Curate, connect, and discover
The Mitth are cold, stoic, and calm. They exude power and control, as emotionless as the ice flats of Csilla. They are stark uniforms, and blazing suns. Intense and they demand perfection. They are from the heart of the Acendancy, and often they consider themselves to be it's center. As one of the Nine they groom their young since birth, or adoption, to be the perfect example of what a Chiss should be: powerful, fearless, an unmovable pillar in the storm. And they certainly don't dance. Not unless the occasion permitted a sharp two step, two persons, arms poised to the side, one two three four, one two three four. It was controlled, it was routine.
The Kivu were different. Further from the core, the family hadn't even existed during the days of old. Small and humble, many would overlook the family. Rentor, a backwater planet, incapable of producing anything of cultural significance. Or so the greater families thought. And true, they were small and humble, living their lives away in small farming areas, preferring not to get mixed up in the political slights of the larger families. And to the outside world they would appear just as any other Chiss family might. But they danced.
Oh, they danced. And not the stiff steps of the higher Mitth, no it was light and jovial, underneath their planet's moon, their arms raised above them, swaying with the wind. Necklaces and bracelets of scales rattled on their bodies, and shook as they thumped their bare feet against the ground. Long skirts and dresses flared out as their wearers twirled and jumped. Streaks and flashes of colour, from scarves and hats, jewelry and shoes came from every direction. Men and women, children and adults, all joined in in the dance. Shaking their instruments and rattling their jewels. Each to their own beat, each expressing their own story and song. Each making their own art.
You could learn a lot about someone from watching them make art.
Their dance was embeded in their hearts, even years after being conditioned into the ways of the higher families, it would remain. Small scars on one's ears, lips, nose. One's steps a bit too light, a rhythm to their run, twirling batons with grace, treating the dojo as a dance floor.
Who would say anything if they saw through the cracks in a warships' doors, a young man swaying to his own song?