by a very unamused look. Mentally, Giles adds Alac to a number of very unpleasant lists. He smiles vaguely, a small challenge evident. "Keep talking," he says quietly. The COMPNOR Select Committee Member attention is drawn away, and he studies one card in his hand in particular for a long moment. While it is not evident yet to the members at the table, the card Giles studies is the Destroyed Starship. For the superstitious, this card is a harbinger of impending change. Death and destruction. But it doesn't mean that for Giles at all. In fact, it doesn't even cross his mind. For Giles, it means he is set up very well for a strong hand. Too early to predict a pure sabacc, but he has a good feeling about this. "One thousand," he calls suddenly, his voice a little too loud as he calls out his bet. He taps his credit stick against the table, transferring the funds electronically to the pot. "Yes, I did. Now then, get your filthy carcasses to the amateur tables. Or buy in."

The dealer collects all the cards from the table, doling out more to any who've requested them. Suddenly, the randomizer flickers to life, causing any cards that have not been placed into the stasis field to change their appearance, shifting until they've completely transformed, their previous incarnations merely a memory to their holders, for good or ill. Smitherbodkins doesn't seem to be particularly worried about what has happened to the remaining card in his hand. He reaches for the new one that he's been given, situating it next to the other, his third still tantalizingly face down in the field in front of him. Alac's quip gets a chuckle, and he glances to Giles, "I think our friend has got you pegged, Mr. Pendleton." After all, Giles is notorious in some circles. He throws another credit stick into the center, answering, "I call."

Not exactly one who takes kindly to being spoken to like that, Leate eyes the mouthy man while a rude gesture is made with. "Kiss a Hutt where it sits, bantha-breath." Lynae's caught out of the corner of her eye just after she says that and she grimaces as well as reaches up to run a hand over her bald head. "I should have just stayed on the shuttle," she mutters then before darting off to get a drink. It's Lynae she winds up standing by, Leate shaking a bit in anger. "Some beings..."

Harmon studies his cards as Giles throws in the chips. He pauses and looks back down to... the dog? "What do you think kibbles?" he asks casually, showing his cards to the dog briefly before matching the bet and accepting his new cards. He looks between giles and Leate curiously, though remains silent for now -- not one to add injury to insult for the time being.

Lynae reaches for a star shaped fruit and adds it to the samples on her plate as she replies, "... some beings just need to learn to lighten up a bit, hmm?' she completes the sentence with one possible variation. "Come," she suggests, "snag a plate and get something to eat. Think of it as free food and drink, and games to be had, and neat costumes to look at." She turns a bit to face the racing gear clad woman, "I'm Lyn, by the way, though I dressed up as Bria Tharen," she admits, rolling her eyes slightly upward at the towering mass of red hair that accompanies the costume. "Can't decide if the hair makes the costume or if it's enough to sally forth around the room under it's own power. What do you think?" she asks, a gleam of humor in her eyes.

Calyx throws back his head in laughter, "Well played," he offers towards the Rattataki before going back to his drink and taking another sip of it. He quiets back down, attention getting drawn back to the table, noting the cards being played by the higher rollers. He folds his arms across his chest, attention shifting between the rapidly changing cards and the players playing them.

Attention is starting turn away from Alac, first to cards and then to the commotion between Leate and the imperial trooper, but anyone looking at him will note a very dramatic change in his expression when Giles turns his head away towards the credit reader with the thousand chit in hand. The slightly cocky expression turns into one of almost animalistic seriousness. "Well, that's a tall bet.." Looking at the short stack of chips situated in front of him... he offers a quiet sigh, tilts his head a bit, and reaches inside his jacket as if going for more credits to convert in the call. What he comes out with is not credits.. It's a DL-44 blaster. It's one of those slow motion moments, since nobodies suppose to be armed and certainly couldn't have expected him to be packing anything heavier than a pinknife.. The heavy blaster points directly across the table at the COMPNOR Senior Committee member and bursts out red light in a flash of three quick depressions of the trigger. Already standing fast enough to throw the chair out from behind him to further disrupt any immediate response that might be mounted against him, "One thing you didn't count on, Corellians /always/ shoot first.." Immediately he's turning and bull rushing away from the game, leaving his cards where they laid. As he passes another table, his hands dive down to grab up chips from one of the dealers busily converting them for the players who've just started their game.

