RPlog:Bazil, Revisited

Fountain Square

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 filled with rain clouds as light rain falls. 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.

Hinrich A chill would run up your spine, after a glance of this man. Draped over his body is a dark cloak, swaying gently with the wind as he walks, a hood is pulled over his head, and his head is covered by a small helmet, fitting close to his face, going along his cheek bones softly, much like an Imperial Stormtroopers, except this one, has less room around the bottom, for grabbing under, and removing the helmet. Under the helmet, would be the handsomely framed face, with his chin length light brown hair, and hazel eyes, his voice, also is rather soothing, and deep.

Over his chest is a black piece of chest armor, still giving off an Imperial Stormtrooper look to it, running smoothly over his muscled chest, and covering his arms, where on a wrist blaster is placed, on his right wrist.

Starting around from above the leg armor, would be a set of painted on flames, small parts of it are chipped off, and charred, from the blows this man has received, the flames flick upwards to the bottom part of his chest, the tips of the flames being yellow, and they slowly fade into the deep crimson red.

Looking downtward, to his legs, you notice they are also covered by the dark black armor, on his thigh, would be a small scratch, from a small blaster, no doubt, the entire set of his lower body armor, runs along his legs rather smoothly.

At the side of his left leg, would be a Slasher Carbine, placed on the outer part of his thigh. Hinrich seems to look to be about an average build, and 5'11" tall.

If you would have the chance to see him, without his torso armor, you would notice that covering his right arm, shoulder, and going down his spine, are tattoos. His right arm tattoo, would be a set of black flames, leading down from his neck, covering the front, and back of his shoulder, and going all the way down to his wrist, where it stops abruptly, for covering purposes. Leading from the bottom of his neck, is a gothic style sword, the top of the tattoo being the blunt, hilt end, leading down to the sword guard, which lead outwards, and then up and down for two inchs, the actual blade part of the sword, widened near the hilt, and leading inward, to the tip of the sword, the entire thing, being a bright red color.

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.

Bazil Cerulean eyes gleam under any light amongst a slew of less daunting features. Masculine, the figure seems old at first glance, but often gives way to handsome ruggedness. Large numbers of scars--some quite fresh--streak over his face, dark brown hair contrasting against his light skin. Freshly cut and placed, his hair lays simply atop his head, little embellishment placed there. No facial hair strikes across his face other than his brows, a long deep scar striking diagonally across his face, and through one of the patches of eye hair. His nose is simple and unpronounced, the sides slightly poking out from the rest of the roundish figure. Simple, yet full, lips cover his face, the only other noticible facial feature on him. His body rises at a rather average and unimposing height, kept in shape, but without a large amount of musculature.

His legs are covered in dark sandy colored cargo pants, with a matching belt around his waist. Pockets rest over his knees, and in the other /normal/ spots. They hang loosely from him, drifting with the wind casually, giving hint to their /very/ thin fabric. His feet are covered in greybrown shoes, which come just under the joint of his foot. As for a shirt, he bears a black dress shirt, streamed with pearl white buttons. The shirt is tucked in to his pants. As for his belt, it bears a solitary blaster, and an ornate sword.

Well. Now that we're done wandering through the landing pad. Let's wander through the city a little bit, shall we? The bounty hunter, Hinrich makes his way in from the south street, his cloak still covering the the majority of his body armor and over shadowing the front facial part of his helmet. He looks around to the others amongst the square for a moment.. Slowing his pace down a little.

"That, and the people dressed up like tribesmen," Orson says, wearing a wry smile as he and his companion move down one of the pathways under trees. They are vaguely circumnavigating the fountain, having had enough time there lately. Enough time, and enough strange people. This well-trafficked spot seemed to draw strange people and bad characters. A magic fountain, perhaps. Orson gives Hinrich an appraising look from the corner of his eye.

Walking arm in arm with Orson along the shady path, Jessalyn gives a light laugh, her head tilted to the side to gaze over at her companion. "You don't say?" she comments on the ending of the story, looking amused. Her gaze flutters over the people nearby, as well, seemingly casual, but secretly alert to anything that might be construed as suspicious or troubling. The young Jedi has a knack for sniffing out that kind of thing, as recent events have shown.

