RPlog:Arrival on Myrkr

Conference Office - Main House - Myrkr

East of the great hall, this smaller conference office is Karrde's centralized base of operations on Myrkr. Electronic equipment dominates the room, though the gracious wood cabinets and panelling can be moved and organized to hide everything from view should the need arise. A radar dish rests on the roof above this room, providing a steady feed of communications and information to the computers and systems below. The room is also often uses for more private meetings and, at times, quiet dinners for special guests.

The Players:

Karrde This stocky human male stands at only about five feet, thick arms, chest and fingers making up somewhat for his diminutive height. Dark hair is kept in a utility-conscious style, clipped short to his round skull - prominent specks of white hair pepper the sides. A too thick brow and angled face help the impression of heaviness about the figure; the face is complete with a broad nose and large square teeth that appear to be just a little crooked when his wry smile reveals them. Small folds of skin around his eyes and mouth indicate more years than his vigorous face would otherwise show. 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. Calculation has many guises, from the narrowing of eyes in sharp thought to the greed of a credits lender tallying interest rates. The guise of it in this man is difficult for the average being to define. He is tall and slender, not muscular or intimidating by mere brawn, with an economy of movement that hints at some calculation of how close his hand is to his blaster, or where he's standing in relation to his environment. Dark hair, worn a tad long and streaked a little at the temples with silver, compliments a neatly trimmed goatee and mustache to give an overall impression of care in appearance, another calculation in the visual. His voice, more often than not, is carefully modulated on the calmer ends of sardonic, wry or amused. But the eyes are the window to the soul, and this human's are of an ice blue, sometimes diamond hard, sometimes affecting disinterest, but the seat of the motives of the whole rests behind them. Intelligence sparks there, ambition burns alongside it, and awareness guides both as surely as a swordsman facing opponents in shadow and in light. He's dressed in sandy browns, typical of the area, with dusty pants and boots, a loose long sleeve shirt of a rust color, and a thin cloak with a hood over all.

Orson This stocky human male stands at only about five feet, thick arms, chest and fingers making up somewhat for his diminutive height. Dark hair is kept in a utility-conscious style, clipped short to his round skull - prominent specks of white hair pepper the sides. A too thick brow and angled face help the impression of heaviness about the figure; the face is complete with a broad nose and large square teeth that appear to be just a little crooked when his wry smile reveals them. Small folds of skin around his eyes and mouth indicate more years than his vigorous face would otherwise show. 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 wearing a loose, cream-colored tunic made out of some light material, scooping low beneath her startlingly white throat and showing off a thin silver chain set with a rough but shiny blue-green stone that rests just below her collarbone. The tunic is belted at her narrow waist and the full sleeves end just above her pale slender wrists. She wears a pair of tight, dark brown pants tucked into knee-high black leather boots, both complementing the best pair of legs in ten parsecs.

Simon Of average height and fair coloring, the young man before you has dark brown hair and eyes of a color somewhere between blue and gray. His hair is parted and cut short. His eyes are deep-set, looking more ready to draw his brow into a deep frown than a warm smile. For facial hair he wears a well groomed goatee and mustache, trimmed short and of the same deep color as the rest of his hair. All in all, the man's demeanor can be summed up in a word: intense. The man before you is dressed in earth tones. Light tan, loose fitting trousers are tucked into soft leather boots that come up to just under his knees, and are tied tight with brown, leather chords. Tucked into the top of his pants is a simple shirt of a matching color. Over this is a loose wool tunic of dark brown, covering his arms completely and hanging down below his waste. It's comfortable clothing, suitable for most climates and cultures. Strapped diagnolly across his chest and back is what appears to be some sort of harness. It's worn in the way some people wear a bandolier, yet there is nothing attached to the device. A long shaft of cylinder rises over his left shoulder, a rod sheathed where some warriors sling their sword.

Movement, and it's a fist coming down sharply on the desktop. Only by the sheer weight of the heavy wood article of furniture does the blow fail to tip the wineglass. "It's -always- been there," he asserts with a hiss. The remidner of the elusive niche he calls neutrality fans his repressed anger. "Picking a side is an emotional response, an embodiment of agreement with a cause or ideaology. I don't believe in it that much." He leans forward, blue eyes hard. "Not enough to risk my life and everything I've done to date. Do you understand, Orson? Being good has -consequences-, I've been staring at them in my head since you acted! Neutrality is survival, we don't have the resources to spend on joining a polarized galactic conflict!"

