RPlog:In the Sewers

The sewers of Plaxton City stretch out, straight hard concrete passages, worn smoother than a machinist's tools by the onslaught of Caspar's fierce and frightening weather. The passages are large, so as to provide enough area for the huge volume of rain and melted snow that Caspar is infamous for. Looking at the tall, vaulted ceiling, it's difficult to imagine how the city streets could ever flood... yet it still happens.

The Players: Simon, Jessalyn

Shale Before you is a young human male of average height and narrow build. His hair is a deep brown, parted and cut short. A strong jawline and deepset eyes of blue-gray look out over high cheekbones, which are accentuated by dark gray horns of bone. The horns are shaped almost like teeth, curved inward like a spider's mandibles. A goatee and mustache decorates the lower half of his face. All in all, the man's appearance and presence could be summed up in a word: fierce. Presently, the man before you is dressed from head to toe in loose, black clothes, appropriate for physical training. A black piece of cloth is wrapped around his head from just above his forehead, tied in the back and completely covering his hair and the back of his neck. A robe made of the same material hangs loosely on his arms, tied at the waist by a thick black rope belt. The bottoms of the robe hang low, stopping right at knee level. The pants are also loose and black, the sleeves tucked neatly into the tops of knee high, moccasin style boots a shade of dark, dark brown. Strapped diagonally across his chest and back is what appears to be some sort of harness. It's worn in the way some people wear a bandoleer, yet there is nothing attached to the device. A long shaft or cylinder rises over his left shoulder. It looks like some sort of rod, sheathed where some warriors sling their sword.

Jessalyn The expression in Jessalyn's leaf green eyes is one of surprising complexity. The coherence and calm composure of a Jedi have left her, leaving a burning, almost haunted quality now that is difficult to ignore. Her flaming dark red hair falls to the middle of her back in unfettered waves, the vivid color a stark contrast to her pale skin. Tired bruises encircle her eyes, indicative of exhaustion or some burden to great for her to carry. She has long-boned limbs and a natural grace amplified by her skills, with slender shoulders, a narrow waist, and the best legs in ten parsecs.

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. You sense Stranic looking at you.

************* The small space into which Simon and Jessalyn have come to find shelter in the recesses of Plaxton City's sewer systems echoes hollowly with the sound of someone crying. The woman wonders distantly where it is coming from, whose grief seems to be mingling so harmoniously with her own. Her mind still drifts on that dark plane of the Force where she had watched Orson's essence disappear like a bird on the horizon. Her power was so great now. She knew she could have pursued him, renewed the connection, forced her mind onto him, even at this great distance. She could have started the process of condemning her soul even more by giving into her Dark impulses.

Only after she starts to come back to reality, into awareness of her physical form, does she realize that the tears being shed are her own. How dare he reach across the Force to torture her so, when distance was the only remedy she could bear. The only one that was safe for him. So deep is her grief that she can't even bring herself to care if she Simon awakens. Had he sensed a disturbance? "Don't stop."

While Jessalyn's grief still echoes through the hard, cold passages of the sewers, bouncing down unseen tunnels only to bounce back distorted and twisted beyond recognition, Simon's hoarse voice gives chase. Even before the sewer system can work its strange magic, the Selas's voice sounds strange. There is weariness within it, and a sorrow that nearly matches that which eminates off the Jedi.

Standing in the shadows, leaning against the wall opposite the one Jessalyn's back was against, Simon stands with his arms crossed over his chest. When it was that he'd stirred is uncertain. From his furrowed brow and the dark, burning light in his eyes fixed upon Jessalyn's quivering form, it's obvious what it was that roused him from his rest.

"You can not escape your destiny. You can not prevent yourself from using the True Source any more than you can promise that you'll never cry again. You need to learn this. You need to accept this. You need to drop this painful self deception, and make a choice." "I won't be ruled by the Dark Side," Jessalyn says through clenched teeth, tipping her head up to peer at him with reddened, liquid eyes. "I would rather go insane, Simon, than to turn into an instrument of hatred like you." When she moves her arms from where they were wrapped around her knees, she's shocked at the stiff soreness in her muscles, as if she'd been locked into that position for hours. "This may very well tear me apart, but I don't care. I can't -- I can't betray everyone that I ever loved."

Dragging a sleeve across her face, she glares off into the darkness, nose wrinkling with the displeasure of their foul refuge. It was a far cry from her last visit to Caspar, she reminds herself again, resentfully. "You think I'm a coward. But I think you're a monster who won't accept that love is real."