From the south, strolls Bazil again, looking quite. Well. Not drunk. At all. Compared to a while ago, in the bar. Anyways, he strolls, frowning. Bored. Perhaps he should have some young lady throw him into the fountain by accident, like when he was first here so many years ago.

There's a small surprise. A Jedi having a knack for sniffing out things that might cause trouble. Seeing nothing interesting at the moment.. Hinrich begins to quicken his pace back to the quick walking he was doing before. Making his way off toward the bar, the bottom of the cloth hanging over him beginning to pick up slightly, giving anyone who's paying enough attention the ability to see his armored boots.

"There's Bazil," Orson notes, mildly, waving at his distant form when the agent looks vaguely in their direction. It's not an inviting wave, simply a 'there you are' type thing, and Orson quickly lowers his hand, leading the woman down another path. "Have you had any more contact with our person?" Despite the fact that they are out of most people's hearing range, the mechanic chooses not to use names. Not in the square, out in the open.

"He's been keeping low, I guess," Jessalyn replies with a mild shrug, not needing any names supplied to know who Orson is talking about. She glances toward Bazil as he's pointed out, dipping her head slightly in a distant greeting. Her hand tightens around Orson's arm as they drift down another path.

Bazil continues on, offering a short wave to Orson in reply, before stuffing hands in pockets, and lolloping about in boredom. Caspar was so boring. So much waiting. So much nothing. Bah. He should go find Karrde sometime soon. Hey. There's an idea. And so, Bazil sets his course for Orson, with a purpose. A question.

With that, Hinrich slips his way into the bar. Not much here either.

Orson has already turned his back to Bazil, pointing out some feature on a medium-height flowering tree that the couple is passing. With a nod at Jessalyn, he turns to the approaching agent after slowing. "Hey," the man greets quietly, for the third time in the last few hours. Reading the look on Bazil's face, Orson takes in a breath. The red-haired woman beside Orson turns as he does, unsurprised to see Bazil there. Jessa offers a somewhat hesitant smile, sensing the tension that goes through the man beside her. "Hello again," she offers, her footfalls coming to a stop.

A smile, now, quaint and nonchalant from Bazil, to Jessalyn and Orson. He bows. He peers towards Orson, and offers, "Hello. Apologies for earlier." Then, to Orson. "Orson, I would have you keep this in secrecy from all but you and he, but I would like you to contact Karrde, if that is still possible for you, and to inform him that I'm looking to speak with him," He offers in a near-whisper, appearing not to give much of a care that Jessalyn was there. "I would be most appreciative if you could do such."

"I can contact him," Orson replies evenly. No harm in admitting that. Karrde was only slightly more wanted by the Empire than the mechanic himself, which seemed a little odd. Not that Bazil was working with the Empire. But caution was a good idea, nonetheless. "Are you going to try and kill him?" The secrecy business is no problem. They are both in the secrecy business, as a matter of fact. And Jessalyn, well, she has secrets of her own, and little interest in these affairs. Orson's own interest is waning. He hangs on to the old Orson with tenacity.

Bazil was number eleven on the Empire's most wanted list. There were only Republic members on that list. But Bazil didn't know that. What he also didn't know was that there were only twelve people on that list, and the last person on it was Kelvis. To put it blankly: He wasn't as important as he prided himself to be. "I think not, Orson. He and I have a sort of mutual agreement," He grins, "I don't kill him, and he doesn't kill me." The Jedi woman's hand stays on Orson's arm, purpose behind it as her apprentice addresses Bazil concerning his employer. The hand is a reminder, and a reassurance. Jessalyn knows the time for his decision is going to come soon, and she's released him to do that on his own. But there's no way she can't -not- influence him. "The Empire might do the job for you," she says flatly, an odd pessimism in her tone not really in keeping with her usual personality. She blinks even at herself.

Orson quirks his upper lip, curling it and the soft covering of new beard to one side. "Fair enough, I'll contact him," the man agrees. "Anything else?" Touching the top of Jessalyn's hand, he blows out a breath. "We've had our fair share of trouble lately. I guess you saw about all that on Tatooine."

