| abstract
| - The narrow passage opens up into a small wardroom. The space is ingeniously outfitted, the furniture and surfaces configured to serve either under nominal local gravity conditions, or that provided by the freighter's own acceleration. Flanking the wardroom are a set of personal sleeping niches, with each empty bunk module containing a bed with built in cabinetry and storage lockers. Forward, a fresher unit is located portside, while to the starboard is a simple kitchenette. The room is softly illuminated, gentle light floating down from coves recessed into the dorsal and side wall framing. The deckplates are sturdy and and diamond gridded, providing a sturdy utilitarian finish to the space. The lights are set at their dimmest level, simulating night and signifying the last watch of the day. Aadzrian is sitting at the table with Razorback. Though the Demarian is the only one with a plate in front of him, the Timonae appears to be snacking on something- probably pilfered. He chews and swallows, giving Razorback an angelic smile a moment before his expression also grows more grave. "Yes," he agrees quietly. "But t'ere is no one strongs like her. I is to t'ink she wil finding way go on because t'ere is stil peoples to be fighted for." This Timonae male looks to be, at a first glance, a somewhat unusual representative of his race. An inch or two beyond six and a half feet, he's slightly under average height for a man of his kind, but his frame is noticeably broad to the Timonese eye- perhaps close to two hundred and thirty pounds of muscle. By human standards, however, he remains mostly lean, with broad shoulders and long, graceful limbs, a body lacking any unnecessary weight. Skin of a smooth uniform brown shade covers the small bit of exposed flesh he shows, cut by a facial scar that's hard to overlook- a shiny, taut ribbon of pink tissue that slices up from the left side of his jaw, over prominent cheekbones in a slightly hollow face, and curls in a deliberate lazy spiral around his swirling, opalescent green left eye. Heavy brows of a dark, almost tarnished shade of silver match his head of incongruously fluffy hair, a wild mess that hangs past his ears. A small, neatly groomed beard clings to just his chin, strands bearing an identical metallic sheen. He's clad simply at the moment, but in a fashion that might gain attention for what it reveals. The fitted plain white t- shirt and ordinary black shorts are not particularly immodest, but they display two things: both the physique of someone perhaps overly obsessed with exercise, and the fact that his facial scar is not unique. Bared arms and legs both are marked with shiny pink burn scars in the form of a swirling, curliqued pattern, undeniably intentional and a vivid contrast against his brown skin. They disappear upward under the shorts with no sign of stopping and can be faintly perceived through the shirt, making it unclear if there's anywhere the Timonae isn't marked. The handle of a stun gun in one pocket and simple running shoes complete the ensemble, swirling scars running downward into the area covered by socks as well. Ace trudges in from the airlock, PAR in hand, still looking like death only partially warmed over, like maybe in the microwave on half power for thirty seconds. "Urf is here," she announces quietly, "You have my permission...nyet, you are ordered to shoot him if he so much as sets foot on the ramp." Ace is sporting a new bruise on her jaw and a split lip to boot. Looking to be in her late 30s, Ace is tall for an Ungstiri, an inch or two shy of six feet, but the way she carries herself gives the impression of even greater height. She is rather broad shouldered, and, though lean of build, very well muscled, with a healthy tan that accents her perfectly smooth, unmarred skin. Her movements are smooth and graceful, like a panther ready to spring at any given moment, every step an economy of motion with no energy wasted. Her face is partially hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, high cheekbones framed by a curtain of long, raven black hair that falls to the small of her back and shines softly in the ambient light. She is dressed in clothes that look as if they've been cut to fit her, her white shirt blousy at the sleeves and open at the throat, neatly tucked into loose fitting pants of midnight black. The pants, in turn, vanish into leather boots, dull black and soft, that reach two thirds of the way up her calf. Close at hand she carries an