"Enter Thomas Drake, Stage Right"

Log Date:
	8/16/97, 8/17/97

Log Cast:
	Thomas Drake, Rellawy Woodlake, Lerren (NPC), Unnamed NPC

Log Intro:
	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.... 

----------
Burning Deck - Lvl 800 - Corellian Sector [Nar Shaddaa]
    The warm, chaotic light of live flame brightens the center of the 
  establishment, casting moving shadows about the room. A raised firepit 
  occupies the center of the room, kept alive by gases and some of the cheaper 
  drinks; the smoke is whisked into a chiminy tube above. Table, long, round 
  and square, dot the spacious room, and the occasional ragged band plays 
  not-so-stellar music. The occasional relic is displayed on the walls; an 
  assassin droid's head unit, a blaster with most of the barrel slagged off, 
  and a scrap of blaster Mandaloran armor are some of the displays. The 
  atmosphere, unlike some places on Nar Shaddaa, is relaxed, even in the face 
  of the prevailent sense of danger and adventure.
    A pair of blaster beaten swinging double doors leads out to the level 
  floor to the east.

Drake comes through the double swinging doors and enters the bar from the 
  floor outside.
Drake has arrived.
Drake's arrival is eclipsed with the sweep of his cloak, which follows him in 
  as if it were another figure, hovering behind Drake. Drake himself looks 
  entirely casual, preoccupied with nothing and inviting himself to sit down 
  at a small table by the firepit.
Drake looks at you for a moment.

Business in this place appears to be relatively laid-back, tonight. The 
  bartender, a big burly human, casually builds and distributes drinks from 
  his post at the bar; at assorted tables, patrons of assorted shapes, sizes, 
  hues, and species indulge in their beverages, their conversation, or their 
  games. A band is playing tonight: three young Corellians, a Rodian, and a 
  Bothan putting out something with a thumping, rhythmic beat. And working her 
  way through the place, sweeping up empty glasses when she's waved at and 
  wiping down unoccupied tables when she can, is a young woman with a strained 
  sort of expression on her face.

"Hey," Drake sights the woman and hollers at her promptly, "I'd like a glass 
  of Corellian Ale and anything you have in the oven that hasn't been dead 
  longer than six months."

Blue-green eyes flick round to the summons; as she turns her head, the young 
  female's braids swing slightly, and the feathers dangling off one of them 
  trail in their wake before settling again. "Right with ye," she returns, not 
  breaking stride on her way to the bar. "Lerren! Corellian ale!"

The bartender responds immediately, sliding the drink he's just completed off 
  to its intended recipient, before turning round to pour out the ale for the 
  girl. Fetching it, she returns to the man's table and presents the drink, 
  along with, "It's bread and soup we've got for eatin' tonight. Nothin' 
  fancy. Two sizes o' bowls, how big will ye be wantin'?"

Drake
        A tall, scruffy fellow, Thomas Drake has a build and face that scream 
  'Look at me!' -- despite his best efforts. Just under six feet tall, Drake 
  is well muscled and heavily tanned, his hair sun-bleached a sandy blond 
  color. It is presently washed and combed -- take pictures, quickly -- with a 
  couple rogue tendrils spilling over his brow. His eyes are not green. In 
  fact, they're some of the most standard-issue blue eyes in the galaxy, and 
  they're Drake's, though he has eyelashes that surely must have belonged to a 
  woman at some point. Although Drake wuld like to think his appearance could 
  be described as 'dashing,' it is really much more appropriately labeled as 
  'only a little dirty,' which it is, but only a little.
        The galaxy finds Drake wearing a dark blue vest over a black tunic, 
  which is tucked into a pair of tight spacer's pants--lots of pockets, and 
  toughe nough to protect the more important bits of the anatomy if and when 
  the wearer inevitably sits on the sharp part of a YT-1300's Heisenburg 
  Condenser. A thick, black cloak is laced around his neck, making him 
  marginally more presentable under the 'the cloak is nice and everything else 
  you can't see' principle. A utility belt is belted around his waist, and a 
  blaster pistol is tucked neatly into a holster that hangs off of it; 
  opposite the blaster lies a less obvious object, whose only apparent feature 
  through the cloak is a glint of metal and an odd marking here and there.