Orson was leaning forward, but is gradually pushed back in his chair. It starts with the fist on the table, and he gives a start. The leanback is more slight from there, but by the time Karrde is done, Orson is slumped in his chair on the other side of the table, frowning. He waits a long time to respond. Karrde, his friend, deserves that much. The response is not as strong, not as eloquent. Even in Karrde's anger, the man was smooth. But the response is resolute, and carries a surety that the little mechanic never speaks with, unless he's talking about ships.

"It's no ideology, Karrde. It was just the right thing to do." Pretty stunning. He clenches his jaw, muscles tightening in bands along the sides of his face, though he refuses to meet Karrde's icy stare head-on. "I don't care about the politics. Or the money, for that matter." Now he does look up, but quickly averts his eyes to the door, careful to not be making that last bit a challenge.

"Orson, the politics is about to come down on me, on all of us, like the heavy end of the biggest hammer there ever was," Karrde retorts, sounding amazed himself. "Attempted murder of the Emperor while on a personal vendetta. We can say we don't care about the politics all we want, but that's it right there. I can't even think of how to dodge the reprocussions. I gave an order to try to keep the whole thing quiet back there, but -I- know, and -Valak- knows. It's impossible for any of us to go to this meeting with Zeak now," the flimsie is flicked across the desktop with a sharp motion. "Because it's certain doom now, and in 48 hours we'll have arrest warrants and bounties on at least you and I. What part of the idealistic crusade and doing 'the right thing' does this fall under, Orson? Martyrdom?" He motions again, sending the wine glass flying to splinter into bits against a wall.

At first, Jessalyn thought that she was becoming ill. Ever since she had stepped foot off the ship once they arrived on this world, strange things had been happening. She would suddenly be overcome with waves of vertigo and feelings of strange detachment and disorientation. But worst of all was a complete inability to sense anything at all with the Force. The episodes came and went, and she gradually grew used to and anticipated them. But she is more than a little off kilter as she is led through the base to Karrde's office. Pausing just outside the door, she hears the raised voices, and bites her lip. Perhaps under other circumstances she would feel confident striding in and making a stand for Orson, who had saved their lives. Instead, she simply waits, not wanting to intrude, and terrified that another episode will occur at anytime.

Orson watches the glass move through the air and dissolve into pieces against the wall in slow motion. The man switches his gaze back to the wine bottle, frowning. It was a rare vintage, yes, though mostly gone by now. But the bottle itself - smooth lines with translucent blue and browns tinting its glassy surface. All of Myrkr is surreal enough to Orson, but for Karrde to be saying these things, pressing the knife-edge of life or death questions into his throat? It's enough to push him into a safer place, and he withdraws to the wine bottle.

But in a completely different way than Karrde has. "I'm sorry you felt forced to help me. I won't say I'm sorry you helped." He speaks quietly again, pronouncing each word carefully. "Because I'm not. You aren't either. The cost is so high though. I -am- sorry for that." He looks up at Karrde, glum. The beautiful bottle is about to be smashed.

Karrde sits back heavily, his expensive office chair failing to creak out of reverence for its own cost. The bottle stays intact, though its owner is not feeling quite the same way. A hand comes up to rub his forehead firmly, and the smuggler takesa deep breath before speaking again in some semblence of his usual controled tone.

"I'm upset because I made a promise to Luke to help find the Death Star, and now have rendered myself into such high risk that I'm not sure I can fulfill my task to the New Republic. I'm sitting here considering what to do, and knowing how important one thing is, and am just... surprised at how much doing the right thing, in a bigger scheme than helping Simon and Jessalyn, is a lynchpin to everything I'm experiencing now. A tiedown. Without it, I could form a plan. But I can't sell out, not again. Not at this scale." He's thinking back to that meeting with Skywalker, and his own words come back to him: 'You're about to hand me something that I'll both hate and appreciate, aren't you Skywalker?'

There were stories on every planet, in almost every culture, of knights and heroes. Before they would take up their weapons and set out on the grand quest, they would be required to take on a lesser task, a test, a purifying act to cleanse their spirits. They have no armor, no sword or lightsaber, but the pair of Orson and Karrde - all of Karrde's organization, in fact - is being tested and cleansed. Prepared for a greater task. Were it not for the cleansing they might fail in the grand task immediately.

