RPlog:First Encounter

Fountain Square - Plaxton City: Caspar

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 early dawn sky above is filled with puffy white clouds as snow falls quickly coating the area and forming drifts where it can collect. The freezing wind blows through the naked branches of the trees, causing an eerie song. 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.

There is a higher than normal CDC presence here.

-=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Gimel

Obvious exits:

 leads to Plaxton Grand Hotel -- Plaxton City: Caspar.

ndbar leads to The Sandbar: Caspar.

South leads to South Mergansar Ave. - Plaxton City: Caspar.

ast leads to Government Plaza - Plaxton City: Caspar.

orth leads to North Mergansar Ave. - Plaxton City: Caspar.

est leads to West Blake St. - Plaxton City: Caspar.

The snow drifts softly down between the bare trees here int he fountain plaza, and the paths beings walk as they hurry in their way through the city makes dark lines crossing the white field. The fountain plays on, ringed with a little ice and a few onlookers, blowing on their hands as they talk. One figure stands, his cloak wrapped around him like a furled flag, looking somewhat miserable in the chill. Ezkhil, the hood of his cloak up enough to trap heat but leave his face exposed, scans the various scenes and buildings that ring the square.

Shivering slightly, a Rodian moves toward the founter, faceted eyes scanning the crowd and both hands tucked into the thermal warmth of the gray overgarment. Antennae constantly twitch at the irritation of cold, dampflakes falling upon them but otherwise the winter weather seems to not impede the green-blue being. Avoiding eye contact with the local official forces in residence, the Rodian makes a deliberate circuit of the park, pausing near a barren tree to reach for something beneath the poncho.

The buildings, apparently, hold no special insight into keeping warm, and Ezkhil frowns and resettles on his feet. The presence of guards doesn't seem to bother the man; perhaps he sleeps the sleep of the just, or is here touristing with a clean conscience. Shifting his attention to the beings milling through the park around him, dark eyes narrow under the hood as his concentration flickers briefly among them like a hunting wasp.

Producing a palm-sized holoprojector, the Rodian flicks it on and watches sa snowflakes drift through the image now rotating in the air above the projector. After only a moment's regard, the image is snapped off and the projector tucked back beneath the folds of the gray garment, where the hand remains for warmth. Faceted eyes now lift, along with snout, and antennae cease their random movements as the Hunter goes all but still, head and antennae alone in motion, surveying the surrounding beings. Fixing upon a single stop, the green-blue being goes utterly motionless save for one antenna which turns outward slowly.

The flow of beings through the plaza seem unconcerned at the attention the strange, olive-skinned man is giving them. The look is, afterall, fairly intense as he flits his gaze from face to face. As this mind-hopping approaches a group of Casparian Marines now crossing the plaza, Ezkhil pulls his cloak tighter around him and turns his face away, slowly making his way around the fountain away from them. And more in the Rodian's direction.

Stepping forward into the crunching snow, the green-blue being starts slowly toward the cloaked figure, gaze slightly averted, but one antenna tracking the now-moving man. Snout curved downward to escape the snow, the Hunter shivers again but ignores any discomfort.

Ezkhil turns his head to watch the Marines around the edge of his hood, stopping at a different spot around the fountain than he was. Hands tucked securely under his furled robe, the man may be keeping warm like everyone, or have his hands on weaponry. But the local enforcement moves on through the square, and a billow of frozen breath evidences the young man's low sigh.

Pausing momentarily as the Marines pass the man, the Rodian adjusts the utility pack that is kept close, then both hands are tucked back out of sight as the gray-clad being again moves in the direction that was begun. Soft boots make whiffing noses as the alien closes in on the cloaked individual. Stopping just over two meters away, the faceted eyes turn to regard the statue, but the antenna twitch to the side and monitor.

Ezkhil's right arm relaxes as the troops disappear from sight, and he resettles his cloak around him, briefly displaying dark green clothing under his new cloak. A quick visual check of his immediate area finds a few innocents and... a Rodian. The young near human regards the green being with interest a moment, though not with the penetrating scrutiny of earlier. Yet.

Gimel 1.6 meters of Rodian: Greenish-blue skin with an extra-wide strip of spikes over the head which are darker blue than the skin. The pointed right ear is missing a slice out of the back and lobe and a matching mark along that section of head indicate that whatever took the ear also damaged the scalp behind. The wound is fairly fresh, with a dark green scab running its length and a bit of human-toned SkinCover affixed to the site of the severed ear part. Gimel's wearing trousers the color of smoke, close-fitting, and tucked into the tops of black boots with soft soles. A thigh-length poncho the color of night fog drapes over the Rodian's shoulders and conceals everything from neck to almost-knees. A mud-colored utility pack is slung over the shoulder on the left. The overgarment has several rents in it and several centimeters have been ripped from it across the bottom of the front.