Rellawy(#242Pc)
This is a young human woman, about 5'4" in height, with a stocky, compact 
  build. Her hair is a sun-streaked mass of honey-gold, framing a face with 
  generously defined features, and a faint smattering of freckles across her 
  nose and cheekbones. She is not exactly lovely, not with a slight crook to 
  that freckled nose and a jawline too broadly drawn to be delicate, but 
  neither is she truly plain; rather, there is something austere and elemental 
  about her, centered in the blue-green gaze of her slant-set, almond-shaped 
  eyes. When she speaks, it is with a soft lilting brogue.
Her clothing is old and faded in hue. There's a dusty blue shirt probably 
  originally intended for a man, its sleeves rolled up to her elbows, its 
  tails tucked into black work breeches that sport several pockets along their 
  legs, and which are in turn tucked into calf-high, travel-worn brown suede 
  boots. Most of her hair is caught back behind her neck in a thick, sloppy 
  ponytail bound down near its end with blue leather; the rest of it, though, 
  has been wound into a pair of braids before either of her ears, and into one 
  of these braids is wound another blue thong, sporting several tiny glass 
  beads and a pair of dark-streaked brown feathers.

"Small," Drake says politely, "How desperate a girl like you have to be to 
  work on a rock like this?" His tone suggests that he's asking because he 
  might even genuinely want to know--maybe.

"Small, then," the girl replies in her accented tones, turning to go. But the 
  rest of the comment stops her; her eyes narrow, and she adds caustically, 
  "That'd be none of your business, then." But there's a momentary twinge to 
  her already strained expression, as she stalks off again -- this time 
  towards the doorway into what passes for a kitchen in this establishment. 
  From there issues the smell of bread and soup; two minutes after she enters, 
  the girl emerges as well, carrying a small platter, on which rests a bowl 
  and a hunk of wastril bread.

"I wouldn't dream of intruding," Drake answers passively, "If you really want 
  to be here; I apologize. Is the soup any good?"

"The soup'll fill yer belly," replies the girl as she comes back into earshot, 
  setting it firmly down on the table, with only a slight _thud_. Then she 
  pins her customer with a level glare and appends, "I didnae say I wished to 
  be here, so dinnae go makin' assumptions. Enjoy yer meal." She turns to go 
  about her business.

Drake talks at her back, not raising his voice; maybe she could hear it, maybe 
  not, "Then where'd you rather be?"

The girl turns around -- evidently she had heard that soft question, even over 
  the general din of the bar. Her mouth twists grimly for a moment, in 
  something less than a smile. "That, too, would be none of your business." 
  With that, she stalks off again, her brows drawn together over her nose as 
  if she's either very angry, fighting off a headache, or both.

"Charmed," Drake mutters, taking a drink of his ale and starting in on his 
  soup, shaking his head as she does stalk off; perhaps not such an unfamiliar 
  sight.

The girl keeps that taut and strained expression as she scurries this way and 
  that about the bar, ferrying drinks and food to assorted patrons, and once 
  pausing to grab a small alien by the scruff of his neck and usher him 
  towards the door, informing him sternly, "You'll have had enough now. Get ye 
  gone and don't be drivin' any skimmers!" At the bar, the tender occasionally 
  glances at the girl, keeping a subtle but watchful eye on her.

Drake watches, entirely unashamed and certainly amused, tearing off a bit of 
  his bread. He glances occasionally at the door every time someone arrives, 
  always returning with either an approving or dissatisfied glance.

Eventually, the girl returns to the bar and slides tiredly onto a stool, 
  muttering at the tender, "Give me somethin' to steady me, then, Lerren..." 
  The man behind the bar gives the lass a sympathetic look and pours her out 
  something of a light gold color into a mug before turning off to handle 
  another customer. The girl remains where she sits, slumped a bit, sipping at 
  her drink.