energy pistol that is slung to hang about mid-way down her thigh, a narrow strap binding the bottom of the holster to her leg just above her knee. At her other hip, a nightstick hangs through a leather loop at her belt, her fingertips often brushing against its grip. Razorback looks up as Ace comes in, his ears swivelling towards her. A low growl escapes his throat as he rises to his feet. "Wonderrrful," he says, "I have rrremained idle forrr farrr to long." His ears fold back tightly against his head, his claws making an appearance from their sheathes. You see a tall black spectre that resembles, on closer inspection, an immense (over seven and a half feet at least), bipedal panther. With the exception of a dark red line that runs from snout to tailtip, this Demarian is jet black; his mane is grown long, down past his shoulders, impeccably combed and tied back with a wrapping of leather. Grey eyes contrast his fur color with a grim intensity, seated in a chizeled leonid face. There is a proud, but not haughty air about the felinoid, showing in his gait and his bearing. His massive frame and powerful limbs are encased in a billowing pale yellow shirt that gathers at the wrists and a pair of dark red trousers which tuck into his footwear. His heavy, digitigrade boots each seem to have three evenly spaced holes cut in the front of them. Over this is a floor-length, velvet coat that flairs out at the knees, adding to the Demarian's feline grace when he moves. His clothes are manufactured from expensive, but worn fabrics, somewhat faded and threadbare in places. Only their excellent quality has allowed them to last as long as they have. The clothes covering his upper body seem far more tight than they should be, indicating some kind of bulky garment beneath. Aadzrian blinks slowly and stares up at Ace for a moment, before beginning to decidedly scowl. "Didded he hits you face?" the Timonae growls, though he has no claws to extend... that said, he does have a gun to reach for and turn on to charge, and that he does. "Would be pleasure shoots. You care if no is on stun?" Busted lips and sharp claws and growling and busted lips, oh my. Raz is not a happy camper, either, it would appear, trudging into the commons with a stompystompstomp of small padded footpaws and flattened ears. There is a pink bowtie tied up in the ruff of his Akripan crown. This charming, roguish little character doesn't even rise to a full meter in height, skirting just over the halfway mark. Shaggy blond fur covers him from head to toe, marred only by the slathering of a chalky ebon hue on his right paw and left eye, and the very tips of his small, conical ears. His stubby snout is tipped with a leathery black nose and flanked by a pair of bright black eyes that sparkle with the innocence of youth. He's still a cub, this one. He does dress himself nicely, though. Over a simple black tee-shirt he wears a longcoat, red in color, finely tailored and neatly pressed. The garment is fastened all the way to a crisp collar with burnished silver buttons sculpted into smiling skull-and-crossbones. Black fingerless gloves are pulled over his broad, fuzzy paws, while around his neck hangs a charm necklace adorned with carved beads. Slung low upon his waist is a plain leather belt, upon which a holster housing a small firearm hangs opposite a commlink and a small metal tube with a rubberized grip. Ace settles wearily onto the edge of a bunk, "Nyet, he did not. Says he is with PRTR and goes where he goes and Ruin and Tom, they do not seem to wish to take responsibility for having him on their ship." She sighs and scrubs her face with her hands, "Told him to stay the fu..." she stops as Raz teeters in, the first sign of something that may resemble a glitter appearing in her dark eyes. "You have been playing with Gracie and Sara?" she asks the cub. Razorback's ears twitch towards the newcomer and the Demarian relaxes somewhat, pulling his claws back in. He sighs, but waits patiently for any further exposition, though his ears still remain tightly folded. Nixkamich appears shortly a little bit after, wheeling himself into the crew lounge and heading over towards his bunk. A general nod to all is offered, but nothing much more than that. A Qua man with muscular broad shoulders, angular features and black hair. Nix stands at 6'5" - taller than your average Qua. Brown eyes compliment his rusty colored skin, with making of a goatee starting to grown in on the man's face with a few newly placed small scars