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| - Paul_Nighman Paul Nighman is a tall and lanky Corellian, 6'3", with a lean and muscular build. His face sports rugged handsome features and a neatly trimmed short beard which accentuates the cut of his jawline. His hair is light brown with gold highlights, still long, but clearly cut into elegant and tidy lines. He currently wears it tied back with a intricately etched sliver clasp with unfamiliar symbols on it. There is still one unruly swatch which is a tad too short to reach the clasp. This, as always, drops over his brow, frequently covering his left eye. His eyes are expressive and hazel in color with a green sunburst at the center. His skin is lightly tanned and he seems a touch leaner and harder than used to be a few months ago. He has long muscled arms with light scars and nicks crisscrossing them. His hands are similarly large and strong, laced with thin scars. His voice is deep, warm, and gravelly. Broad shoulders are graced by a deep forest green shirt, a slightly high collar dipping down toward the front of the throat to expose a healthy expanse of collarbones. A black vest drapes over it snugly, casually undone and open in the front. Black breeches mold his legs, tapering down to tall black boots. Only those with the most discerning of gazes will note the knife concealed within the right one. Hanging from a black belt and strapped to his left thigh is a blaster holster, complete with weapon. The ensemble is simple, but elegant. Ferdenko is standing by the entrance-way into cloud city. Scanning the hangar periodically. Stepping down from his ship, the Corellian looks about curiously, and by his dress he is clearly heading out for some late night entertainment. He casually saunters across the tarmac, toward the Grand Entryway Ferdenko: Before you is a relatively short human male, standing at roughly 5 feet in height puts him a little under adverage hight for his race. He has a wiry physique which is doubly enhanced by his gauntness. He has deep, penetrating brown eyes and shoulder length hair of the same dark brown in colour. A thin leather strap keeps the hair from falling into his face which is haggard and pock-marked, a testament to the harshness of life. His hands are thin and dextrous, but are just as worn as Malik's face. A bone white scar runs across his left hand and contrasts markedly with his tanned skin. He is wearing a set of stock field armour, the only modification appearing to be a customised mottled purple and grey colour scheme. Consisting of a Sturdy Chest-plate, arm guards, leg guards, shin guards and moulded backplates the armour gives exceptional support and protection both from energy on physical attacks. Emblazoned boldly on the chest is a silver serpent insignia. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => DY-255 Heavy Blaster Pistol => Field Armor => SS-V Blaster Carbine -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Palm-Top Ferdenko looks at you for a moment. Ferdenko nods politely as Paul Nighman passes him, and says "Evening." Slowing his pace slightly, the hazel eyes take in the smaller man's appearence with a measuring gaze of someone familiar with a wide variety of locations and social standards. Paul nods politely in return and offers, "Evening." You open the double doors and pass through into Cloud City. Grand Entryway North - Cloud City This wide, expansive hallway leads directly into the main corridors of Cloud City's upper levels. Underneath the high ceiling, huge windows dominate the south wall. Sunlight floods in from these windows during daylight hours, while moonlight illuminates the metal sculptures in the middle of the hallway at night. Softly glowing blue cylinders are periodically affixed to the walls, which, along with the marble floor, are polished to a very white shine. People occasionally stroll down side corridors, talking quietly amungst themselves. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => IGNews Terminal (Imperial) - Bespin => Mail Terminal: Bespin -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- South leads to Grand Entryway South - Cloud City. BAR - leads to The Sky Bar. North - leads to Landing Dock 91 - Cloud City. You step onto the repulsorlift platform, which begins to rise. The Sky Bar slowly comes into view as you ascend... The Sky Bar The Sky Bar towers above the rest of Bespin, which spreads itself out for kilometers below. Ships can be seen coming and going in the distance. The Sky Bar is a large transparisteel dome which darkens slightly during the day to ease the glare of Bespin's sun. At night the Sky Bar reveals the glories of the galaxy, undiminished by the softly lit glowlamps scattered throughout the room. Muted conversations can be heard from the various tables with laughter occasionally breaking the silence. The sounds of a band can be heard wafting up from an unknown source. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Ylsa -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- Out - leads to Grand Entryway North - Cloud City. The bar, as nighttime has descended upon Bespin, is darker and losing its post-shift change crowd. People are scattered about the bar, clustered around tables here and there, with several solitary drinkers enjoying or indulging in their favorite libations on their own. Walking in slowly, the Corellian takes his time as he takes in the view. Clearly he likes the quiet seductive quality of the bar, the softer darker pace. The music is a lush bas-jazz, more meant for dancing close to a beautiful woman than drinking by, but good music nonetheless. His step shifts, moving with the music a bit as he crosses through the room and stroll over toward the bar. Leaning there, he waits patiently for a tender to catch the eye of. Placed upon a stool on the far end of the bar, a tendril of smoke curling past her nose, is a lissome creature in dark blue, her cool features impassive to suggest inhumanity. Motionless once her hand has lowered, leaving another trail of greenish grey smoke in its wake, the woman assumes the demeanor of a statue. Were it not for the flicker of her eyes she would come across as lifeless; certainly her understatedly frigid air suggests a certain heartlessness. A dark brown gaze is finally caught, the order for a Denubian Flare is given, and the Corellian settles himself down at the bar comfortably, turning to face out. Resting his arms against the counter behind him, Paul takes a moment to consider the main floor once again before shifting back to his compatriots at the bar. He notices the woman at the end, but his gaze moves readily onward. Statues are generally not very talkative, and the only way you can make a dent in one of them