"The Healing of Mithril"

Log Date:
	2/2/98, 2/3

Log Cast:
	Mithril, Lerren (NPC), Rellawy Woodlake, H'rraal (NPC), H'rruuk (NPC)

Log Intro:
	[NOTE: This is back-dated roleplay, assumed to fit into Rell's timeline
between where she first met Han Solo and where she first met Thomas Drake. This
is to accommodate the arrival of Mithril on Galaxy, which OOC occurred much
later than the earliest Rell logs. I've tweaked log intros in the sequence of
files to make it fit into the ongoing Rell storyline a little better.]
	Lerren cornered her for a private word when Rellawy showed up for
work the next evening, his homely face set in lines of concern, his dark
eyes grave and earnest. Dragging her off into the Burning Deck's tiny
kitchen, her employer wasted no time in preamble, but pronounced immediately,
"Rell, I need to know what the business with that digworm who showed up here
looking for you yesterday was."
	Guilt seized her, and she could not meet Lerren's eyes as she murmured,
trying for an evasive tone, "I dinnae know who he was." It was a lie; Rell
knew his name, and more importantly, she knew what he was like. She couldn't
help that -- she'd known it from the moment she healed him.
	"Well, he clearly knew who _you_ were." The Corellian who'd been her
father's best friend didn't budge, as he folded his substanial arms across
his equally substantial chest. "And thought you worth hustling out of the
bar last night. That wasn't just a spacer looking for a way towards your
cute little Khilanni backside, kid--" Rell blushed crimson, but Lerren went
on unflaggingly, "Solo seemed to think the guy wants money and thinks you
can get it for him."
	Rell studied the cracked floor beneath her feet, and muttered, "You
and I're both knowin' I've no money save what ye pay me, Lerren."
	"Yeah. So what put the idea into the digworm's head?"
	She swallowed hard, torn. Had her father ever told Lerren about her?
Rell didn't know whether the Corellian had the slightest idea of why Jord
Woodlake had been so protective of his daughter, using every smuggler trick
at his disposal to hide her existence from his colleagues. Lerren was one of
the few people her father had trusted to know about her -- fortunately enough,
for it had given her a place to turn when the accident on the _Mystery Lady_
had left her without her sire.
	But just because Lerren knew about her didn't mean he knew what she
could do. Rell had never told him, and she wasn't yet sure she could take the
chance of telling him, even if the man _had_ taken her in after her father's
death.
	With a sigh, she settled on the excuse she'd given Solo. "Earth,
sea and sky, Lerren... the man's daft, for all I know. Why does anyone do 
anything on this moon? I guess I just rubbed him the wrong way, or somethin'..."
She didn't meet Lerren's stern gaze as she spoke, but she didn't need to
look at him to feel his disapproval at her dodging of his question. Or, for
that matter, his concern about her welfare. _He -is- worried for me,_ she
realized, and that prompted her to look at him at last, to conclude plaintively,
"I screwed up... I'll be more careful."
	Lerren's expression eased away from paternal anxiety, at least somewhat.
"Do that, kid. Promised Jord we'd look after you if anything happened, you
know? Don't want to break a promise to your dad." 
	He nudged Rell back off to work then, with a gruff sort of tone that
told her the matter hadn't left his mind, but that he trusted her -- at least
for now -- to handle it. But now that one person had discovered her secret,
she couldn't help but wonder whether more would follow... and whether she'd
be bringing Lerren more trouble than he'd bargained for when he took her in....

----------
Mithril steps in the door, glancing around at the crowded bar. He holds his 
  left hand awkwardly, and seems distracted. After that pause to check the 
  room, he moves to the bar, ordering a drink. 
Mithril winces as a couple people accidentally bump the hand, then he takes his 
  drink, and heads for a nearby table, dropping into the chair with what looks 
  very much like relief. 

The Burning Deck, like many establishments on the Smugglers' Moon, is fairly 
  full of sentients of all kinds and sizes, at all hours of what passes for 
  the day of Nar Shaddaa. The dour-featured bartender offers no more than a 
  grunt of acknowledgement to the latest patron to enter the bar, but Lerren 
  does, nevertheless, deftly pour up his drink. And the man turns off to 
  handle other customers, as the one with his drink leaves the bar. 

