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| - Cleared Area (Before Main House) - Karrde's Base - Myrkr Central to the base is this open area between the main buildings is this open expanse, with its meticulously trimmed bluish-green grass and the occasional dotting of wildflowers. When necessary this area can be used for anything from special (and discreet) picnic-type gatherings to the organization of certain cargo before and after shipping. Often the clearing is the location of Karrde Group employees exercising, playing some simple lawn games, or simply enjoying the outdoors in between duty shifts. The main house is just to the southeast of the clearing; far to the west is the hanger, while the barracks are situated against the trees to the north. The Players: 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. He is wearing fur pants, thick white, large and billowing at the legs. A black tank top covers his thick barrel chest; while fit and stout, he is not overly muscled. A gray scarf encircles his waist, evening the dark and light on the man and helping keep his clothes in place. It has been knotted on one side and trails almost all the way to the ground. Soft-soled but thick boots cover his feet. An oversized set of goggles are strapped to his head, stretchy material securing them in an 'X' shaped band around the back of his skull. The lenses are tinted rose red. Simon: Before you is a young human male of average height and narrow build. His hair is a deep brown, parted and cut short. A strong jawline and deepset eyes of blue-gray give the man a stern look at a glance. For facial hair he wears a well groomed goatee and mustache, trimmed short and of the same deep color as the rest of his hair. All in all, the man's demeanor can be summed up in a word: aware. Simon is dressed in earth tones. Light tan, loose fitting trousers are tucked into soft leather boots that come up to just under his knees, and are tied tight with brown, leather chords. Tucked into the top of his pants is a simple shirt of a matching color. Over this is a loose wool tunic of dark brown, covering his arms completely and hanging down below his waste. It's comfortable clothing, suitable for most climates and cultures. Strapped diagnolly across his chest and back is what appears to be some sort of harness. It's worn in the way some people wear a bandolier, yet there is nothing attached to the device. A long shaft of cylinder rises over his left shoulder, a rod sheathed where some warriors sling their sword. 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 loose, cream-colored tunic made out of some light material, scooping low beneath her startlingly white throat and showing off a thin silver chain set with a rough-hewn but shiny blue-green stone that rests just below her collarbone. The tunic is belted at her narrow waist and the full sleeves end just above her pale slender wrists. She wears a pair of tight, dark brown pants tucked into knee-high black leather boots, both complementing the best pair of legs in ten parsecs. Sweep, strike, parry, spin. A thin sheet of sweat glistens on Simon's body as he moves through several attack and defense forms. No shirt or robe covers his upper body this day, giving his arms full range of movement and minimizing the heat of the day from sapping away all his strength. As he plants his right foot in front of his left, he thrusts his staff forward in a powerful lunge, the wooden weapon perfectly parallel with the ground. If he was fighting someone, and that person was foolish or inept enough to let that blow through, it was a killing strike. He straightens from the attack form and wipes sweat from his brow with his left hand. He turns to look back towards the barracks, and the straight, thin gouge in his chest is prominent in the sunlight. It was healing, but the red line was hard to miss against his pale flesh. It doesn't seem to bother him much, though, if the satisfied smile on his lips is any indication. Orson comes around from the far side of the building, looking a little pale and wearing a rectangular linen bandage over his left shoulder. It has been aggressively taped and wrapped. There weren't many qualified medical people on Karrde's staff, but the consensus was that the mechanic had taken a small amount of stunning poison and one nasty cut on the shoulder. It didn't go to the bone, but it sliced a couple of important arteries. So, while not eaten alive, if it hadn't been for the couple moving through the woods ... Better to not think of that. Orson is dragging a heavy metal box with his good arm, sliding it roughly through the grass. The short man pauses to observe Simon. In fact, he drops his cargo and makes it a seat, leaning back on it and touching at his bandage. "Hi, Simon," he says simply, some distance away, when he catches the other man's look. "I wanted to tell you. I appreciate you coming yesterday. Helping, I mean." At the same time Simon looks over towards the barracks, the young red-haired flight technician-turned-Jedi emerges, her nose scrunched as she reads over some readouts displayed on a datapad in her hands. She seems oblivious to Simon and Orson's presence at first as she follows the path into the base's yard, since there are others busily scuttling about doing their business for the day. When Jessalyn glances up and sees Simon practicing the maneuvers with his new staff, she smiles slightly and begins to saunter over, not coming too close in case he doesn't want his practice session disturbed. It was difficult not to admire his form and agility, and she can't keep from having a purely feminine reaction to him. She approaches from behind Orson, and comes to stand nearby, folding the datapad in her hands in front of her. "Hi, Orson. Simon," is all she says in her softly