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| - The Twi'lek District is one of the finest on Nar Shadda, not that would be saying much. But the Twi'lek's have a strong vested interest here, their own world not possessing the technology level to support spacefaring capabilities. This is their center of business, and they depend upon pirates, smugglers, and merchants to keep their economy thriving. Keeping their area controlled, respectable, and accessible has kept them in good stead with their much needed connections and support networks. Ahh, Nar Shaddaa.. den of villainy, scum and piracy. Unlike the wild and rough Corellian sector, the Twi'Lek sector is tame, but with the tamer business comes a hint of evil. Slavery, illicit spice and flesh are all traded here like bread and fruit would be sold on any other planet. The vileness is controlled and hidden by the fantastic atmosphere that the fashionable twi'lek's have given to this part of the smuggler's moo. Within the den of evil is Morganna, she is currently smoking a spiced cigara, it's smoke curling up into the air to mingle with the other scents. A striped tail flickers behind her and she peruses a stall that has exotic and deadly weapons on it. her fingers dance over a display with a perfect set of silver claws. Though it's all relative on Nar Shaddaa, the trip is very much like a descent into Hell, Fritz-Orson considers, finally planting a boot on solid ground. This particular section seemed lower, perhaps, lying at the bottom of a dark canyon created by featureless buildings that seem to stretch forever into the murky black above. The air is oppressive, the people offensive, and his mind is on a great many things. "No one seems to know," Fritz-Orson ponders quietly, considering that all of these people are trapped and don't appear to realize it. He operated a business on this moon many years ago; with an edifying deep breath, the mechanic puts the memory to the side. The old burns in the tender field of new like a cigarra would on his flesh. Most of the Imperial presence has departed since the races are winding down, and Annalar is more prone to leave the veil covering her head pulled back as she moves through the city with Fritz, less worried about being spotted. The fiery, wild hair revealed beneath is disheveled, and she musses with it constantly as she walks alongside her companion, lost in her own thoughts, and wishing she'd brought something to tie it back with. Thus are the thoughts that distract the woman from the deeper concerns she keeps at bay. And as they descend into the Twi'lek sector of the city, she shares Orson's reaction and opinion about this place along the connection of thoughts between them. She glances at him as a deeper sense of Darkness than just the criminal element of spice and flesh-trading would suggest, as if to get his attention, and then immediately skirts the area with her eyes, searching. The spicy fragrance of the cigarra fills her nostrils and she stops cold in her tracks. This is a perfect place for even a sith to hide, the sheer amount of hatred and nastiness can mask even the most vile of minds. Morganna takes a long draw from her cigara and her tail flicks idly. She points to the claws, and the shopkeep retrieves them. Morganna takes one into her hand and then stops, perking her head up and sniffing the air like a predator who has caught a whiff of her prey. She extinguishes her cigara with her fingertips and places the butt in her pocket. She stretches her senses out slightly, and continues to speak with the Twilek merchant about the quality if said claws. She is assured they are of the strongest materials, and Morganna hands over some creds, the merchant speaks the truth. "What?" Fritz-Orson intones directly, relying on his empathetic bond with his companion to gain an accurate read. Eerily, he turns his own attention in the same direction as Annalar's, looking but not with his eyes. "There's something...," he starts, an all-too-familiar something tickling the back of his mind. Inanely, the man steps forward boldly, angling past a few beings moving in the street. "Something interesting," the mechanic finishes, substituting 'interesting' for 'bloodcurdling' for the sake of the appearance of calm. Startled, Annalar watches for a second as the man pushes ahead, her sense of dread making her wary rather than bold. She suppresses a frown, rapidly pulling the veiled covering over her head once more -- as if that will protect her from being perceived. She hasn't been masking her presence, and it's only a matter of time before this perception is mutual. If it isn't already. "Orson!" she hisses, catching up to him and peering from beneath the cowl as the strange, Dark presence takes on a familiar mental shape. She had sensed this person before, on Corellia. Barely even a day after she had woken from her too long slumber. "Be careful," is the only thing she adds as the crowd in front of them seems to give way and they are left standing nearly face to face with the Tazecks woman, intent on her purchase. Ah-Hah! Morganna inhales sharply as she picks up boldness, curiosity and that wonderful startled sensation. Morganna slips the silver claws over her fingertips and feels them tighten around them. She clinks the claws together, and turns to face where this disturbance is coming from. it looks like she wasn't quite as intent on her purchase as she appeared. Morganna clinks the claws together and that tail of hers sways from side to side. 