is with a chisel. Ylsa: Languidly fluid in her movements, her long-limbed body supple in its femininity, this lady of some thirty Standard years is a graceful creature whose attire suggests an elegant, priviledged upbringing. Her hair - waves of golden blonde - is carefully coiffured so that each hair is in place, a counterpoint to the brilliant azure of her eyes. Makeup is added with discretion and subtlety to enhance her complexion and features. Tailored clothing - a full skirt in navy blue beneath a soft, cream-colored Yavinese silk blouse. A wide leather belt circles her waist, and upon her feet are expensive-looking navy shoes. "No," the woman drawls at last in an exotic accent, presumably to the tentacled creature situated closest to her, "your offer is as alluring as a night with a Rancor. Tell your employers I have no interest in their offerings and go; your odor turns my stomach." Dismissively she swivels away from the being, who, gargling someting in his own language, places one of those tentacles on her leg. His reaction is easily distinguished as anger. The drink arrives, the Correlian samples, and a brow raises in approval, a smile curling his lips easily. "Nice, " Paul compliments the tender. "Perhaps you can mix up some information as well?" The smooth delivery is only spoiled by a fractional frown crossing the Corellian features. He observes the subtle interaction between beauty and beast, words unheard ... but actions speaking loud enough. Part of him senses that this is a woman who can more than handle her own affairs, and more importantly, would not look kindly on interference. But Paul watches the pair peripherally ... after all, when did someone's disapproval ever stop him from interferring? Count the Corellian as correct. The woman turns her cigarilla over and dashes its glowing point onto the tentacle audaciously laid across her lap, never breaking her gaze from the creature's eyestalks. Squealing, he withdraws his tentacle and again bubbles something nasty before raising a second tentacle to strike. Self-imposed will, however, and a cleared throat from one of the bar's larger servers reminds him of the hazards of further violence, and, with a final glare, he slithers out. Raising a brow, Paul glances over at the tender, who had noted the incident with a deadpan eye. "Know her?" Paul queries, to which the tender looks back with a small stare and returns, "Is that what you wanted mixed up?" Raising a hand, Paul coughs, casting a quick glance and murmurs, "No, I don't drink hard liquor any more." The tender doesn't crack so much as a smile, but his head does bob, eyes patiently waiting. Paul pulls out a few credits fingering them thoughtfully. "I'm looking for a friend of mine, Twi'lek, may have come by? Name of Elomin?" He doesn't wait for an answer, simply tosses the credits on the bar. "That's for the answer ... and whatever the lady would like. But it didn't come from me, yes?" The credits are taken, the bartendering nodding. "I'll get the ingredients and stir them up ... see what the lady wants and what I get," with that he moves in quietly assured steps to the opposite end of the bar. Brilliantly blue eyes fix on the bartender as he arrives and inquires discreetly what she would care to drink considering a beverage of her choice has already been purchased for her. One of her eyebrows arches upward before her answer is presented, brushed into a chill by the frosty tone. "Corellian brandy, straight up..." She indicates no surprise, no interest in having the drink purchased, but the gleam of her gaze implies an active curiosity eliminating possibilities of who may have done the deed. Once the deed was done, Paul had little interest in observing it's result. The point was not to draw her attention or make contact ... her ilk is clearly for individuals who have little care for their well being. That may have been Paul Nighman's bent some years ago, but he's gotten past that destructive phase of his youth. He samples his own drink with a small degree of quiet relish, finding the wish for a dance floor to go with this music growing by degrees. After a bit, the tender returns, obstensibly to the untrained eye, to refill Paul's glass. "The lady ordered a Corellian brandy ... I kept the change of course as a tip. As for your "friend", he was here a few months back, but there was some dispute over an oil purchased by Moff Barchen, and we haven't seen him around here since." The man offers Paul an almost apologetic shrug before moving off to another patron. Paul merely sips his drink thoughtfully, turning once again to peer out across the dance floor. The elegantly attired lady downs her brandy with practiced ease, returning the emptied glass onto the bar with a solid, stark *thunk*, like the final punctuation mark to end a conversation. Off of the barstool she slides, a hand brushing distractedly at her skirt to remove any lingering wrinkles. Once on her feet she lingers, sweeping her gaze across the denizens milling this way and that. Finally, oddly, a smile curls one corner of her mouth, the expression sardonic. It's the same old story - everybody either has somebody, or is waiting for somebody, or isn't interested. Maybe it's just the scene tonight, but for a moment Paul realizes that he has very few friends ... and those he counts closest are rarely seen or visited. It's a rather depressing thought ... one that simply used to be a fact of life, but is now taken a little more personally. He tosses back the second drink a little faster than caution would recommend, and takes a moment to blink and recover, holding back the urge to sputter with some degree of aplomb. It's a heftier drink than his usual fare, and clearly two is plenty. His gaze catches the blonde as she shifts away from the bar and out, hazel eyes watching her for a short moment before allowing themselves to be distracted. The blonde has without surprise noticed the Corellian; dashing as he may be, taller than many a patron of the bar, he unwittingly stands out in a crowd. She spears him with her unabased attention, drilling a hole in his profile with the blue diamond lasers of her eyes, then, hands manuevering through the activity of lighting another cigarilla, she steps nearer to the professorial Corellian and waits. Just waits. Oblivious for the most part to the visual impact he may or may not have, Paul coughs slightly to clear his throat, which still burns due to his error in judgement. His gold-green gaze lifts nonchalantly to blonde before him, noting the cigarilla without comment, though he finds the things distasteful. "Good evening," he murmurs in greeting to the long slender figure. "Is the evening good?" the willowy blonde answers casually, disdainfully one