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| - Ride Like the Wind Garage - Marin Mountain More than just a garage, this shop sells, upgrades and repairs swoops and other repulsor sport equipment. To the left is the garage itself - a clean, high-tech facility staffed by trained technicians. The garage also offers space for individuals to work on their own machines if they wish. To the right is the shop and showroom. A few brand new and used swoops are on display and there are cabinets showing apparel and other gear for sale. Behind the shop is a lounge area where swoopers and fans can mingle and relax. An office is located behind a small blast door at the very back. The Players: 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. 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 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. Like scales, with newly taut muscles for springs and his mind for a measure, Orson picks up everything he can get his eager hands on in this shop. Bobbing things lightly in the air in front of him, he seems to have no qualms about flipping things over and giving them a more rigorous examination than the shopkeepers might prefer. Like a hungry man slowly working his way down the buffet line, the broad-shouldered mechanic finally pauses in front of the repulsorboard section. The soft smell of new polycarbonate lacquer drifts into the store from those glossy boards, stripes and colorful zig-zags decorating their top-of-the-line lengths. "Mmm," Orson says, stuffing his probing hands in pockets. It's a rare treat, and he's obviously excited about a great number of things in addition to completing this small circuit around the store. He's combed his wild hair flat, in straight lines and over to one side, trying something new, for some reason. Turning, he looks for Jessalyn. In another part of the store, where Jessalyn has wandered more out of lack of direction than anything else, the young redhead idly examines another hovercraft of some sort, the kind that the wildest of the beachgoers love to ride at breakneck speeds over Caspar's waves. She bends over the cockpit console to have a look at the gauges, attracting the attention of a pair of shop attendants: two of those very burly waveriders, as a matter of fact, who wander over and start talking to the young Jedi in very animated and interested tones. She laughs at something one of them says, then shakes her head and glances in Orson's direction, pointing a finger towards him. The young Sarians aren't dissuaded, and continue their conversation unabated. Orson appears behind the Sarians, sliding thick fingers through his plastered-down hair, making a careful and conscious effort to keep it that way. "I did actually need some help, in the repulsorboard section," Orson directs mildly, angling his shoulders and weaseling in between the two. As he moves, he presses a datachit into one man's hand and explains to the other: "I'm looking for a good intermediate board with an expert cut. It's detailed fairly well there, on my card." With that, he slips in beside Jessalyn and crosses his arms over his chest, putting some weight on the side panel of the waverider and making the display rock. Shooing them off with a wave of his hand, he smiles lightly. "I'll wait, go ahead." The look of disappointment is almost palpable on the two rugged Sarians' faces. The blonder one gives the other a nudge as he grips the datachit into his palm, straightening up to a staggering height that he seems to enjoy flaunting over men of shorter stature. Especially around a pretty woman. "Yes, sir. Let me check our inventory for you real quick." Pulling the more dumbfounded of the two behind him, they disappear behind a secured door. Jessalyn rocks back on her heels and gives Orson a sidelong look as she slides her hands into her pockets, leaning against the aft section of the waverider. "Did you find what you wanted?" she asks. Orson turns and leans on the machine. Casting an irreverent look down into the cockpit of the device -- I could take you apart in moments -- the look says, the mechanic grins lopsidedly. He may not be tall, but he's got skills. The looks on their faces, more than that, the thoughts in their minds, incited an emotion he hadn't really felt in a long time. Jealousy. "If they've got the model specifics I was looking for, yeah. I think they do." Orson clasps his hands together, clucking his tongue. "How about you? Interested in any ... thing?" He -was- going to say anybody instead of anything, but withdraws it at the last moment and gives her a nervous smile instead. She does look remarkably pretty and charming these past few days, and Jessalyn gives him one of those luminous smiles when she senses his jealousy. The look in her eyes -- sultry and warm with affection -- should do more than enough to reassure him, but she couples it with a tender mental caress. "You," she replies succinctly. Then, to get him off the hook if he needs it, she smoothly changes the subject. "You're going to teach me how to ride one of those things, aren't you? Are you sure I won't kill myself?" Orson physically sways from side to side, rocked by the power in even her nuance. His mouth works a little, and he self-consciously sweeps his hand over his funny looking hair one more time. "That is my plan," Orson finally replies, reorienting himself to keep an eye out for the customer service-minded salespeople. "It's not like you'll be