"Yes, the cost is very high. But to have ignored the fight, and let them die - it would have been starting out on the wrong foot. Someone has seen your sabacc cards," Orson elaborates, slowly leaning forward and miming the activity of holding out a few cards. "Your hand's been tipped! No matter, it's a good hand. The Karrde can still win it." Or was that, the card? The mechanic seems pleased with his comment but lets the Karrde pun slip by without even a chuckle; it's likely it slipped by its originator unnoticed. Karrde's difficulty, Orson believes, is in accepting these consequences. There's little Orson himself can do to convince Karrde he's done the right thing. His friend is smart, and the only person really capable of convincing Karrde is Karrde himself.

Just as the young Jedi had feared, the moment she actually takes a step forward into the room, she's hit with the feeling of being blinded. Fighting off her startlement, she straightens her shoulders and blinks several times to re-orient herself as she avoids stumbling and takes a few more cautious steps. Giving Orson a consoling look, she folds her hands and begins to speak into the suddenly quiet room. "Mr. Karrde... let me at the very least tell you how much I regret what has happened. I certainly never wanted any of your people to have to risk so much. Nevertheless... I believe there was little else Orson could have done."

Karrde's gaze, not so sharp as it was when he was abusing his dinnerware, flicks to Jessalyn as she steps in. Or half stumbles in. These little observations get filed away again for later. He listens silently too the woman, before looking to Orson, and then back. "He could have, if he had ignored his morality, but then he wouldn't have been Orson if he had." The smuggler chief sounds somewhat defeated, as if the energy of his previous words had taken a lot out of him, or all that needed to be said was summarized, and he's in a listening mood. Making an imprecise motion with a hand, he adds, "Have a seat. Orson and I were just discussing doom and life decisions."

Orson catches Jessalyn's sympathetic look and is prepared to toss it back at her, in the event that Karrde's responses escalate further. Fortunately for all of them, it doesn't, and Orson instead chooses a seat for Jessalyn, sliding the chair beside him out for her without standing up. He doesn't respond to Karrde's appraisal of his morality. He could, observing similar qualities in Karrde, but he's not here to pick, or win a fight. He's grateful to have Karrde still on his side.

"See what I mean?" he asks Jessalyn as she approaches. "I told you no one would find you here. Even the Emperor doesn't know about this place."

Nodding, Jessalyn seats herself rather gratefully in the chair offered by Orson, her expression grave even as she gives a small smirk, glancing between the two men. Karrde's words seem to have softened some of the blow of his previous rant, perhaps relenting that Orson, being who he is, could not have done anything differently. It's a philosophy of self that she appreciates, but she chooses not to draw the smuggler chief's ire in that way. Instead she responds to Orson's casual statement about their whereabouts. "Yes, I think we'll be safe here. Still, there's something not right about this place. It gives me the creeps," she admits, trying not to think about her Force blindness. It's disconcerting. Luke had once lost his powers. Is that's what's happening to her? A nasty side effect of being caught in the Sith mind trap for so long?

"Well, it's my home," Karrde supplies, levering himself upright, now that he has guests. The internal conflict is, for the most part, returned to being internal, rather than vocalized to Orson, and with that he begins constructing his manners again. Later will come some analyzation, no doubt, of the things he filed away. "The wild animals can be a little disconcerting, but I assure you, as long as you don't wander into the jungle, you're perfectly safe. How long you stay depends on you," he adds, with new mildness. "What do you want to do?"

"It -is- a little creepy," Orson replies, too recently submerged in Karrde's exchange to just start grinning. So, he creates a little half-smile and props that on his face, hardly meaning it. He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table, touching the wine bottle with the fingertips of both hands, on either side of the container. He flexes his hands thoughtfully, sliding the bottle a few centimeters in one direction before pushing it back the other.

"I got holo, by the way. Of everything. Turned out good." He lets the bottle in on this little secret, fearing Karrde's response if he says it directly to the Boss.