might say, lifting the cigarilla to her lips and inhaling. Her pose is languid, resting her weight upon one hip, her hand curled under the opposite elbow; ennui is her present mood, as if the scene at the bar never occurred. It certainly left no ruffled feathers. Shrugging, Paul retorts easily, "It is for someone ... but of course now that you're here, everything shines a little brighter." He parries disdain with a riposte of sarcasm. His arms resting on the bar casually, Paul allows his eyes to take there time as they shift down her figure and then slowly trail back up. "Did you want something?" She reacts not a whit to his study of her willowy figure, as if it were an expected thing. "You are very familiar to me," she drawls, her accent - Teluvian by the sound of it - lingering in the air like a hint of some exotic spice. "It is no matter." Shrugging, she stabs the cigarilla into obivion and folds her arms across her silk blouse, pensivity itself. Cocking his head to one side thoughtfully, Paul considers her features minutely, but they don't register in his memory. However, many people have thought that all Corellians look alike ... or certainly act similarly. "You don't seem the type to waste your time with distractions ... if it's of no matter, then what are you waiting for?" Those blue eyes, like the depths of sunlit ocean, meet Paul's gaze directly while she ruminates. "Do you consider your company, brief as it is, to be a waste of time or merely a distraction?" "The customer is always right," Paul quips lightly. "Doesn't really matter what -my- opinion is ... you're the one waiting for ... something." Leaning forward, Paul straightens up, commenting, "However, to answer your question, no, I don't think I am a waste of time." The blonde repositions herself so that she is beside Paul and facing him fully; a thin smile grows broader as illumination appears in her expression. "Neither do I," she murmurs. Turning again, she picks hey way toward the exit, leaving a kiss of some Corellian bloom as a reminder of her perfumed presence. "Good evening, then, Doctor," is the last heard from her before she disappears out of the door. The Corellian stares after her for a long moment, blinking in surprise, rather disconcerted by the use of his unused title. Clearly if she knows him, then he knows her? That's a little more disconcerting and Paul determines that another glass of something a little more potent and a lot of serious thinking are required to determine just -who- this mysterious lady is. Waving down the waiter again, Paul drops a sizeable number of credits on the table, murmuring, "I want you to mix me up something. Hard liquor this time." The next night ... The Sky Bar The Sky Bar towers above the rest of Bespin, which spreads itself out for kilometers below. Ships can be seen coming and going in the distance. The Sky Bar is a large transparisteel dome which darkens slightly during the day to ease the glare of Bespin's sun. At night the Sky Bar reveals the glories of the galaxy, undiminished by the softly lit glowlamps scattered throughout the room. Muted conversations can be heard from the various tables with laughter occasionally breaking the silence. The sounds of a band can be heard wafting up from an unknown source. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Ylsa -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- Out - leads to Grand Entryway North - Cloud City. Another night, another drink, another credit down the drain. Paul sits at a table tonight, a touch introspective as he sips his drink. Unlike the previous evening, he isn't questing for company, and is having pretty much about the same success. No one so much as approaches the Corellian, save for the occasional waitress with a willing smile and a ready glass. A waft of greenish grey smoke, a low, throaty voice thanking someone for a dance, and the click of heels preceed the departure of the statuesque blonde from the dance floor. As with the night before, she appears to command a bubble of privacy even in the crowded establishment, and, as her dance parter withdraws relucantly to the bar, she returns to her table and sits alone, tapping a nail thoughtfully on the glass tabletop. Glancing up as the mysterious woman passes his table, Paul watches her quietly from the shadow of his booth, brows knitting as he once again tries to place her features. He's -fairly- certain that they didn't go to school together on Calamari ... they're too close to the same age. And at rate, unless she is quite changed, he's sure he would recognize her. As for himself, he's rather changed from those years and suspects that if that was the common link, she would -not- recognize him. A passenger? Unlikely. A fellow scientist? No ... and besides, he's been out of the "professional" loop for many years now ... and he certainly didn't make headlines with any of his small scientific studies on Calamari, Corellia, and Tamis. No, that's a dead end. But if she wasn't a client or a collegue, then who the hell is she that she would know not only his name, but his title ... which he's rarely ever used since he earned it. Hazel eyes cannot help but follow her curiously, grateful for the darkness that shrouds his little table. Her long figure, tonight graced by the flow of golden, shimmering beads, perches on a chair at her table before her weight sinks backward, making the position less formal. A leg crosses over the other, spilling cloth to one side and revealing a tantalizing length of calf and knee...and a single sparkling chain about her ankle. Food is brought to her table and presented with flair, but, after a cursory inspection, she informs the perspiring waiter that the meat should have been prepared to the level of the vegetable's doneness and vice versa. The waiter simply bows and removes the laden platter to return it to the kitchen, where, moments later, a swearing chef can be overheard. In response, the woman merely smiles, stabs out her cigarilla, and concentrates on the amber goodness of her beverage. One brow raises in either curiosity or amusement, and the Corellian take s a moment before rising up from his seat. Slowly, quietly, he makes his way through the clusters of beings and tables till he reaches hers. Stopping there, the Corellian inclines his head in her direction. "Evening," he greets, making no assumptions on whether it is good or otherwise. A slow smile slides her lips wider, the expression lazy but fetchingly so. Without countering Paul's greeting, she nods to the chair beside her and offers a look of invitation. Inclining his head graciously once again, Paul does an admirable job of covering his surprise. He was expecting challenge and was ready for it. Taking the seat offered, the