The tables, however, are the province of a honey-haired young female in drab, 
  worn clothing, and shortly after the new customer sinks down into his chair, 
  the Deck's young waitress approaches him. "Will ye be wantin' any food, 
  then?" she asks, blue-green gaze flicking impassively across the newcomer. 

Mithril looks up. "No. Not really hungry." He blinks a couple times at the 
  waitress, still looking distracted. 

Mithril
Mithril is shorter than average, coming in at about five foot six or so. 
  However, he makes up for it with speed. Fast reflexes is what he has. But 
  judging from the number of scars on his arms and hands, he took a while to 
  get them. His shock of dark brown hair is cropped short, apparently without 
  the use of a mirror, and his face is always just a touch wary. 

"All right, then," is the waitress's gruff reply; she seems almost as dour as 
  the stocky older man who's overseeing the bar. As someone down the way calls 
  out to her, the girl turns her tousled head, taking a slight step back from 
  the table. But an odd tension begins to cross her features, tauten her 
  features, and she abruptly blurts out, "Look ye... there's... a look of 
  pain, or summat, about ye, are ye needin' aught? Painkiller, maybe? We've a 
  stash o' such things, in the back..." 

"Ah, Rell, lass, ain't you wantin' to come take _MY_ order?" the voice who'd 
  called out for her before sings out. 

"Be holdin' your horses!" the waitress snaps out, before flicking a tense 
  blue-green gaze at the man at the table. "Are ye alright?" she demands, 
  roughly. 

"All right, then," is the waitress's gruff reply; she seems almost as dour as 
  the stocky older man who's overseeing the bar. As someone down the way calls 
  out to her, the girl turns her tousled head, taking a slight step back from 
  the table. But an odd tension begins to cross her features, tautening them, 
  
  and she abruptly blurts out, "Look ye... there's... a look o' pain, or summat, 
  about ye, are ye needin' aught? Painkiller, maybe? We've a stash o' such 
  things, in the back--"

"Ah, Rell, lass, you could come put _me_ out of _my_ misery," calls out the 
  voice who'd called to her before, a rough spacer huddled with his cronies in 
  one of the other booths in the bar. "Dyin' o' thirst, darlin'!"

"I said, be holdin' your horses!" the girl snaps out, still staring at the man 
  at the table. Her look's a strange one, part worry... part, perhaps, fear.

Mithril narrows his eyes, eyeing the waitress. "I'm fine." he almost snaps. 
  "Just a burn is all. I've had worse." He takes a gulp of the drink, not even 
  coughing on the potent liquid.

The girl with the honey-colored hair seems unrelieved by the brush-off; if 
  anything, she seems to grow slightly tenser, her face draining ever so 
  slightly of its color. "A... as ye wish it, then," she mutters, voice dropping 
  down to a husky register. It's with a strangely distracted air that she turns 
  away, then, absently adding, "Be callin' me, if you want the stew for tonight, 
  or the bread..."

Mithril frowns at his glass for a second, then looks back up. "What you want to 
  know for?" he asks, just loudly enough for her to hear him.

Despite the din of the patrons in the joint, the girl must indeed have heard the 
  murmur in her direction, for she tenses. She doesn't quite look back over her 
  shoulder as she mutters back roughly, "Nar Shaddaa is not a place where it's 
  too safe to be in pain...." Her voice still sounds distracted, and with that, 
  she moves off, looking oddly unsettled. The spacer who'd hollered for her 
  before waves her down, and, moving with apparently only half her attention, 
  the young waitress finally acknowledges him and fetches a tray of ales for him 
  and his table.

Mithril frowns after the woman, then shakes his head, and downs the last of the 
  glass before him. He looks around the bar again, not looking for anything in 
  particular, just double-checking the crowd. Then his face pales, and he seems 
  to lose his concentration. As quickly, he gets himself back under control, 
  muttering a curse under his breath.
The pain flares to a new peak, then subsides again.