at the same disadvantage most people are, their first time." No need to mention that he's ordered her an expert-level board. He was very familiar with her physical capabilities by now, and was certain it wouldn't be a problem after a day of riding small stuff. Shrugging, Jessalyn gives a little mock-pout as she slides her hand around Orson's arm. "I guess I'll never get to be the helpless female needing you to rescue me," she coos, doing her level best to make him blush. Just in time, too, as tall-blond-and-tan shows up again waving the datachit in Orson's direction. "It'll be all set for you when you want to pick it up, sir," he says in a burly voice. "Did you want me to put that on your account?" Orson curls his arm up around her hand, trapping it there and giving her a tender pat. He studies her reflection in the yellow paint of the waverider, slightly distorted but still beautiful, fiery red hair caught between two orbs of light which correspond roughly to some lights on the ceiling. "More like the other way around," Orson admits to the hood of the vehicle. His voice trails off as he turns to the salesperson. "But you never know... Yes, that would be good. No wait," Orson instantly corrects himself. Just one more little thing to remember in the interests of discretion. "Have someone drop it at Union Starport later today, with the Cargo expeditor. I'll pay cash, when it gets there." The Jedi student gives a wan smile to the man and stands, dragging Jessalyn's arm with him. "Thanks a lot." As he turns to leave, something builds in him, the mild shortness of breath that precedes the beginning of a difficult question. "I did something today," he starts. Her playful demeanor fades the moment they exit the store, and Jessalyn turns a frown on Orson as she tries to read the source of his unease. She tightens her hand around his arm, giving an encouraging nod of her head. "What did you do?" she asks softly. Orson starts down the cobbled walk, their elevation on the hill offering the pair a nice view of the mountain village and forests below. "The Griffons are up to something on Caspar," he explains. "I saw one of them this morning, perhaps last night, and talked. And then a friend too, who is with them. Just a kid. Remind me to tell you about Toryn sometime." Orson half-grins at the thought, dragging his hand through some greenery which juts out into the path. "Anyway, I had a conversation with this other Griffon. I could tell he was lying. I could just tell." The astute mechanic would have known anyway, most likely, from Gyzen Bel's poor acting, but like an aggressive plant that's taken root in fertile Orson, the Force dominates his view of things now. Instead of cluttering his mind though, it's freed him. "It's just one of the types of things I do. Keep an eye out for this sort of thing, like who is working with who. But he was lying about something . I didn't actually try to force my way in. But I could just tell." The realization came afterwards that he had relied on his ability for the ultimate end of money, and it's eaten quietly at him since the event. "For Karrde, you mean," Jessalyn supplies the answer to her own question as she studies Orson with a level gaze, concern furrowing her brow. She gives a slight nod, allowing him to wrestle with his own sense of rightness, and trusting him to do so with a clearer vision than he has ever had before. "What do you think they're up to? Could you get a sense of it?" She strolls alongside him, arm in arm, looking like any other tourist couple browsing the shops along the quaint streets of Caspar's countryside. Orson remains inordinately silent for a long moment, content to fall into a steady rhythm of walking. Each footfall lands firmly, muscles slowing before locking him into place. This sort of perfect balance is somewhat disconcerting, and the weight of future decisions, already pressing on him, make his head swim. With a gasp of cool late afternoon air, the galaxy stops spinning. "I have no idea. I could probably make Toryn tell me," Orson replies finally, patting her on the hand again. "But I'd rather not. He's a good kid. And it doesn't seem important enough to force it out of him." In either case, Orson's tone would indicate that this is a secondary issue to his personal ethical struggle. He pauses as the path turns deeper toward the wood, into a clearing far ahead. With a mental shrug, he pulls Jessalyn in that direction. "You'll figure out the right thing to do," she comments quietly. With no other choice but to follow, Jessalyn heads along the path beside him, trying to shield some of her deeper uncertainties from him, the ones about Orson's coming conflict between those he has worked for in the past and the reponsibility of wielding a power like the Force. It would not be an easy choice for him, but she knows it's one only he can make. Until then she can only guide him as his teacher. But he's so much more than that, she tells herself with an ache in her heart, and she gives his arm a reassuring squeeze, letting the matter of the Griffons and Orson's indebtedness to Karrde slip behind them. Casohav Temple Clearing - Noques Rasla A wide clearing in the forest deposits you at the foot of the Temple of Casohav. The area is lush and green, almost surreal in appearence. A large pyramid like structure stands in the middle of the clearing. A monument to pre-industrial engineering it is made with large reddish orange bricks that match