Unfolding his arms, Simon pushes himself off the wall he'd been leaning against and crosses the short distance that separated the two of them. He sits down cross legged in front of Jessalyn, then rests his elbows on his knees. As he does this, it becomes somewhat obvious that the fleshy, misshapen end of his right arm was becoming less like a strange tentacle and more like a hand. Joints were becoming clear at the wrist and across where fingers would be, and a sliver of flesh had split away, forming an opposing digit that would soon be a thumb. Simon studies his growing hand a few moments before turning his attention back to Jessalyn.

"I do not think you are a coward," he says, gravely. He purses his lips, studying her. He wasn't entirely certain why he felt compelled to speak to her this way. After all the pain she'd caused him, he was under no obligation to try and help her with her own. Yet... "You are a bird that has forgotten that to fly, you must spread your wings and let the wind carry you. You think that because you are just now discovering what you are, that it makes you different. You will some day know, whether I help you there or not, that knowing what you are is the first step in living with who you are."

Jessalyn had expected him to lash out at her, and was steeling herself for yet another battle when he surprises her and sits down across from her. It's impossible not to watch with gruesome fascination as he lifts up the changing appendage, and she bites down on any more derisive words. His severed hand was a grim reminder of some debt she still owed Simon, one she can't really define, but is there nonetheless.

When his words actualy register and have some meaning to her, the woman nearly gasps her surprise. "I don't know if I'm strong enough," she replies earnestly, realizing this exchange isn't altogether different from one she might have had with Luke. Or Orson, for that matter, with him in the role of student.

Simon had, after all, saved her life. Made sure she escaped alive from the wreck of the ship. The uneasy truce between them was forged on a strange but undeniable bond, and she's reminded with a bittersweet pang of guilt of the rose-carved staff she stashed safely away on the Uwannabuyim.

"I don't know if I'm strong enough to live without hope," she finishes awkwardly.

Fear. Losing hope. Losing one's self. These were ideas that Simon was intimate with, starting from the day he'd been exiled and stricken from the family records right up to present day. Jessalyn's sentiments did not surprise Simon; she was a Selas.

"We draw our strength from the True Source, Jessalyn Valios," Simon says, slowly. "Our connection to the True Source is our curse, but the True Source itself is beauty and strength. I know that you already know this, though. You have forgotten."

"As for hope..." Simon's voice trails off. He turns his eyes and looks down the passage, as if following his echoing words in their reverberating escape. He continues, more quietly, scrutizing Jessalyn through narrowed eyes, "Hope comes from within. Friends... enemies... the True Source Itself... anything can give us direction, but we give birth to hope ourselves. If you want to hope for something, find something precious to you and hold onto it. My hope lies in protecting the True Source."

The Force -was- beauty and strength, Jessalyn reflects thoughtfully. She had known it so fully before, had such perfect faith. Even now, when she closes her eyes, she can still feel the glimmers of her past joy, the fulfillment of love that had completed her, made the Force sing inside her. Some of it ripples from her memory, across the narrow space, before she even realizes she's used the Force -- a luminous, blinding light pulsing from her heart for just a brief moment.

"I had something precious, and now it's gone," she whispers, bending her head. "I didn't know I was so weak."

What good was her faith if it couldn't even burgeon her through this kind of crisis? Wasn't she a failure for having let it die so easily?

Jessa stretches long legs out in front of her, crossing them at the ankles, and looks up into Simon's face with a small frown. Her cheeks are streaked with drying tears, but there is some clarity back in her green eyes, which were closer to madness a few moments ago.

The look on Simon's face is pensive, thoughtful. As calm as he was, as focused as he was on someone else's problems, he was a bright reflection of the man he used to be despite the twisted deformities to his countenance and hand. His thoughts were clear and sharp, cool as a still pond in the woods on an early autumn morning. The True Source is with him, and his presence eminates from his being, rolling out like a cool, sweetly scented breeze. Sweetly scented, for just beyond the shadows the foulness still existed, waiting.

"You lost your innocence," Simon says slowly, a distant look in his eyes as if he were looking at something only he could see. Perhaps it was the past he was glimpsing. His voice is soft, and also distant as he continues speaking. "It happens to us all, sooner or later. It is better earlier in life, when our bones are still soft and our hearts still able to heal without scars. We lose it in parts... sometimes our innocense is what we hold onto, putting all our hope into, without even knowing. Then the world works its fingers under our skin, like the roots of mighty trees, digging deep, tearing the soft parts and cracking the hard. It seems that everything is geared toward breaking into our souls..."