"I suppose that's up to you," Jessa replies to Karrde. "We can stay here long enough for the trail to go cold, and if you still want to work with us in some way, we can use that time to formulate a plan. Perhaps the holo that Orson made can be put to some use," she points out, glancing at Orson and his dialogue with the wine bottle. "Of course you may not like the idea of being shown trying to kill the Emperor," she adds a bit wryly, "But on the other hand, showing what he was trying to do, and saving the lives of Jedi Knights... there are people who would be eager to see that Valak can be stopped in his tracks. Even if it's briefly."

Karrde's smile shows teeth, and there is a return, ever so slighty, of the mood that soaked the office before the woman made her appearance. "I'm formulating that part of this wonderful plan still," he tells her somewhat pointedly. "The act, however gracious and good and well-meant, of preventing Valak from killing you will not save me from being diced five ways, Miss Valios. Nor would it make those people eager to see him stopped want to do so any more effectively. So if you don't mind, I'm rather in a realist mode of thought now, so as I thank you for your implied gratitude, it doesn't help my mood." He moves to stand, snatching up the bottle to, presumably, put it away properly in one of the cabinents in the room. "If you've practical suggestion, I'm listening," he adds.

Orson's shoulders are hunched forward as he plays with the bottle. When it's snatched, the squat man grunts softly and lifts his hands in a 'wha?' gesture. Just an empty table now, Karrde has thrown everything else off of it. He leans back to his chair and crosses his legs to fiddle with his boots. "How many Jedi are there, Jessalyn?" he inserts, practically appending that to Karrde's comment. "And how many of those would be reliable?"

For some reason the fuse to Jessalyn's temper has been lit. Normally a very quiet, composed sort of person, even without Jedi techniques, there are those in the galaxy who have some uncanny ability to make the young woman snap. In her adolescent days, the source of her irritation would have received a severe tongue-lashing, but fortunately she has learned composure over the years. Nonetheless, her spine immediately goes rigid, and she stands up from her chair, her lips pressed thinly together. "Perhaps this isn't a good time," she retorts, annoyed, but hesitates with Orson's question. "I'm afraid I just don't know. I've been gone for almost two years, and other than Simon and Mira, I haven't come across or heard from any other Jedi. Mira has had virtually no training, and Simon...." Running her hand back through her hair, Jessalyn sighs deeply. "I worry about him. He is... off center. He needs real training."

The empty is exchanged for a full one, and Karrde's hunting another glass as Jessalyn reacts and speaks. Turning slightly, he studies her wryly a moment, before pouring. "Here," he offers, sounding apologetic. The half-full glass of red is held to the red-headed woman with a faint smile. "You have as much time here as you need to work things out." He doesn't say he's realized he's asking the wrong member of the Jedi troupe about solutions, he just... tucks the issue away out of sight for now, given other concerns. Light conversation to him, comparatively, and he looks to the squat mechanic. "Wine, Orson?" The switch from his own sparked anger to this sublime host thing is rather abrupt; the man's masked again, and the switch was not very artful.

Orson holds up the flat of his hand and is shaking his head. "Actually," he recants, turning his hand the other direction and waving in a 'bring it on' gesture. "I'd love a glass." He sits up straight, boy at snack counter awaiting his candy-flavored drink, eager.

"Well," he replies out of the corner of his mouth to the standing Jessalyn, "There goes my idea for the Jedi task force cell." He throws an immediately defensive look at Karrde and shrugs.

For a few seconds Jessalyn blinks dumbly at Karrde, taking a little longer to catch on to changes in emotion, but when she does, she catches her breath in an angry gasp. "You're patronizing me!" she accuses, lifting her hand instinctively -- and all at once the Force-blindness lifts, and the wineglass being offered to her goes flying of its own accord from Karrde's fingers to smash into a cabinet behind him.

Covering her mouth in shock, Jessalyn stares across the room at her handiwork, stricken. "What the hell is going on around here?" she demands, struggling to grasp at the Force she can sense once more, fighting for control. "Is this another trap?"

After all Karrde's experienced with the Force, this trick is one that doesn't phase him. He merely opens his hand as the glass is pushed out, and regards the woman calmly. "Yes, I'm patronizing you," he answers. "Because you have, to date, shown a remarkable ignorance of the situation, how other people react to it, your own abilities and the mess that saving your life has made out of my own." Tha hard look again finds its way into the squint he gives her. Then it turns to Orson, and he adds, coldly, "I'm going to go take a walk before she says something further to make me regret what I did." With that, the smuggler stalks to the porch and out.