Giles's lips part in surprise when both Smitherbodkins, who he expected, and Harmon, who he did not, both throw in with their bets as well. "Fine then, we have a game." He shifts in his cape'd-for-your-sanitation seat, patting his body for his ivory colored cigarette holder. He has just found it, and placed it in the side of his mouth, when Alac starts to speak again. There is a flash of light, again, again, and Giles Pendleton: intelligence analyst, agent, politician, torturer, and now one of the Empire's most senior political strategists, is still a bit confused at what has just happened. The cigarette holder tumbles from his mouth and clatters to the table. Giles looks down at his once-flawless black uniform, at his own chest, to the smoking wet holes that have been drilled there by Alac's blaster fire... and promptly slumps, face-first into his cards.

Harmon is almost instantly on his feet and attempting to chase down the man who pulled out a blaster at a 'fair and square' game of Sabaac. As he stands, so does the dog who starts trying to chase the man across the room. The dog is fast, and trained, but apparently not used to navigating crowds of people as it bumps into several people before finally toppling over allowing Alac to get away. Realizing he's got no chance to catch the man Harmon goes back over to giles, putting hands over the holes he can find, "Someone call help!" he barks out in an authoritative tone to anyone who's nearby to hear it.

Combat is nothing new to the Naval Corpsman, the close proximity and timing of the shot catches him off-guard but he is quick to react, "Weapon!' He screams out. The instinct to run down the perp is overcome by the instinct to do what he does best, battle field triage. He leaps over the chair on the ground towards the COMPNOR official, "Stay with me pal." While moving he is reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out a small field medical kit, "I am a medic, I can help."

The flash of the heavy pistol so close to Smitherbodkins' face blinds him for an instant, and also sends him reeling back in his chair, nearly toppling over as well, though not as fatally as his unfortunate guest. He clears his vision just in time to see Alac scrambling for the door, and he gets to his feet as quickly as he can, calling, "Help, security, murder." Yes, just like that. And there's no way that he could be heard over the pandemonium that has erupted in the room. He reaches for Giles, checking his pulse; he's no doctor, but he knows 'very dead' when he sees it.

A further attempt at making with conversation is forgotten when she realizes that she is unarmed, Leate grossly out done. Doesn't keep her from doing something, however. Hefting one of those huge fruit displays from the table, she runs towards the man who has just behaved very poorly and throws it at him. "Hey buddy! It looks like you're lacking some fiber.... have mine!"

Lynae drops the plate of fruit with a startled clatter of sound, fruit flying in every direction as she turns toward the sound of blaster fire and is moving toward the sound of it even before the rest of her brain catches up, realizing that Leate is running toward the shooter as she bolts in the other direction. The shoes she is wearing are useless for those in a rush and somewhere along the way she kicks both off and reaches the table where the calls for help, security and murder are being issued. "I'm a doctor," she says, hard on the heels of the words from the man with the Imperial tone in his voice, recognizing him vaguely while she tries to assess the severity of the wounds, if indeed this is a kill shot or if there's any chance to pull this guy through, nodding to Drogyn, "let me help?" she asks, as he was first on the scene, more or less.

Alac ducks his shoulder down and barely avoids being fruited, which would be the highest point of embarrassment if he was apprehended because of a basket full of Corellian Goy Fruit. Ducking off to one side as the platter clatters to the ground in front of him, he's using the crowd to expedite his retreat, but he's not even headed towards the front door.. Wherever he's going, it seems to work. Sliding up to passageways and quick taping on plates which opens the doors like the gates to a starship. He even manages, because 'damn' that's good whiskey, to snag a bottle. Spent Blaster bolts? Thirteen credits. Dead Imperial? Millions of credits in training and logistics lost. Almost getting caught because he got hit with a fruit basket? Priceless. For everything else there's Corellian ner-do-wellery.