Drake leaves what's left of his soup and bread and takes his ale, 
  striding--not walking--over to the bar. "I'd ask if the stool next to you is 
  taken," he says nonchalantly, "But somehow I don't think it's any of my 
  business, is it."

The girl looks up, frowning. "If it were reserved," she replies coolly, "we'da 
  marked it."

Drake sits it in then, but cautiously, putting his drink on the bar. "You have 
  any idea how hard it is to make any kind of impression around here? Everyone 
  thinks everyone else is as sleazy as they are."

"Usually the case on Nar Shaddaa, pal," puts in the bartender, dryly, as he 
  passes with a fresh bottle of ale in one of his meaty hands.

The girl smirks mildly, her gaze placed absently across the bar rather than at 
  the man who's sat down beside her. "What he said."

"So I've noticed," Drake smiles ruefully, draining his glass of ale. "But I 
  don't live here, nor have I ever met anyone who lived here because they 
  wanted to."

"That'd also be commonly the case on Nar Shaddaa," murmurs the young woman.

"...and they don't much care to talk to strangers," Drake regards the woman 
  levelly. "I apologize; but you tell me--maybe I'll work here someday. How's 
  it get better?"
Drake adds, "The tips are probably worse than the stench."

The girl's blue-green eyes swing round to her questioner, glinting with 
  disapproval, and hard. "Lerren is a fair man," she replies shortly, 
  evidently unconcerned with whether the bartender will overhear her. "He pays 
  me better than minimum, and that's better than most places. He doesnae allow 
  anyone to harm me on these premises and keeps his hands off, too, and that's 
  better than many. If you're havin' a point to this, I'm waitin' to hear it."

"Some people just strike me as being out of place," Drake admits, as if he 
  were speaking to a sister or someone he'd known for much more than five 
  minutes; "I know Nar Shaddaa--there's whores, debters, vagrants, smugglers. 
  It's been my experience that the few people around here trying to make an 
  honest living are probably better suited to do it somewhere with a little 
  more purpose than this."

The girl's worn features still warily composed, she answers, "And I suppose 
  ye'll be tellin' me that a nice dell like me doesnae belong in a dunghole 
  like this one, then?" Her dark gold eyebrows go up, expectantly.

"I don't know that you're nice," Drake pushes his empty glass across the bar, 
  turning around on his stool to lean against it--the bar--"Or that this place 
  is really much of a dunghole, compared to the rest of Nar Shaddaa. You tell 
  me. You think you belong here?"
Drake offers a seemingly nonchalant shrug: "If the extent of your abilities is 
  serving drinks, perhaps I was simply mistaken. It wouldn't be the first 
  time."

The first answer to her query seems to set well with her, at least 
  momentarily; the girl's frown lessens a fraction, as if in grudging 
  approval. But her expression freezes over at the further commentary, and she 
  rises, slugging down the rest of her own beverage before pinning her 
  questioner with a piercing stare. "Perhaps you would be, then. Forgive me if 
  I dinnae wish to linger playin' Five-and-Twenty Questions, but well, as ye 
  say -- I've drinks to serve."

"I'm not making you serve anything," Drake says mildly, still quite blase. 
  "It's really just intuition, I suppose; If I truly believed that was the 
  extent of your abilities, I wouldn't be here." Like he has any idea what 
  he's talking about.

Is that a flash of fright, or something like it, in the girl's blue-green 
  eyes? Whatever it is, it's gone in an instant, replaced by frost. "I'd not 
  be knowin' why you'd be here, man -- I'm merely a barmaid, after all. Excuse 
  me." She whirls, then, and stalks off, hollering to the bartender, "Lerren! 
  Give me the next round to take to Table Five!"

The man behind the bar, glancing narrowly at the blond fellow, nods tersely to 
  the girl and slides her a tray of five mugs of something steaming; taking 
  the tray up in her slender hands, the girl strides off.

Drake regards Rellawy carefully, curiously, as she stalks off; perhaps his 
  gaze narrows, or perhaps it's a trick of the light that makes his presence 
  stand out somehow, if only for a moment.

