| abstract
| - Main Corridor - Uwannabuyim This is a good sized, round room. To the port is a set of benches in the walls, a little nook, surrounding a holochess table. Beside that, running along the wall to where the short corridor to the fore section is, is a series of terminals and computers, whose primary function is extra-cockpit monitoring; cargo, sensors, weapons control, et cetera. The low bubble of a ceiling is dark, graphite colored, metallic. The floor is much the same, though composed of grates instead of sheeting. To the starboard, there is a door leading into a stateroom for passengers. Drew is a tall, leggy blonde. You know the type; legs up to her chin, arms down to her ankles, lots and lots of crazy blonde hair. Her bedroom eyes are of a grayish, peridot green, her skin is a peachy tan, and her nose is heavily freckled. The hair is of a honey color, in artfully disheveled waves down to her shoulders. She's past her teens, and probably most of her twenties too, but it's hard to tell with her. She has the kind of body an athlete would have, good shoulders, a narrow waist, and coltish limbs. Her cheeks have a constant blush to them, much like some who live in cold weather; her nose seems to have been broken sometime, it is a tad long and slightly hooked. She wears a standard spacer's outfit. Comfortable brown pants reinforced at the knee with darker leather, tucked into soft ankle boots and a tan, stretchy shirt. If weather and situation call for it, she carries a blaster in a shoulder holster under a dark brown leather jacket. Han Solo This tall, rangy man moves with the loose and confident motions of a fighter, someone accustomed to getting into tight situations... and getting quickly right back out of them. His brown hair is cut pragmatically short, but is thick enough to hold a hint of a wave, framing a set of ruggedly handsome features that have finally lost the last traces of youthfulness and are solidly into weathered maturity. A long scar crooks across his chin, adding another touch of ruggedness to his face. Sharp-gazed hazel eyes, prone to shift tint depending on his clothing, miss very little that crosses their line of sight, and he typically speaks in a resonant, gravelly baritone. He is currently clad in a simple black vest over a white shirt, tucked into military-blue pants, notable by the single red stripe that runs down the side of each leg, and scuffed black boots. All of his clothing appears to have seen better days, although it's perfectly serviceable. Around his waist is slung a blaster belt, tilted down slightly at an angle towards the holster riding on his right thigh. 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. About a week's worth of trimmed beard covers his face, peppered with dark gray; the facial hair lends Orson's face additional depth and distinction. He is wearing neutral gray trousers, made of a thick fabric, only remarkable in that they represent hylomorphic "pants". A simple but heavy jacket, made of similar but darker cloth, hangs on his shoulders. Where it parts in front, a form-fitting white shirt with straight stripes shows itself. Dark boots round out the wardrobe. Despite its simplicity and economy, every garment is clean and well-kept. Even if unassuming, details are important to this man. 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. There was definitely something wrong with the polishing motor. Just as Orson was completing his work on the second lightsaber crystal, the thing had given a wheeze and screeched as metal ground on metal, some essential component warped beyond recognition. After inspection, Jessalyn decided that she could probably repair it using her tools back on board the ship. And so, with her thoughts turning to another plan for the day, she takes Orson with her back to the Uwannabuyim. For a brief moment, Jessa remembers the days when her most constant companion was Chewbacca the Wookiee -- when Han Solo had been imprisoned by the CSA, of course -- thinking how handy it would be to have him around to lug all this lightsaber-constructing equipment for them. The thought makes her laugh, realizing how silly a notion that is when all she has to do is exert a little Force energy to help lighten Orson's load on her own. As they climb up the ramp, she hangs her jacket on a hook by the door and crosses into the main hold. "I thought we might try something else today," she says, taking on a teacherly tone for the first time in a while, even as she starts poking around for her toolbox. If it wasn't one thing it was another with this quest for a lightsaber. Still, the mechanic had grown more patient with his efforts to construct the device, and had found that his work had taken on an almost reluctant quality. His inner drive and long experience at managing a task kept the whole thing from derailing. That, and the fact that there seemed to be something larger at work in the lightsaber. She had been right about that: it was more than simply bringing a lot of parts together. It was more like art, really. Once he had realized that, the process was unfolded. It was clear what he had to do. "Okay," Orson agrees simply, keen ear detecting the intent in her words. He drops his cargo on a temporary workspace set up near the Uwannabuyim's large datastation. Pulling something