Ezkhil Long of limb and tall of stature, this humanoid man carries himself as though meeting a personal challenge of the universe. His deep olive skin is smooth and young, without the worry lines of someone who has known work to reach his modest age. Lines of another type, more hereditary than gained in hardship, ridge his face from his forehead down the bridge of his nose. Within the boyish face, dark eyes deny all childish dreams to look harshly judgmental at the world he assumes to rule by force of presence. The young man's brow is set in tension, contrasting with blue-black hair grown a little wild.

His adornment is sparse, a dark green tunic of simple black trim covering most of his torso. Belted with a black sash at his waist, the garment is fastened closely down the front and reaches mid-thigh. The sleeves are slightly full at his upper arm, tapering to a tighter fit about his forearms, and leaving his hands exposed. Dark inked writing covers the backs of both hands in odd script; the symbols on the left hand seem altered or augmented with more of the characters. Thick canvas trousers of black tuck into fine leather boots, and a vaguely military bag is kept slung crossbody.

He wears a new cloak of black over his deep green, disguising much of his form, especially when the hood is worn up.

Almost as though sensing notice, the green-blue head turns to meet the man's gaze. The look is casual, then the head turns back. "They're watching." The voice is low, the Basic holds a lightly buzzing quality, and there is a discernable accent, but the tone is without haste or alarm

There is a faint flicker of the human's eyelids, and his attention expands in scope a moment, defocusing and gauging the distance between them, the slush there, before riveting on the being again. "Who?" Ezkhil asks, just loud enough to be heard, his own voice containing more than just a little of an unfamiliar accent as well.

Both antennae twitch to the side simultaneously as though pointing, though the eyes remain fixed on the fountain. "Two CDC agents, ovr near the hotel entrance. They've been looking at you for several minutes." The overgarment shifts slightly as the Rodian pulls it a little closer in front.

Ezkhil hesitates, before turning his head just enough to look. The gaze is intent again, and a frown builds. "Empire," he mutters, then that gaze is fixed on the Rodian again, accusingly. "Why would you notice?" he asks, his tone now giving the chilly air a run for it's money.

"It is my job to notice such things." As the words become more formal, the accent thickens. "Most often it is I who is being watched, but this time it seems to be you." Both antennae rotate slowly outward, then back. "Why do you worry about the Empire?"

"You ask dangerous questions that are none of your business," Ezkhil answers shortly, turning away. "Rethink your curiosity." The man is already scanning the square with more attention, however, as he makes his way away from the fountain.

The Rodian drifts afer the man on quiet feet, antennae in motion. Head turned slightly away from the hotel, but keeping it still in sight, the Hunter follows without overtly doing so.

It is in a direction away from the hotel, and the direction the Marines took; the city is a large one, it is easy to find a street. The pedestrian traffic thins here, and the snow begins falling quicker between the encroaching buildings. If Ezkhil notices he's being tailed, there is no indication, as his pace is on par with others around him. Suddenly he stops, his chin lifting to peer ahead, and then it's a quick sidestep into a wide alley off to the side.

The pursuit is quiet and professional, and seems to attract no notice. Moving out of the park is a desirable thing in the eyes of the Hunter. When the man steps off the street the Rodian halts before reaching the corner and staying back from sight of the alley's mouth places the gray-clad back against the corner of the building behind with the target stepped. External damage has not impeded the hearing of the green-blue one an ears strain to discern if the man moves further in or remains near the mouth in ambush.

A moment of listening like this, before a soft whisper, almost lilting, drifts around the corner. "How much do you trust me?" The tone wobbles between amusement and threat; by the sound of it, Ezkhil must be pressed up against the same corner.

The Rodian's tone is amused and pitched to be heard no further away than is necessary. "Perhaps as much as you trust me. The Empire is no friend to any Rodian, and far less to me. Nor to you, I believe, so at the least we share a mutual enemy."

"A fact that is nigh useless, unless I happened to need the help," Ezkhil sniffs with disdain. "State your point or step into my alleyway." "Yours, is it?" Still sounding amused, the Rodian steps around the corner without haste.