Corellian makes a cautionary note to himself - never assume and be prepared for -anything-. To compliment her appearance would be redundant and typical. Instead, Paul comments, "I hope the poor preparation of your meal hasn't spoiled your appetite." The languid smile turns wry. "The chef here...he is so tempermental. I take pleasure in demanding perfection in his product," she intones, the exotic accent basting her words with an unspecific sensuality as she adds, "And my appetite is rarely spoiled so easily. What is it you desire of me?" _Touche'_ The Corellian smiles, the effect often devastating, but that isn't his intention. Considering the origin of his birth, he cannot help but be impressed by the lady's witty repartee and innuendo. From anyone else, Paul might suspect it was merely accidental. But this woman ... it's unlikely she makes such -accidents-. "I was going to ask you the same question, but I see you beat me to it. Let's just say that despite my better judgement, you've piqued my curiosity. I think evening in your company would be far more enjoyable than one spent by myself." Something amuses her, clearly, for the smile returns in full force. Perhaps she's merely intrigued or pleased by the dazzling effect of his charming smile...and perhaps she is appreciating a private joke. "An evening in my company can be an expensive undertaking, so perhaps you would be best left to your solitude and with ... handling things yourself, hmm?" She studies him through her veil of lashes, eyes bright and laughing. Paul glances down to his lap and then up again, one brow cocking suggestively. "I have to confess, I'm really not that desperate. I think I can handle myself just fine, but I'd rather have a stimulating partner with whom I can parry and thrust." Hazel eyes glint with sardonic humor, the smile curling at the corners wryly. "I'm sure you're expensive, but I didn't know you were up for sale. Guess we'll just have to go hutt." "My time is expensive," she clarifies, leaning her chin on her hand as she gazes at him through the subdued club lighting. "I myself am beyond the means of most men. As for parry and thrust..." Like him, she lets her eyes move downward, "I admire someone with skill in handling his sword but am weary of softer men. So many lack the rigid discipline needed to know when to advance...and when to hold one's tongue and keep the weapon well sheathed." Unoffended, the smile doesn't waver. Paul waves a casual hand, noting, "I'm well trained in the use of a saber, but I choose my battles and my challenges with care. At the moment, I am merely interested in conversation, not swordplay. However," he notes with a more serious light in his eyes, "I came for enlightening discourse, and not this barbed thing we called "civilized discussion". If your talents in this arena have a price tag attached, then I suppose you're right, and I should engage my mind with other pursuits." An immacutely manicured finger traces patterns on the table, languid as many of her movements have heretofore been. "I am a businesswoman, and my time is my product. I cannot afford to offer a free sample to every Corellian who sits at my table." Slowly the brilliant blue of her eyes lifts from their regard of the table to fix on Paul. "But considering that you have delineated what you do not wish of me, perhaps while we wait for the chef's swill to reappear you will amuse me with some of your discourse. A man of learning so appeals to me, rare creature as he is." "Time is no one's "product" save a prostitute and a chrono-maker. Your "product" is your talent, and from what I've heard, you have a great deal of that." One brow raises, this time in challenge as Paul counters her evaluation. "So, since I'm not here to purchase your talents, then I am asking for no samples." Golden-green eyes rest steadily on her elegant features. "I calculate we have approximately three more minutes before your food arrives. What can this man of learning, rare animal du jour, amuse you with? Better you pick the topic than I." "Ah, but a prostitute has talent as well, else she makes an ill living at best or caters to the basest of men." For perhaps a half a minute within that estimate three-minute period the lady is silent, pondering. Then, with a firmly professional downing of her drink she regains her feet and leans forward so that her lips are near his ear, her breath kissing his skin. "You will find, Dr. Nighman, that my tastes run wide. But if you care to linger over a discussion of Corellian artifacts and the beginnings of their civilization, find me in an hour and we will speak further." Her lips brush his earlobe as she draws away, one hand dropping a card into his lap. "Enjoy the meal, if seasoned silkii is to your liking." Once again the tall blonde gets the last word, Paul's mouth opening and shutting as she shifts away from the table to be swallowed up by the crowd. And, yet again, she has left the Corellian with a burning frustration, a parting tease for him to obsess over. At least time it's only for an hour ... but that's little consolation really. The meal does arrive a few seconds later - perfectly seasoned and cooked. Glaring at the food and then the waiter, Paul picks up his utensils and digs in. .... later that same evening ... You step off of the turbolift. Residential Sector - Cloud City - Bespin The residential levels of Cloud City are expansive and always full of activity. The inhabitants go on about their daily lives, heedless of the political intrigues surrounding the city. The walls and floor are a polished white and light, whether artificial or natural sunlight, pours in from up above. Children dart around, laughing and playing, while adults of many races shop, talk, and eat. Tasteful artwork lines the walls and open areas. Various private turbolifts and doors are tucked away in the artistically designed calls, leading to private residences. OOC: Type '+doors' to see a residential directory. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- Out - leads to Main Turbolift. An hour she said. And an hour's it's been. Fuming slightly Paul presses a finger to the door chime. And she knew -exactly- what he'd be doing for that entire hour. It was little consolation to eat her dinner, delicious as it was. It was even more humiliating to -know- that she expected him to stew and twitch while he ate and waited, and to do so anyway. The Corellian, now, however, is a picture of composure. The door slides open, presenting a tall, casually attired figure in ivory. "Punctual to say the least," she notes in her strange accent. Stepping to one side, she gestures toward the inside of her elegantly appointed suite. "Do come in, Doctor." Ylsa: Languidly fluid in her movements, her long-limbed body supple in its femininity, this lady of some thirty Standard years is a graceful creature whose attire suggests an elegant, priviledged upbringing. Her hair - waves of golden blonde - is carefully coiffured so that each hair is in place, a counterpoint to the brilliant azure of her eyes. Makeup is added with discretion and subtlety to enhance her complexion and features. Comfort is her mode of attire at present: a caftan in flowing Yavinese silk, dyed the color of cream with flowers embroidered in a tiny pattern. Handing the elegant woman swathed in silk a bottle of Corellian Brandy, Paul nods graciously as he passes by. It's an excellent year. Glancing about her apartment, Paul finally retorts to her previous counter-arguement ... "Prositutes are paid for their time, whether you have sex, a massage, or just talk. Talent merely insures repeat business." Glancing over his shoulder, Paul raises a brow innocuously, awaiting her pleasure or displeasure. Hazel eyes are nonchalant and inquisitive. "Dinner was quite delicious ... thank you." The woman does not even try to conceal her bemusement, and, eyes glittering, she conveys the brandy to a table lined with glasses and various containers of liquor. Her gait, here in the open, is further indication that a background as a classical dancer is not an impossibility. "Their silkii can be overcooked but is typically a delicate meal. I see from your riposte regarding prostitutes that our conversation of an hour ago has lingered in your thoughts." "Let's just say I like to get the last word, and you left before I could deliver it." Shrugging casually, Paul notes, "It was the latter part of your farewell that I've been musing over, as I'm sure you designed." One hip rests idly against a soft chair, the Corellian's arms crossing over his chest. "So ... is that was you really wanted to talk about, or were you just baiting me?" The blonde smiles faintly, reclining on the cushioned arm of her sofa. "While baiting men is an appreciable pasttime, I did wish to speak with you. We have never, of course, met, but I know you from your research and from holograms. Paul Nighman, ne'er-do-well Corellian expatriot and scientist, xenoarchaeologist, scholar. Student of the origins of Corellian settlers, friend to galactic heros." One brow raises, a rather incredulous one, at the laud of titles placed upon his name. Paul really isn't sure if she's being serious or merely mocking him, but he decides to take it in a positive, if somewhat unbelieveable, light. Clearing his throat, Paul echoes, "Expatriot? Friend of galactic heros? I believe you're thinking of some -other- Corellian," he murmurs humbly. "You have no discretion...your trail is exceedingly wide," she drawls, eyes retaining the glitter that they had earlier displayed. In better light, their blueness is remarkable; one might even presume contacts were falsifying the true color of her irises. "I have the right Corellian, I am certain of it. Now. You have questions of me, I would assume." Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Paul shrugs. He's had no reason to be particularly "discreet" ... I mean really, who cares two figs for a xenoarcheaologist? Course she's made no mention of his smuggling career - with that he's been more particular and subtle. "Questions? Now I -do- think you are confused. I came for conversation, to answer questions, not place them." Besides ... questions are too revealing, showing your weak underside ... that which you do not know and that which you desire to know. This Corellian isn't about to turn and leave his flank exposed. His back has clearly already been marked by this "lady". She laughs, white teeth flashing with the perfection that hints at some expensive dental work. "Very well. I am so rarely presented with a truly intelligent man, and among the more admirable traits you show is that of a keen acumen. I have for sale an ancient tome, recently uncovered near Gayes II. I think you might have interest in it." Paul doesn't so much as bat an eyelash at either the compliments or the offer. "I might," he returns equally. "Depends on the details." _And how you got them from what is supposed to be a -closed- and well protected dig site._ Turning toward the long wall across from Paul, the woman lifts her right hand and clicks on a small remote. An image leaps to life thanks to a well-tuned holoprojector. "Its age is guessed at three thousand to five thousand Standard years, but no one of your calibre has tested it to narrow down the range. As you can see, the language predates many modern tongues. Its similarity to your native language is undeniable." The images - of the book, of a few pages, of two illustrations - linger for a few seconds before cycling. It takes a great deal of restraint for Paul not to start at one of the pictures that appears in the book. The only noticeable reaction is a slight narrowing of the eyes. He still can't decide if she has an over-inflated ideal of his abilities, which seems unlikely, or is merely sweet-talking him with all of these "no one of your calibre" compliments. "And you ... inherited this?" he queries wryly. A forefinger is rubbed against one creamy cheek. "I acquired it. I appreciate rarities in the galaxy, Doctor." "Then why are you looking to sell it?" Paul counters, his gaze shifting from the glowing image on the wall to the flawless aristocratic features. The Corellian's hands itch to hold that tome ... to flip through it's pages and see what other illustrations are listed there. But he can't let on to the depth of his desire, which is forced to curl in his belly, banished.
* Click* goes the remote. Off goes the holovid. "It is enough to a collector to enjoy a possession until one realizes that perhaps someone else may desire it more, may crave it. To find you here on Bespin, the one man I realized could enjoy such a book, was luck beyond belief. I realized that you were indeed a person who could more fully appreciate this antique, and, honest creature that I am, I sought to offer it to you." Brows wing upward and her patently sarcastic commentary, but the Corellian plays along. "Honest creature? What kind of business are you in exactly?" The Corellian shifts his stance, but only because his body is getting stiff from staying still for so long. Rising up, he crosses over to the bar, opening the bottle that he just brought and pouring two glasses. He takes the few steps required to draw close to her, offering a snifter of the amber fluid. Fingertips brush against his hand as she accepts the brandy, explaining while conveying the marvelous liquid to her lips, "My business is primarily one of negotiations and acquisitions, Doctor. I smooth over talks between corporations, facilitate