lilting voice. The Selas gives Orson a strange look, as if he'd said something more like _Thanks for continuously breathing, I really appreciate it_. In truth, Simon couldn't conceive of the thought of not helping when he did. Perhaps Cort Stasus might have avoided becoming entangled in a fight not his own. It was one more proof in Simon's mind that he had not become like his teacher. Simon directs a more normal look toward Jessalyn, smiling and offering her a nod in greeting. There is no sign of embarrassment or shyness in his eyes from his exposure. Grounding one end of his staff against the ground, he turns the other end toward Orson and Jessalyn, exposing fresh cuts in the deeply grained wood. The carving is nearly indistinguishable at this point, but it is clear that some image is beginning to take shape there. "You see, Jessa? I told you that I would make it new." He turns his ice blue gaze back to Orson then and says, "How are you feeling this day, ship captain Orson?" The ship captain squints, lifting a hand to form an awning over his brow to examine the wood carving. "I'm better," he replies, tone a touch sheepish. "A little stiff, but I think I'll be alright." Some sedative, coupled with the vornskrs natural stun poison, had given him some strange dreams. But it was the first true sleep he'd had in almost a week. The man shifts his weight and turns. "Hi Colonel," he says oddly. "Thanks to you too. I didn't see all of it, but I appreciate your help too." With that, he puts on a mild grin and exchanges looks with both Simon and Jessalyn. "I guess we're even now, heh?" Jessalyn moves closer to Orson as if to share his seat, edging him over a bit with a bump from her hip, and leaning with her elbows on her knees. "I'm sure it'll be as lovely as the last one. And this time I promise not to break it," she says to Simon with a broad smile. For all the injuries the two of them had incurred in the past couple of days, she's relieved that despite it all, no one seems any worse for the wear. Patting Orson's good shoulder, she gives him a scrutinous look. "Don't mention it," she says kindly. "You would have done the same thing. That's what friends are for." A frown slowly begins to form on Simon's brow, deepening as he watches Jessalyn's casualness toward Orson. She seemed just a hair short of sitting in his lap and putting her arm around the fellow. Turning his face away from the two, he looks to a bucket of water and cup he'd set aside. He grinds his teeth as he takes the necessary steps to get to the drink. He picks up the cup, dips it into the water, and sloshes it to his mouth, pouring as much of the cool fluid across his face and chest as he did down his throat. Dropping the cup back into the bucket, Simon turns a more schooled expression towards Orson and Jessalyn, then walks over toward them. He flips his staff up so it rests on his shoulders, and he intertwines his arms around each end, stretching out the muscles in his chest and shoulders. He says, to Orson, "I have not been keeping track." To both, he says, "If you'll excuse me, I will go and retake my clothing." It doesn't take a mind reader to pick up on Simon's feelings. Certainly the Selas has had his share of odd moments, and is proving a difficult read for the mechanic. However, Orson has his antennae extended for this sort of thing, and is hypersensitive to it anyway. He gives Jessalyn a weak smile as she speaks, and lifts with a grunt from the box. She can have it. "Well, I still appreciate it. Crazy animals. Karrde's have probably been conspiring with the ones out in the woods." A weak attempt at humor, and Orson looks from Simon's retreating figure back to Jessalyn with a deeper frown. Jessalyn's lips press into a thin line as she also catches onto the meaning behind Simon's frown. "See you later, Simon," she says, watching him depart with a frown of her own, then meeting Orson's worried look. "Yeah, I noticed that," she answers the unasked question as soon as the Selas has disappeared, her shoulders slumping as she rests her chin in her hand. The bright sunlight glints gold off her hair, and brings a shade of pink to her delicate features, and she's forced to squint as she looks up at him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..." Shrugging, she finishes helplessly, "Hell, I don't know what I didn't mean to do." "It's okay," Orson grunts. He doesn't sound like it's okay though. "Jessalyn," he appends to that suddenly, easing closer and keeping his voice low. "I like you a lot. You're a beautiful woman. With ..." The tech pauses and gives a check glance to Simon's path of egress. "A lot of nice things about you. But I just need to say that, whatever I've done that might have given you ... Well, whatever I've done, I need your friendship more than I need to get between you and Simon." He shakes his head and turns to the barracks, smoothing out his fur pants. "Nevermind." Confused, a little hurt by his own sudden admission, but at least things have been put right. She could easily scoff at this and put the small man in his place, but he doesn't give her the chance to do so, at least not directly. Another sedative would be good about now, Orson considers, putting his hand on the door controls. Since she's not given much of a chance to reply before the mechanic retreats toward the barracks, Jessalyn stands up from where she is now sitting alone in the middle of the clearing, leaving the datapad atop the crate as she inexorably follows after him. Crossing the path with long-legged strides, she calls softly, "Orson, wait. Don't be like that. You -are- my friend." She arrives just as the door slides shut behind him, and bites her lip, lifting her hand to the keypad, but hesitating before she activates it. Maybe she's done enough damage already. With the