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| - Cargo Bay - Uwannabuyim An older model stock light freighter, this YT-1300 is a typical example of the smaller cargo ships produced by CEC. The ship has a circular hull with distinguishing mandibles protruding forward, used for transporting external cargo. The freighter is no more than 27 meters in length. It is painted in the standard light gray color with dark blue markings near the engine exhaust. The starboard-mounted command pod houses the cockpit in outrigger fashion. A quad laser cannon is mounted in a dorsal CEC gun turret. A retractable light laser cannon is mounted under the cockpit module. Hyperspace always makes time seem as if it is in limbo to Jessalyn. The impossibility of travelling lightyears in days or even hours is taken for granted by most space-faring folk of the galaxy, and yet she's unable to avoid the sensation of being in suspension while the Uwannabuyim courses its way through hyperspace towards its destination. The time on the ship has become a bit stifling by now, and after their visit to the rank moon of Nar Shadda, she's more than ready to step foot on a planet that actually has some fresh air and green, growing things. Patience, she tells herself as she crosses the deck of the main corridor and enters the cargo bay where she knows Orson is waiting for her. New concerns fill her mind as she's reminded of the task at hand. She's all but disobeying Luke's request by going ahead with this. But it would be foolish -not- to prepare Orson for the coming battle. She doesn't know why she's so certain of it, but the Force whispers to her of urgency, and as she reaches to the control panel and shuts the door behind them, she takes a deep breath, pulling her lightsaber free from her belt. "You're sure about this?" she asks, smiling a little, green eyes narrowed. "As long as you don't cut something essential off of me," Orson qualifies, turning from an inset work table in the empty cargo bay. The cargo bay hasn't been actually full of cargo in a while, instead being used as a physical work out space for the Jedi-in-training. A few slices, not more than a centimeter deep, have been recently cut into the deck plating near the center of the floor, the curving lines about a half-meter long, mysterious in origin to all but those who carried lightsabers. Someone's been practicing already. "And as long as you're up for it, with the hand and all." Now his voice is a bit more serious, and the mechanic frowns as he lowers his gaze. In his palm, the abnormally long hilt of his new lightsaber. "Don't worry, I want you intact," Jessalyn replies with a chuckle, stepping forward, and feeling suddenly awkward. Combat training isn't her specialty, by any means, and it takes a little inner preparation before she feels ready to proceed. Her lightsaber ignites with a vibrant hum, and she sweeps it forward with a little bow to her partner before settling into an en garde position. Her hand is swathed in a white bandage; that and the pain killer she took a little earlier were dampening down the pain enough to grasp the lightsaber. "Just remember to relax. Think of the weapon as an extension of yourself. It's as much a part of your body as your arm or your hand. The Force will guide you." Orson brings his arms up and offers Jessalyn an abbreviated nod. With a crackling squeal, his own saber comes alive boldly. He adjusts his stance, takes a calming breath, and narrows his eyes, almost tempted to close them. It didn't seem appropriate, so he remains there. There is no impetus to strike, no motivation to attack, even in this practice, so he simply waits to parry her first blow. "I'm ready," he announces, inviting the woman with eyes that appear very blue in the electric light. His strong arms tense, then relax, muscle-structure visible because of his scanty clothing: tank top and fur pants day. The somewhat reluctant teacher takes a steadying breath, recalling skills drilled into her and practiced relentlessly -- what was it, almost five years ago now? -- as she draws back the blade of her weapon and makes a bold stroke directly towards Orson's bright blue saber. They meet with a loud crackle of energy, and Jessalyn leaves it there for a moment, letting him feel the contact of the two blades as she gazes across at him, gauging his readiness. The glow of both lightsabers shows the concentration on her face, making her own eyes almost incandescent and shimmering a pale aura around her sleek bare arms, before she breaks away, twirling neatly and coming around to swing the blue-green saber for another attack. Orson sweeps his blade in the space in front of him, reversing his grip in mid-swing and giving Jessalyn's probing attack an upside-down parry on his side. He's bounced to her side already, playing opposite her sword arm. "My father taught me fencing," Orson comments, coming around, sweating already at the concentration involved. "I hated it." The mechanic feigns the presentation of his blade, offering her a striking surface, before leaning in with a neat moulinet, blade gliding through the air. Though she starts to anticipate the feint, Jessalyn recovers swiftly and pivots, guiding her blade to parry the stroke, then sweeping up in an elegant movement that clashes softly against his blade. "It's not easy," she says through clenched teeth, a smile in her voice but not on her face. "Much more... useful to a Jedi, than a blaster," she adds. And personal. Her booted feet scuff the floor as she advances, apparently not minding that this is his first real outing with the laser sword, her muscles taut and supple as they guide her lightsaber through the almost ritual-like movements. With a small flicker of concentration, she adds another ingredient to the mix: from behind Orson, the remote he's been constructing lifts into the air from where it was resting on the worktable, its electronic hum almost drowned out by the clash of the swords. It hovers, patient and quiet, until a moment when Jessalyn backs off, just a little -- and a pinpoint of laser energy lances out from the machine towards the back of Orson's leg. The stridulous crackle of the charged blades seems to fascinate Orson, and he extends the blade contact for longer than seems appropriate. The bounce of the sabers against one another is in time with terse little barks from the unbreakable beams. With a move to glide in again, the mechanic is completely caught off guard by the little remote. The laser sound is familiar -- he's mostly built the training aid -- and he tenses reflexively as the wicked biting sensation stabs his thigh. "Arh," he half-yelps, sweeping that leg backwards and moving off of his attack line. Doing his best to face them both, he gives each member of the deceptive duo a critical look, sweeping the weapon at each one in turn. "I'm going to have to check my programming," Orson says with a few