mergers, invite harmony where there was discord. A peacemaker in the business world am I." More sarcasm. "A Mitigator." Paul's fingers brush hers in return as he draws his hand away. "A rather broad field ... what sort of expertise do you bring to the table?" There is a small pause before Paul frowns and corrects, "No one calls me Doctor." He does not, however, give her the offer of calling him by his first name as he might usually do. No, this woman is more likely to be an advesary, or at the very least a nettle, rather than a friend. "I will tell you what." She strolls to the sofa and plants herself upon it, much as a queen would upon a throne: with the dignity of someone who knows in her heart she is regal. "I will call you, Paul, then, and you may call me Ylsa. It is an equitable arrangement, is it not?" _Till someone loses an eye ..._ "Yeah, sure," Paul returns with the vernacular of someone who knows that they're not. He isn't, however, about to let her get off so easily, and the Corellian simply stands next to her with glass in hand, waiting for her to answer his question. Ylsa senses Paul's mood and his guarded demeanor and backtracks to his question of a minute earlier. After, that is, she has tasted long and lingeringly of the brandy. "My upbringing introduced me to several layers of communication and negotiation," she explains blandly, dismissively. "Experience of recent years augments my adolescent tutelage. Does that answer suffice?" "It's vague at best," Paul notes, taking a sip of his own drink. Turning away from the woman, he ambles toward where the image once glowed, staring at the wall for a moment before announcing, "I'd like to take a look at it, run a few tests. After all, pictures can be deceiving." Ylsa plainly anticipated such a request and, as she unfolds herself and rises to join him, comments, "That can be arranged for sometime tomorrow, if you wish. I would never dream of you offering to purchase something you had not yet laid hands on." Turning slowly, hazel eyes somber, Paul nods once, murmuring, "I wish." He finishes his glass, taking a moment to savor the burning flavor before walking over to deposit it back onto the bar. He turns again then to consider Ylsa a touch thoughtfully. Part of him -thinks- that there is something genuine underneath the layers of makeup, perfume, and gilt. But then again, perhaps that is merely part of her style and talent. Ylsa's smile relaxes, apparently drawing to a close the business end of the conversation. Time for more pleasant forays into communication. As he considers her, so she in turn considers him. A playful gleam adds a touch of mischief to her expression while she regards the Corellian and his fetchingly long, lean figure. "You seem weary. Perhaps we could continue this conversation at a more appropriate time, or would you care to sit and make some effort toward relaxation?" "Weary?" Paul returns evenly, "No, I'm certainly not weary." No indeed, the Corellian is many things at the moment, but weary is -not- one of them. He does, however, walk over to settle himself on the couch that she had abandoned, his torso pressed into the corner between the back and one arm so he is still facing her. "What did you have in mind? Light conversation?" The words aren't barbed, but his eyes glint with a subtle humor, seriously doubting that this woman indulges in small talk, save for the occasional customer. Ylsa ruminates briefly while studying the Corellian's handsome profile. Abruptly and likely unexpectedly she inquires, "Do you play chess?" Leaning forward slightly, Paul rests his elbows on his thighs, hands interlacing before him thoughtfully. "Not in many years, but yes, I play." His hazel gaze is looking up at her steadily. He can't say that he's completely surprised, but it does add another layer to the picture of the willowy figure before him. She tenders a mysterious smile and glides to an antique cabinet, crouching to reach into the the lower section of the cabinet. From the open doors she removes a marble board and a mahogany box, remarking as she does so, "It's the single-dimension style...I hope that's tolerable." A quiet smile curls Paul's mouth, his eyes following her movements and motions. "It's my preference," he informs her as the board comes into view. It's an old piece, and beautifully crafted. The Corellian is not surprised though - style will show, and this woman glows with breeding. It's not a society Paul choose to travel in, but his father's connections certainly made him well aquainted with the circle. Offering the box of pieces to Paul to carry, Ylsa comments with a touch of humor, "My understanding of strategy is not what it should be, so please be gentle, hmm?" In her eyes is the twinkle of bemusement; she is in a good mood. Rising up slowly, Paul takes the box up. Now his gaze is dropped to hers slightly. "Well," he rumbles, "like I said, it's been a few years. I think we'll be well matched." His eyes raise up to flicker about the room only to drop again to her sapphire eyes. "Where?" Ylsa's hand waves fluidly toward a coffee table placed in the center of the room, too low to be used from the surrounding couch and chair. "Unless you mind sitting upon the floor?" she queries drolly, a continuation of her self-indulgent amusement. Ylsa looks at you for a moment. Hazel eyes slide over toward the table, a wry smile breaking across his face. "Trust me, I've been in far worse places ... the floor will more than suffice." Turning, Paul strolls over to the low square table, choosing a side and settling himself before it. Sitting seisa, he places the box on the table, opening it to reveal the elegantly carved pieces. "You are a most curious individual, Mr Nighman," Ylsa observes as she places the burled wood pieces on the board, choosing the darker ones (representing black) for her own side. The pieces are carved in the images of people, with Mandalorians in armor on the darker side and Old Republic heros as the lighter-colored pieces. "It is, in a way, as if we have been playing chess since the first encounter in the Sky Bar. Do you not agree?" For a long moment, Paul simply examines the pieces, a hand reaching out to pick up one of the darker pieces before replacing it. Instinctively part of him roils in reaction, the familiar shapes bringing back less than desireable memories. Without realizing it, his hand drops to a pawn in the shape of a young woman, and he stares at it for a moment before returning it to the board. "I'm a fairly straightforward individual," he counters calmly as his golden-green gaze continues to examine the board and it's occupants. Finally that gaze rises to capture her sapphire one. "Chess? I think it's more like sabbac myself - much