RPlog:Culture on Myrkr

Cleared Area (Before Main House) - Karrde's Base - Myrkr

Central to the base is this open area between the main buildings is this open expanse, with its meticulously trimmed bluish-green grass and the occasional dotting of wildflowers. When necessary this area can be used for anything from special (and discreet) picnic-type gatherings to the organization of certain cargo before and after shipping. Often the clearing is the location of Karrde Group employees exercising, playing some simple lawn games, or simply enjoying the outdoors in between duty shifts. The main house is just to the southeast of the clearing; far to the west is the hanger, while the barracks are situated against the trees to the north.

Orson: Too short, not handsome, and a little too old. What's lacking in looks has to be made up for with something strong on the inside: determination and persistence, a certain grit evident in the look sent by his slate gray eyes. Lines around this human male's mouth and eyes tell of hard days and decisions in his past, each one a new crease in an otherwise young man's face. He is smaller framed, though quite stout with a barrel chest and strong shoulders. Still, he's not overly muscled, simply in good physical shape. Dark hair is kept in a simple style but is more often than not in a disheveled state. A few lonely gray hairs touch his temples. He might be around forty standard years old. He has a larger nose, on a round-shaped, bold face that is quick with a grin but usually caught up in a shade of thoughtful.

He is wearing fur pants, thick white, large and billowing at the legs. A black tank top covers his thick barrel chest; while fit and stout, he is not overly muscled. A gray scarf encircles his waist, evening the dark and light on the man and helping keep his clothes in place. It has been knotted on one side and trails almost all the way to the ground. Soft-soled but thick boots cover his feet. An oversized set of goggles are strapped to his head, stretchy material securing them in an 'X' shaped band around the back of his skull. The lenses are tinted rose red. Declan: An intense fortyish man with dark hair just starting to grey at the temples. Of medium height and build, his whole being seems concentrated in the lines of his weathered face: urban, edged, and shadowed. His expression is usually one of almost Jedi serenity; but his eyes are always alert, and little detail is missed by their emerald gaze.

He is dressed in a cream-colored linen tunic with bright crewelwork on the small stand-up collar, as well as along the front opening and the close-fitting sleeves. A well-worn utility belt and unfitted knee-high boots complete the outfit. He has a wearable data pad strapped to his left forearm, with a tiny display and keyboard on the inside of his wrist. 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. Jessa is dressed in a drab green sleeveless shirt, and a pair of kakhi pants with plenty of pockets. Around her waist is a black leather utility belt. Her hair is held back from her face and clipped behind her head, though stray curling locks continue to fall into her eyes. The fit of her trousers and the sturdy brown suede boots on her legs emphasize her narrow waist and the long-legged rhythm of her strides.

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Jessalyn comes tromping into the clearing from the narrow path carved into the woods, her trousers rolled up to midcalf, barefoot and disheveled, her hair wet and dripping as it clings to her forehead, escaping from the clips she uses in vain to hold it back. There is a towel draped over her shoulder, and a ruddy sheen on her cheeks from the sun, which is doing its best to paint freckles onto her pale skin. She looks around the clearing for familiar faces before turning her steps toward the barracks, intent on a shower and a nap after her excursion to the small pond.

Orson stands at a pair of barrels, some flat metal paneling propped across their tops, a few disassembled parts lying about in greasy piles. Some work has been taking place here, with Orson and a few other technical folk taking care of some suddenly urgent power device on this makeshift spot. It's mostly wrapped up now, and when Jessalyn approaches up the path, he's got his hands resting on the table, arms locked, staring at her. "Hello," he says cordially, eyeing her appearance. "Been for a swim?"

When Orson greets her, Jessa swerves her path over to meet him, smiling a little sheepishly. "Yeah. It's hot today," she says casually, sweeping her gaze from his face to the project on the table. She wraps one hand around the towel and rubs it over her head, making a face as she dries off her hair. "Whatcha workin' on?"