no material found on Caspar. This temple far predates the Sarian occupation of Caspar and is shows in the wear. The bottom layer of bricks is lined by markings and symbols that are unrecognizeable. "Interesting," Orson murmurs, coming to a stop. Two lone figures in the center of a clearing around a pyramid. It's an odd place, to be certain, and seems more than a little creepy to the Jedi student. Uncoiling his arm from Jessalyn's hand, he simply stands there, looking around. "Some sort of local history, I suppose," he suggests, walking again. The temple seems to invite less of the mechanic's attention than the narrow path into heavy trees does. As he reaches the tree line, he rests a hand on the heavy bark of some tree and waves at Jessalyn. "C'mon, it'll be fun," Orson lies. His voice has got the ring of false enthusiasm that normally can be heard at funhouses and in low-grade horror holovids. The same creepy sensation clings to Jessalyn's skin, and she gives Orson an uncertain look as she eases after him into the shadow of the tree canopy. "Be careful," she says, advising both of them, and reaching beneath the fold of her tunic to make sure her lightsaber is still concealed there. Trying to see into the dim overhanging path, she squints, then shrugs her shoulders at Orson. "If you're sure about this." Orson waits a moment to allow his ... Jessalyn to catch up. What exactly she was perplexed him, but in a good way, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets, walking ahead a few meters. "Well, I'm not -sure-," he calls out, turning his head slightly to be heard. After hopping happily over a large root which covers the path, Orson begins to slow. "Okay, it was a bad idea. I guess they'll be there with the repulsorboard soon anyway." The smell of old smoke is just barely in the air, hardly detectable to anything but an animal, or a Jedi's magnified senses. Something ... some beings, sentient things, stir nearby. As clear as if it was written in the sky with glowing letters, deception seems very obvious to Orson now and he stiffens, just staring at Jessalyn. In just a few heartbeats, a blaster shot rings out nearby and splits the air, singing roughly as it speeds directly to the space between Jessalyn's shoulder blades. For a split second Jessalyn shares that heart-stopping glance with Orson, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up with the sense of danger. Fear grips her, and only her finely-trained skills are able to break her out of this fatal paralysis, making her lightsaber come to life as she whirls, deflecting the blaster shot harmlessly into a clump of grass. Only then, belatedly does she see the attacker charging forward, and she backpedals, holding the lightsaber defensively in front of her to fend off anymore shots from that blaster. "Orson!" she calls out, though she has no words to advise him, sparing him a quick glance even as she tries to shield her fear from him. Precision would hardly be the word for it, but Orson is already in motion, sucking in a sharp breath as he ducks and turns. A rodian, draped in less than appealing clothing and exuding a peculiar scent commingled with campfire smoke jumps toward Orson. In his strong, sucker-fingered hand, a vibroblade, humming with micromovements from side to side. The deceptive jab finds only empty air. Completing a small circle, Orson's own arm comes up and under the rodian's. With a shift of his weight and a loud exhale, Orson jerks. Hopelessly secured in an arm lock, the rodian dips forward and falls forward, his alien agility the only thing preventing him from taking a nasty flip. Jessalyn's attacker is fully revealed now, grubby brown strips of cloth trailing behind him as he runs at the previously defenseless woman. The glowing blade has given him some considerable pause, but he still runs, squeezing off pair of shots at her chest. Soon, the distance between them is only a few meters. Of all the strange things to do, Orson has liberated himself from his jacket. The gray fabric hangs loose on one arm, and he waits for his attacker to recover and come again. Peripherally, Jessalyn is aware of the second attacker, and another, deeper stab of fear courses through her as she realizes the Rodian is targeting Orson. She inhales a deep breath, focusing on the being bearing down on her. The first beam Jessalyn also deflects away, splintering and charring the trunk of a sturdy tree nearby. The second she carefully sends back to the surly being, aiming surely for the wrist of the hand carrying that overactive blaster. Without waiting to find out if her move had the intended effect, Jessalyn turns, her eyes blazing as brightly as her lightsaber, to gauge the situation with Orson and the Rodian. More cautious this time, the Rodian eyes Orson after leaping up. Easily overmatched in natural speed and strength, the mechanic silently circles, arms held out; his right hand is a hanger for the thick fabric of his jacket. With a modulated growl, the alien lunges and plants his feet firmly, bladepoint chasing after the moving mechanic. Stepping in, Orson clears the line of the attack, unintentionally dragging part of his jacket over the blade. Without a whisper, the back flap is cut into pieces. Whipping the jacket into the Rodian's face, Orson puts his now free hand on the Rodian's wrist and ... falls. A human scream howls through the forest, the man clutching at his useless wrist as his blaster lands at Jessalyn's