The battle-hound jumps up and barks after Alac, like it's treeing a squirrel before finally giving up it's chase and trotting back to Harmon lay at his side again. Harmon, on the other hand, is still at Giles side. He still has his hands trying to stop any bleeding while looking wide-eyed over the blast shots. As the medic and doctor arrive he looks slightly relieved, but doesn't move until instructed, "Do you want me to do anything? If not, I'm gone." he says firmly.

As Giles is prodded and examined, the first and most noticeable thing about him is his distinct lack of vitals. He does make a sound, though, some sort of odd air pressure thing where his lungs are reaching equilibrium with the outside air pressure. This in turns sends some neutral vibration past his vocal chords, and he makes a whispery 'baaaah' sound. The second noticeable thing is that most of his chest is a cavity now. The DL-44 is not a kind weapon, and Alac's point-blank aim was true. Perhaps the only thing decent about the man, Giles would have wondered. The best thing about the whole affair is that Giles's face is unmarred. Throughout his life this was such a deep concern! And now, despite the graphic ending, his face will be presentable still. A death mask would be appropriate, for one of his standing, would it not? An elaborate funeral, with his drawn and grave expression, hair swept back, perhaps...? These incoherent thoughts are his last, and Giles Pendleton is now, unalterably, no longer of this galaxy.

Calyx's eyes are taking in Giles's condition as he starts checking for signs of life, his hands tearing open the triage kit to get a bandage pack out,"Sure thing Doc.." He recognizes the voice even if he can't match a face to a name, ignoring the commotion behind him, he begins to slow down, realizing the futility of the measure, his hand slipping to the comlink on Giles's belt as he presses the red panic button, sending an alert to Imperial Command of a problem. "It's about to get really ugly here in about five minutes, Doc, I don't know if you want to be here with the cavalry arrives."

Smitherbodkins, as mentioned before, is no doctor, and with two such competent-looking ones on the scene, he steps back, giving them room to see if there's anything they can do for the man with the large, smoking hole in his chest. Instead, he begins to do what he is quite good at; that is, clean up the mess. A snap of his fingers, and a security guard is beside him. "Secure the premises," the gentleman says, and the man nods, walking quickly away before his walk turns into a run, speaking into a comlink on his sleeve as he goes. Another guard meets him at the door, and they barrel through the door, though Alac's long gone by then. Apparently the size of the security guards rendered them incapable of running very fast, perfect for the fleet-footed Corellian to have made his neat escape. Smitherbodkins then begins to make his way over to the COMPNOR entourage, his expression grave, "This is terrible, terrible," he says, almost as if he means it.

The rush from Leate does not stop when she throws the payload at the shooter. No, now he is going to wind up with her flying at him instead, the pale woman screaming something unintelligible at him. She's not stopping to think that this is not a good idea, that heroics just might wind up getting her killed. No, she just does some kind of leap-jump-flying maneuver which will hopefully work out.

Lynae has kept her hands - very carefully - clear of the dead man since she was 2nd or in this case 3rd of 4th on scene as some civilian (Harmon) tried to apply pressure though it was a futile gesture. She doesn't need to be any closer to know that it's a lost cause and she gives a long look into the face of the deceased before she shakes her head at Harmon, "I don't think there's anything else anyone can do for him," she says quietly and turns to snag a cloth napkin off of a nearby table and extends it toward the man, "You'll want to be sure to scrub your hands thoroughly, disinfect all the way to your elbows," and if he allows she'll help him wipe the first layer of blood clean. She glances to Drogyn, "I don't believe that a advance in another direction is possible now that our host has sealed the premises," she says quietly. If she's gone pale under the layer of makeup so carefully painted on her with this costume, well, there's any number of reasons for that. A careful exercise in slow breathing keeps her hands steady, and looks back to Harmon, "May I?"