around Nix's right eye. The clothes that Nix wears appear to made for more night related activities. A pair of black cloth pants, which billow out slightly at his thighs, while the ankles down appear to be wrapped by two slim peices of cloth which are sewed at the bottom of the pant leg, on opposite sides. A simple pair of faded black, rubber soled boots adorn his feet. A black cloth belt keeps the pants secured to his waist. The longsleeve shirt he wears, black as well, seems to be form fitting to Qua's muscular structure. Over that is another of his tradmark sur-coats, only this one is of a more faded black cloth variety and not tan leather, with a deep hood sewn into the collar. Within the right amount or shadows or darkness, the hood can easily hide most of his face. Aadzrian continues to scowl for a moment, but then slowly nods, and removes his hand from the general vicinity of the gun. Nix gets a sharp nod in reply, the scarred Timonae still looking less than happy... if perhaps not likely to do anything violent right now. Except for stab a little more of Razorback's food off his plate with a long nail and devour it, of course. "Do not like GIRLS," Raz complains miserably, clawing and pawing ineffectually at the frilly headwear, big waddling steps closing the distance between him and Ace. Frowning pathetically, he rests his snout in her lap -- though the little incline of his head would seem to indicate that maybe it is not entirely a gesture of affection, but a plea for help. "Be nice, mishka," Ace says as she patiently begins to un-do the pink bow on his head. "They wish to be friends and to play and do not understand that you are Raz, pilot, chef and crewman and not Raz, cute and furry playmate." Whether it is because the knot is a bit more than it seems or that her fingers are not as responsive as they should be, it seems to take her a bit to get the pink ribbon free." She looks over at the others, "Do not think all of you have met my son," she says, her hand smoothing down the ruffled fur in an all-too-motherly gesture. Razorback chuckles quietly with a sympathetic look to the Castori. "Not in a verrry long time," he says, white fangs peeking out from underneath his lips as he grins. Upon reaching his bunk, Nix pushes himself slowly out of his wheelchair, tentivley stretching his limbs, before then taking a seat on his bunk. From under his pillow, he draws out that beaten old journal. Thankfully one of the fews things he had managed to keep on him and save. "I has seed him, but no meeted him. I is Aadzrian, Raz," Aadzrian remarks a little more cheerfully, turning a half-smile to the Castori. "And one day I bets you wil no hating girls half as mush. T'ey gets better as you gets older." Once Ace is done fixing his headfur, Raz musses it right back up again, shaking his head vigorously as he does so. He looks up at Ace with a sunny, toothy little smile. "Spaciba," the little cub offers, just before half-turning to regard Aadz and cock his head doubtfully at the Timonae. "Is promise," Aadzrian solemnly informs Raz, with that same half smile. "Girls start gettings less mean and more fun. T'ey does. Jus has to being very patient for t'em to growed up already and catshes up to you." He leans back, and seemingly gives up on being sneaky about Razor's plate... dragging it his way and eating the Demarian's food quite openly. Seashell ears perk, and Raz nods slowly. This man is wise. Tirax peers up at the ceiling as he suddenly awakes, then swiftly attempts to roll out of bed and onto his feet, forgetting for a moment that he's still very much healing. The result is him landing on the floor for the second time in a day. This Timonae male stands a little under seven feet, his silver hair cropped close to his scalp, though just beginning to grow again, a few flicks of silver here and there. His tan complexioned face is thin and long with prominent cheekbones. Set neatly either side of his rather plain nose, under thin silver eyebrows are his violet, opalescent eyes with no evident irises, perhaps making it difficult to tell what he's actually looking at. His body is a little on the skinny side, right now open to the air. His fingers, like the rest of his body, give the impression of 'long', this in part due to an extra knuckle in each finger. He's wearing a vest, criss-crossing like a bolero across the chest, is a mix of dark gray leather and deep wine, almost purple, geometrics. It is tailored to broaden shoulders and the hem crosses down past the