He trails off and shakes his head as if to clear it. A hard light enters his eyes, and he gives Jessalyn an angry glare. Drawing a deep breath, he leans to his left, quickly finding his feet and straightening with a creaking and popping of his joints. Lifting her gaze to follow him as he rises, Jessalyn slowly does the same, cringing at the dampness of her clothes and the sudden chill that seems to descend into the dank chamber. "And you're younger than I am," she intones softly, surprised to feel an honest spark of compassion, an appreciation for Simon as Simon, and not as an instrument of her own redemption. The thought makes her blink, and she moves closer in the dimness, squinting her eyes up into the Selas' face with a thoughtful, scrutinizing look. "To have been given such scars already, I mean." Her arms cross as she resists the urge to touch him, her fingers instead resting on her own upper arms. Was she too old to get past this? Was the Force strong enough in her, to be able to heal her? To give her new hope in her own life?

"I don't know if you'll ever believe me, Simon, but I am sorry for what I did to you. I wanted to tell you someday. I don't expect forgiveness, but take it for what it is."

Simon tenses, from the bottom of his gut to the end of the hairs on the back of his neck. Turning away from Jessalyn, he tries to wrestle his inner demons into submission before he does something rash.

Could he accept her apology now, after she'd damned him, denying him what little hope he had left? Could he rebuke her now, crushing the remainder of her spirit and destroying whatever chance he had of her coming over to his side of the fight? Could he afford to take her by his side when the very presence of her brought the reminder of pain and loss, when he needed to remain cold, hard, and determined? Was he strong enough to just let her go, and give up the chance that they could have something of what they used to have?

Was he strong enough to live without hope?

"I do not want you to apologize to me right now," Simon says, his voice hard, yet quiet. "You still have a choice to make. I am not going to sway your decision one way or the other, so that you can think that you did not make the decision on your own. There is no honor in that."

His words make her smile, and Jessalyn's gaze softens on the Selas. She understood him on some new level now, whereas before, she could only view him through a glass darkly. Before she had ever touched the Dark Side, her perspective was one of innocence and denial. She was too noble, too loyal, too -immature- to understand that the Darkness was truly a living thing inside her that could not be denied forever. Keeping it at bay was not easy, and she finds it much harder to fault Simon for having given in to it.

"I understand," she replies, giving a firm nod, and finding some strength in the fact that he did not lash out and crush her. "So. How are we going to get out of here? They must be looking all over for us." In answer to Jessalyn's question, Simon throws up his hand, gesturing for the Jedi to stand back. He had an idea how he would deal with the problem of escape, and knew that having Jessalyn too close could be dangerous for them both. This was not something he'd ever done intentionally.

Grabbing at the True Source maliciously, opening himself up to the ball of anger that burned and twisted his stomach at the same time, Simon acts. A sensation like liquid fire pooring over Simon's skin floods the Selas's senses, and a scream is ripped from his throat. Falling to his knees, he bring his hand and partial hand to his face. Thin whisps of smoke billow out between his fingers, accompanied by the scent of burnt flesh. Finally, after an indeterminate time, Simon's screaming stops. He sits on his knees, drawing several ragged breaths, before finally lowering his hands.

His face... his hands... all of his skin was black as charcoal.



Shale Before you is a young humanoid, looking to have the roughly the same proportions as your average human male. A strong jawline and deepset eyes of blue-gray look out over high cheekbones, which are accentuated by dark gray horns of bone. The horns are shaped almost like teeth, curved inward like a spider's mandibles. The creature's face and hands are black as tar, as if he'd gathered a piece of the night sky and worn it in place of his own skin. All in all, the man's appearance and presence could be summed up in a word: fierce. Presently, the man before you is dressed from head to toe in loose, black clothes, appropriate for physical training. A black piece of cloth is wrapped around his head from just above his forehead, tied in the back and completely covering his hair and the back of his neck. A robe made of the same material hangs loosely on his arms, tied at the waist by a thick black rope belt. The bottoms of the robe hang low, stopping right at knee level. The pants are also loose and black, the sleeves tucked neatly into the tops of knee high, moccasin style boots a shade of dark, dark brown. Strapped diagonally across his chest and back is what appears to be some sort of harness. It's worn in the way some people wear a bandoleer, yet there is nothing attached to the device. A long shaft or cylinder rises over his left shoulder. It looks like some sort of rod, sheathed where some warriors sling their sword.

