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| - Spectator Seating -- Black Krayt Swoop Arena The size of the arena at first is staggering, it could easily seat up to 100,000 beings. Roughly elliptical in design the stands circle the raceway -- the collection of plasteel tubing that makes up the course the riders must face. The seating is tight but not cramped. Parts of the upper decks are standing room only. Two massive screens are set into opposite sides of the arena to give spectators a better view of the action. Various press and VIP boxes form a crescent on one level of the arena. There are 4 (Four) Squads of 6 (Six) StarShield Marines keeping watch over the stands. There are places here. Type '+help places commands' for instructions. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Stalh -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- Out O leads to Main Mezzanine -- Black Krayt Swoop Arena. Joir appears at the top of one of the 'up' escalators, alone, travelling without the aides many other people in his position rely on. He stands still momentarily, his dark black clothes and confident almost arrogant aura making him stand out somewhat from the throng of other spectators whose petty comings and goings do not compare with the mans cold intensity. He glances down at his ticket and searches for the assigned seat, finding it he moves quickly, each Joir This Human Male stands at just over two metres. His build is athletic, good muscle tone is evident from his fluent style of movement. Mature yet handsome facial features suggest he is in his late thirtes. His light brown hair is cut short in a stylish manner, and compliments a neatly clipped 'goatee' beard. A slight jagged scar lies under his left eye, accentuating the high aristocratic cheek bones. His eyes sparkle a light shade of grey, ruled by a quiet calculating stare. His lips are thin, held in a unconcious arrogant smile. His stance is tall, holding himself in a manner that commands authority. His actions and mannerism belie a life of military service and although the clothes he wears bear no emblems, they closely resemble the dress uniform of the Imperial Stormtroopers. A plain Jet Black high collared jacket, is complimented by matching dress trousers and are of a precise cut which accentuates the athletic frame of the wearer. Polished leather shoes and black leather gloves act with the midnight uniform to create an image of dark power. On reaching the empty seat Joir smoothes down his perfectly cut uniform, before sinking backwards. He nods a greeting to the beings on both sides, but his face remains impassive devoid of any welcoming warmth. Stalh sits alone too, his demonical eyes watch the swoops wearily as they go around around. Like the swoops, it seems many people on this torrid planet, only goal is to go around and around in a circle, gaining no distance, to advancement. "Such a pity." he mumbles lowly, his voice shallow, yet deep; uncaring but fully attentive. Stalh Although the human male that enters your vision is captivating, the clothes that he wears seem to distinguish him more than his 185 (6ft) stature and his reasonably toned body. The human is wearing a red jacket which is done up from base to collar. The jacket appears to be a red as freshly spilt blood, which is contrasted brilliantly by the shinyess of the silver buttons that adorn it. The only other decoration that is visable on the jacket is a Black crest which encompasses the jacket's base, collar and cuffs. Two Black stripes are presented along the creases of the pants that he is wearing. The pants, like the jacket are also blood red. There appears no stain or discolour to the clothing that is a very close fit but not tight.Finishing just below his knees is a pair of highly polished black leather boots into which the pants are tucked. Only remotely matching the shinyness of the boots are the man's black leather gloves. These appears immaculately polished and very tight fitting. The man's face, nordic in appeance, still has the effects of a previous tan which is now slightly receeding. With this tan is a head of dark brown hair. Like the clothes, the eyes are captivating. They are the darkest green possible imagined - almost black. Hauntingly they stare, the eyes appear unnatural - like a shield blocking off prying eyes to his soul - almost demonical. At the sound of low muttering Joir takes a second glance at the human sitting next to him. He notes his crimson dress with a grim smile, his eyes while remaining cold dilute momentarily as if he is remembering something long in his past. He too appreciates the irony of the swoop arena but a life time of harsh training and emotional control has led him to be more guarded in his opinions. "A pity?.." A waried eyebrow rises on the diplomat as a being sits itself down next to him. "That seat is taken," he states dryly, taking in the man itself, ignoring the human's comment, "Unless you have the correct ticket." he concludes. Summing up the man he nods, noting in fact that the man's