resembling a tiny blowtorch and a pair of goggles out of the large metal toolkit, Jessalyn turns and goes back to Orson's side, placing the items on the datastation. "You've been very patient," she says, comforting him a little about the continued delays in his work. "But it won't be long now, I have a feeling." She glances around, hands on her hips, lips pursed. Then, decisively, she turns and easily lifts the crate, placing it in the center of the floor, and then resuming a seated, cross-legged position a few meters away. She gestures to the floor, suggesting he do the same, and taps her fingers on her knees. "Okay. This is something we haven't really tried yet," Jessa says cheerfully. "Unless you've tried it on your own? Think you can lift this?" Orson listens, removing his own jacket as she speaks, suddenly aware that this task will include some exertion. "Thanks for all your help," he mentions, quietly. Polite fellow, despite his level of familiarity with her. Balling up his jacket on the chair behind him, Orson takes a breath, chest filling out the straight-striped shirt which covers him. He eases down and mimics her posture well enough, body folding almost naturally into the postition. "With the Force you mean," the learner says, not really asking and eyeing the heavy box. "How, exactly?" However it happens, Orson knows the process to go through before he does any exercise, and his eyes blink a few times as he relaxes his mind. He's suddenly more conscious and aware, finding it easier to take that particular first step every time he does it. As she always does, Jessalyn makes her own interior preparations, feeling the Force begin to ripple as Orson concentrates, coursing along the intricately woven bond between them. It now seems to Jessa that it could have been there forever, and she really can't quite imagine living without its tender support. Chiding herself for daydreaming again, she focuses on the Force, glancing inwardly toward Orson across from her. "Feel the Force surround you. It connects you to everything. It exists everywhere, and all you have to do is give it the command that you want... imagine that energy lifting the crate as if it were a pebble you could pick up...." Just a month or two ago, Orson would have been wearing an extremely skeptical look on his face when he heard this. Now, however, he simply furrows his brow, gives Jessalyn a reluctant nod, and steadies himself. His eyes close. She was easy enough to feel through the Force, the couple like a pair of binary objects that rotated around each other. The ship was remarkably easy to feel, his own heart having been poured into the ship's cold metal frame often enough. Even the polishing wheel. He could make out a whisper of it from its spot within the crate. There was a bond there too. He seems in no hurry, simply finding the corners of the box, making a mental note of where things are, and drifting to another corner. His attention is methodical in that way, and in this scenario, it works against him as he can't feel the whole as well as the parts. Suddenly, he lifts his chin, eyes still closed. A hand has wandered out from his body, into the air between them, Orson's fingers open like he's holding a miniature crate. The Force ripples, even flexes around the box, but it doesn't move. His ability to sense is fine enough to know that he hasn't done it, so he takes another breath, and presses on. Jessalyn chews on her lower lip as she observes with all her senses, her breathing light and shallow in her own concentration. This was a harder lesson than it seemed for the novice Jedi student, and she remembers many a headache she gave herself in trying to lift even the smallest of objects at first. But she believes that Luke is right -- Orson may very well be more powerful than she is. And it seemed to her that the very link between them seemed to only strengthen each of them. Her strength was shared with him in a way that was revealing the Force in profound new ways for even herself. And for Orson, it meant a deeper glimpse of what his powers really meant, even at this early stage. She finds herself holding her breath, sensing that he hasn't given up after his first failed effort. "You're trying too hard, I think," she advises cautiously. Lowering his hand, Orson's concentration is broken, hold on the crate evaporating like water disappearing with a flash. His eyes creep open, and he nods at the woman seated across from him. Another few minutes pass, and he's back in a similar spot. He's in a cold sweat. Orson can't get his mind off of the pile of pebbles in his pocket. Mira had given them to him when he shared his news about training with the strange girl. She said he'd need them, for training. This seemed an appropriate time to wonder about them, since that was their intended purpose. Pebbles seemed more fair than crates, Orson considered. With the smallest of squeaks and the most gentle of touches, the crate shifts, and then is still. This time, Orson maintains his concentration and lifts his hand once more, feeling it now. Jessalyn and Orson are both seated on the deck in the center of the main hold, with a large and apparently heavy crate resting on the floor between them. Disappointment shows on her face for a moment when Orson's initial efforts produce no