As the Rodian steps in, he will find himself helped, sort of. Ezkhil is, indeed, standing just on the other side of the corner, and his empty hand is outstretched, fingers wide, then clenched as he mimes yanking something around in the air. The 'help', feeling as though Gimel had been grabbed by the scruff of the neck, quickly turns into a strong, invisible yank further into the alley.

Leaning backward, or at least attempting to, against the sudden pull, the Rodian's right hand is uncovered as it instinctively reaches for the wall and some sort of grasp. Green-blue skin abrades against frozen plascrete as fingers fail to find a hold. "Peace, man!" Though urgent, the voice is not raised much beyond the initial tones the antennaed one was using to converse in. Booted feet fight to keep balance, barely succeeding, for the time being.

The trip in is short, and ends with a shove against the wall, where the force grasping Gimel disappears. "There is no peace," Ezkhil corrects with open menace, striding toward the Rodian. "Now state your business with me now, or I will settle on a less eloquent version ripped from your mind." The words and threats are big, though with a clear unhooded look, the strange men seems to be younger than the force he projects, and fear rides neck and neck with anger in his expression.

Utilizing the force of impact to rebound enough to turn so that the gray-clad back ends up againse the wall and the snout it turned toward the attackr, the Rodian takes a quick breath to replenish abruptly exhausted lungs. Legs bracing and right palm flat against the wall to the side, the Rodian speaks softly and with urgency. "Stay back. If you want my trust, don't do that again!" The gray garment shifts with the movement of the being's left hand beneath.

"I don't need your trust," Ezkhil snaps back, sounding more exasperated than angry. He looks briefly at the movement of the beings left hand, before returning his gaze to the Rodian's large eyes. Very deliberately, though with unusual swiftness, a long cylinder is detached from the sash hidden under his inky cloak, and held there in his right hand, almost casually. "I wouldn't escalate this," he remarks warningly. "Now talk."

Antennae shift outward then inward again at the man's words, and the snout wrinkles slighty. Without willing it, faceted eyes find themselves riveted on the item in the man's hand, but somehow the Rodian's voice remains calm. "I wouldn't either, and won't if you keep your hands, or ... whatever, off of me." Finally able to lift the antennaed head to meet the man's gaze, Gimel says, "You are Hunted. This is something I know. Had I wanted to take you in the park, I would have done so from afar, or enlisted the assistance of the CDU or the Marines. I did not."

Ezkhil nods at this, having settled into a tense stance, but one that doesn't seem ready to do the creature any violence. "I was told that on Tatooine," he confirms. "Who is it, and why not bring in help?" Not to say the creature already hadn't, and was stalling until the squads got here, but the Izin man can afford to be curious, perhaps.

The Empire has offered twenty-five thousand. You seemed to know they wanted you already back in the park." The Rodian's stance has not altered. Feet are planted to push the being's weight against the wall, but the right hand has good purchase ad remains in place for a possible push-off. The hand beneath the overgarment does not move nor does the green-blue alien seem ready to take any actions.

The reaction is scorn, and the emotion twists Ezkhil's youthful face. "Yes, I knew that also," he admits. "It is the weakling Lord Korolov, sending his mortal army to do something he cannot: face me alone. Even the bounty," he adds, gesturing at the Rodian with his free hand. "Let the expendable crash against my blade, perhaps to divert, perhaps on the chance of weakening me. Sure those who set the bounty did not actually expect any single being to survive the attempt. Do you?" he asks, as though they were not discussing Gimel's odds of getting out of the alleyway alive, if the creature so happened to try something.

A wrinkling of the snout is the first reply to the man's question, followed by a distinctly amused snort. "Had I needed the credits, I would have not followed you. The bounty does not stipulate delivery, only information that will lead their forces to you." The right antennae twitches forward. "I tell you again, man, that I have no love for the Empire and would not accept their filthy, bloodsoaked credits for you or any other being."

"Then," Ezkhil asks, the matter-of-fact tone dipping back into menace as he brings the cylinder up to gesture at Gimel with it, like waggling a finger. "Why are you even here? Ignorance, clearly, cannnot be accepted as a reason." Even as he talks, a glance is spared to the alley entrance, in clear signs of a paranoid check-six.

"Perhaps as a friend." The Rodian observes the cylinder's action and moves the green-blue snout back and forth once. "If that is what I think it is," the tone is careful, neutral, "you cannot afford to use it here any more than I can afford to utilize my weapon. There are too many official noses around." Faceted eyes look over the man's shoulder in a reflexive glance, recognizing his movement for what it is. "You are not the only being who is wanted, or hadn't you considered that?"

