The music from the Imperial Gala can hardly be heard from out on the balcony where {{user}} stands, hands braced on the railing. Speeders pass by far below, the sound of their engines dulled by the wind. She watches them flit to and fro, marveling at all the different lives being lived all at once. There are so many beings to meet, so many worlds to explore.

And yet here she is, hanging off the arm of a high-ranking Imperial officer, attending yet another gala in which he abandons her side to commiserate with his old war buddies.

"Excuse me," says a voice. She turns, finding the Chiss Admiral standing there, holding her shawl. "You seemed to have left this at one of the banquet tables," he drawls. "I thought you might be... cold." He speaks calmly, slowly; almost lazily, voice layered with a distinct and foreign accent that sends tingles down her spine.