Orson's lifted brow stays on the second smashed glass of the evening, wine sprayed like a blood stain on the far wall. He purses his lips and looks from Karrde to Jessalyn. This Jedi crowd was an unpredictable bunch.

"Just," Orson starts to Jessalyn as Karrde leaves, replaying the sympathetic look that she gave him earlier. "Just give him some time to work things out." He stands, pushing away from his chair and stares at Jessalyn critically, giving her a quick up and down sweep look. "Are you alright?" he queries, some concern in his voice.

Not a lot, but some.

Appalled at the flicker of desire that burns in her to reach out and crush Karrde's windpipe as he walks away, Jessalyn backpedals into her chair again, more consumed with her own interior conflict to care about the smuggler's mocking words. Then she looks over at Orson, still fighting for composure, fingernails digging into the chair's armrests. "No, I'm not all right at all. I would never do that. There's something wrong here."

Karrde has left.

"Wrong?" Orson skitters around the table and fetches a new glass. Pity there weren't any of the unbreakable sort lying about. "What do you mean?" He selects a narrow glass from the cabinet and holds it protectively against his chest, returning to the table. He reaches for the bottle and moves as if to pour a new glass - but, that would be a sad waste. Instead, he stoppers the bottle and cradles it along with the glass in his arm. "Should I call for someone?" He's certainly concerned, but preoccupied and plotting his escape.

Rising shakily, Jessalyn looms over the shorter man, raking both hands back through her hair in agitation. "Doesn't he understand that this is bigger than -his- life, -his- career, -his- reputation?" The lack of control is so disconcerting that it takes all of her effort to back off and begin to pace the room with long-legged strides. "If I'm that inept a Jedi, then why train me at all? If I'm only a stumbling block, then I'm useless. I shouldn't even try to go back to do what I'm supposed to do." Maybe Karrde's words got to her a little more than it seemed at first; in any case, her thoughts as well as her emotions are now on an unstable flight path.

A troubled sleep had overtaken Simon before they'd come to the lush planet of Myrkr. Troubled, as terrible dreams haunted him. Strangely, the dreams changed pleasantly just as the ship was coming to land in the designated area, and a pleasant, peaceful sensation washed over Simon. Upon waking, the peace remained.

It's with a nearly euphoric expression that Simon walks into the room, not even seeing Karrde as the other goateed fellow makes his way out. The Selas' eyes are wide and bright, and as he walks, he occasionally stops and cocks his head as if listening to something. The broken glass and clutter from Jessalyn's fit might as well not exist to Simon, even when a bit of one of the broken glasses crunches under his feet. "Jessa," he utters in a breathy voice in Jessalyn's direction. Her voice had caught his attention, but apparently, the heated words had not registered in his mind yet.

Orson creeps slowly from his point in a slow circle around the table, finding the opposite side of the room she's pacing on. "He's drunk, Jessalyn," Orson states simply. He doesn't feel a need to defend Karrde - the man can do it well enough on his own. "And you're not inept at all. We've all been through a lot ..."

With that, he hears Simon's entrance and he nods at him, giving the Selas a somewhat exasperated look with enlarged eyes. Do something, the look would suggest. Orson walks for the door that Simon entered through, holding Karrde's wine and glass, just watching. He'll only stay long enough to be sure that Jessalyn doesn't need medical attention ...

Shaking, Jessa wraps her arms around herself. The Force flows through her now, calming and reassuring her, and she savors the familiar senses as they return, feeling whole. "You're right," she sighs, shaking her head, dismissing Karrde's criticisms as nothing that can possibly harm or dissuade her. "I don't know what's come over me. It's like... the Force just disappears...."

And then she senses Simon's arrival, and glances over, her eyes too large in her extremely pale face.

Something in Jessalyn's eyes sobers Simon, and he turns to the partially human mechanic, saying, "I will attend to Jessalyn Valios, ship captain Orson." He does not keep his attention on the man even long enough to listen to a response as he turns back to Jessalyn. He did not sense Jessa as he once had, but he could see clearly that she was distraught.

"Do not be upset for me," he says slowly, while taking a hesitant step in her direction. With the step, the True Source brushes his senses lightly, and he pauses, tilting his head in that listening posture again.