As Simon gestures her away, Jessalyn begins to sense some of his intention before it even happens. Giving out a soft cry of alarm, she backs against the wall, covering her face with her arms even as she peeks back to watch with horrible fascination as the scent of burning flesh fills the air and the use of the Darkness to maim and hurt tickles at the awful edge of her perceptions. "Gods," she breathes out in disbelief, gazing at Simon's blackened face when he pulls his hands away. "Simon, how -- why --" Shaking her head, the woman blows out a breath and steps toward him, crouching down. "You are quite insane, you know that?"

"Maybe," Simon says after a moment. His voice is surprisingly calm and level, considering what he'd just done to himself. But then, the True Source was with him, and it was likely that any pain he felt presently was being suppressed, bottled away for later.

"I think that I will call myself Shale now, for a while," he says upon straightening. He looks at Jessalyn, then, and reaches his left hand to touch her red hair. "I do not expect you to do what I just have done. Perhaps we can color your hair?"

"Thanks, you're all heart," Jessalyn says sarcastically, cringing at the thought of scarring herself as deeply as he's just done just to alter his appearance. When he touches her hair, she glances nervously over, biting her lip. "Sure," she agrees, fighting back her uneasiness and bending down to the small stash of supplies he'd left in the corner. When she stands back up, a vial of something is in one hand and a pair of scissors are in the other. "Here, use this." Adjusting her grip, she pries the lid off the vial and wrinkles her nose at the odor.

Simon takes the scissors and dye with obvious apprehension. Holding the scissors exactly as one might hold a dead, stinking fish, Simon shakes his head slowly. He pops the top off the vial of dye, then winces back, recoiling at the stench of the oddly colored liquid.

He opens his mouth to say something. He wanted to say that he wasn't sure about this, that he was afraid that he would make her look terrible. But... if he did, wouldn't she be that much more disguised? Could they afford to hold onto vanity?

The first snip of the scissors was the most difficult. The next came more easily, and soon, beautiful red hair... one of Jessalyn's most striking qualities... was beginning to make small piles at the Jedi's feet. With a stoic face, Simon does as he was asked, feeling a grimness deep within his gut. For the first few moments, Jessalyn keeps her eyes closed, flinching inwardly at the sharp metallic sound of the scissors closing. As they snip off long locks, she slowly opens her eyes to watch the dark auburn waves pool at her feet. She hadn't even realized how vain she was until tears start to well in her eyes. Bitterly swallowing it down, she takes a deep breath, reaching up with one hand to touch the side of her head he's already worked on. Who was she trying to impress, anyway?

"I didn't even look to see what color that stuff was," she tells him once she can speak without a lump in her throat. "I've got some makeup, too, I can put on."

_You'll want to cover your face with whatever you can get a hold of_, Simon thinks to himself as he works. After his first pass with the scissors, Simon looks at his handy work. He didn't quite have it even on both sides. He'd made an attempt at making straight bangs as he'd seen on several of the women in this civiliation, only instead of a straight line over her brow, her hair made a jagged line like a farmer's toothy grin. Yes, she would want to use make-up, after this. Perhaps a bag with slits for eyes wouldn't be out of line.

"Cover your eyes," Simon says, his voice sounding cold. Waiting for her compliance, he upends the bottle right in the center of her hair. He then begings working his blackened fingers through her hair. It was difficult going, using only the one hand, but what else did he have to work with? Come to think of it, perhaps cutting her hair wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been left handed...

"I've seen much worse," Simon says, trying to sound reassurring, but knowing his tone sounded flat, even in his own ears. Thinking of an example of what he meant by worse, he says, "You still look better than the Corrupter Morganna." The awful chemical odor clings to her nostrils as Jessalyn cups her hands around her face to keep the liquid from running into her eyes. Her head feels deceptively light, the dye cold as it seeps across her scalp. "I'm afraid to ask what color it's turning," she says, though the tell-tale bleach-like scent warns her that it's going to be much lighter than she's used to. She tries not to look down at the red locks littering the ground, and after he's worked it all through her hair, she straightens up and looks over at Simon. Part of her is afraid he's going to cruelly flaunt her hideousness at her, a purely feminine reaction, especially considering the way he had once responded to her beauty. "I guess I shouldn't ask what your opinion is of Tazeck's looks," she says wryly, covering her discomfort.

"It will take getting used to," Simon says, ignoring the question regarding Tazeck and sticking right to trying to make the best of a bad situation. In truth, it didn't look all that bad. There was a certain, functional cuteness to the shortened hair. The color looked odd to Simon's eyes, but then, most of the women of Telgosse had darker hair. And of course, the memory of Jessalyn's beautiful, long red hair was still fresh in his mind, providing an unfair comparison.