waist. A double wrap belt holds both places for two holsters and several slots for blades. The holsters both have a pistol in, and all the slots are filled with knives. The tunic that he wears beneath is a lighter gray, fabric a rough weave that leaves broad sleeves and an open necked V giving a rather rustic look. The pants are a dulled leather, reflecting no light. Aadzrian winces at the sight and sound of Tirax tumbling down, hopping to his feet and hurrying over with food completely forgotten. He kneels down, informing the other Timonae wryly, "Is glad you skinny," as he reaches to half-lift him. "Chair or bed?" Not a word of that reaches the little cub, who cringes and flips ears backwards at the *whump* of Timonae crashing into deckplating. Hovering somewhere between bewilderment and concern, Raz peers at Tirax over his shoulder, watching his comrade scoop him up. "Gospadi," he swears. "Is tall furless moonbeam much hurted?" Ace is reacting slowly, not her usual sharp self as she flinches at Tirax's fall, watching as Raz and Aadzrian leap quickly to the man's rescue. Tirax grumbles, obviously annoyed as he begins to curse. He stops quickly upon seeing and hearing Raz, instead opting to curse in Timonese. "M'fine," he mutters, annoyed. "Chair please," he nods, then blinks at Raz. "Moonbeam. Heh, I li' tha'." Aadzrian sighs mildly, hefting Tirax with a decided grunt of effort, suggesting he isn't quite as recovered as he plays at either. Still, he manages to heave the other Timonae into his nearby hoverchair and then sinks heavily onto the vacated bunk, taking a long wheezy moment to catch his breath. "If you makes me calls you moon-beam in public," he grumbles, "I kill you." Nixkamich looks over the top of his journal at whats going on, but after a few moments of watching, he goes back to his reading. Obviously, Tirax has not banked on Raz being multilingual. "Pottymouth," the Castori teases, clapping his forepaws to his muzzle and giggling as if in on some secret joke. The grin lingers even after his arms fall to his side again, and though he watches the silver-haired pair carefully for a moment, he does not move to intervene. Instead, he half-turns and tilts his head, giving his kapitan a sideways once-over. "My Ace," he notes, "is much with the hurting too." Ace is watching Raz as he goes to help, a touch of pride and caring in her expression as she watches him. His statement, though, takes her completely by surprise and she bows her head, "Is okay, Raz," she lies badly but makes the effort for her son. Tirax blinks at Raz and sighs. "So mush fer sparin' th' kids," he says, turning to watch Aadzrian with worry in his eyes. One hand goes stiffly out to rest on the Timmie's knee. "Breathe slowly love," he advises carefully. "I is breat'ed fine. No worry." Aadzrian slowly straightens, and indeed does seem to have gotten his breath back. "Whew. Righ'." He glances over to Ace at her comment, good hand absently resting atop Tirax's, and his expression softens slightly. "You knowing, even you needing time to heals. We can catshes breat', all of us, on Vollista, yes? While we makinged more plan, is little time to rest. You mus to be taked it, Ace." "My kapitan, she is doing the fibbing," scolds Raz, coming closer to rest his gloved paws on her knees and peer into her face, searching the cuts and bruises and scars with eyes like gleaming jet. After a pawful of seconds pass, he reaches to touch Ace's hand, butterscotch fur to pale skin. The young Castori recedes into himself for a moment, a long moment, eyes slowly lidding, his breath going out of him in a long, slow sigh. "Raz..." Ace whispers, a tremor running through the hand that reaches over to caress the little Castori's cheek, her own eyes closing as she bows her head. "Cannot feel you anymore..." Tirax looks over at Ace and Raz, appearing a little concerned before he sighs quietly, squeezing Aadz's hand. Aadzrian squeezes back and falls into silence, staring down at the ground with his brow slightly furrowed. Raz's eyes open again, just as softly as before, his eyeridge knitting up as his gaze meets Ace's once more. "Hurting," he confirms. "Much places, all over. My Ace, she is broked." Moving to take her hand again, he tries -- tries! -- if his pawhold isn't resisted, to bring her to her feet with all the strength in his two-foot-tall frame. "Come. Da? With short furred Raz." Ace frowns as she lifts her head, not resisting as the cub takes her hand. It's an effort to get on her feet, trying