Harmon blinks under his simple black masquerade-style masks as Lynae offers to clean his hands, "As you wish." he says somewhat shakily. Regardless of his tone and demeanor he extends his arms, though as Lynae would get close the battle-hound at his side would growl dishearteningly towards anyone getting close.

The quite ineffective guards of Giles Pendleton look about as upset as Smitherbodkins. Which is to say, not very much. "Oh, yes, Lord Smitherbodkins," one of them says, while the other one moves to talk quietly into his comlink, walking toward the door. "This will really upset things in the Brak Sector." "Well, please convey my most sincere apologies. I shall have to figure out where my security went awry. Someone shall pay for this outrage to our Imperial leaders. I hope it shall not hinder things in the valiant struggle to hold my beloved Corellia."

Drogyn looks up at Lynae,"So it would seem." He moves to stand up but does not leave the general area, he pulls out a small pad and begins writing the time of death and events that have happened to add to his report, "Sithspit, I just wanted to have shore leave." He begins to wipe his hands down with a wipe out of the field kit.

Lynae is methodical, Ok perhaps a wee bit over focused on doing this one task, and wipes the majority of the blood off of Harmon's hands while Drogyn writes down the details of this particular cause of death. Once this napkin is soiled she asks, "Do you have a spare wipe or two we could finish this with?" nodding at Harmon, determined to make sure he doesn't carry unnecessary germs with him. "I'm Lyn, by the way," she says to Harmon and glances back to Drogyn. "What kind of blaster was that, anyway? Packed one hell of a punch. Followed by, how did he get it past security."

Alac makes it to the yard through some secret like tunnel system that was drilled into his head over and over. A lot of credits changed hands, it went to preparation, cunning preparations. Which usually ends poorly for the 'assassin', who ends up being a loose end... That's just not on the fleeing Corellian's dance card at all. When he bursts out into the night with his blaster still in hand and credits bulging in his pockets, it's to the happy sight of the COMPNOR agents guard rushing up in some an attempt to cut him off. The blaster bounds up once more and snaps off a few quick bolts to sizzle through the air and send thuggish goons diving for cover because this is the Alac Y'all story and in it he can actually shoot good. Maybe, when he wakes up tomorrow, it'll be in a medbay somewhere on the General Lesuvius, because that's honest to god the name of the Y'all brother's ship, and he's telling this story and just boosting himself up to look good for whatever cheap twi'lek working girl his brother's paid to have take care of him while he's wishing he'd not drank /quite/ as much whiskey as he drank before killing a pretty important dude in a room full of people who have enough money to hire an army to look after him. But right now? RIGHT NOW.. we're still in the part where he's lying, or telling the truth.. the viewer is really the judge. The point is, he shot first. And he doesn't stop shooting as he runs in the opposite direction towards one of the walls. Screaming for no apparent reason, read dramatic effect, when he dives over that wall in a desperate show of dexterity that nobodies even going to see because they're all shooting blindly after him from cover. It's the greatest story ever told, that has no proof that it actually happened...

Harmon produces a cloth hanky for Lynae, "The name's Harmon." he says, leaving it ambigious as he shoots a glare at the dog that growls at Lynae as she tends to the bodily fluids on his hands, "Easy, whatever you are." he says lowly before turning his attention back to Lynae, "Looked like a DL-44, but I could be wrong." he adds.

"Do you belong to the dog or does it belong to you?" Lynae says, casting a wary glance past Harmon at the growling canine type.. thing. She's not a jumpy person, by far, but the sheer number of germs and bacteria that can be found in a dog's mouth really sets her teeth on edge in return. "If that thing bites me, I'm probably going to ask the nice security guards to stun it, just saying, in advance, in case it starts feeling especially toothy." She accepts the cloth hanky and swabs at the last of the splotches of blood on his forearms, giving him a critical look to make sure didn't miss anything major. "Blood born contagions and all, it's safer to be smart than just hope that it won't come back and haunt you."