bottom of his shirt hanging loosely over the top of his pants, Simon returns to the cleared area where he'd been practicing the staff. His steps falter when he sees the area empty, but then a hint of red hair moving toward the barracks catches Simon's attention. He looks in time to see Orson slip through the door, with Jessalyn right on his feet. His teeth grind again. He couldn't make out what she was saying, with her voice directed away from him, but his growing suspicions told him that it was better he not know. Better for all three of them. Walking toward Jessalyn and the barracks quickly, Simon stoops in midstride to pick up the bit of equipment that was left behind, then picks up his pace to a quick trot. He calls out, "Jessa, wait!" Jessa looks stricken as she turns at the sound of Simon's voice, her heartache apparent in her eyes. Swallowing, she manages to smile at him, and walks in his direction, her hands clenching at her sides. "What is it, Simon?" She hopes he will bring up his fears with her; she wants him to confide, and she wants to reassure him, but fear makes her hold her own tongue as she stretches out a hand toward him. Simon opens his mouth to speak, but stops. What he was going to say did not seem justified. He wanted to berate her for being loose with her feelings, and playing with his heart. He wanted to tell her that she was being a fool to buck against their destiny, laid out by the True Source. His vision had been clear in that regards, hadn't it? Without the presence of the True Source to guide him, he could not be sure. Before coming to Myrkr, he had been so certain of their destiny that he had all but treated Jessalyn as his already, and she had bucked. Appreciation for her release had probably been all that kept her near him at all. Without the True Source, Simon had to deal with the woman as a woman, and not a possession. He'd had to speak to her, rather than at her. And to his surprise, something had changed within him, and rather than seeing Jessalyn as his, he found that it was he that belonged to her. He thought that she reciprocated. His words remain caught in his throat. He couldn't talk to her again like she was chattle, not after what had already transpired between them. He lets out a sigh, then looks toward the closed barracks door, where Orson had gone. "I... wanted to tell you," Simon finally begins, his eyes slowly moving back toward Jessalyn's emerald pools. "I wanted to tell you that you looked lovely today. That is all." A heartbeat later Jessalyn's arms are around him, and her head is pressed to his chest as she clings to his vigorous frame. "Don't be jealous, Simon," she whispers in spite of herself. "It's not like what you're thinking." Things -had- changed ever since their arrival on Myrkr. Without his overbearing and presumptuous behavior getting in the way, Jessa could appreciate him as a man, and recognize his loyalty and strength. The Dark whispers seem swept away, and, perhaps delusionally, she feels they won't return after the bond they have established. She tilts her head back to look up searchingly into his face, thinking how handsome and noble he looks, and perhaps a little gratified by his jealousy, as well. A slight laugh is pulled from Simon, and he finds himself folding his arms gently around Jessa, returning the embrace. Too much time had been spent in the tutelage of Cort Stasus, it seemed. So used to second guessing his tutor's intentions was he that he did so with others without thinking of it. He was glad of one thing: he had not learned to hide his thoughts as well as Cort Stasus. "When a man takes an interest in your greatest treasure, it is hard not to doubt his intentions," Simon says softly, looking back into Jessalyn's searching look. "I will try not to be jealous, Jessa. I will try." Her tense frame relaxes against him as Jessa smiles with relief, the usual light returning to her eyes. Wanting to earn his trust and keep it, she takes a deep breath, her gaze still fixed on his, and her arms still easily around him, not caring that others passing by might see them. "Thank you. He saved our lives, and he's my friend, but..." Jessa's lashes lower as she hesitates, her mouth opening and closing a few times in search of the words that come only hesitantly. "I love you, Simon." Surprised, Simon stiffens, then draws away from Jessalyn enough so that he can look into her face clearly. Though she had been hesitant to say the words, Simon could only see purity and truth in her eyes. His mouth drops open to speak his own feelings to her, but he closes it again. How could he tell her that he loved her as well, without it sounding as if the words had been forced? There was no room for words. Pulling Jessalyn close to him once more, he lowers his lips to meet hers, answering her words with passion. Any remaining thought of jealousy fades into nothingness. He hadn't given a thought to the other people that walked about the compound, and as he loses himself in the intoxicating presence of Jessalyn, he forgets that there was anyone else on the entire planet. She's somehow pleased at the surprised expression on Simon's face, and at the intensity of his reaction, returning the searching kiss with an equal measure of passion to match his own. When Jessalyn finally draws back, her face is fairly beaming, and she finds it difficult to catch her breath, a flood of feelings and desire rising up that she hasn't allowed herself to experience in years. She murmurs his name as she nuzzles her lips against the strong line of his jaw, not able to find words, and too engaged in the moment not to want it to last. "You make me feel like a woman again," she finally whispers, having to suppress an embarrassed chuckle at her admission.
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