| abstract
| - Fountain Square - Plaxton City The huge buildings in the background threaten to take over this small patch of green that is the center of Plaxton City. A stone fountain -still in place from another time- sits in the center of the square. It depicts a young woman looking into the sky. Water flares around her and bursts into a star pattern ten feet above her head. The inscription at the base of the fountain is written in the aging language of a more romantic time. 'Farewell, for all journeyers that leave this place shall always return to call it home.' Newly planted, lush trees now dominate the square, shading the area from the night sky above is cloudy with patches of clear spots allowing you to see the sky behind them. Dark bushy leaves cover the branches, offering shade for the ground below. Patches of well maintained grass surround the base of the trees, allowing space for visitors to relax or picnic. The central, most famous area of Plaxton City, seems to become more and more park-like with the frequent additions and maintnence. A pair of Marines quietly watch over the area. Jessalyn The composure of this young human woman is probably the most striking thing about her. Though otherwise unassuming, her expression is one of surprising coherence and calm, belied only by the slightly mischievous gleam in her leaf green eyes. Shining dark red hair falls in unruly silken waves down to the middle of her back, framing her wide cheekbones and smooth, pale skin not as fragile as most redheads'. She is relatively tall for a human woman, with long-boned limbs and a natural grace amplified by her skills. She is wearing a dark green, long-sleeved shirt beneath a velvet black tunic that is belted at her narrow waist. The full sleeves are cinched above her pale, slender wrists. A pair of tight, dark green pants are tucked into knee-high black leather boots, both complementing the best pair of legs in ten parsecs. Ash Seneal Dapper and well-dressed, this gaunt human male has the look of a man that takes stairs two at a time and takes life with authority. Middle-aged, he's got a very classical looking face that would be considered handsome by most, though it's a bit dark and often unsmiling. Dark gray hair is pulled back tight against his skull, held in a very short ponytail by a green-gold clip. A unique, and likely tailored, suit covers him, long coat coming to his upper thigh. Trousers of the same material, a very dark red-black, hang fashionably on his legs and meet his well-polished shoes. A perfectly pressed white shirt is visible in a large 'V' at his chest where his sports coat parts. Long fingers, tapered but tough, emerge from the sleeves of the coat. Orson Too short, not handsome, and a little too old. What's lacking in looks has to be made up for with something strong on the inside: determination and persistence, a certain grit evident in the look sent by his slate gray eyes. Lines around this human male's mouth and eyes tell of hard days and decisions in his past, each one a new crease in an otherwise young man's face. He is smaller framed, though quite stout with a barrel chest and strong shoulders. Still, he's not overly muscled, simply in good physical shape. Dark hair is kept in a simple style but is more often than not in a disheveled state. A few lonely gray hairs touch his temples. He might be around forty standard years old. He has a larger nose, on a round-shaped, bold face that is quick with a grin but usually caught up in a shade of thoughtful. A heavy jacket of gray-black coarse fur resembling mohair hangs on his broad shoulders, fastened halfway up his chest. A black shirt of simple material is visible beneath the jacket. A thick and heavily starched pair of dark trousers billow so much that it's hard to determine the individual pant legs, deep pleats making it look like a large billowing skirt. A strange half-boot lends support to his toe and heel, but leaves the tops of his feet exposed like a sandal. A copper-colored ring encircles his head with a dark round unfaceted jewel set over his forehead. A narrow crossbar angles out to either side from the crown, looking almost like antennae except they support a tiny row of fine chains and dangling costume jewels. Like a shot of black ink in the water from some creature of the deep, Ash Seneal drifts liquid-like under the space formed by the intertwined branches of two trees growing too close together. His deep red suit hangs on his body, in understated (but perfect) fashion, the fine fabric pooling around his shined shoes in absolute symmetry. A smile creeps onto the man's narrow face; not a happy expression, it's the sort of smile that a cocksure man might give his opponent when he's about to destroy the other in holochess, or fencing. It speaks of arrogance and certain victory, even as cool intelligence make the look subtle enough that most would have to take a second glance. Is that man... smiling? With a click of his smooth shoes, he steps forward, drawing out long hands from behind his back. In one hand is a snack of some sort, cheap paper bag full of some crunchy Caspar favorite. In the other, a brand new tourist map that's never been opened. He walks directly toward Jessalyn, humming lightly. It's nearing sunset in Plaxton City as Jessalyn strolls through the vendors and shops around the Fountain Square. No shopping trips today -- her sense of practicality has finally beaten down the guilty desire to splurge of the past few days, as she was caught up in the exhiliration of a newfound level of happiness. It's still fun to peruse, however, and she has a bit of time to kill. Fingering the strap of the brown leather pack slung over one shoulder, she arrives at the counter of a beverage station, orders something tall and icy and blue, and sits down at one of the small metal tables provided for customers. As Jessa sips from the straw and gazes idly at the