"This doesn't have to shed light to slip through your chest and into the wall behind you," Ezkhil notes. "And a -friend-?" He stares a moment, the lightsaber lowering slowly. If comprehension dawns on the young Izin, it is a cold dawn. "You presume much," the Jedi says evenly. "The bounty is for a criminal, a -terrorist-. You are..." He pauses, looking over the alien. "Not one of my kind, and I do not mean the color of your skin. And you presume to be an equal. Do all of your species have such a death wish?"

Gimel bristles briefly. "If only *equals* ever came together for common goals, the galaxy would be a worse-fragmented mass than it is already, hyperdrive would be known only to a handful of species, and there would be no unity nor common good at all." If Rodian's can spit, this one does. "Am I a criminal? A terrorist? One like you?" Posed as three seperate questions, the words are left to hang in the air for a moment. "I have no wish to die, man, but I can hardly fear it. It is part of being, and I am, so someday I shall die. If you want to accelerate that day to this one without cause, you are welcome to try." The statement is made as one of truth, without challenge or fear, but with a sharp edge of determination.

Ezkhil stares a moment at the creature, lightsaber still in his right hand, hidden from the street outside the alleyway. Then his head cocks a bit and the dark eyes narrow in concentration, studying the alien face intently. The Rodian's only response is to shift the utility bag that's digging in behind the left shoulder slightly by hunching said shoulder slightly so it moves down the wall a bit.

Letting out a breath, Ezkhil shakes his head, pushing back his cloak enough to re-attach the weapon to his sash. "I am not in the market for friends," he tells the Rodian quietly, almost normally. "Too much else on my mind. I advise going away before you get yourself killed. Knowing the Empire, and what they did to Mos Eisley, you can figure out the odds yourself." With that, the Izin reaches up to pull his hood back over his head, turning toward the street outside the alleyway.

The door to the Sandbar opened up, and out came Danik Kreldin, wearing sunglasses and a black trenchcoat over his Navy uniform. He didn't much like walking around with it on, but he was in a hurry and didn't have time to get into more casual gear. He came down to meet up with Grymm and to get a drink, and now he was going back to his ship to start the exercises. His head moved from side to side every now and then, taking in his surroundings and the people in the square. He left the Square and began a walk down the street, and as he passed the alleyway he looked down it and saw two individuals. One with a lightsaber in his right hand. Immediately it aroused his curiousity. He had dealt with the Jedi many times in his Imperial career, and each time it left him feeling sour. He had to be careful.

Danik leaned against a wall next to the entrance to the alleyway and leaned his head over, taking a long good look into the alleyway and the two beings that occupied it. He looked at the man with the lightsaber, and his mind flashed to the wanted poster. That was him alright. He was barely armed and by himself; no match for a Jedi and whoever the Rodian was. Well, he found them, now it was time to report it to the proper authorities...He picked up his comlink and walked forward a bit. He contacted the Conqueror and told them his interesting find.

Danik He is of average height for his sex; standing with great posture at six feet. He is of average weight, around one hundred eighty, and he appears to be in his mid-fifties.

His hair, cut to a number three length, is a dark brown color that has begun to gray, though it is mostly covered by the olive-gray cap with a silver pip directly in the center which he wears on top of his head. He wears an olive-gray Imperial naval officer's uniform, kept neat without a single trace of a wrinkle. His rank bars are worn at the upper left-hand corner of the uniform, his cylinders in place in their respective pockets on either side of the uniform. A utility belt wraps itself around his waist, a holster hanging from the belt on the right side, containing a blaster pistol. On the left side of the belt is the black pair of gloves naval personnel usually wear, though it is considered optional, so he tucks the gloves in between the belt and his waist. His black boots are worn, each boot well polished without a single trace of dirt on them.

His brown eyes scan the surrounding area and the people passing by him, the eyes even sometimes following another person as he thought they were a suspicious character or a beautiful woman. His hands are usually found resting behind his back as he steps onward, though sometimes one hand may be found resting on the holster located at his right hip.

An aroma surrounds the man, as he is wearing cologne from the man's home planet of Corellia. He is clean shaven. He is easily distinguished as a Corellian: His accent as he speaks clearly denotes him as Corellian, as does the cologne. His rank bars and cylinder(s) appear as the following: __ __ __                                                                 I  |__|__|__|  I                                                                 |__|__|__|

Curse the powdery white which falls from the sky. It was best observed from indoors. After four years of walking through the chilled substance, Ambassador Delgard could still prefer to do without. A thick, white parka shields her fragile self and precious cargo from the ill weather as she waits patiently outside the tavern. Her marine escort doesn't seem as phased by the snow as she, and merely scans the street for their hailed transport. Ambrosia blinks a flake from her lashes and gives her feet a light, waddled stomp to return feeling to her legs. "You could at least pretend to suffer alongside." She mutters to the NR marine.