As the girl heads towards Table Five, where a group of four motley spacers are 
  headlong into a game of sabacc, it is suddenly as apparent that her 
  presence, too, seems ever so slightly sharper than that of everyone else in 
  the bar. She slows for a moment, frowning deeply, before steadying herself 
  and heading towards her target table.

Drake says aloud, apparentely to the bartender--though not really in his 
  direction--"I need to speak with you." His tone is quiet, and it doesn't 
  really seem like he's talking to anyone.
The sounds of the bar, and even of those in the immediate vicinity die down 
  for a fast-paced moment, replaced with Drake's voice as if it were right in 
  your ear: << I need to speak with you. >>

The drinks delivered to Table Five, the fair-haired girl whirls around, eyes 
  flying open, startled. Perhaps not surprisingly, her gaze shoots straight to 
  the man who had been questioning her, and she goes stark white.

Drake meets Rellawy's gaze evenly, and waves her over to the bar. He wants 
  service, damnit.

Her features tightening, giving her even more of a look of one who's suffering 
  from a massive migraine, the girl edges back towards the bar, almost as if 
  she were closing in on a rabid sand panther. Once she's back within easy 
  speaking distance, she jabs a slim thumb off at the man's abandoned meal, 
  and says tautly, "Ye'll be waitin' to finish that, before it gets cold."

"I'm not hungry," Drake replies soberly. "You and I need to have a chat. Very 
  soon. Your life may be in danger." It isn't. Drake's just saying that.

The girl stiffens, slightly straightening to her full height. "Ever'body's 
  life is in danger on Nar Shaddaa, one time or another," she bites out 
  softly. "I tell ye again -- if you're havin' a point, get ye to it."

Drake stands, drawing himself up to his full height as well; he brushes his 
  cloak back, planting his hands on his hips; his blaster is clearly visible, 
  as is his lightsaber. "You cannot begin to understand the danger you are in. 
  I ask that you humor me, just this once; you have my word that I will not 
  lay a hand on you, and no harm will come to you. But I must speak with you, 
  and it cannot be here."
Drake's speech is no longer that of a smuggler, or even an honest trader. He 
  certainly doesn't look very much like a Nar-Shaddaa-ian anymore--less so 
  than he did before.

The girl's eyes follow that movement of the cloak, and take in the weapons 
  revealed, before raising again to the man's face. Her features crinkle 
  briefly in on one another before she forces them to relax, and at last, she 
  casts a sidelong glance towards the bar. "Lerren! I'm steppin' out, for a 
  few minutes. If I'm not back in fifteen, send H'rruuk out to find me."

The big Corellian behind the bar comes over closer to the young woman, 
  frowning; clearly, something in this idea does not sit well with him, and he 
  eyes her sternly, asking pointedly, "Everything okay?"

The young woman eyes the stranger, then the bartender. "This time I think 
  it'll be okay," she answers cryptically. "I'll be back in fifteen." Then, to 
  the stranger: "Out with ye. Come."

You push open the double doors and leave the bar.
Level 800 - Corellian Sector [Nar Shaddaa](#281RFL)
    The circular area is busy, though not harried, as various beings hurry 
  through on their way to the business parts of this tower. Clear paths of 
  traffic are defined by more stationary groups of beings, and the current 
  streams through, eddies into pools of conversation, only to go whooshing 
  along into the linktube, or any number of entries along the borders of the 
  floor. It is a comfortable mix of lawlessness and residential living.
    The Corellian home-away-from-home bar, the Burning Deck, is to the west, 
  and a linktube leads off the tower to the northwest. There is a turbolift 
  here. (OOC: Type '+level list').
 
Obvious exits:
Burning Deck  Linktube 102  

Drake comes out of the Burning Deck bar.
Drake has arrived.

Once outside the bar, the girl's gaze sweeps her surroundings; for all that 
  she is apparently unarmed, she is clearly well versed with how to go about 
  the walkways and streets of the Smuggler's Moon. Nor does she stray very far 
  from the Deck's front door, as she turns to the stranger who's accompanied 
  her. "So then. What is it ye wish to be sayin'?"