"That is the question, isn't it." Calyx responds, "Probably bribed a guard." He hears blaster fire in the background, "Sure." He offers a handful of individually packaged wipes out of the field kit to Lynae, nodding as Harmon identifies the weapon, "I didn't get a good look but it had that box shape of one." He raises ah and in greeting, "I am Calyx Drogyn, Imperial Navy."

While she misses the flying tackle Leate gets zinged at the same time, a little graze mark that mars the leather of her outfit more than it rends flesh. It's the damage to her racing gear which gets her screaming like a female Nexu in heat. "That was my favorite set of racing leathers, you dirty son of a pox-ridden jawa!" She was upset before and now? Now she's just peeved beyond peevishness.

Finally, apparently taking to heart the old saw about being fashionably late, Imperial ground troops start pouring in. Perhaps they were to busy trying to roust the Corellian freedom fighters from their holes, or perhaps they were just lazy. "Who's in charge here?" one of them yells, a tall, lanky man with a crooked nose and buckteeth. Smitherbodkins happens to be near, still conversing with the ex-Giles' guards, and he raises a hand, saying mildly, "I am, sir. Thank goodness you're here, but I hope you have some more men coming. The villain escaped, damn him!" He makes a fist and shakes it dramatically.

Harmon gives a sidelong glance at the dog, "I have no idea, at this point." he says candidly as he looks over the hound who, in spite of growling even at him if he moves close to it, refuses to budge from his side, "I've never met 'em before tonight... But it seems fiercely protective of me. It has a tag, but I'm not brave or stupid enough to try to read it just yet." he says with a grin, nodding to the medic and then to the doctor as more wipes are brought over and his arms cleaned better, "Many thing, I'd hate to pick up something that I couldn't give back." he says with a wink.

Lynae turns to accept the wipes from Drogyn and hands some to Harmon, "Make sure you get the blood from beneath your fingernails," she cautions before sending a trace of a smile toward Drogyn, one that just can't quite reach her eyes. "I know," she says quietly. "Even if you hadn't said as much, you have the stamp of Imperial Navy on you, but I know who you are. We met," she makes a small "hmm" of sound, a thoughtful noise, "probably three or maybe four years ago."

The Imperials keep coming...and coming...and coming. Whatever they lacked in timeliness, they make up for in ceremony and arrogance. Some of them accost the private security guards that have been hired for this occasion, while others begin questioning witnesses in various states of shock. Some come up to the body, bullying through the doctors who are already there, "Out of the way! Move!" they yell, and one of them finally gets to the body, checking for signs of life. He finds none, of course; if he had been more polite and asked Lynae or Drogyn, they could have told him that. He turns to his companions, "He's dead. The commander's going to want to hear about this, right now. Secure the body." The other goons begin to do just that, picking up the cape from the chair and hoisting what is left of Giles over their shoulders, exposing the gaping hole in his chest and drawing some gasps from the onlookers. They begin to make their way out of the ballroom, while the one speaking to Smitherbodkins says, "You'd better not leave planet. We're going to want to chat with you, too."

After being cleaned, Harmon seems to know when to make his exit. He casually slips back into the crowd of onlookers and melts into the mess for a while before attempting to make his departure. The only thing hampering this, of course, is the battle hound that refuses to leave his side.

Drogyn peers more intently at Lynae, then at the dog then back at her,"I know who you are." He smiles, "I was newly assigned to the Conquest then." He notes the dog, "Though I guess if that got in, smuggling a guard couldn't be hard. He is pushed out of the way by the Gropos, "Chief Petty Officer Calyx Drogyn, Imperial Corpsman." He offers the time of death report to the head of the detachment, "You will want this for your report." Letting the COMPNOR goons do with it what they will.