bluffing and the cards keep changing." _Fascinating._ The thought is plain in the Ylsa's expressive eyes and the curve of her quirked brow, along with the slightly forward angle of her lithe frame. "A straightforward individual who likens conversation to bluffing? Are you certain?" "I may be straightforward, but I know enough to keep my hand covered when playing," Paul counters readily, even though that statement is potentially more revealing than desireable. "And I didn't liken it to bluffing, I likened it to sabbac, at which I am a poor player." "I'll have to remember that." Her laugh, like her accent, is nearly musical in its lilting quality, despite the timbre of her voice. "Do you wish to choose colors, or shall we leave things as they stand and you play the light side, hmm? You strike me as a light side sort of fellow." "Light suits me just fine," is the Corellian's choice, though he seems to care little one way or the other. At least outwardly. "Dark moves first," he notes, the implications fueled by memories a touch ominous. Ylsa's hand moves outward to select a pawn and send it two spaces forward, her eyes never leaving the tanned visage of the Corellian scientist. "Conservative..." _The move or the man?_ It's a standard move, and Paul replies with another standard, shifting one of his pawns out as well. "Inevitable." Ylsa's lips lift on one corner: a sardonic smile at best. "What in life is not inevitable? The Jedi would have had us believe we are pawns in some cosmic force's hands, our destinies chosen for us from birth." Snorting lightly as he watches her counter his move, Paul shifts out another pawn. "Jedi are not infallible ... and the intelligent ones realize that life is a series of choices which will alter the course of more than simply one individual." Raising his gaze to her's, Paul softly rumbles, "There is little in life that is inevitable other than we are born, we live for a time, and we die. The rest shifts as readily as the Giblii." Ylsa's lips purse slightly as she contemplates a move, drawing a knight out from its starting point while musing, "I never said the Jedi were infallible. I find life to be whimsical at best, as your Giblii reference suggests you believe as well." Her piece takes one of Paul's pawns, and, firmly, she settles it beside the board as proof of capture. Eyeing that knight, Paul shifts a bishop, taking her piece aside. "Common ground?" Paul murmurs. "I can't believe we've actually agreed upon something." His attention, however, is drawn more and more to the board and the action being played upon it, his mind dredging up old strategies and patterns. Apparently the blonde has also begun to focus more on the game, since her moves indicate a certain strategic wit and verve. Once a certain point is reached, her pieces progress toward Paul's king with deliberation, wooden carvings on a mission. As the game grows more serious, Ylsa's eyes focus on Paul's, her knowing smile indicating she is quite aware of what she is doing. While he can counter much of the damage she inflicts, it doesn't take Paul long to realize that she has the advantage now ... some fatal error on his part at some unremembered point. He can reach her king, but not before she reaches his first. His hands dropping away from the board to rest on his thighs, Paul stares for a moment longer before announcing, "Rook to King in four ... checkmate." His gaze rises, as he adds, "Yours of course. Would you like to play to the end or shall I just conceed the kill now?" His focus has been a little too serious to allow for a smile, but clearly the Corellian is not a bad loser ... at least in -this- particular game. "No, the moves between this one and checkmate are inevitable," she concedes, reaching a hand across the table to plunk his king to the side, indicating defeat. Head bowed, she lifts her gaze to regard him through the gold of her long eyelashes, her smile quirkly. "Shall we play again, or will another amusement suffice?" "Another amusement? No thank you, one trouncing at chess is sufficient for me. If I have a choice, let's indulge in something else." Paul doesn't glance down to his chrono, but he knows that it's late ... the game must have lasted close to an hour alone. His eyes meet Ylsa's for a moment, probing the depths of the blue before he reaches out with his hands toward her, stopping short as he picks up the pieces on the board and starts putting them away. Ylsa's responding chuckle is soft, deep, humored. "Chess is not your game, but you have others," she observes while placing each of her own chess pieces in the slot especially designed for it. "I am impressed by you, Doctor Paul Nighman, scholar and xenoarchaeologist. And amused by your very subtle wit." Pausing only fractionally as he assists in the return of the pieces to their box, Paul murmurs, "Lady, you flatter me. I have done nothing impressive all evening." His fingers collide with hers as he puts in his last piece, and then he withdraws them to rest upon the table's surface. "You're correct ... chess is not my game. You played very well, and if I'm not mistaken, a touch beneath your usual skill." The Corellian doesn't really care for the sensation that she might have been treating him with kid gloves, but his voice is carefully modulated not to betray any such displeasure. Cocking his head to one side, Paul abruptly inquires, "Why did you invite me here?" Ylsa's answer does not come immediately. She finishes stowing the pieces and closes the boxlid, rising fluidly to carry it back to the cabinet in which it was earlier located, her caftan swirling about her in a creamy cloud of silk. The ever-so-slightly patronizing humor, the teasing, dissipates until her demeanor is more serious, more businesslike: a new facade. "I have my reasons," is her solitary answer. Rising up slowly, Paul watches her move, watches the caftan slither about her figure. "Care to share, or is that a different game?" Those hazel eyes have grown a touch more distant, the Corellian not enjoying the sensation that all this time she's been enjoying some joke at his expense. "It is business." The words are flatly stated, a fact, nothing more. "Although I confess to a certain appreciation for this particular job, if such a base word may be applied to my intentions with you." _"my intentions with you"?? What does she mean by -that-?