Drake follows Rellawy out, his cloak again covering his utility belt. 
  "First--my name is Drake. Thomas Drake, and I would like you to tell me what 
  you know of the Jedi."
 
"Not a damn thing," replies the girl, shortly, her brow furrowed.

Drake glances between the entryway to the Burning deck and Rellawy, looking 
  thoughtful. "Very well, then, I'll get right to the point." He draws his 
  blaster slowly, holding it with the barrel facing him, towards Rellawy. 
  "Shoot me." He steps back and raises one hand slightly. "Don't ask 
  questions, just do it."

_That_ makes the girl's features flood with horror, and she jerks back from 
  Drake, yelping, "I shall _not_!"

"Please," Drake's features harden, "You can't understand until you do, and I 
  don't have time for the long explanation in fifteen minutes. If you kill me, 
  then I wasn't worth talking to anyway and you'll be putting me out of my 
  misery. Just ... trust me. Please."

"Then what ye have to tell me will have to go unsaid!" the girl growls. "I 
  raise a hand against _none_, and I dinnae care if you're lookin' to get 
  yourself blasted. Find yourself another mark." She whirls, aiming towards 
  the door of the bar.

Drake frowns; that wasn't how it was supposed to go. "You aren't in the 
  slightest curious," he calls after her, "About who I am? Of what I can tell 
  you that you are? /Listen/ to me--"

The girl turns round, disbelief more than plain in her expression and her eyes 
  -- and beneath that, a flash of more than just horror at the notion of 
  shooting the stranger before her; rather, it is an unshakeable refusal to do 
  anything of the sort. And with it, just for an instant, is a flicker of 
  fright. "Then find a way to say it without askin' me to place hands upon 
  your weapons."

"Weapons?" Drake catches on the word, holstering his blaster and hefting his 
  'saber. "You recognize this as a weapon? Seen one before?"
...If one won't work, try the other...

The girl's frowning gaze lands on the cylinder. After a moment, she hesitantly 
  answers, "I dinnae know what that is, no."

Drake dutifully attaches the lightsaber to his belt once more. "Okay--listen. 
  This won't make sense to you. You have some--I can't say how much--but some 
  ability that I need time to explain to you. Others with the same ability can 
  pick up on yours, and there's a man on Nar Shaddaa right now who could--and 
  believe me, you don't want to meet him. I know how this sounds, but you need 
  to get off this station."

The fair-haired girl's face does not exactly relax from its subtly strained 
  look. If anything, it goes... still, as though perhaps a cold shiver had 
  just raced through her nerves. "And ye'll be tellin' me this why?" she asks.

"Because you are one of a small handful of people left in the galaxy," Drake's 
  tone is pleading, almost subserviant, "You are--or could be--one of the last 
  Jedi."

"There's a lot of things I could be, but which I am not," the girl answers 
  back, her tone growing terser. "Aye, I walk in danger, and aye, I ought to 
  be off this station, but that's to be said of every sentient who breathes 
  this wretched air! As to the rest -- you're daft. And your fifteen minutes 
  is up."

Drake's expression grows more desperate. "Please try to understand," he drags 
  a hand through his hair, "You have to have known somehow--you've been able 
  to do things, had a talent for things that nobody else had, you've somehow 
  felt different. I *know* that you have, because I am not wrong. The Force is 
  within you, you alone and maybe four or five people in the galaxy. Come with 
  me, and you -can- leave this place, and you can do more than serve drinks -- 
  more, I supsect, that you ever thought you could. Give me the chance, 
  whoever you are, because I know that, somewhere, you know I'm right."
"If I were really just trying to get you to come with me for some ill 
  purpose," Drake adds ruefully, "I could come up with a more believable story 
  than that. You have to believe that this /is/ the truth."

That the girl is frightened is unmistakable, now. Her slender frame has gone 
  practically rigid, and although she's half-turned to head back into the bar, 
  she hasn't left yet. But what she finally says is a low, hoarse, "If there 
  is danger to be faced, best that I be facin' it alone. Thank you for your 
  concern, but I shall have to tell ye nay."
And with that, the lass spins round upon her booted heel, tossing forth a hand 
  before her to press through the swinging doors and re-enter the Burning Deck.