The screaming Rattataki is suddenly very quiet and very still when the Imperials make their presence known, that being a can of worms Leate knows not to mess with. A quick look is given to Lynae as well as the others but she stays where she wound up, across the room.

Lynae watches at Harmon, and his canine companion, make themselves scarce through the crowd - or, rather, Harmon does and a wide berth is given to the dog type thing that trails along in his wake. For her part she eases a good and healthy step back from the scene of the crime as COMPNOR arrives, not needing to be pushed out of the way, doing her best to not be terribly noticeable. "Good point, what's a blaster in comparison to giant drooling dog type thing?" she says quietly and turns her attention back to her hands and to blending into the crowd with all of the rest of the witnesses. She sweeps the room with a cautious look, doing a not so casual head count of the arriving soldiers, then a equally not-casual count of the nearest possible exits while formulating and discarding exit strategies.

A halo of pure white hair floats softly about the handsome, intelligent face of Mara Shinomiya. She is tall, like all Varvani, and there is no part of her that doesn't give an impression of length, slenderness, and grace. Her eyes are black, set perhaps a touch too far apart for beauty; her mouth is full but crooked, tilting always to her right. She might be any age between forty and a hundred. Her flawless pallor speaks of a life lived in hiding from a thousand suns, and her teeth, it is difficult to converse with her for any length of time without noticing, are painted a gleaming black. She is clad in a sleek midnight-blue satin gown, which looks as though instead of being sewn it was simply painted over her high, small breasts, narrow waist, and tremendously long legs. It seems severely plain, but her movement reveals a multitude of tiny pleats, in a light, gauzy fabric, set into each side of her skirt, giving it a quite surprising fullness. The same thin cloth loosely covers her arms, from shoulders to wrists. In front, the dark satin rises almost till it touches her choker of Corusca gems; at the back, it drops away suddenly to the level of her waist, the gap being filled with more delicate little pleats. They seem to undulate over her back, hinting at extensive tattooing beneath, yet never permitting one a good look at it. And her choker, which is an impressive enough display of wealth from the front, blossoms into a trailing necklace, at the end of which is a gem which could buy half the city she's standing in. Revealing nothing, yet hinting at everything -- tasteful and discreet, yet lit up by the incomparable brilliance of Corusca gems -- confident, forthright, yet distinctly feminine -- and always just a little bit alien -- such is Mara Shinomiya. She arrives leading a phalanx of guards: two of her own albino Trandoshans, and two of her host's black clad, earpiece-adorned Corellians, reserved for her accompaniment even before the present situation arose and began to demand heightened security precautions. Whatever she has been told on her way in has left her with the impression that it might be the better part of valour to pause on the threshold of the ballroom, rather than flinging herself at once into the chaos within; and so she does, resting a hand upon a tilted-forward hip and lifting her chin to create the longest, most elegant line. Her enormous Corusca gem sways behind her like a pendulum, catching light, reflecting it fiercely. "I am inexpressibly sorry I'm late," she says to Lord Smitherbodkins.

The entrance of Mara Shinomiya has coincided perfectly with the exit of the late great Giles Pendleton. As such, her entourage gets a full, glorious view of the hideous hole burned clear through his chest. Some of the Imperials attempt to muscle their way past the Trandoshans, but if anyone in here has ever tried to muscle their way past a Trandoshan, they will probably be laughing into their beers right now. In other words, it's impossible. So, instead, they skirt the huge aliens as best they can, continuing to bear their fallen comrade out of the manor and into the night beyond. Smitherbodkins, however, looks quite pleased to see the newly arrived guest. "Madam chamberlain!" he cries, with considerably more emotion than he's shown for most of the night, "So good of you to come. I am afraid you missed quite a spectacle." He shakes his head sadly, "Ah, if only I had hired more security. Such a tragedy."