Orson leans back, keeping his hands on the table. His eyes sweep over the few parts that are left. "Just going over some things with the people while I'm still here. I'm kind of acting like we'll be leaving soon, though I haven't heard for sure." He makes eye contact with her briefly, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His look is a what-about-last-night look. "Power nodes," Orson murmurs. Well, that -was- what they had been working on.

Catching the look, Jessa takes a couple of steps closer, draping the towel over her arm and pursing her lips thoughtfully. "Ah," she murmurs, dropping one hand onto the table beside him and shifting her weight, her other hand on her hip. "Look, I did some thinking while I was out there. You know." She shrugs, clearing her throat, obviously uncomfortable as she averts her eyes briefly. But then her confidence returns, and she meets his gaze steadily. "I want to show you some things. I want to teach you, if you'll still have me."

"You must be joking," Orson says evenly. "I would give any, no, I'd be honored. But I don't want it to complicate things. With you and I. With Simon." He leans forward, jaw set, eyes hard. "We've got some time to think about it, I guess, with present conditions. Still ..." The mechanic's voice breaks off as he spies Declan, and he swivels to look at him, broad smile forming on his face.

Jessa starts to shake her head in response to Orson's words, drawing breath to speak. "Why would it complicate things? Really, Orson, why are you so worried about Simon?" The words cut off in her throat as the mechanic turns to look at Declan, and she quickly closes her mouth, going back to toweling off her damp hair as she calmly observes them both.

Declan Rahn exits the camouflaged maintenence hanger and steps on to the clearing, a coppery red protocol droid following in his tracks. Declan takes a breath of fresh air, turns around and softly mutters a string of instructions to the waiting droid. He folds his arms and watches the cyborg trundle off, noticing man and the woman in the clearing as he does so. Although he raises his arm in salute, he can't help but notice the way the two stopped talking at his appearance. No matter how much Karrde impresses upon him to trust the people and guests on Myrkr, years of paranoid indoctrination force the intelligence sifter to make a mental note of this fact. When he approaches to within hearing distance, his face only displays the usual studied neutrality.

Orson's face is neutral itself, no trace of duplicity coloring his features. Just his simple grin, and a nod. Nothing sneaky about him aside from this private conversation with a sunbathing woman, his sparkling eyes might suggest. "Declan," the mechanic greets quietly. "How go the plans?"

Jessa also greets Declan with a smile, but she doesn't speak as Orson does. She drapes the towel over her shoulder and puts both hands firmly on her hips, bare feet sturdily planted in the cool grass.

The protocol droid ambles to the personal barracks, producing soft whirring noises with every movement. It cranes its hydraulic neck for a last curious scan of the people on the clearing before it disappears through the sliding doors.

Declan greets Jessalyn with a slight but courteous bow, reserving a nod for Orson. Not one for pleasantries except when it suits his purpose, his tone is all-business: "The base seems as secure as we can make it. Imperial propaganda aside, their policy of open asylum seems to have gained them nothing so far. I continue to be worried about the way Mr. Karrde is summoning key personell to Myrkr, but I'm sure he weighed the risk. Other than that..." His green eyes flick to Jessalyn. "The plans go well enough, although not entirely according to schedule."

"Things are picking up a little. Every ship in the fleet has been checked and double-checked, if you want to mark that off the list. Except for the Uwannabuyim, but ..." His gray eyes fix on Jessalyn, lips pressed together. "That's nothing big. Should be ready to go in a day or two."

The short man leans forward and rests his elbows on the makeshift work table he's been standing over. "Do you like the theatre, Declan?" Orson asks, looking up at the older spymaster and seeming suddenly intent.

The Jedi is quiet as the two men converse, after returning Declan's bow with a polite nod of her own red head. She takes in everything they say with a somber expression on her face, shrugging ruefully at Orson's obvious reference to the Uwannabuyim, knowing that she set the schedule back with her muddling of the repairs last night. But that was something she was certain could be straightened out with a minimum of effort. Jessalyn looks at Orson's last question with a little surprise, but since it was not directed at her, she glances at Declan for his reaction.