not to lean at all on Raz as she gets her bad leg under her. "Raz, where...?" she asks, limping along, totally unwilling to argue or resist the Castori. Superman has kryptonite. Ace has a toothy smile and a warm furry hug. Tirax just stays where he is, gaze turning to watch the two of them. "Come with short furred Raz," the ursinoid insists without frustration or impatience, guiding her toward the forward hatchway. He doesn't give Tirax or Aadz any sort of cue, but nor does he give any indication that their presence would be unwelcome. Here is the end of land and the beginning of water. The edge is sharp, a high cliff dropping hundreds of feet into the green ocean as if sliced by a slightly curved knife. The shattered green sky touches it with fierce winds that blow sharp and steadily from the water towards the land. The scouring air has left the very edge of the cliff smooth and bare of plantlife, while further back small grasses and stunted trees begin to proliferate, fading eventually into a purple and white blanket of forested mountains far back from the cliff. The barren edge of stone is marked by a single stylized upright marble statue of a blank-faced Vollistan woman spinning in place, her arms lifted to the sky. Raz directs their course away from the outpost, away from the ships, away from the noise and commotion and crowds, through a quiet, windy meadow of green and purple grass and onto a rocky outcrop. There his footsteps cease, and he points to the scene below. The ocean stretches before them, blue-green under the dusky indigo sky, hugged by a spread of silky moon-kissed dotted with a scattering of Vollistan figures, alight like painted fireflies, lazing or frolicking as the evening tide comes in. There are campfires, there are songs, there are the lonely and the lovers, all glittering every color of the rainbow. "Look," the Castori tells her, his coattails flapping in the wind. Ace limps behind the cub, a fresh bruise and cut lip on top of those injuries still fading, her hand held in his paw as he leads her along. She comes to a stop, standing beside him a she looks out onto the beautiful panoramic view and sees...nothing. Her dark eyes, sunken and red rimmed, scan the scene and the horizon, her head finally giving a slow shake, "I do not see anything, Raz," she confesses sadly. Perhaps Ace will hear the creaking of pulleys, though. Because someone is pulling a small platform up from the cliff. Scheur peers up at Raz and Ace, offering a feeling of greeting. This woman is not Human; that much is apparent from even a brief glance. Humans don't get to be 7'6", nor are they so thin and stretched-out looking; as if someone took a normal-sized Human woman and stretched her like taffy. And Humans don't have the same skin-tone as a vampiric cave-fish; this woman is almost a snow-white, she's so pale. She has silver-grey eyes, her hair a shimmering platinum; there's streaks of silver in it, complementing her eyes. A green aura surrounds her for the length of one of her arms in all directions (asides from into the floor or the ground). She wears a loose white dress of some kind of wool, which her aura shines through easily. She wears gray woollen socks and a pair of leather sandals, hair tied back loosely. Slung over her back is a large cloth bag with several pockets, held shut with buckles and strings. "My Ace would see it," Raz notes to her glumly, glancing all the way up at the Ungstiri's face for a brief moment, then to the rocks below his footpaws. "Short furred Raz, he comes from short furred Castori star," he says. "Mama and Papa, they are in the water. Short furred Raz, this is what they told him, on Quaquan star in the Coyote Cafe. So go Quaquan star, and Quaquan, it is home place. Short furred Raz, he comes from Quaquan star now. Gospadin Deardon, he does much bad things short furred Raz, but short furred Raz, he does not know they are bad, and Blue Sparrow, she does not tell him. Then Faux comes, and is Jest and Ace and Firemane, and they take short furred Raz. So Raz, he is Faux now, and Faux, it is home. But Faux, it is gone. Blowed up. Da?" As Scheur pulls herself up, the tiny cub spares a look in her direction. "This one, she will know too, da. She will." Ace nods as she swallows the lump in her throat, tears spilling down one of her cheeks, "Da, Raz, am sorry...took another home from you. Faux, she is gone, and so is Ungstir. Both of them blown up. Wanted to keep you safe..." She looks over her shoulder as her empty eyes meet Scheur's, "Know what...?" she asks, genuinely lost and confused. ~I don't know,~ Scheur answers Ace. She asks Raz, ~What is it I'm supposed to know?