'You." she growls. Of course, by now it's clear. Fritz' own guts knew it before he did, and with a few pounding heartbeats, the mechanic understands as the information rides on his own blood to his brain. "Kacela," Orson pronounces evenly, stopping and spreading his stance. With a new breath, he calms. "Not enough beings on Selene for you and the Empire to bother?" he tests. "Have to come harrass the Hutts?" Orson hooks a hand into his wide belt, and it flexes there. Yes, Orson knew her, Jessalyn remembers now, and wondering for a moment if the woman is directing her remark to him or to her, or to both. She lets her expression grow fierce, the Force flowing into her as she calls on it for strength in the face of her fear. Nostrils flaring as she takes a long breath, she pulls the veil away, letting it fall on the ground behind her, and pushing her sleeves up towards her elbows in an absent movement. "I believe it's been a while since we've met," she intones solemnly, more to herself than to the Dark creature poised before them. For the moment Jessalyn is partially ignored. Morganna's lips curl into a sneer and she literally sniffs at the air near Orson, sending tendrils of coldness towards his mind, "You.. I knew there was something about you.' She motions a clawed hand to Jessalyn, "Why do you insist on staying with the weak, when the darkness is so much more powerful." Morganna purrs softly, and she responds in a sarcastic tone, "And what are you doing here, trying to save the lost? This planet is a haven for my kind, and your kind aren't welcome." Unaccustomed to but certainly not unprepared for the mental game, Fritz-Orson repels Morganna's touch with a strong ripple of his own through the Force, something certainly much stronger than his abbreviated status as an apprentice ought to allow. The man touches his throat, and the heavy cloak which covered his shoulders falls away, pooling at his feet. "I must have missed the signs," Fritz-Orson replies rather mildly, his other broad hand curling around a previously concealed metallic cylinder at his belt and shaking the device free. By now, the perceptive twi'leks have retreated from this soon-to-be confrontation, scattering in a distant but perfect circle. "I can't let you leave here," he confesses, with a frown. The differences in their training are obvious at this particular moment. Jessalyn, the student of Luke Skywalker, watches with a sick sense of dread as Orson withdraws his lightsaber, a thousand warnings about the consequences of attacking rather than defending rushing through her mind at once. But she's had no influence on her apprentice in this regard yet; the man is instead more his own creature: bold, certain of justice, with no nagging questions of whether it would be Right to strike this evil being down. In this case, the teacher is the student, and as Jessalyn reaches out through the Force to touch the mind of her friend and consort, she senses the purity and certainty of his motivations. There's nothing Dark about Orson's sense of justice. Still, it's a slow hand that reaches beneath the thick robes to unclip her sleek weapon from her saber-belt. She holds it loosely at her side, her brows furrowed as she glances between the nemesis and her apprentice. "The Dark Side is for the weak," she says flatly, the authority of a Jedi in the voice of this unlikely woman. "It was the mistake of the Jedi not to wipe out the Sith long ago." As Orson withdraws his saber, morganna holds one of her clawed hands out towards him and sends some invisible fingers to gently stroke his throat. She draws on the dark side.. the fear and the anger of those around her. A sick smile is on her face, "You need to learn a valuable lesson.." she hisses, and her eyes flicker to Jessalyn, "Say that now, but here I am more powerful than you can possibly imagine.. the hatred, the pain.. the sorrow. This is my domain, and you have no power here." Morganna turns her attention back to Orson, and closes her fist. The lightsaber remains unignited, limp in his palm as Fritz-Orson suddenly becomes more occupied by the attack on his body. "You don't..." he starts, stopping in mid-sentence and half-stumbling back as his free hand tugs at the billowing white shirt on his strong shoulders. Snaking veins bulge on his neck, muscles tense like thick cords stretched taut. For a moment, he's at a complete loss and Orson's vision swims. Then, with a wish to breath, and calling on his last bit of consciousness... the Man looks across the flat plane of silvery-blue, angry red Kacela not-so-far from him in this reality too, but much smaller. Uninteresting, really. Swirling colors of a galaxy alive drift overhead in slow, hypnotic interlocking patterns. Time slows for him, inexorably, his body of atoms and molecules mostly distant and pointless. It's his retreat to something stronger, and more real. With an effortless push, a more real Orson brushes Morganna away. His lungs fill with sorely needed air and he gasps, more wary of her but now more focused too, gasping. Those gray eyes turn the color of steel. When Orson