And the waitress slows once, in her trek with the ales to the spacers' tables. 
  She swallows hard, her brows knitting together over crinkled eyes, before 
  continuing on her task. Once at the booth, she's greeted with both cheers and 
  leers, and the man who'd hollered to her before leers most extravagantly out 
  of the lot of them. He's a rough-looking one, unshaven and unkempt, and it's 
  obvious he's interested in rather more than the alcohol the girl is bringing 
  him. "Give us a kiss, then, darlin," he invites, reaching out grimy hands for 
  the girl's slender backside.

The waitress starts, seeming to rouse a little out of her odd distraction, and 
  batting at those grabbing hands. "We don't _give_ that kind of sairvice, 
  here," she barks out. Her batting is ineffectual, but neither the bartender 
  nor the two big bouncers stationed in the place have noticed yet that one of 
  the patrons is getting grabby.

Mithril looks over in the direction the waitress went, and blinks. He turns to 
  get a better look, eyeing the group in the booth.

The spacer's companions are evidently mightily entertained. They start cheering 
  their friend on, as he gets a good solid grip on the waitress, despite her 
  increasingly alarmed squirming. "Be lettin' me go, right _now_," she warns, 
  "unless ye're _wantin'_ H'rraal to be rippin' your arms off!" She hasn't 
  raised her voice yet -- but her face and eyes mean business.

Mithril doesn't move, but keeps watching, his right hand resting on his leg, 
  where it just happens to be near his holdout blaster.

"Can he get here before I'm gettin' my kiss?" the spacer leers. The waitress 
  opens her mouth -- clearly preparing to bellow out a summons for the nearer of 
  the two big ursoid bouncers -- but the spacer is faster, tugging her to him 
  and planting a sloppy kiss across her lips. The girl starts struggling with a 
  vengeance, and heads start turning in her direction as the spacer's buddies 
  cheer him on.

Mithril decides that's enough. He turns, spotting H'rraal, and trying to catch 
  his attention without calling too much to himself.

The bouncer's already lumbering over, and as he draws within earshot, the big 
  creature can be heard to be rumbling in distinct displeasure. But as he passes 
  Mithril's table, the waitress abruptly flings out a hand and socks the spacer 
  with surprising accuracy in his gut, making him start to release his hold... 
  and by the time H'rraal shows up, baring his fangs, the spacer's companions 
  begin rapidly quieting down. This doesn't stop the ursoid, though. He reaches 
  to tug the waitress out of the spacer's grasp, and once Rell is free, H'rraal 
  grabs the spacer in two sizeable paws, hoists him up and out of his seat, and 
  growls, loudly, in his face when the man starts babbling incoherent protests. 
  The bouncer promptly spins around and growls out something to the girl.

"I'm... I'm okay, H'rraal," she mutters, already moving off.

This is enough for the bouncer, who gives his captive another menacing growl for 
  good measure, and then lumbers off to the door to toss the refuse into the 
  street, leaving his companions _much_ more subdued in his wake.

Mithril looks relieved, but grimaces as the pain in his hand flares again. 
  "Scorchit!" he mutters.

And the waitress, making her now shaken way past the dark-haired customer's 
  table, stumbles. She's white-faced now.

Mithril glances up. "You said something about painkillers?"

Blue-green eyes lift, and focus on the wounded man, oddly stricken. "Aye," she 
  breathes hoarsely.

Mithril grimaces. "I'll take some. This isn't fading."

"Aye," is all the girl says, again. She whirls to stumble off again, seeming to 
  barely notice the patrons she has to pass as she heads to the back of the bar. 
  Vanishing through a weathered door, she then emerges a few moments after, 
  something in her slender hand. As she comes back to the wounded man's table, 
  she holds out that hand, her fingers uncurling around a pair of tablets of 
  some kind, and she rasps huskily, "Here, then..." But her eyes, oddly fearful, 
  are fixed on the man at the table.

Mithril glances at the tablets, and then takes them swallowing dry. He eyes her 
  again. "Something's wrong." he states.

