Star Wars: The Last Qymaili | ✔

33 | Red on White

Song: "The Emperor" from Return of the Jedi OST
          
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Ronderu walked up the stairs after she and Arna had departed for dinner, her arms crossed over her bosom to hide the misshapen lumps from the com-link and drive. Faintness touched her as her respirator struggled to keep up with her quick pace.

The count exited a room below her to join Arna, his white hair flashing in the light of the chandeliers. Good luck, Jedi.

After she had recovered, she reached a pair of humble wooden doors which seemed unassuming amidst the grandeur of the rest of the keep. Yet Ronderu was no fool; whatever lay beyond that door was dangerous.

She tried the door. Locked. What did she have around her? Her hair was down and unadorned with anything useful; all she had on her clothes were a few metal pins that kept her bodice from splitting down the middle. Her feet were bare, and she wore no jewelry.

She sighed. One must be modest; one must be wise. She leaned down. Her hands worked to tear off a fold of the thin satin that made up her train. She braided it into several strips. Pulling off her glove, she made two slits in the center of her bodice, then tied the braid through the holes. It may not comply to Kaleesh standards of modesty, but it was better than going topless altogether.

She unbuttoned the metal pins that held her bodice together, slipped them out from the fabric, all the while catching a glimpse of the ugly violet mark that ran along her breastbone. She twisted the pins together into one long point that she could hold like a pencil, pulled her overcoat tighter around her now-lowered neckline, and went to work on the lock.

The door did not require a technical override; it was vintage, carved out of wood and resembling the door on the Kaleela lodge. Ronderu had not picked locks since before she'd met Qymaen; it had been eleven years since she'd last heard the pleasant click of the metal as it gave her access to what she wanted.

Her hands worked the pick into the lock, and she closed her eyes, imagining where all the bolts and tumblers were located. After a few moments, it clicked. She inhaled, stepped forward, and opened the door.

✺✺✺

The darkness was no match for her eyes, and the room was typical for this sort of keep: a simple marble floor, an old redwood desk, and some antiques hanging on the walls. She caught a mumuu hide, some valuables she couldn't name—perhaps from the Chiss people among the Serennese—and....

A karabbac mask, nailed to the wall, with crimson swirls crusting off of the old bone.

Now she had confirmation, at least in her own mind: Dooku was behind her two assassination attempts. Through a lackey, he must have intentionally separated Qymaen from her, and caused her to become overrun by the Yam'rii.

But why? Why go after me?

She stepped forward, used her pick to unscrew the mask, and blew the dust off her beloved veil. "My old darling," she murmured, stroking the bone with affection. "How I've missed you." She pulled off her veil and fit the mask over her face so it concealed everything but her eyes.

When the mask touched her skin, memories burned into her head. Memories of flipping and dancing around Yam'rii, crashing with tempestuous fury against their hides; the tired cheering of the kolkpravis as they brought home another victory; the wild, warlike scent of Qymaen's clothes as they held one another.