passersby, she notices the stranger in the dark red attire heading in her direction. Her brows furrow somewhat, taking in his aura at a glance, wondering suddenly if he's actually approaching -her-. The map hand crosses over Ash's lithe frame, reaching into the untouched bag of food. Gingerly withdrawing a small piece, he lifts it to his lips, rolls it in, and chews slowly. It seems completely choreographed. Then again, his attention is solely -- unapologetically -- on Jessalyn, which makes the motion seem somewhat unconscious. Never removing his attention from the Jedi, still chewing, he pauses beside the table and lays the map there. Carefully swinging a leg over the bench opposite the woman, he sits. Ash's back is straight as a board, his shoulders are tilted heavily to one side, and his chin is lowered. Looking out from a deep shadow, yes, still chewing, the whisper of that same smile slides across the table. The hairs on the back of Jessalyn's neck stand up the instant she makes eye contact with the man. The Force tremors; Jessa's hand falls away from the cup to lay flat on the surface of the table when he sits down across from her. Her own shoulders straighten as she lifts her chin, an almost haughty gaze bearing down, her green eyes cool. "Pardon me," she says, her voice firm and confident. "But I'm waiting on someone." She picks up the map, not sparing a glance at it, and points it back to him as if expecting him to take it and depart. That would be, of course, the polite thing to do. She swallows, ignoring a tiny quiver of fear. The chew slowly subsides. Almost gone, and then there's a tiny aftershock, and those jaws come together just a few more times. Looking up, still smiling, Ash reaches over to a nearby trash receptacle and tosses the completely full bag of food to it. Bringing that hand back with the grace of a ballerina, wrist cocked, fingers flowing, his hand comes to the gaunt face to dab at the lips. He doesn't even look at the map. "Keep it." Voice bright and perfect, he folds his hands on the table. "I got it for you, after all." Frowning, Jessalyn blinks her eyes several times, completely taken aback. She doesn't look at the map, but her hand does fall to the table as she sits back in her chair, darting a glance around her, looking for the best route of escape -- or for any signs of Orson. In the process she sends out her own searching call, almost unconsciously, though it's not much more than a vague worried desire. Then her fierce gaze is back on the dark-haired man. "I don't know you," she says with certainty. "You must have me confused with someone else." Dropping the map, she grabs her cup instead, taking a sip and making a move to get up from her chair. "Not at all." Ash Seneal lifts his hand fractionally, enough grace in his movement that it appears he has more joints in his arm and wrist than he ought. The hand looks as if it wants to hold up the palm, like it wants to ward off this nonsense, but it never makes it. The thought counts for something, certainly. With a wave of that hand, Ash gestures for the tourist map. "Don't you like it?" he asks, leaning forward and suddenly matching her intensity, tone distinctly mocking. He stands as well, suit falling into place with a shimmer. "You all have had such a good time lately." Eyes sparkling, Ash rolls out that last word, his phrasing and accent quite unique. The smooth baritone voice dies to a low rumble, and, looking away from her for the first time since he stepped out from the trees, Ash adjusts the lapel of his already perfect suit. That little quiver of fear flashes into a much more threatening flame inside Jessalyn as she processes what this man just said. And though she is inwardly reeling, she is also grateful for the Jedi calm that lets her face stay a mask. "All right," she relents with a small sigh, once again switching the map and the drink in her hands, and giving it just a cursory glance. "Who are you?" she asks pointedly, her chin lifting again in sharp defiance. She would find out how he knew who she was -- and why he was interested. "Do you want something?" He doesn't look up until her last question, simply ignoring Jessalyn's posturing. This latest, however, merits an answer. "Oh I do. I want something very much," Ash says with all the drama of a stage actor. "Let's not be hasty, though. Patience is a virtue. Isn't that right..." He leans in looks, unblinking, like a serpent preparing to strike. "Miss. Jessalyn. Valios." There is no strike, however, and he turns on a heel, moving off on a long-legged stride. The words find their way to Jessalyn, though Ash doesn't even turn to speak them. "I'll be seeing you." Jessalyn feels as if her heart is going to pound out of her chest. Maintaining a certain level of dignity, she doesn't call after him, instead standing there, grinding her teeth as she watches him depart. She stretches out with the Force, almost too late as her reflexes are blocked by her fear, surprised at her desire to plunge into the stranger's mind and pluck out his secrets. She resists that urge, not knowing if he is perhaps a well-shielded Sith, and curls her fingers around the map. It crumples in her grip. Ash Seneal strolls like he's a tourist himself, gaze lifted to take in the buildings on his side of the street. His step is sprightly and sure. Those dreadfully smooth hands slip into his trouser pockets. He never looks back, simply angling his route the way he came. When he passes underneath the shadowy bough from which he emerged, the man moves through a series of tree trunks, and by some mean trick of the alignment of those trunks and Jessalyn's line-of-sight, he appears to simply never come out the other side. Gone. From the opposite end of the street, Orson Tighe rounds the bend. He looks to be sore, or something, walking with a little hitch in his gait. In his arms, an ungainly weight, a heavy box, non-descript with the name