Peeling the gray-clad back from the wall by virtue of a push from the visible right hand, the Rodian goes from leaning to balanced in an instant, but not abruptly. "I know. I was there." The free hand casually brushes suckered fingers over the freshly-severed earlobe and scab behind. Stepping forward the Rodian is about to say something else when the movement of a man in black at the mouth of the alleyway draws the full attention of the oversized eyes. Hissing a warning, the Rodian stops in a braced position, concealed left hand shifting toward the individual who seems to be holding a comlink. "You may have no choice." The comment is soft, perhaps for the ears of the man who has just turned away, perhaps for the Rodian's alone.

As the Rodian hisses its warning, Ezkhil pauses, gaze finding the retreating figure in black with his hand to his mouth. Brow creasing, the Izin steps out into the snow, moving quickly to follow Danik. It looks a bit like the young man may overtake the other, but instead steps rudely in front of him, expression critical and searching.

Danik Kreldin placed his comlink away, then fixed his trenchcoat. He always loved spygames and special operations. Much more exciting then space combat, for some reason. Coughing, the aging Imperial commander just walked about aimlessly; almost like a drunkard. Then he saw something interesting; Ambrosia, and her NR Marines. Well, interesting, yes, but if his face was still on the NR most wanted list...might stir things up a bit. Hopefully they removed it after his "death," but who knows, maybe the NR didn't even pick up on that...

In the mean time, however, he had some more serious things to worry about. He wasn't as good of a spy as he thought he was, and the Izin was now coming at him. Frowning, Kreldin stood his ground and crossed his arms across his chest. "Evening. Nice day, isn't it? I never see much snow," Danik said as the Izin stopped in front of him. "How may I, uh, help you?"

The marine escort only grins in reply. "Glad to see your humor had returned, Ambassador." He mutters softly and takes a small step forward as the form of their hired speeder buzzes in from the south.

"What if I were being serious?" Ambrosia retorts, following his every move as closely as she can. A hurried pace is next to impossible given her state and that of the slick ground.

"Then I owe you an apology." The marine grunts knowingly and lifts his hand to hail the transport. "Get in."

Moving sideways silently in the snow and watching the mouth of the alleyway, the Rodian steps to the wall of the building opposite the direction Ezkhil had taken, keeping the black-coated figure in sight, or is it sights, as continuously as possible. The dark muzzle of a heavy blaster pistol emerges no more than three millimeters from beneath the front of the battered gray overgarment as the antennaed being sets up for a potential shot. Seeing Ezkhil approach the target, the Rodian pauses and waits.

Ezkhil doesn't look too fooled, and his eyes turn a little squinty at the man. His gaze takes in the tailored coat, and the glimpse he has of the uniform below, though there is no blazing recognition in his eyes. "Who were you just speaking with?" he asks, his accent unfamiliar. Clearly, the Izin is not concerned about being courteous to strangers on this planet. From his vantage point in front of Danik, Ezkhil has a line of sight with Gimel back at the alley, though no look is cast to the Rodian there.

The speeder slows to a halt before the diplomatic duo and a door opens to grant Ambrosia access. She mumbles a word of thanks and awkwardly shifts her bloated frame inside. She felt like a volumous snowball. After much adjustment in the seat, she creates room for the marine to follow her in. Once all are situated, the craft hums to life and zips towards the north.

Danik waved his right hand across Ezkhil's face, as his thoughts flashed back to that Jedi on Coruscant. "That is of no concern to you, sir," he said, a grin on his face. He placed his arm across his chest again, and took a step away to the right of the Izin. He then began to circle around the Izin. "Now, if you'd be so kind...I'd like to be in peace and enjoy this snow while I still can." Danik's eye caught the glimpse of the Rodian, and he knew he stood no chance against the two. He probably should fall back and regroup...

Watching the street as well as the black-clad man, the Rodian keeps one shoulder touching the wall so nothing can move behind. Seeing the target's hand wave, one suckered finger caresses the firing stud, but no bolt is forthcoming...yet. Let Ezkhil have him, perhaps that will cool the man's jets a bit.