_ Her words certainly don't put the Corellian at ease, and folding his arms across his chest, he queries, "Is this a joint venture? And if so, when were you planning on inviting me along? Or is it more that I'm the "job"?" Ylsa shrugs, returning to the table to pluck the chessboard from the table and convey it to its proper place within the cabinet. Her attitude is subdued, more sober. "It is clear I wish you to purchase the book from me. As for the rest...do tell me, Doctor," says the willowy woman as she fixes the cabinet doors and rises to pour a fresh brandy for herself, "what _were_ you doing in Mandalorian space for so long?" Turning slowly, Paul stares at the blonde woman's back, grateful that it is turned away from him at the moment. He can't be sure of the composure, or lack thereof, of his features. He takes a moment to school them before inquiring, "Working .... that's not common knowledge. In fact, I'd hazard a guess to say that only perhaps ten individuals, that are still alive, know of that." He draws closer to her, breaking into her personal space as he leans to take a glass up for himself, pushing it toward her for filling. Ylsa meets his gaze evenly, directly...one might even say challengingly as she pours the amber fluid in the proffered glass. "I am a particularly resourceful individual," she murmurs, "and putting someone off his paces is something of which I am very fond." Taking the glass, Paul raises it to his lips taking a sip before stepping away. He takes a moment before he suddenly downs the rest, the motion deliberate and decisive. Striding back to the bar, Paul places the glass back down. "Thank you for your hospitality. As for the book, keep it. I'm sure you'll find another interested buyer." Drawing back, the Corellian turns and heads toward the door. "I'll see myself out, no need for you to bother yourself." "My father was Mandalorian, I have heard, my mother Corellian. I need help in determining their heritage and fate." The words are blurted out, though she remains against the bar, hand curled around her glass. Turning about, Paul stares across the room. "And you want my help? You'd be better off asking the Council of Elders ... they'd scorn you for your dishonorable mixed birth, but at least they would have the records in hand ... what's left of them." Shaking his head, Paul mutters, "I seriously doubt your father was Mandalorian - they are a proud and disdainful race ... they wouldn't lower themselves to "our" level. They stick to their own, even if they have been scattered across the galaxy." Ylsa's long legs move gracefully beneath her flowing garment as she draws closer to Paul, sincerity having replaced the carefully constructed mask that has shifted form now and again on her visage. "They did scorn me. And worse. You are a historian, you appreciate a mystery. I looked to you for help." She smiles softly. "Perhaps not the wisest way, but I sought you nonetheless." Watching her carefully, Paul reiterates, "I told you before, I'm a straightforward man. I do not appreciate being manipulated or toyed with." He holds his ground, even though his reason urges him to finish what he started and walk out of that door. "-If- what you say is true, why would I strive to discover the answers that you seek. And, for that matter, why should you care? There is nothing on Mandalore that will give you back family or roots." Ylsa pauses a foot away from the scientist, her expression shifting again. Her blue eyes move up and down his lanky form, as if conducting a thorough visual examination of every inch of him. A finger raises, tapping her lower lip, then, with a caustic little smile that bleeds wry humor, she murmurs, "I wanted you to purchase the book for me, yes, but there is more. And no, I am neither Mandalorian nor Corellian. I am apparently with you also a very bad liar." The confession is expressed with a softer smile, her tone likewise becoming more gentle. "My name is Ylsa Estrallas; I am, as I have explained, a negotiator. My clients are not always the most legitimate of creatures, and one of them has a certain...object he needs to retrieve. You were a likely candidate for the retrieval, if you showed initiative and verve." If the Corellian were displeased before, he is actively angry now. Brows wing downward and eyes grow dark as storm clouds. "I have plenty "initiative" and "verve", but I'm not some common thief. If you want something from Mandalore, get it yourself." With that, the Corellian spins on one heel, fully intending to reaching his goal this time. "Paul...please." Ylsa settles on the sofa, sounding, for lack of a better word, dejected. "Please do not go. Please." Palming the door open, Paul turns his head back to glare at the devious woman, her pleas landing on uncaring ears. "Go peddle your talents on some other unsupecting sap. I've been burnt by the likes of you before. I'm sure you can find someone with either the right connections or the stupidity to try ... you've more than proven your talents as a spy." Ylsa finds her feet and brushes at her caftan, dismissing a fold that had appeared when she sat. Her walk across the floor is less purposeful, more genuine, though no less gracious than before, a hand reaching to forestall his departure. "I am sorry...I realize I have somehow insulted and angered you, and that clearly was not my intent. Even if you were to reject my business offer, I did not care to earn your emnity." The hand reaches it's goal, landing lightly against Paul's arm as he stalls in the doorway. He had turned away, the bulk of her words falling upon his back, but was still in the doorway as she reached for him. His head turns first to gaze upon the manicured fingers resting against him, the rest of his following to look at her. Calm returns to him slowly as he considers her words .... her possible motives ... and just -how- much she knows about him really. If she has dug deeply enough to know about Mandalore, she could easily know about the emnity between him and his father and his smuggling career. It would make her request less surprising, but he still feels like he's being used or tested. A play thing. "I don't trust you," he informs her gruffly, "and you'll find that is ground that will be hard to gain." His body shifts, drawing away from her grasp and to the other side of the door. "I'll come tomorrow to look at the tome. And that is all." Though her features are smooth and impassive, dismay and even disbelief can be discerned in her azure irises. Drawing herself up, arms folded around herself, she lifts her chin in a regal pose that substantiates the implication of noble birth or upbringing. "Then, Doctor, I shall anticipate seeing you in the morning, at, shall we say, 10 o'clock?" Her words are even, hoary thanks to the chilled undertone to her lustrous alto. Jerking his chin in assent, Paul murmurs, "10 o'clock," his tone cool and light and his eyes heated and dark. Finally the Corellian escapes Ylsa's elegantly appointed apartments, striding down the hall toward the turbolift and disappearing with it's grasp.
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