of an electronics supplier marked on the side. Rolling ahead of him is his concern for Jessalyn, and he instantly finds her in the street. "What's wrong?" Orson queries, still closing the distance to her. Turning slowly as she becomes aware of Orson's presence approaching her from the other direction, Jessalyn is grateful for the excuse to turn her gaze away from the place where Ash Seneal disappeared. Stiffly, she looks down at the map in her hands, unfolding it and smoothing the creases with her other hand before glancing up with worried eyes to meet Orson's. "I don't know," she says hesitantly. "Just... this man. He knew who I was. I had a very bad feeling from him." And this. The way she's holding and looking at the map indicates it has something to do with her recent encounter as well. Her eyes flicker to the box in his arms, then to Orson, vague and curious. "Who?" Orson asks, easing to her side and dropping the box on the table, edge by edge. Heavy. His attention immediately rifles through the street, looking for someone still there, or perhaps someone departing, but nothing seems out of the ordinary, save Jessalyn's worry. "What do you mean, knew who you were?" Orson reaches out and pats her on the shoulder, a reassuring gesture meant to alleviate some of the concern which clouds her features. The map is, predictably, of Plaxton City, the sort that would be purchased at a street vendor for people new to the area. It has all the main attractions, from a simple amusement park on the west side of town, to notable residences, and government buildings. An outdated calendar of cultural and fine arts events fills the side. Small ads cover the map, advertisements taken out by local restaurants and businesses that benefit from the flow of tourist traffic and off-planet visitors. There seems to be nothing special about the map, except a dim yellow circle, drawn by hand, around the hotel where Orson and Jessalyn have been staying. "He knew my name," Jessalyn explains, turning the map around in her hands as she examines it. "Just walked up to me like he knew me. It was a few minutes ago... he gave me this." She extends her arm, pointing out the mark drawn onto the map as she hands it to him, fretful eyes seeking out Orson's as she takes a step to be closer to him. Bringing his palm up under the map and leaning toward it, Orson makes a little noise. Hmph. "He didn't give his name? Could you read him?" Looking up and catching her expression, the mechanic opens himself and scoops her up, embracing Jessalyn. "It'll be alright." Calming as she returns the embrace, Jessalyn gives Orson a tight squeeze, filling her lungs and tilting back her head to give his lips a quick kiss. "No, he didn't," she sighs, reluctantly withdrawing as she tosses the map onto the table beside her drink and the bag she'd left sitting there. "But he felt... sinister," she says, searching hard for the words to convey the feeling she got from him. "Like he was amused at some terrible secret joke." "Really," Orson remarks at this, his own brow darkening. He takes this woman seriously and respects her sense of right and wrong. More than that, if she thought 'sinister' was the right word, well, this person must be that. "Maybe just someone who has seen you around, and is being a jerk." What he means is, she's a very attractive woman, and while she doesn't really -work- to lure men, it happens. "Followed us to the hotel. Maybe we'll find a new place, on the beach?" His voice lifts as he makes the suggestion, Orson attempting to bring some ease to her. That wasn't really the feeling that Jessalyn got from the stranger, though it's true she doesn't much know how to react to the wrong kind of attention from men. "That's probably a good idea," she says regretfully; she'd grown rather fond of the place they were staying. She continues to frown, giving a slight shrug of irritation as she puts the matter behind her for now. Forcing a slight smile, she places a hand on the box Orson had lugged all the way here. "What's this?" she asks him. Shuffling behind her, Orson reaches around and pops the lid off of the small crate. "Oh, just a few things," he explains, tone indicating that there's not much to see. A table-mount polishing device, silver shaft emerging from a bulky motor casing and fitted with a grit-laden disc. "I thought I'd try it on your board, first. There's a few fairly standard upgrades I can do." But then there's also the matter of the pair of furnace-fired synthetic gems he's created, and the delicate microscoping process that will be required to make a plasma beam go into the true phase. In his mind, he can see it, the lightsaber, and it's spectacular. Orson doesn't want to fail this. But, he's guessing she knows all of this, and simply moves to close the box. "We'll keep a look out for him, okay? I'll let the others know, and I can even look up a description on him, if you want." Giving her a concerned nod, Orson scans the woman's garments. "You look nice today. How about we go look for that place on the beach? I'll send for our things." The compliment brings a little flush to Jessalyn's cheeks, in spite of herself, while she peeks under the lid of the crate. She picks up on some of the thoughts emerging from her companion, his enthusiasm and interest in completing his lightsaber foremost among them. She beats back her dread at what Luke's reaction will be to this prematurely-built weapon, offering Orson only a smile and a shy gaze. "Okay," she says, the one word agreeing with all of his suggestions, and she picks up her bag from the chair before sliding her other hand into his. "I'll try to keep a more careful eye out. It bothers me that I've been followed and didn't even know it." She shakes her head, a little chuckle coming out. "Come on, I actually did see a little place when we went surfing the other day...."
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