"I can't say that I blame you," Drake says quietly, "But I'm afraid that's not 
  a decision you're prepared to make. There's another one on Nar Shaddaa--and 
  he'll find you. He won't ask you to come with him, he'll just take you. You 
  aren't prepared to face him alone. I won't force you to come with me--if you 
  want to stay here--/hold/." Drake's hand snakes out, and the doors to the 
  Burning Deck shut, and stay shut.
"If you are to say no to me," Drake calls sharply, "You're going to do it with 
  the full realization of exactly what it is you are saying no to, and the 
  consequences of that decision."
Drake is now concentrating, both on Rellawy and on the doors he 
  strives to hold closed from a distance; his face is a mixture of frustration 
  and anguish, at his own inability to communicate the levity of the 
  situation; were Rellawy some kind of evil Drake could strike down, or a goon 
  to be thwarted, he could handle it. But she isn't; she's a girl, a 
  drink-server, and she has confounded this Jedi.

As the bar doors apparently seal themselves before her, the girl freezes, then 
  whirls back around. Her features strained and whitened anew, she mutters, 
  "I'm listenin'."

Drake lowers his hand and takes a deep breath. "I am leaving in a day or two. 
  I will take you with me, and we can see exactly how this--ability--manifests 
  itself in you. It's different for all of us; well, the few of us that are 
  left. If it turns out that I'm wrong, or you want to come back, I'll take 
  you back, and pay you whatever you lose in wages for the bar. But as I 
  say--if you don't come with me, then there are others who will seek you out, 
  and their desire will not be in the form of a request."
"I know this sounds nuts," Drake tries to smile; it falls rather flat. "And 
  it's overwhelming at first. I need you to trust me."

Her own hands held in slender fists at both her sides, the girl stares hard at 
  this bizarre stranger. At last, she says, very lowly, very sharply, "Let me 
  save ye time and trouble, Thomas Drake, Jedi, or whatever ye be, since you 
  seem to know so much about me. I know already what I can do, and I dinnae 
  like it; it causes me naught but strife. And aye, I know, too, that there 
  are men who think I can make their fortunes for them! I have seen one such 
  already! Do you have aught to say to me that I dinnae know?"

"You don't know what you can do," Drake's voice falls a notch or two. "You 
  know what others have tried to put you up to, perhaps, but that is not why 
  you were given the ability that you have. /That/ is what I have to say to 
  you that you don't know; yes, about what you can do, but more 
  importantly--more important than anything--is /why/ you can, and when you 
  shouldn't."

Drake adds, "What you have comes from your parents. Consider that 
  they--hopefully--would not want you to ignore or waste what they have given 
  you."

Unexpectedly, the girl suddenly surges forward, thrusting a fingertip to point 
  accusingly at Drake's cloaked chest. Her already white face takes on a surge 
  of red across her cheeks, and her eyes brighten in what can only be fury. 
  "You know _nothing_," she hisses, "of me, what I can do, or my sire and dam!"

"I do not claim to." Drake replies carefully. "I know /what/ you are. Not who. 
  But that alone is enough to warrant my interest."
"But it /does/ come from your -- sire and dam." Drake's tone is unequivocal, 
  unquestionable. "The ability is hereditary."

"It came from my dam," the girl snaps out, eyes hot, angry... perhaps pained, 
  and definitely frightened. "And _you_ know _naught_ of what I can do, if you 
  think there's any such word as _shouldn't_ involved!" She leans closer 
  still, barely half an arm's length from the man who's called himself Jedi, 
  now. "Gods damn ye, I cannot turn it _off_!"

"No," Drake's look is sympathetic. "But you can control it, tame it. To allow 
  it to overwhelm you and frustrate you will destroy you. Perhaps I don't know 
  what you can do, perhaps I do; but I know that I can help you."

Drake doesn't move at all; startling Rellawy is not what even Drake would 
  consider wise, under the circumstances.