Declan was about to activate his wrist pad to make a note about the Uwannabuyim, when Orson's question hits him. He folds his arms and looks into Orson's grey eyes. "Theatre, Mr. Tighe? We never got much of that on Imperial Cen... Coruscant. I'm more of an opera person myself," he says in a more pleasant tone. At the back of his mind, a small warning light comes on: 'do not share personal details - make them up' is the first thing he was taught. But this is Orson Tighe - a trustworthy man if ever he met one. It only takes Declan a second to kill that warning light. He continues: "K'armyn of Corellia is my favorite composer. Did you ever see The Agony of Tarkin?"

Orson's brow lifts, inching up every time Declan makes an opera reference. "Opera!" the mechanic says, delighted. "No, I'm afraid I haven't. I believe I know K'armyn's work though - at least I recognize his name." He just stands there, bobbing his head with appreciation. He remembers himself shortly, and snaps back to look at Jessalyn. "I've thought about getting a few us together to put on _Two Standard Years_. Bring a little culture to this place. I think Declan would be perfect for the part of Renaul, wouldn't he?" Orson practically leans over the table, grinning at Jessalyn.

Culture is one thing that the former flight technician is sorely lacking in, and she flushes to the roots of her hair as Orson leans toward her with that broad grin. "I -- I'm afraid I'm not familiar with it," she admits, stuttering over her words, and glancing nervously over at Declan. "What is it about?"

"Me, act?" Declan blinks, "Heavens, what makes you think I can _act_?" He coughs in mock embarrassment, and turns to Jessalyn. "It's not K'armyn's best piece, of course, but it was the only one that could be legally enacted on Coruscant since it was commissioned by Palpatine himself - to honor Moff Tarkin's decision to valiantly stay behind on the Death Star while it was under rebel attack." He purses his lips, as if he suddenly tastes something unpleasant. "Historically the best arias come from Alderaan, of course," he muses darkly, "Barbarians, the lot of them."

"Yes," Orson murmurs, considering Declan's lack of tact. Or sinister efforts to needle responses from the group. Either of those options create a bit of discomfit in the small man, though Declan's comment doesn't directly offend him. "Perfect for Renaul!" he barks, laughing aloud and turning from the work table to stalk back toward the compound, pressing his hands together. Scripts to prepare, casting, sets to build ... He turns suddenly, changing his orientation but not his movement: he's walking backwards, and he levels a finger at Jessalyn from a distance. "By the way! Yes!" He spins again and keeps walking, disappearing along the low ridge ...

"Valiant? Only because he didn't believe the Rebels were a threat," Jessalyn murmurs under her breath, stiffening as she remembers that day all too clearly, and the sick dread that ran through all the pilots and technicians working in the Yavin hangar as they prepared for what most of them believed would be a suicide mission. If it hadn't been for Luke Skywalker... She shakes her head, not wanting to think about it, or about the threat of the new Death Star.

But Orson's obvious delight draws her out of her reverie, and she blinks at him as he begins to walk away, a slow and enchanted smile crossing her face. "Thank you!" she calls after him, looking as pleased as she's ever been.

"Quaint little man, that Mr. Tighe," Declan says to himself as Orson departs. Probably his way of showing affection. Jessalyn's response draws out the serious voice again: "Believe me, miss Valios... I had grade 8 clearance in the Imperial Security Bureau. I knew there was nothing noble or valiant about the Death Star's first campaign or Tarkin's involvement. I'm merely illustrating the effect such propaganda has on the billions of people who did have the luxury of my insider knoweledge."

"Hmm?" Jessalyn pivots on her heel away from Orson's departing figure to face Declan, her eyes growing somber as her lashes lower slightly. "Oh... I apologize. You'll have to forgive me, I was there on the other side of that super laser that day." She chuckles softly, then eyes her damp clothing, running a hand through her hair. "If you'll excuse me, I need to go get cleaned up. It was nice speaking with you again, Mr. Rahn."