~ She's just peeking over the edge of the cliff, head and shoulders visible. Raz doesn't answer either one of them, preferring to stamp his footpaws agitatedly. "Nyet!" he barks at his kapitan. "Ungstringy cave place, it is much blowed up, da. Ace, she comes from Ungstringy cave place. Ungstringy cave place, it is home. Ace, she goes Faux -- Faux, it is home. Is blowed up, da. Is BOTH. Is gone." He points a fuzzy forefinger at Scheur without looking at her. "Glowy girlkind, she comes from much glowy star. Is NYET blowed up. Is much peoples, is much peoples much scared and much hurting, see much Ungstringy peoples get blowed up, and no badkind Phybbians." "Da," Ace says, so much slower than she had once been on so many levels, "Vollistans, they are not blown up, Raz, I do not understand. I am sorry..." Volouscheur just...blinks quietly at Ace and Raz, aura shimmering apricot and cyan. She doesn't say anything, just watching them. "Short furred Raz, his home is NYET Faux!" declares the cub adamantly. "Is NYET Castori star! Is NYET Quaquan! Short furred Raz, his home, it is EVERYWHERE, da, everywhere his ACE goes. Where is Kapitan Ace home? Where," he demands, indicating the baffled Vollistan there at the edge of the cliff and the dozens below, "is glowy girlkind home? Is glowy PEOPLES home?" Ace's knees give out as she drops beside Raz, the wind tugging her long hair which flutters like a dark flag. "Home...it is Raz...is where family is..." She turns to look the little Castori in the eyes, laying a hand a gentle hand over his heart, "Home, it is here, da?" she sniffles. ~Here,~ Scheur replies to Raz. ~Vollista is Home to *all* Vollistans. There's lots living elsewhere. There's several who were born elsewhere. But Home is Vollista.~ She nods to Ace, and falls silent again, watching. Raz bobs his snout affirmatively, his eyes never leaving Ace, his gaze concerned and critical. "Ace, she is giving up," he observes. "She thinks she is only peoples doing the hurting, feeling much scared, feeling much sad. Is not my Ace. My Ace would see," he tells her, nodding past Scheur and to the beach below. "Much peoples, da, all scared and hurting, just like Ace. And she would stop their hurting." "Raz," Ace says, both cheeks damp as she struggles for words, looking between him and Scheur and then back again. "Is not just broken here," she puts her hand to her damaged leg and then lets her fingers brush her jaw. "When Faux crashed, kept her together and now, is broken here," she puts a hand to her temple. Volouscheur offers quietly, ~There are...not doctors, psychologists, exactly. No one with degrees. But..there are people who know how to fix things that go wrong with the mind. If you want...we could look and see if there's anything we could do to help what's broken get fixed?~ Snuffling through his leathery nose, Raz firmly says, "My Ace does not need the doctors." Stubby, furry little fingers work at the fastenings of his gloves, and when they're off, he holds them in his teeth to catch either side of the despairing kapitan's head in his forepaws. If she does not resist, he holds it firmly, seaside gusts snatching up sleeves and coat and flapping them wildly, as his eyes shut and his tiny muscles tense. Ace closes her eyes and her head lowers, yielding to the Castori, totally blind to what he was doing, the blue glow in her eyes having faded somewhere in the Demarian desert. ~*Everyone* needs doctors, sometimes,~ Scheur argues. ~Besides, the doctors are *trained*.~ She watches as Raz does...whatever it is he's planning on doing, biting her bottom lip as her aura flares cyan. Scheur's words are totally lost on Raz; the noise and energies pumping and churning and swirling in his body and mind and soul drown out everything around him. He concentrates. His small, black-tipped ears flare and angle forward, his teeth grind, and he struggles to exhale, forcing raw emotion from his core and down his arms, through his fingertips, and into Ace. When he snaps out of it, he is panting, his eyes glassy and red, his limbs trembling. And while not a scratch has been removed from his dearest kapitan, the little kitchen slave who wasn't cut out to be a pilot but a healer drops his forepaws and stares into the pair of eyes opposite him, having transmitted the only remedy for her ails: Hope.
|
![[RDF Data]](/fct/images/sw-rdf-blue.png)