"And I suppose you'll be tellin' me now that all I need to do to gain that
  precious knowledge is come with ye," the girl says, voice ragged, hoarse.

"That is the best way," Drake clasps his hands behind his back. "I need to 
  work with you, and I cannot stay here for the same reason that you cannot; 
  the other on this station may simply wish to kill us both."

Blue-green eyes stare hard at the man; worn and strained features do not relax 
  their mask of tension. But the girl seems to come down from her burst of 
  anger, and she finally says gruffly, "My shift will be over in five hours. 
  If ye're this bent on talkin' to me, it can be then. Name your place for 
  meetin' -- I'll find it, and be there."

"Level 2170," Drake replies curtly. "Docking Bay, Starboard Side, look for a 
  YT-1300 with silver streaks. I'll be standing outside, the ship's called the 
  Rampart. She's mine."

"I shall be there. Now -- will ye be undoin' what ye've done to the doors, or 
  shall I be havin' to holler for Lerren?" The girl's eyebrows arch.

Drake grins wryly. "The doors are fine. I'll be there." He turns and heads for 
  the turbolift.
Drake selects a lift level and steps through the doors as they open.
Drake has left.

----------
Interlude:

	She hadn't been lying -- Rell had no idea what a Jedi was, past the
vague awareness that they had in fact once existed, had been involved somehow
in the Clone Wars, and that there weren't any more for some reason. She'd
asked her father about them once, and Jord Woodlake had dismissed the matter
with a gruff, "Bedtime tales, that's what Jedi be, Rell m' lass. Go get the
toolbox for yer Da, now."
	But as she crept cautiously through the warren of levels and linktubes
that made up Nar Shaddaa, most of her mind on trying to make herself look as
inconspicuous (and if not inconspicuous, then at least as harmless) as 
possible, the rest of it nagged at that memory of her father's words. He had
not elaborate on his claim, and that stood out in her memory -- her father
had refused to speak to her of nothing except her mother, and where her
mother came from. It made Rellawy wonder, now, whether Jord had been trying to 
hide something from her -- or whether her child's memory of words spoken so 
long ago was simply overworking her imagination.
	Even if it hadn't been imagination that put Thomas Drake's voice inside
her thoughts... or that had led the man to ask her for something so bizarre as
to stand there and shoot him.
	She didn't know what Thomas Drake was, save that he was not another
Galdric, or at least, so she hoped. Otherwise, the meeting she'd pledged to
make with him was going to be the last mistake she ever made....

----------
You select level 2170, Level 2170 - Docking Dome [Nar Shaddaa]. After swift 
  movement, the lift stops and the doors open for you to enter...
Level 2170 - Docking Dome [Nar Shaddaa]
    From the height of this large docking tower, it is impossible to see the 
  moon's surface, as covered as it is with metal and dirt. This domed platform 
  is lifted into the mid-atmosphere of Nar Shaddaa by a massive tower, mostly 
  circular. It is a broad expanse, protected by a yawning, cavernous dome, 
  only broken by tube extending further up and out to catch ships on their way 
  in. All manner of craft are guided through these tubes and into the dome's 
  belly, where marked landing area wait for them. The passengers of these 
  vessels hurry about on business, and from the looks of most of them, it's 
  dark business indeed. For this is Nar Shaddaa, the "smuggler's moon", so 
  high above filth that the fall, if you trip, is worth at least one standard 
  lifetime.
    Various warehouses open off the main floor, and the place is a maze of old 
  equipment, abandoned droids, and burning drums of unknown safety. There is a 
  turbolift here. (OOC: Type '+level list').
 
Contents:
Drake                    Millenium Falcon <9101>  Odessa's Dowry <9102>    
Pulsar Skate <9106>      Rampart <9107>           

Ignoring Drake's comment, except for the small smile of knowing that it 
  elicits, the young man extends a hand, "You've got an acid mouth, but I can 
  tell you've been around. What's your name?"

The lift wooshes open, and out from it, her blue-green eyes doing a slow sweep 
  of her surroundings, steps a young woman with fair hair caught up in a 
  ponytail behind her neck and a braid on either side of her face.