results. Sending a little reassuring smile through the Force as well as on her face, she can't help but chuckle. "It shouldn't matter the size," she says chidingly. "The crate is nothing but a pebble in the Force. You can lift a pebble, a crate, a ship, if you let the Force guide you." Orson's hand remains stretched out, into the air, his fingers twitching lightly like they are feeling the individual notes of some music that's drifting through the Uwannabuyim. A stripe of sweat has dampened a road from Orson's hairline to his chin, moisture clinging to his face and rough beard. He seems absolutely frozen in this posture, afraid to move lest it break his careful concentration. Slowly, like a wire from the ceiling is pulling it up, one side of the crate lifts. Then another, until only a point is resting on the ground. Slowly, that comes up as well, the heavy crate rotating softly in the air. "Guys, guys!" Drew calls out as she bursts through the entrance hatch. She sounds cheerful, loud, happy, "You wouldn't BELIEVE what I just bought..." There is a bag slung on her back, and she's wearing tinted glasses, looking all bright and blonde and sunburned. She should be on the cover of a shopping holomagazine. There's a crate floating in the air. She blinks at it, greenish eyes wide. Resting on his haunches, Orson is leaning forward, eyes closed, like the crate is pulling him forward, controlling the mechanic instead of the other way around. Drew's first word snaps his hold on the object, however, and, just like any other crate dropped in mid-air, the thing tumbles to the ground. A wave of mechanical parts inside it slosh around in the container, its sides buckling when it falls the short distance. The mechanic's eyes snap open, already trained on Jessalyn. They have regret in them, but are more full of apology than anything else. "I did it," he whispers, even as Drew stands there. The man swivels his head, smoothly, heart pounding in his chest and face covered in sweat. "What was it?" he asks, looking the tall woman over, hardly skipping a beat. A grin forms easily on his face. Blinking in shock, Jessalyn's concentration also breaks when Drew bursts into the hold, and she is unable to keep the crate from crashing into a battered heap on the deck. Groaning with her own stupidity, she smiles a little dumbly at Drew, and then moves to inspect the spilled parts, hoping nothing else was damaged. "Hi, Drew," she greets, picking up a hydrospanner and testing the gauge. "Um. What's up?" You sent through the Force to Orson... Jessalyn's regret is nearly palpable... she isn't comfortable with pressing the issue with Drew or any of the Karrde associates. "Orson, I'm sorry, I didn't know...." Drew is starting to think she should knock. Or maybe just...lock herself in. Sigh. It's not all that hard to tell that she interrupted something important. The grin on her face drops, like an anvil, from rapture to surprise to blinking, perplexed sheepishness. Goshdarnit, she assumes that Jessalyn was the one making the crate float, and who knows what she thinks Orson is doing, sweating and straining like that, but she's sorry she came in. She doesn't really want to bother anyone. Her voice drops, "An, um, a portable holochess set. The resolution is fuzzy, but I'm sure one of you techpeople can fix it." Blinkblink. Well. What a nice day, on Caspar. For what Caspar was. And the sun had gone down about an hour ago, so, that wasn't why the dour Han Solo had walked out of his ship, with two bottles of Corellian Brandy, and set straight for the Uwannabuyim. No, not at all. The only reason he was going towards it, was that he had heard that Jessalyn Valios was in the area. And so, it isn't any surprise that he just saunters up the entry ramp to the ship, and leans as he arrives, "I heard there was a party goin' on here. Hi, Miss Valios." "I'd be happy to take a look at it," Orson says with an obliging nod, lifting a hand and dragging his sleeve across his damp brow. In a moment, he's propped himself up with a knee to right the crate and examine the parts. He gives a mild shrug to Jessalyn and stands, lugging the container. With a start, Orson squints at the new person coming onto the ship. Before he arrives. Orson relaxes slightly. But not a lot. "Han Solo," he pronounces carefully, lugging the box to the side and setting it on the workstation they've set up. Of course he recognizes him. "Welcome aboard. Feeling better?" Last time he saw the Corellian, he was unconscious on Gold Beach. The Jedi gets to her feet, swiping her hands together to brush off the dust, and straightens her tunic as she notices the new arrival. That's the last person she expected to be looking for her. "General Solo?" she says, a bit dubiously. "A party? I don't think so. We were just.. having a um..." She trails off, casting a helpless glance at Orson, and clearing her throat. "Demonstration." Pausing, she realizes her rudeness and reaches out to shake Han's hand. "Welcome aboard, though, General." Drew turns to look at the General and straightens reflexively, only to relax again. She's not in the New Republic anymore. She beams him a brief smile and moves over to where Orson is to help him with the parts on the floor. No idea /how/ she might be responsible for it crashing down, but she feels guilty anyway. "Y'look a bit peaked, Orson. You okay?" she murmurs. Han continues to lean for a moment or two longer, before a smirk covets his maw. "Hey, there," He offers, "I'm feelin' good. Nothin' a good glass of brandy couldn't cure." He hefts the bottles, lowers them again. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything," He offers, and then that is confirmed by Jessalyn. "Good. Demonstrations require a good glass of brandy, of course," He states with all the good-intentions as... well. Han. So, he proceeds to un-lean, and stroll in further. "How you doin', Jessalyn? Leia said to say hi," Comes his brusque voice. And then, a few thumpings come into the ship, heavy footsteps, followed by loud animalesque growls from a similarly un-animalesque being. Chewbacca, but of course. And he waves heartilly towards Jessalyn, giving her a greeting rumble. Han takes Jessalyn's hand in his, and shakes hers briskly, with a grin, "Thanks." That, until he is shoved roughly aside as Chewie moves in to lift Jessalyn off her feet in a greeting hug. Well. If you can call being tugged from your feet, and into the arms of a large furred beast. Rather like being thrown into a clothes-dryer in the BRISK setting, with a bunch of cotton-balls. Only softer. Jessalyn has had a few encounters with Han Solo in the past, but none like this one. She bobs her head as he takes her hand and shakes it, green eyes blinking widely. "I'm doing fine. Wonderful. Actually," she says, smiling at last -- and that smile only widens as her old friend Chewbacca comes barelling up the ramp. "Chewie!" is all she has time to squeak before she's enveloped in fur, not to be seen again until the Wookiee decides to let her go. Orson gives Han a reluctant nod, shifting his weight and appearing entirely uncomfortable with the way the man has become the featured attraction. "Good," he says neutrally, but doubts the Corellian hears. "I'm okay, Drew." The mechanic looks her long-legged shopping self over with pursed lips. "We'll talk later," he promises. Orson stiffens once more as Chewbacca enters, seeming overwhelmed now. At least the computers were off. Karrde would have some sort of internal breakdown if he knew that one of his ships had just been taken over by this pair. "Um, hello." Drew hovers over the mess and the crate, and since he's short enough, Orson too. She readjusts the bag on her shoulder and watches the two newcomers with interest, now that Orson has dismissed her question. He'll hear about that later. She's never really seen the two up close. Not without people around like this. Interestink. Chewbacca gives a rambling verse to Jessalyn along the lines of 'good to see you! Why didn't you get in touch! I've missed you after all this time! You wouldn't believe how much trouble Han has gotten me into. I could have used you!' And then lets her down in a mostly-gently form, and moving a furred paw to fuzzle her red fluff of hair. Well, it would probably turn to fluff now. "Ah, yes. I forgot you two met. He talks about you, still," Han offers, grinning boyishly from the sidelines, turning a gaze towards Orson as the pair of furred beings catch up. He waggles his brows slightly, observing the man's stance or something like that. Perhaps it would be best for him to drop off a bottle and run. No. He was Corellian. "I hope I'm not interrupting, really, I do. If you want me to leave, just holler," He offers casually. He knew when to run away and get drunk with Chewie by himself. Using both hands to smooth her now very mussed and frizzy hair back into some small semblance of order, Jessalyn chatters for a moment with Chewbacca, at least briefly explaining that she's been, you know, in stasis for the past two years or so. Then she smiles a little weakly at the Corellian, moving to stand closer to Drew and Orson at the table, her hand resting a little nervously on Orson's shoulder. "General Solo, have you met my friends? This is Drew, one of the crew members on this ship. And this is my..." All at once none of the explanations for just what Orson is seem appropriate considering their company, and she swallows. "Um. The captain, Orson Tighe. Really, it's their ship, so it's up to them...." "No, that's fine," Orson replies with a casual wave of his hand. "Make yourself at home. Here." To clarify all that, he sweeps his hand around in a circle, as if to imply 'don't leave this particular room.' Damage control. Eerily, the broad-shouldered mechanic swivels his gaze to Drew. "It's okay," he assuages, giving Drew a smooth smile. "I'll explain later." He reaches out as if to clap her on the shoulder with a cupped palm, but slows his strike and gives her a little awkward pat on the arm instead. The man folds his hand back toward his body and smiles at the group. "In fact, I need to take care of an errand." With that, he stands straight and delicately removes himself from Jessalyn's grip, giving a little wave. "Be back in a moment." Orson sends through the Force... "It's okay," Orson considers. He's been ready for this, at least this part of it. Well. Yay, Drew thinks. Another moment where she's left in the dark. She blinks back at Orson and watches him leave, then turns to the General. "General Solo," she says lightly in greeting, and extends her hand.
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