clothes suit Stalh's own heart and feelings on this day too. Cautiously, he loosens his cuffs, and a slight noticeable bulge can be detected from beneath the blood-red tunic. Joir 's deep grey eyes turn to focus their full, chilling gaze on the man who has just challenged him. He reaches into his breast pocket and withdraws the appropriately marked holoticket. He offers the ticket to the man, if he is offended or annoyed by his comments he hides it perfectly, his face a mask so indifferent that it borders on arrogance /He knows he is right, and finds the challenge almost amusing/. "I trust that this ticket is in order" "Depends," the diplomat muses slightly, a smirk seeping onto his hardened face as he snatches the ticket forcefully and examines it. "The person that gave you this ticket..." his voice is cold, yet their is a hint of ostentatiousness beneath it's silkiness. "...How many eyes did him or her have?" His glance detours into the crowd, scanning the faces of those nearby. In spite of himself Joir lets a slight wry smile slip through the mask onto his lips. His cold grey eyes follow the diplomats gaze, scanning the crowd with obvious distaste at the throng of ill disciplined beings who find this mindless entertainment a worthy divergence from their pathetic lives "Just two..." his voice returns to its original chilled tone "The correct number" "Really?" Stalh remarks toyfully, and perhaps it is evident that a touch of contempt edges out into the open, "When did Cyclops get another eye?" His smile faintly grows into a smirk - evidently Ambassador Tazecks is not this man's favourite person. He looks at the man next to him, a flash of recognition or is it mischief springs onto his face. "Of course I know about you," he says cooly, his tone still slightly playful. "After all, I am knowledgeable in all things recent and ?" He stops, his eye fixating on the Blackened man. The Republican says not another word, rather it appears that he is waiting for something. Joir continues to watch the man next to him, showing no response to his description of the Imperial ambassador or to the obvious goading the man is in engaged in. A slight smile covers his lips as he watches the waiting diplomat obviously unphased by the claims he acts as if this whole coversation is banal, and that he is going along with the charade in order to humor the other being. Looking forward out onto the race track he says with a slightly amused tone "Arcane, all things recent and arcane... or so you claim." It is left unsaid that he obviously doesn't believe that Stalh knows half of what he thinks he does. A scow claims the face of Stalh, his tone becoming serious for the first time, and his left hand flexing in and out of a fist relentless. "It is not what I claim," he hisses, his manner lowering slightly, but his permanent aura of control never waivering. "It is..." he continues, his voice becoming darker and softer at the same time. "...what I have been ordered to know." He slowly glances back at the man next to him, silently he gauges for a response - wordless or otherwise. Joir sits back further in his chair, his more relaxed posture indicates that he believes that he has the upper hand, however his face remains an impassive mask. He lets a harsh smile grace his lips momentarily and gives Stalh a small nod as if to acknowledge his statement. When he speaks his voice is also soft, yet it carries the full authority learnt from a lifetime of command, "/Ordered/ to know, /ordered/ to do... and you will continue..." he phrases the words as a subtle but still discernable threat. He has the authority to make orders, and those beneath follow them, or pay. A sickening churning of metal erupts from the arena below, and the Diplomat turns towards the sound just intime to see a mangled swoop careen into a side metal girder, throwing the driver clear of the wreck. The stricken driver lays silent, unmovingly on the ground while medics rush over to secure him. The speaker blares telling everyone to remain calm, and while the noise increases, Stalh takes his opportunity to speak. "I do it not for the orders." His voice is all hostile, and definitely completely disrespectful regardless of who the man is talking to. "I do it because He _expects_ I do it. Nothing more." There is no clarification needed on who he refers to, and his last comment tell the man before him sublety where he can place his discernable threats. The hostility in Stalh's voice distracts Joir from the mangled wreck below, although from his wry grin it appears he is more ammused than hurt by the diplomats tone. As for Stalh's inference or veiled threat Joir is again not shaken, for one who guarded Palpantine personally, the threat of that office has lost its ability to awe him. However he still respects the position, and would if needed, and as trained sacrifice his life for the Emperor. With that on his mind he turns to the red-robed man beside him, cold grey eyes unblinking as he snarls "As do I..."
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