"I'm... I'm...." That's a very palpable fear in the waitress's eyes, and that's 
  all the answer she gives as her hand quite abruptly shoots forward, clamping 
  down on the wounded man's shoulder... the one that goes with the burned hand. 
  Her eyes go blank...
... and _something_ seems to shift. An electric sensation flares up in that 
  shoulder, tracking down the arm, to the hand, as if every nerve in the limb is 
  firing off at once... and broadcasting the sensation right into the girl's 
  palm. Blank though her eyes are, her gaze stays focused on the man, bizarrely 
  searchingly, bizarrely knowingly, as if she's aware of exactly what she's 
  doing, who she's doing it to, the pain flaring in his hand, and perhaps even 
  the emotions firing off in his head...

Mithril freezes, his eyes startled by the sensations. Rellawy probably picks up
  on the fact that he's Corellian, a smuggler, and that his ship Silver Fire is
  in pretty poor shape.

The electric fire in that seized limb washes from the girl's palm back down to 
  the burned hand, now -- and the damaged flesh begins to... ripple, to flare up 
  in wild sparks of pain and relief and pain again, almost as if the hand had 
  been thrust into a forcefield of some kind. But within seconds, it's passed. 
  The unseen but unmistabkle flood of sensation seems to surge back up into the 
  girl's gripping palm, and a beat later, she's broken her grip, stumbling 
  blindly backwards from the table.

Mithril stares at the hand, speechless. Then he looks back up at Rellawy, wonder 
  in his eyes. "You...?"

She doesn't seem to notice. The girl is staggering away now, fleeing, headed 
  straight for the bar and the man who's working it.

Mithril doesn't move for a minute, staring at his hand again. He flexes it 
  experimentally, then looks back up. He stands, and follows her to the bar.

"Ler... Lerren, I-I-I need air, I'll be takin' my break now," the girl gasps out 
  towards the bartender, as the man lifts a concerned dark gaze to her. She 
  doesn't stay long enough to see whether Lerren, or, for that matter, H'rruuk 
  -- the other ursoid, at the door -- acknowledges her babbled statement. In 
  moments, she's out the door.

Mithril drops a credit on the counter in front of Lerren. "For the drink, and a 
  tip for the waitress." It's a quite respectable tip. Then he turns, and heads 
  out, still absently flexing the hand. When he gets outside the door, he 
  glances around, wanting to thank Rellawy better than he did in the bar.

The girl's in sight, running desperately through the street that winds through 
  this part of the Corellian Sector. And she casts a panicked glance over her 
  shoulder the moment the Corellian emerges from the bar -- as if she sensed his 
  emergence.

Mithril shakes his head. "She's scared..." he mutters to himself. "Scorch." He 
  follows, moving in a relaxed easy gate that only a Corellian can manage 
  easily.

Nor does she seem to be used to fast fleeing, especially in the foul air of the 
  Smugglers' Moon. A flicker of honey-gold hair signals her attempt to lose her 
  pursuer by darting into an alleyway, her steps unsteady in their haste.

Mithril sighs, and reaches the mouth of the alley, stopping. "Listen, I just 
  want to thank you..." He calls out.

And the girl is there, pressed against the grimy wall beside her, her already 
  pale face going whiter as she realizes she's been overtaken.

Mithril moves a little closer, but stops about ten feet away. "I wanted to thank 
  you for..." he holds up his left hand. "I..don't understand how you did it, 
  but thanks."

Does she comprehend? Perhaps she does, for she fixes another of those strangely 
  searching stares on the man who's pursued her, and she finally barks out, 
  "Then... ye're welcome, and be leavin' it at that!"

Mithril nods. "I didn't intend any harm... But I thank those who help me. If you 
  ever need any help, send a message to Mithril, of the Silver Fire. Corellians 
  pay their debts."

_Corellian? -Another- Corellian...?_ The girl stares hard at Mithril, then, and 
  nods, a tense, sharp little nod. She still doesn't move.

Mithril waits for a minute longer, then turns, heading back for the nearest 
  turbolift.

Rellawy watches the Corellian go -- and even when he's out of sight, she remains 
  where she is, a time longer, before she's relaxed enough to emerge from hiding 
  herself. It's with a stricken gaze that she makes her way back to the Burning 
  Deck -- and more than one glance over her shoulder.

[End log.]