"Can you feel it, too?" he asks. "This must be what it is like to be reborn. It's happening slowly, in parts."

Rising, Jessa takes a few steps toward Simon, and stops as the curtain lowers over her senses again, making her cringe painfully. "I don't know how anyone can stand it," she says bluntly. The sudden lack of senses was painful and disorienting, and being unable to explain it only makes her fret even more. But at least one clue has been brought to her attention: she is not the only one being affected.

"I can't feel you," she says in a pitifully small voice. "I can't feel anything. I don't understand."

She could feel it. And, typical of what he'd learned of the Jedi since leaving Telgosse, she seemed to have the situation backwards. Their souls were becoming sealed to them as a normal's soul was sealed. They were becoming free of a burden that no mortal man or woman should ever have to endure. Simon had never heard of this sort of thing happening to anyone, and now it was happening to he and Jessalyn at the same time.

Bitter words come to his mind that he could say, chastising the Jessalyn and her backwards, Jedi ways. Yet, she stood before him, a woman clearly saddened. Whether it was wrong or not to miss the power their curse granted them, Jessalyn must feel blind rather than free.

Slowly, in as non-threateningly as he can, Simon raises his right hand to caress Jessalyn's cheek, then lightly touch her hair. "Can you feel me now?" he asks, softly.

"Yes, but..." Jessalyn just blinks up at Simon, somehow comforted by the physical touch making up for the loss of the mental. Without even thinking about it, her cheek turns into the caress and her eyes slowly close as tears leak from them. "But... luminous beings are we."

"Not just flesh," Simon says, in agreement, smiling and trying to sound as reassuring as he can. In truth, he was more than a little relieved that Jessa hadn't recoiled from him. He lets his hand remain, his fingers sensitive to the soft skin of her cheek despite the thick callouses on his fingers and palm from working with the staff for so long. He says, "We are still children of the True Source of Life, Jessa. We are not less... we are more. We are as men and women are born to be."

"I wish there was a way we could appreciate the perspective of the other," she says slowly, her eyes still closed. "Really, there must be more similarities than differences between our ways." Her head shakes from side to side as she looks up at him once again, eyes shaded like a forest needing sunlight. "Can you respect me for what I am, Simon?"

Simon is caught off-guard by the question, lost in Jessa's eyes. A man could be disarmed by those eyes, his will sapped such that he could forbid her nothing. His mouth drops open to speak, and no words are uttered immediately. Even in the moments of his most intense lust for Jessalyn, her beauty escaped his perceptions, overshadowed by his desire. Now, it was as if the Force-blindness had opened his eyes for the first time, and he is captivated by what he sees.

"Yes," he finally says, swallowing. More strongly, he continues, "I respect you more with each moment we share. You are more than a Jedi, to me. You are..." a thief that has caught my heart, the best thing that has ever happened to me, "... Jessalyn Valios."

"And yet," Jessa whispers, the hint of sadness back in her voice, perhaps heeding enough feminine intuition to sense the chink in the Selas' armor, "you would never allow me to touch the real you, your soul." It is not an accusing tone, just a regretful one, as if this loss weighed heavily upon her heart. She touches the back of his hand with her fingertips, intending to draw his touch away, since the physical intensity is almost too much. It's like a heady drug that sways her emotions into directions she would never normally go.

A sigh escapes Simon's lips, and he is uncertain if it is caused by Jessa's words or her fingers drawing his away. He doesn't let her completely escape him as he takes her hand in both of his. He says, slowly, "I do not know." His tone is regretful as well, but not for the lost opportunity. "There has never been a marriage between Selas that I know of. What you talk of... touching another's soul and mind... could you love someone enough to trust them to hold your spirit in their hands? Could you give yourself to someone so completely?"

Merely nodding her head, a small, curious smile curves across Jessalyn's lips. "Oh, yes, I could. I would have done it in a heartbeat," she murmurs, her eyes growing distant as her fingers curl against Simon's palm. "I know you don't understand. I'm so sorry for that." Re-focusing, her gaze returns to his, searching with her vision for what she can no longer sense through the Force.