The Izin lets the man's hand pass across his face, expression not shifting. As Danik moves around him, an empty hand darts out, tattooed in exotic script, and grabs the well-dressed arm closest to him. Leaning a bit, he murmurs, "I hope, for your sake, it wasn't. I need someone to blame for my disfunctionalism." He releases the arm as quick as he grabbed it.

The pain surged through Danik's arm. It was terrible. He went back, hitting the wall, clutching his arm. "Bastard..." He slumped down against the wall, his breathing getting heavier. He closed his eyes, inhaled and exhaled, as he tried to relax himself. "Hahaha...I didn't expect that," he said in between breaths. With his good arm, he slowly got up and looked into the Izin's eyes. "You'll pay for that, Jedi..." he said, taking a few steps back, trying to put space between him and the Izin. His right arm was useless right now, and unfortunately, that was his shooting arm. He picked a fight with the wrong Jedi.

Snout lifted in surprise, Gimel nonetheless keeps a bead on the black-clad man as he staggers. Only the twitching of antennae reveal any emotion, and that only to another Rodian or one intimately familiar with the race. Risking a glance around the street and noticing that any who remained watching wer4e keeping their distance and their peace, for now at least, Gimel trades some o the protection of the alleyway for the clearer shooting path of the street, back still very near the building that has nobly served as cover so far. The gray garment is twitched down in front to again conceal the physical form of the blaster muzzle, but the stance, attitude and attention of the rodian coupled with the shape of the draped cloth would fool none who had sense and could observe. This doen't bother the Hunter at all.

Ezkhil apparently feels that the best response to the display and threats is to look dispassionately unimpressed. He slides a foot back in the sludge, as though readying for a quick draw, but when the injured Imperial fails to produce a weapon, the Izin merely watches him stagger off.

Danik now saw the Rodian more clearly. Things were definitely not good for him. He was up against a different kind of Jedi. Never before had this happened to him when encountering a Jedi. Best to let the cannon fodder deal with him. He saw the Jedi get into that stance, ready for a fight. But Danik had nothing to bring. His right arm was in too much pain. With his left hand he tipped his cap off to the Jedi and walked backwards towards the Fountain Square. "We'll meet again, I promise." He pointed his left hand at the Jedi, formed a gun with his fingers, and "shot." With that he turned around, clutched his right arm, and ran off into the Square, hoping to hide himself amongst the crowd. But he knew if the Jedi wanted to catch him he could. He just had to hope he could escape before then.

The Rodian tracks Danik's exit, but he isn't worth the waste of power. As the man retreats, Gimel moves toward Ezkhil, still cautiously, but with purpose.

As the Imperial disappears in the crowds, Ezkhil goes from impassive to thoughtful, frowning. The damage was done before he hurt the man, really; they were watching, now they knew. Giving one man a scare didn't change that. The young man squints up at the sky, perhaps remembering the last time, before he drops his chin and looks a tad to the side, in the direction of Gimel's approach. "And what did you think you were going to do back there?" he asks irritably. "Shoot him, and give evidence of a need to get both governments after you? Probably us?" He turns fully to eye the Rodian.

The overgarment is no longer distended, but both green-blue hands re tucked beneath it. "I can't do that. I use what I have." There is no apology to the statement. "Forgive me for watching your back."

"My back is watched by a far greater Force than you," Ezkhil assures, not unkindly but still dismissively. "And his Empire. But..." He trails the thought off, wary, perhaps, of thinking aloud. "They won't hold back anything after that, he'll make sure of it, whoever he was."

Gimel is nodding. "We should go." Faceted eyes survey the street again.

"We?" Ezkhil repeats the word delicately. "No, this is no 'we'. You track me down for a twenty-five thousand bounty, and want to be my friend. It just seems a little odd, and I'd like to keep my schedule clear of 'odd' while I have people trying to kill me." His attention wanders as he scans the crowds again, lifting a hand to tug his hood down further over his face.

"I did not track you for the bounty. I never pursued a bounty on you. Believe me if you will, if you will not it is still the truth." The Rodian glances briefly at the Jedi, then scans the street again. "We have been seen together. We ought to disappear together." Annoyance colors the accented voice.

Ezkhil whirls and starts off through the sludge and snow, his tone suddenly harsh, "-No-. Whatever reason made you track me down is the wrong reason for me, now go away." His stalking is leading him out of the square, deeper into the city, and he hardly slows to continue the conversation if he can help it.

Short legs taking the longest strides they can, the Rodian attempts to catch up to the tall man. As soon as enough distance has been closed to speak without allowing others to hear, Gimel says, "I was sent after you for a lie. That offends my honor."