Calyx looks towards the bar, "I really need a drink now. How about you, Doc?" His attention is drawn back towards the arrival of the entourage and the exit of the troopers, "Another fun night in Coronet City." He begins to pack up the remains of the kit, making sure he has the unused pieces to return to the quarter master, though the night is still young, someone might need a stint or a hypo-shot so best to have them handy.

Before any questioning can be made with Leate bails.

"I would love," and there's a good note of emphasis on the last word, "a drink. In fact, I think that's the best possible idea, right now," and she's turned slightly so that her profile is less visible to the soldiers taking names and statements. "Fun is the word we're using in place of words like 'deadly' or 'accidentally tragic' followed by 'inescapably lethal'?" she wonders and nods to where the table with the drinks are, waiting for Calyx to finish gathering up his kit before setting course accordingly.

With her narrow feet in high, delicate silver sandals, the straps of which snake up past her ankles, and the heels of which add almost five inches to her queenly (ahem) height, the Varvani woman is almost a head taller than her host. She inclines a brief, whimsical smile downward at her gentlemanly host, while, of course, saying the words which are proper to say when a corpse is being carried past one scarcely beyond arm's reach. "My condolences, Lord Smitherbodkins, upon the deaths of your guest and your party. A tragedy indeed! ... One of your minions gave me to understand it was an *imperial* gentleman. How could such a thing happen, in your own inner sanctum? No, you needn't answer, I'm sure you did all that could have been done. These terrorists are so *cunning*."

"I spend my days in the front lines patching up sucking chest wounds and pulling out shrapnel, my sense of fun may be skewed." He leans over the bar slightly to grab a bottle of single malt while the bartender is distracted. He pours a couple of glasses with the amber hued liquor. "A war without end, huh?"

Smitherbodkins gazes up at his newly arrived guest, taking her hand in is own and squeezing gently, as if to draw succor from her very presence. "Indeed," he responds, shifting position slightly to take the weight off his injured leg. He winces, letting out a sigh that's almost imperceptible, especially in the room that still has quite a bit of buzz. "Thank you for your condolences. Yes, he was cunning, but no doubt our fine Imperial leaders will have him caught and behind bars in no time!" He thumps his chest in a dramatic show of patriotism. "Of course, I am so glad that you were not here to see the horrible sight." Conveniently forgetting that she's just had a full frontal view of the huge wound in the dead body.

Lynae accepts the offered glass and lifts it slightly, "To endless wars, long winters, rainy seasons and field promotions that take you away from sucking chest wounds, infections, blood born contagions, idiocy of green lieutenants and fat assed commanding officers who's major decision of the day is which politician to suck up too." Lynae takes a cautious sip of the amber hued liquor and turns her back a bit more resolutely to the room and milling guests.

The lady's cool white fingers transfer Smitherbodkins's hand to her arm, letting him lean upon her if he wishes, under the cover of the courtesy. "No doubt, no doubt," she agrees vaguely. Fumes that would fell a tauntaun in its tracks rise, alluringly, from the glass which a zealous servitor has placed in her hand; she sips, and almost at once her eyes widen, then narrow. Is she supporting Smitherbodkins, or is he, just for an instant, supporting her? "Might be there somewhere for one to-- sit quietly?" she suggests diffidently, arching one narrow, perfectly-plucked eyebrow.

Smitherbodkins' eyes narrow, casting his face with a rather disturbing veneer, as he feels the lady's unsteady movement. His hand grips her arm more firmly, though not tightly; just enough to provide some slight support, as much as he can at the moment. Which, granted, isn't much. "Of course," he answers, then motions for a guard to come to him. One does with alacrity, belying his earlier sluggishness when the actual event was taking place. "Please take care of any guests who need anything," he says, his gaze sweeping the wreckage of his once perfectly arranged room. Well, no use crying over spilt Corellian ale, though if one were ever so unfortunate as to spill any Corellian ale, crying would probably be their first reaction. He then turns, leading the woman out of the room and into the hallway beyond.