staggers backward, Jessalyn's hands sweep up into the air, igniting the bright blue-green blade of her lightsaber with a hiss that melts into a familiar and steady hum. She steps toward the woman, fighting back the anguish that tightens in her throat, and a little flare of anger she thought she was ready to face. "Leave him alone, you monster," she whispers, starting for Morganna with a vicious, threatening swipe of her lightsaber, trying to drive her back if the attack on Orson doesn't relent. Part of Morganna's withdrawal from orson is from the unexpected push that the young apprentice gives, followed by the wonderful warm tingling that is associated with an incoming attack. Morganna's hand jerks back, and she growls moving to the side with animal like grace and focusing her anger and hatred onto Jessalyn, "I won't leave your people alone until they have turned to me or died by my hand.." Morganna holds both of her hands before her and the temperature in the direct vicinity grows considerably warner. There is a glimmer of red and a large disturbance in the force as Morganna summons a 1 foot wide fireball from the sheer power of her hatred and launches it at the incoming jessalyn. The fore reflects off of her face, glistening off of beads of sweat.it looks like Morganna has learned a new trick. With a speed that belies his age and build, Fritz-Orson recovers as Jessalyn breaks for Morganna. His own pale azure saber opens with a crack of power. The man's lightsaber comes to the ready, like it's made of sunlight and has sliced open a swath of bright blue sky in this dark place. With a deep hum and a leap, the broad-shouldered man falls in to attack Morganna's flank, gasping in surprise as Jessalyn is assaulted with fire. The twi'lek crowd falls back at the sudden explosion of energies from the group, scrambling to collect their merchandise before they leave to protect their businesses from looters. Others hustle off to tell their bosses and networks, eager to cash in on this information and important sighting. As the air in front of her ignites, Jessalyn gasps, her turn to stagger backward this time as she throws her free hand in front of her as if to block the blast of heat. Her vision turns red, and she's afraid the Force has fled from her for a split second, the scent of burned flesh combining with the noxious ozone vapors caused by the combustion when it makes contact with her hand. Her face contorting with pain and concentration, her skills kick in, and with a massive amount of effort she draws the energy of the fire into herself, absorbing it into her body and rendering it mostly harmless. But her left hand is flaming and burned, and she shrinks back, cradling it against her chest and staring daggers at the Dark Lady. Now that element of surprise is used up, but Morganna has managed to use it to her advantage. She growls like a beast and bares her teeth, not reaching for her light weapon and just relying on her combat sense to guide her through this all. Her tail sways slightly, and she sends forth a clawing motion towards Orson, mossing him physically, but making an interesting and sickening variation of the power that she used earlier.. an attempt to inflict imaginary claw slashes in an attempt to drive orson back, "Join me, and I assure you a long and prosperous life." Morg keeps half of her mind's eye on Jessalyn, it's always tricky fighting two, but the dark woman does seem to be pressing back towards the crowds and the cover of darkness. Fritz-Orson doesn't hesitate, sweeping that cerulescent band of energy to meet the clawing attack, scowling at the mental assault. Fully wired, he has to close his eyes and defer checking on Jessalyn. Strangely, it's only his forced lack of vision that enables him to move the awkward weapon as well as he does. The mechanic's grip and stance are entirely unique, but fairly effective, arms and wrists working like a crank to angle and jab at the dancing cat-like creature. "Give yourself up," the man offers, slowing the lightsaber to perfect stillness for a micro-second. It's almost as if she's prodded him to some new level, steadying his nerve and resolution instead of breaking it. His steely gaze is tight and focused. "You're only destroying yourself." Still, Fritz-Orson doesn't reward her with a rest, and with a new crank on the arms of the man-machine, the saber thrums loud at her again, either slicing into flesh or driving her back. Relying on the Force to control her pain, Jessalyn blinks back the tears of irritation from her eyes, bringing her lightsaber to bear with her sword-arm. It's more of a defensive posture now, keeping Morganna at bay in case she decides to go in for another attack, and then relaxing slightly as she watches Orson hack at her skillfully with his new saber. Her control rattled by her pain, she stares at the back of his head, her heart in her eyes as she chews on her lower lip. She's not interfering. There's something happening in him that she doesn't want to disturb now, even as she sends a wave of encouragement and support along their bond, moving about in a circular motion to come upon the Sithling's other flank. The dark woman grows frustrated as her usual attacks fail against Orson, the new jedi has an irritatingly powerful Mind. With two angry jedi on either