His initial reaction is reflexive, a quick intake of breath and a tightening of his fingers around her hand. His eyes widen as well, until he closes them and shakes his head. "In a heartbeat," he repeats, his voice almost a whisper. "If I could think that it was not a blaspheme against the True Source... if you could make me understand and see from where you stand... I could still not be so close to someone so quickly. I would not share my bed with just any woman. Even more so, I would only share my soul with... my soulmate." With the utterance of the last word, he opens his eyes again to look back into Jessa's. The memory of the dream he'd had of the staff and the rose still lingered in his mind, and he doubted it could mean anything less than a union between Simon and Jessa.

Chuckling softly, Jessalyn averts her eyes, suddenly shy beneath his intense, lingering gaze. "Don't misunderstand me. I mean only that I could have done it in a heartbeat with the right person, if they had desired it as well. It's not something one rushes into with every stranger." She carefully avoids naming anyone whom she must have felt this kind of yearning for. At the moment, at least, it seems hardly relevant. Still, a shiver goes up her spine, and her brow furrows with confusion as she finally allows herself to return his gaze once more.

An uncomfortable silence begins to stretch out between the two, a reflection of their differences and the difficulty in overcoming them. Jessalyn had spoken of similarities before, and Simon focuses on this to try and find words that could draw them closer rather than push them apart.

"Honor," he says, suddenly, and blinks. "We are honorable people, you and I. If we are alike in any way, it would be in our honor, Jessa."

Approving of this game, Jessalyn's smile widens and she raises her chin thoughtfully. "And stubborness," she adds with a chuckle. "I'd say we're both pretty passionately stubborn." Despite her light manner, his words ring true in her heart. The superficialities may seem steep, but the inner core is not far from similar.

"Painfully stubborn," Simon agrees, an amused smile spreading across his lips. "And brave or foolish, in equal degrees. When you stood your ground against the Emperor..." He trails off, and his smile fades with his words. He had almost lost her to Valak, and speaking of Jessalyn's bravery reminded him of this. Letting her hand go, Simon turns and takes a pair of steps away from Jessalyn, leaving his back turned to her.

Her hands drop to her sides as Jessa watches him turn away. Her cheeks hollow slightly as she inhales a soft gasp. The space between them is empty, no binding Force to give her some glimpse of his thoughts or emotions, or even if he would rather she stay or leave him be. She fills this vaccuum with her hand, reaching out as she speaks aloud the questions that the Force cannot answer for her. "Simon, what is it?"

"I almost lost you," he says, turning his head slightly so he's speaking over his shoulder. He doesn't quite look at her; there is fear and pain in his eyes which he hasn't dealt with yet. He says, "He was so much stronger than me. Than us. I would have died to keep you safe, and it would not have been enough."

"But there is only one of him, and there are many who will oppose him," Jessalyn asserts with questionable confidence. But in her mind, the Jedi Order is an entity which will only grow stronger over time. "Don't dwell on what's past. Be grateful for the present." She smiles slightly, taking a tentative step so that she can see his face. "The Emperor can't stop us. You'll see."

Simon steels himself, then turns to face Jessalyn. His eyes are intense beneath a furrowed brow as he looks at her. His muscles are tensed, and it takes him a moment to speak. "It is the present that I am thinking of, Jessa. I almost lost you, and now I can't stand the thought of losing you. It is not the past that I can not turn my eyes from, but the future. I..." he trails off again. Drew would not approve of his directness, but he couldn't see any other way to speak, now. "I do not want to lose you, Jessa."

Not knowing what to say, Jessalyn reaches to pat his arm in a consoling way. The silence is awkward for her this time, and crimson begins to creep its way along her fair cheekbones as she looks down. "Hush, hush... The future belongs to the future. But the present deserves our focus." She's truly at a loss, unsure how to measure the meaning of his words, or how to respond to the emotions behind them. Gazing up from beneath her lashes at his intense features, she tries to smile.

"Yes, the present," Simon repeats, forcing a smile on his own lips and relaxing his shoulders. "We have been given a gift in this present that I have never known to happen. We can see as others see, and feel as others feel." He raises his right hand to touch Jessalyn's cheek as he'd done before, but stops short. He says as he lets his hand drop again. He wanted to touch her, but for a moment, he remembered what he'd said about the True Source to Jessa once before. In a way, this moment was perfect like the True Source was perfect, and he did not want to spoil it with a clumsy hand. He says, broadening his smile, "The present is ours, Jessa."