"No, try another reason," Ezkhil growls. He's so understanding of things, but the coollness of the brief encounter with the Imperial has calmed to anxiety about facing down, potentially, a small army.

Gimel keeps up. "Reyon Mining. Corporate Sector Alliance. My information was that you were an embezzler, stealer of company funds. For that and a stipend, no bounty, I was played as a pawn to locate you." By now the shorter alien is huffing for breath. "Even if you do not wish my company, at least give me the chance to cleanse myself of this blot by telling you what I can!"

The reaction would be spectaular, if the two were still in the alley and not on the public street with witnesses. As it is, there is something like a high-pitched whine from the Jedi, as if two planetary crusts were having a go at starting a quake party, and Ezkhil stops abruptly and turns on the Rodian. The hood contains a look of mixed fury and eagerness, and he forgets the public angle to advance on the creature. "Tell me of Reyon," he demands, hands reaching out toward Gimel.

Gimel retreats beyond physical reach, or tries to. Casting a look around the street, the Rodian's hands (both visible) make a gesture of supplication. "Not here. At least not like you're gonna throttle me in public." The diction slides into the gutter and the accent lightens considerably. "Off the street, please." Perhaps it's meant as a request, but it's definitely not a demand.

Ezkhil is not beyond reason, and the logic of not shaking Gimel down, literally, for information in plain view reaches him. The clawed hands lower, and he takes pains in wrapping his cloak around him again, struggling to regain control. "Safety, then we talk," he agrees evenly. Turning, he resumes trudging up the street, albeit at a more reasonable pace for the other.

Tucking hands back beneath the ovregarment and perhaps breathing a sigh of relief, Gimel trots to keep up. "You have been here, I have not. Lead, I shall follow." There is resignation, and perhaps some satisfaction, in the statement.

And Ezkhiul leads through the frozen city, using back alleys and streets with few people on them. His movements are somewhat erratic, and it's clear he doesn't know the city as well as the Rodian assumed. However, the streets eventually open up to a deserted beach, the cold, grey sea stretching to the horizon. Picking his way along the frozen sand, the Jedi makes his way to the far end, seeking out an abandoned fire circle with logs and dropping to sit on one.

Gimel drops unelegantly down beside the man, trying to not look like breathing is not a labourous activity. Not once during the erratic trip did the Rodian mention it. "Cold is not comfortable." Shoulders hunch beneath the gray overgarment.

"Tell me of Reyon?" The request is repeated from between chattering teeth. The walk and chill seem to have softened the man's temper, and the demand of before becomes more of a question.

Fumbling for firestarting paraphrenelia but finding none, the Rodian settles for setting a blaster to its lowest power setting and attempting to ignite the wood that way. Jungle-evolved, Rodians have no love of cold. "I work for Merr-Sonn. It seems Reyon's CEO is a friend of my boss, so I got loaned to her for this job. I suspect I'm not the only one sent out, but from what little they told me I suspect a lot of things I don't know for certain." The end of the log glows and Gimel releases the firing stud and watches the glow hopefully. "I was told you were older, had worked for Reyon in some capacity, ad skipped with several thousand credits of company funds. I was to locate you and report back to the Reyon CEO your location, associates, and whatever other intel I could gather on you. I wasn't to approach you under any circumstances." In the retelling, the Rodian's voice goes from flat to scornful to annoyed and back through the cycle again.

Ezkhil watches the firestarting attempt silently, his face a mask. He makes no attempt to lend his lightsaber to the effort; perhaps, in his current mood, it would be turned toward other things. "Then the CEO knows of it all," he concludes darkly, huddling into his cloak and shivering. "No, I did not work for them, or steal money from them. Their company came to my world to strip it for mining, and my family, who have ruled there for two generations, opposed this. They turned the people against us, trying to assassinate me and forcing my family to flee in the night." He mulls the abused wood. "I was exiled, their plan to kill me on the trip failed. I would not blame them if they were afraid of me. They should be."

The log goes out. Gimel starts heating it once again. "They use beings. For their own gains of power and credits. They use those whoe worlds they would exploit, they use those who labor for them, and they use those who believe we have positions of security and authority." The Rodian falls silent for a moment and watches a promising fame lick at the end of the wood. "I am not surprised to hear what they did to your world."