heaving breaths, scowling. "That thing was supposed to attack -you-." No time for a grin, and now no time for words, the apprentice focuses all of his concentration on the moment. He slides in again, looking for an opening and trying to position Jessalyn between he and the remote. She spares a smile even if the chuckle she feels never leaves her throat. Tightening her grip, Jessalyn circles around, letting him change the position at least for now. The Force allows her to sense both Orson and the lightsaber remote at the same time, and she has no qualms about turning her back to the machine. "Just thought I'd make sure you were paying attention," she says, slashing her saber to the side to block his inward move, and taking a backwards step so that she can project a few words into the space between them. "If the Force is with you, you will know when to act, when to black an attack, when to strike. Wherever it's coming from." Then her lightsaber is lifted over her head, and she brings it down with the full strength of her arms, aimed directly for her student's shoulder. There's hardly enough time to block the strike, so Orson sinks slightly, shrinking in the knees but widening his stance to keep his center of gravity roughly the same. Gritting his teeth, he pushes back, caught off-guard at the tremendous power of the blow from the slight woman. Hardly thinking about the motion he turns and, still holding her saber above his body, shuffles a boot along the deck at her leg in a obvious corps-a-corps, attempting either a distraction or a full sweep. Either way, it's helped him put her in between he and the remote again, though the thing doggedly whirls around, keeping him in its sights. Jessalyn's arms waver as she keeps the pressure on Orson's lightsaber, pulling back at the last second as his leg tries to sweep her. The move seems to work. A second later, she's on her back with a loud -whump- that drives the air from her lungs, her arm out to the side to keep her saber from flying off where it shouldn't. But Jessalyn doesn't look surprised. Her green eyes flicker in the same instant as the remote ducks suddenly off to Orson's undefended flank, sending a short volley of blasts at the apprentice as the woman scoots backward on the deck, rising to her knees, and trying to ignore the painful throb returning to her hand as she watches. Orson gives pause when she falls back, and lowers his weapon with a frown. He leans forward, the very first part of a move to scoop down and assist her forming in his mind. But then, the remote fires, repeatedly, and Orson shifts to meet its attack. The first bolt sizzles past his slack grip, sinking into his hip, and he immediately slouches to that side with a grunt. The next is caught on the blade of the saber, where is disappears with a flash. Then, two others in quick movement, the exasperated Orson keeping his hands in front of him, letting the Force do the work. In a circle, he catches the remaining few, using the entire length of the blade. Shuffling backwards again, he skitters away from even the prone Jessalyn, fully en garde. With a gesture of the tip of his blade, the remote whirrs, its little repulsors suddenly whining under the strain of a glancing telekinetic blow. The strike is not very powerful, almost subtle, but enough to disorient the remote for the half-second he needs to safely reposition. A thin sheen of sweat covers his arms and face, and he considers some techniques to ease the slow numbing effect the strikes are having against his left leg, but opts against further dividing his attention. Perhaps feeling a little bad for the devious move, Jessalyn stands slowly, sweeping her lightsaber to the side. The remote, too, seems to quiet, bobbing attentively in the air after its attack, as she chews her bottom lip. "Had enough?" she asks. It's been an incredibly strenuous exercise for his first lesson, and she wonders briefly if she was harder on him because of her relationship with him or in spite of it. The answer forms slowly in her head as soon as she asks it: she wants him to be prepared for anything. She wants him to have full access to his gifts, so that he'll better be able to defend himself from the coming conflict with the Sith. She adds worriedly, "Are you okay?" as she presses the switch to her lightsaber and the blue-green blade is sucked back into the empty hilt. "I didn't mean to get so carried away." Orson doesn't reply until her own blade is not just extinguished but even lowered. The rules of engagement are becoming clear to him. "I think so," he comments sourly, lowering his blade now and removing one hand from the long hilt. It disappears as well, and he blows out a tired breath. "That's okay, I guess. It's better than getting killed." Exertion like what they've just experienced has the effect of removing some of the polish from Orson's words, and he shrugs at his own frankness. A few mean practical jokes for their next session rifle through his mind as he spies the remote, and the absurdity of his own thinking gives him a little lift. "You're alright?" he tests, looking her over. "My hand's a little sore, but I'm fine," Jessalyn replies ruefully. That white-swathed hand lifts in a small gesture towards the remote, which floats back to its perch on the table, lights flickering off as it's deactivated. With the lesson over, her facade falls as well, and she takes a few steps toward Orson, re-attaching the lightsaber to her belt. "Your leg is okay?" she asks softly, touching his arm. Only the slight fluttering of her lashes indicates the gentle touch of the Force as well, as she finds the places where the energy beams have numbed his leg. It's a soothing touch, coaxing some feeling back into the nerve endings while draining away any residual pain at the same time. It's a bit of a peace offering, and she gives him a small smile. "I dunno," Orson replies grumpily. "I think I'm going to need a massage." With another huff, he clips the lightsaber back to his belt, and scoops an arm around her waist. "That and a nice long walk. A break would be good." They should be out of hyperspace soon too, which would be convenient. It would be nice to see her homeplace and wander the forests. Jessalyn twines one arm around Orson's waist as he pulls her close, her eyes dancing now at both of his suggestions. "A massage, hmm? I think I can handle that," she murmurs, already leading him towards the doorway. Thoughts of Yavin are already invading her mind, a little nervous energy filling her at the thought of returning home after so long. "There's the most beautiful grotto I have to show you when we get there," she goes on, activating the door's control panel without touching it, not wanting to give up her grasp on Orson as they drift towards the stateroom. "And I was thinking about what to do with those seeds from Myrkr, too...."
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