feet. A million ways of attacking the woman fly through his mind, but are all immediately discarded. That horrible blue-green blade is enough to inspire dread. Without even a glance at his partner, the human turns and runs, cutting sideways to head into the woods. ... but Orson still has the alien's arm. The angle and direction both work together in a remarkably simple way. A circle has been closed, and the Rodian is yanked off his feet, rustling over Orson and flying past. With a thud, he crumples upside-down into the tree he had just been hiding from. Letting out her breath in a pent-up gasp, Jessalyn watches the scene unfold, her senses telling her when the human attacker has given up and fled, leaving her free to race toward Orson as the Rodian goes tumbling into the tree trunk. Keeping a wary eye on the alien, she stops in front of Orson and holds out her hand to help him up, her lightsaber still lit in the other. "Are you okay?" she asks, out of breath, and pale with fear. Orson touches her hand, but doesn't rely on it as his legs unfold and lift him up easily. "I'm okay," he confirms, stepping back from the Rodian. "Not a good idea at all," Orson admits, releasing a trembling breath. Snatching his tattered and now smelling jacket from the ground, he takes another step. "Maybe we should go back the other way." After an apologetic shrug, he works to calm himself and extend his senses. At least it seemed safe the way he came. He should have sensed these two earlier. After all, Jessalyn was on to it, apparently. Jessalyn rests her hand on his back in a comforting gesture as they turn to retrace their steps the way they came. She can't help but glance back at that crumpled Rodian, not certain how long he's going to be out of commission, but she does deactivate her lightsaber and clip it back to her belt. "It's okay, I didn't realize they were there, either," she soothes him. "Hey, you're all right, that's all that matters." Orson turns as well, looking over his shoulder. A glimmer of something ugly had threatened to rear its head back there, something far worse than the threat of the vibro-weapon wielding Rodian. It brought back memories of another Rodian, Detjin, and the well-healed but very obvious scar on the top of his thigh. On the one hand, there was nothing passive about what just happened. He had obviously relied on his abilities to neutralize the threat. On the other hand, simply relaxing was the key to it all. Orson was sure that he wouldn't have done what he did had it been all up to him. The danger was using the Force, instead of allowing it to use him. The difference was perplexing, but he had chosen correctly. Later, he would attempt to take what he had learned from this lesson and apply it to his meeting with Gyzen. But now, more pressing matters: "Are you? Okay?" Orson asks, sweeping his hand over her back, feeling for injury. "We're okay, that's what matters. Let's just get out of here." In a moment, the clearing is up ahead, and it looks as if that ambush is something in their past. A very different kind off fear than any she's ever felt creeps into Jessalyn's heart as she clings to Orson's hand, one she cannot even bring herself to analyze. Her throat works as she calms herself, casting a last glance behind them as they come upon the clearing. "I'm okay," she manages to say as he inspects her for injury, flushing a little as she realizes how she's shaking with fear. Squelching her feelings, she turns her focus inward as they leave the cover of the forest. Jagged bands of last light stretch up from the horizon, just barely peeking over the treeline at the clearing. Standing in the grass, Orson's eyelids flutter. No Rodian. No time for a parley, but enough time to address this. Her fear is obvious to the man, and in response he takes her face in both hands. "Listen, I'm okay," he tells her directly. Locking his gaze with hers, he grins, showing her some teeth in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. Without the Force, he's been in his fair share of bar fights and street brawls. Now, with it ... well, with it, he was sure he'd be in even more conflicts, but he could handle himself. "Hey, we made it. You can't do that to yourself. I'm not going anywhere." He makes time for a quick, slightly sweaty hug. Jacket remnants under his arm, he can feel his almost complete lightsaber there. Soon, perhaps. "You're right, I'm sorry," she says, mortified, and stiffening defensively as her pride kicks back in. Jess smiles as he cups her face, and closes her eyes for a brief moment. "I wasn't really prepared for that, I guess," she explains a bit awkwardly, since it's not a very good reason. Returning the hug, she turns her head to press a kiss into his hair. "Let's get out of here." "Me neither," Orson admits, scooping up her wrist in his hand and striding across the clearing. Without realizing it, his feet find the spots they had flattened in the grass when going the other direction. Some sort of automatic reverence for things and places, perhaps. Even strange temples in the woods deserve this sort of respect. In a moment, they are back on the main path, moving down the village road with the forest on one side and the evening lights of west Plaxton City brightening ahead of them. "That was impressive, back there," he says after they've walked a lengthy piece. He snakes an arm around her waist and tugs at her.
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