A bare nod seems to agree with the Rodian, as Ezkhil fixated on the small flame. It grows brighter suddenly, dancing furiously; whether Gimel got lucky or Ezkhil prodded it along with his mysterious powers isn't evident. "And so I come to the rest of the galaxy for the first time," he adds evenly. "To find others doing the same thing, in their ways. The people resigned to the lot given, or unknowing of their unhappiness. Worlds ruined for the same economics that my beloved people made their new religion." He stirs, taking a breath. "So much has forsaken the Force. And, as if this wasn't bad enough, the Empire has declared a sort of... serve us or die law on me. And... I imagine that explains why everyone's razing cities and making threats." He looks thoroughly miserable, an odd stretch from a man who disabled another with a mere grip earlier.

There is compassion in the Rodian, and sympathy, but it goes unsaid and is only shown in that the green-blue being works to assure the fire nearest the man burns hot. After getting the wood in order, the power pack of the blaster is checked, eliciting a whirring sound of annoyance from up the snout. "Such is the way of the galaxy. Beings preying on others for no honorable reason." The faceted eyes turn to the man after Gimel is resettled near the welcome source of heat. "I am called Gimel. Hunt you I did, but I never heard your real name."

"It is not the way of the Force," Ezkhil replies, watching the fire. His hands creep out of the folds of his cloak to warm toward the heat. "The galaxy has lost the way. I plan to guide them back." After, perhaps, shaking the Empire and whoever else was after him. The thought seems to keep this confident, optimistic statement subdued. "I am Ezkhil i'Falzin." He pauses, before asking, "Why would help me correct your honor?"

The question requires thought to answer, so Gimel speaks only after some long moments of silence. "I was used as a means to hunt and expose a man I now believe was innocent of the charges stated against him. That makes me no better than those who sent me. And you are just the latest in a series of beings I have Hunted for my corporation and others. I begin to wonder, have actually wondered before, how many were innocent of anything save trying to survive and preserve their way of life." Faceted eyes turn to Ezkhil. "And perhaps it is my feminine sense which tells me that I have a need to avenge my own dishonor as well as that of others."

The gender brings Ezkhil up short a moment, before nodding slowly. "I would say a conscience is a bad thing for the career of bounty hunter, yes. But how do you know I'm telling you the truth?" The anger is still there, from the telling of the personal tragedy, but curiosity is doing a good job of taking the edge off.

"I'm more than a bounty hunter." she doesn't elaborate. "But when the charges are just, then so is assuring the criminal is caught to pay for crimes committed. There is no breach of conscience in that." Looking into the fire, the Rodian speaks slowly and thoughtfully. "You value the truth. I saw that in your face and demeanour when you questioned me. A Hunter must trust her instincts, else her life, the lives of those she protects, and even the lives of her prey, may well be forfeit. My instincts tell me that I may trust you." A hint of amusement creeps into her voice. "I need not tell you the value of trusting your instincts."

Half smirk and half smile, Ezkhil nods at this. His hands stretch, the tattoos there dimly visible from the firelight. "The right is a prayer for strength, and the left, for the guidance of truth. Blessings for the actions I take with my hands." Of course, he did grab the Imperial with the left, and wield the lightsaber with the right. "This visit will be a more difficult one than I thought," he says quietly. "I must find information from Reyon, who the CEO is, who was involved with the takeover of my homeworld. And... where my homeworld is."

Thoughtfully the Rodian scratches behind the damaged ear. She looks at the hands and nods, though she cannot comprehend the script. Unknowledgeable in the ways of the Force, the man's words still make sense to her, tempered by her own feelings of justice and betrayal. "They do not know I have found you. I can gather information from Reyon and the Corporate Sector." The final sentence Ezkhil speaks draws the hunter's full attention. "You do not know where your homeworld is?"

"Not in the... space terms used here," he explains, closing his hands into fists before opening them to warm again. "My world did not know space travel until Reyon found it. When I left, there was a fight in the ship, and I could not make sense of the controls enough to know what to look for. There was some damage to the console," he admits with a frown. "I don't know where it is. Or where the family is." He scowls and stirs, abruptly standing. "I am going to walk, but I'll be back. Are you hungry? I could find some food."

Listening, Gimel nods, for without an autopilot she'd be totally lost in space herself and can understand at least slightly how it must be for one who hasn't always known it. In response to the query, Gimel nods. "Food would be good. I'm a lousy cook, but I won't poison you."

Nodding and flapping his cloak pensively about his legs, Ezkhil nods and wraps up again. "I'll see what I can find. See you in a bit, Gimel." He pauses, then decides against what was ont he tip of his tongue, turning to stalk off into the settling evening.

Gimel watches the man leave, then prepares a rough camp and wonders what she's got herself in for.