"No, not right now," Bazil offers, with a smile. "And thank you. By the by, I'll be on Caspar, in the odd event that you require any help. I've got some contacts here, also. Just so you know, you know." He grins, "Anything at all, just ask." And with that, he grins, and decides that the fountain is better company than wandering. She had started to say something, about her meeting with Bazil's agent Rislyn, but the man's odd turn makes her think otherwise, and she clears her throat instead, watching as the odd man heads for the fountain. "When are you leaving, again?" Jessa asks Orson instead, turning and leveling a worried gaze at him. "I'm suddenly not liking the idea of you going off alone back to the base, Orson."

"Okay," Orson intones, some creeping sense of dis-ease leaving his body as he lets out a sigh. "We've had our fair share of odd events lately, you know. I might just take you up on that." Leveling a finger like a blaster, Orson points it at Bazil's chest. Squinting one eye for aim, he clicks it, thumb descending. "Same here," he adds with a little sniff, dropping his blaster finger. Between men, this was a let's kiss and make up moment, though they've already kissed. Bazil was on top of things.

"What?" He turns at Jessalyn, frowning. "I'm not sure, I haven't heard about the meeting I mentioned. Not yet. Why?"

"Right. Well. Keep in touch. I'm in my ship, in the starport. The only matte black assault shuttle there, you know. But that's besides the point," Bazil offers, "Keep in touch. I'll be around. If not me, than others of my work." A wink, and he turns, and sets out for the fountain. Sigh. So bored. So lonely. So fake. Everything! He was fake. The universe was fake. Bah.

Jessalyn shakes her head at Orson's question, gazing at Bazil now as she watches him turn to go, regretting that she hadn't spoken up when she had the chance. The rattle of thoughts that bounce off him are almost disorienting, and she shakes her head as if to clear it. "See you later, Mr. McKenzie," she calls to his back. Then, her attention is back on her companion. "Why? Because you're being hunted, that's why," she finally answers once Bazil is out of earshot, the fear undisguised in her voice.

"You think I'm in danger with the organization?" Orson doesn't completely get it, not at first. "Or you mean just travelling?" His own mind rattles now, and he pauses to still his tangled thoughts. "I agree," Orson says suddenly. "You're coming with me."

Orson sends through the Force... New concern lifts in Orson's mind. Apparently her question has only now forced him to realize what she'd be doing while he was off at some meeting. Ash, and other dangers would stay behind, along with her. "I -- I don't know," Jessa starts to answer. "Yes, all of those --" But then she seems to catch something in his face, and nods her head in vigorous agreement. "Orson, we're sort of fooling ourselves here, really. It's not going to be safe anywhere we go. We're better off defending each other's backs now -- especially, being so new in your training." She seems resolved, and relieved that he has agreed with her readily enough. "I know it won't be easy. I can hide on the ship if you want, to keep Karrde from having a coronary," she says with a wry little smile.

Along the side of the street, nearest to the sandbar, a single figure, in a Caspian military uniform walks slowly along. A small astromech droid follows slowly behind him beaping out lightly as the man slowly nods his head.

Reaching up to scratch at his hairline, Orson lifts his shoulders. For a second, his fingernail catches the narrow seam of his false mask, and he wants to peel the false-skin from his face. Show his true face. But it's not time for that. "That won't be necessary," he says, taking his hands away. "I'm semi-content with some sorts of duplicity in my life, but not at that level. Okay?" "So you won't be ashamed to be seen with me?" Jessalyn asks, her voice suddenly playful as she wraps both hands around one of Orson's arms and leans back on her heels, smiling prettily. "Maybe we could go back to that waterfall you took me to last time on Myrkr. Remember? Would you like that?"

You sent through the Force to Orson... There's a sense of relief, and Jessalyn conveys how she had feared broaching the subject with him, even while dreading the thought of being left behind on Caspar, considering recent events. Coupled with her more personal and selfish desire to be near him, her guilt has paralyzed her.

The broad-shouldered man tugs her in a bit closer and starts walking a little. "I can't promise I won't jump in this time," he muses, waving his fingers through the air and picking up their slow walk. Aside from all of that, he fears having to make the trip and stepping into the darkness of that strange planet.

Tarrin nods to the pair as he walks past, not paying any attention to what the speak of, as he continues his conversation with his droid.

Orson sends through the Force... _You'll be safe with me_ Orson sends tentatively. A reminder. He doesn't mean that he can protect her from anything. Just that he'll be fair to her. Remember her, her feelings. Just that he'll be faithful.