side of her, morganna chooses to retreat for now, and plan her form of attack. As she ducks into the crowd, Morganna lifts one of the Twi'Leks from the ground with a yank of the force, and sends himtowards Orson.. perhaps in his zone he will see that as an attack.. as an obstacle.. and destroy it. it worked for Simon. Morganna rolls out of the way of Jessalyn's Saber and sends one raw push of the force towards her, in an attempt to buffet her back, so that she can make her retreat. The beast growls to herself, she needs to find an apprentice.. the balance is out of whack. The flicker of the Force from Morganna is not a surprise, though he was expecting something a bit more direct from the woman. He turns, keeping his stance the same and raises his arms to fend off whatever she's conjured next. With a last second gasp, Orson closes his eyes once more, bringing the lightsaber backwards awkwardly and then to the side, holding it out parallel with the ground. In the same moment, Fritz-Orson leaves the ground, rising powerfully with a burst from his legs. The flying twi'lek passes neatly under him, the Jedi student curling his legs up underneath his body to make room. He comes down in a wide-legged stance, but is facing the wrong direction, forced to turn and confront Morganna once more. But! The moment is lost, and he's momentarily blocked by the living ammunition she's thrown at him. The woman might as well have disappeared without a trace the way she dissolves into the crowd, and Jessalyn, switches off her saber with a soft moan of pain as she relaxes. It was an amazing transformation, really, the older mechanic she had met not so long ago having been honed into this able and skilled warrior. And all under her direction. She's baffled by it for now, and she staggers over towards him, avoiding the fallen Twi'leks and staring after the departing Sith. "Are you okay?" she asks him urgently after a moment, turning her concerned green gaze to Orson at last. Orson's mouth opens in protest and, rolling to move around the twi'lek, he takes a pair of long strides after her direction. Scowling, he lifts his own saber and collapses it. Tucking it back into his wide belt, the man turns with alarm to Jessalyn and looks on her with alarm. "You're hurt," he whispers, reaching without explanation to the fallen twi'lek merchant who was thrown. The being seems thoroughly dazed, but the mechanic pulls him to his feet and gives him a delicate push away. With that, Fritz-Orson stretches out his hand to take Jessalyn's wrist delicately. "How bad?" She shakes her head, dark red hair in vivid contrast to Jessalyn's ashen cheeks. "Just burned a little," she says hesitantly, though the hand in his gentle grasp is trembling and reddened with angry blisters on her palm. "She's more powerful than I expected," she adds, sparing a glance in the direction that Morganna disappeared; already her presence is a fading shadow in Jessa's mind. A little smile of pride curves her lips as her attention turns to Orson. He had held his own, even when she had been threatened. Through the Force, she conveys this to him while speaking on more pressing matters. "We should leave here. If she contacts the Imperials... and warn Karrde, too. I'm afraid this vacation is over." She reaches with her good hand to touch his shoulder, more vulnerable to her emotions as the effort to fight back her pain begins to show in her face. Fritz-Orson grits his teeth, the burdened look on his expression not matching the punkish hair and tattoo on his face. "Yes," he answers to mostly everything she's said. Keeping a hand on her, he moves to the side and sweeps up his cloak, snapping the dirt from it and slinging it over Annalar's shoulders for no particular reason at all. "We've got some supplies on the ship," the man explains, ushering her off in the direction they came. Then, at the last moment, he veers off through a wide alley and takes a series of twists and turns to find a less-used entrance to the glidewalk. "Almost there," he says quietly, chancing a look behind them and then to Jessalyn's face. Moving swiftly, the pair make excellent time, especially once they're past the press of the crowds and into the more abandoned passageways beneath the dark, towering buildings. Sensing his look and sense of urgency, Jessalyn glances over at Orson with troubled eyes. "I'm all right," she reassures, searching his face and slowing her steps. The urge to cling to him is overwhelming and she gives into it, sliding her good arm around him and bending her face against the curve of Orson's neck. "I'm glad you're okay." More than that, though; she's glad, grateful that he is at her side. Did he still know? "I love you so much." Scooping an arm to her light waist, the man half-carries the Jedi, stepping wordlessly onto the glidewalk. "You're sure," he asks, prying her burned hand from the robes to examine it. "Mmm," Fritz-Orson says, focusing on the physical now instead of their bond. Instead, he does give her face a new, searching look, responding with a deeper, more profound expression of his own feeling. Tugging her lightly, they swoop through the hard curves of Nar Shaddaa's alleyways and broad express lanes, nearing the large landing pad in the distance.
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