Drake is standing near the Rampart's entry ramp, glowering at a young man in 
  front of him. "I'll give you no such pleasure. I don't deal with lackeys."

"You see, Captain," the young man responds, his voice calm and filled with a 
  steely chill that had until that moment been absent, perhaps even 
  unbelievable coming from his mouth, "the problem is that you -don't- know 
  who you're dealing with, at all." The black clad man, crimson-violet 
  armbands flaring from his black flightsuited biceps, does not say this with 
  animosity -- it is more of a flat tone of detachment. And he makes no effort 
  to specify exactly who 'Who you're dealing with' really trefers to.

Drake draws himself up to his full height, trying to look as impassive as he 
  can; with a fluid movement, he pulls his lightsaber from his belt; an 
  audible snap-hiss and a low-toned buzz preceeds the appearance of a streak 
  of white light hanging in the air in front of the young man. Drake's voice 
  is low, dangerous: "Then perhaps you should enlighten me."

Rellawy is not within earshot, though she does catch sight of the fairhaired 
  man she seeks -- and the stranger before him. Something -- natural general 
  wariness, perhaps -- makes her seek out someplace to hide out of sight... 
  but she sees that lightsaber activated, and when she does, her face goes 
  pale.

At the first snap-hiss of the saber, and the instantaneous creation of the 
  white blade, the young man's eyes widen with the growing of the blade -- but 
  they soon return to what most might perceive as insane passivity, his face 
  apathetic and drawn into plain, creaseless lines. His demeanor is no longer 
  that of a casual spacer out to help Drake; it is now grave, utterly serious.

He lets the moment remain tense for a few moments, allowing the white light of 
  the lightsaber to cast a harsh glow over his young but zealous face -- and 
  then his lips fade into a smile, as if totally used to the presence of such 
  dangerous weapons, or trained not to be phased. "Come now, Captain. Why such 
  anger towards a lackey? Are you -so- loathe to hear friendly suggestions 
  from a 'fellow spacer'?"
The words are obviously meant in mocking defense of the young man's original 
  pretense. An alibi to the laws of common men, of sorts.

"There are very few things I am loathe to do," Drake hisses, "Stick around and 
  you might find out what, exactly, I will and won't do."

"Whatever it is you're planning, I wouldn't advise it." The young man still 
  shows no visible signs of tension, though the more perceptive of people 
  might realize that he hides his fear behind a mask, a mask formed from 
  brainwashed dedication, religious faith, and from intense discipline -- 
  something not usually found in one his young age. 

Abruptly, the dull buzzing of the lightsaber dies, and Drake puts it back on 
  his belt. Sidestepping to look directly at the young man, he says simply: "I 
  am not the man your master sent you to find." These are not the droids you 
  are looking for.
Drake adds, "And I don't have a lightsaber." He doesn't have a lightsaber.
Drake's own nervousness is not readily apparent, but it is there; on edge he 
  is, gaze dead set on the man who stands before him; the more perceptive of 
  people might realize that his looks is more one of 'Stars, I hope this 
  works' than 'These are not the droids you are looking for.'

_Leave!_ the girl now crouched on the shadowy side of the lift tube now urges 
  the black-clad stranger, though the thought makes it no further than the 
  confines of her own head. After a moment, she hurls the same exhortation at 
  herself, wondering why, indeed, she is lingering here, with this sharp pang 
  of _danger_ in the air.

The smug look on the young man's face turns to one of strange possession -- 
  his eyes no longer gleam with the same intelligent, harsh intensity that 
  before he had shown. Now, they are dull, unthinking, controlled by some 
  remote Force that has overtaken the power of his will. "Not...man...sent 
  for...." he chants, almost to the point of babbling incoherently in his 
  internal effort to resist. "No...li...sabe...." He takes an almost 
  involuntary step back, his arms straight down at his sides -- and then he 
  points on his black flight jacket and waits at attention -- for more orders?

How cute. "You will now go pick up no less than four prostitutes, and bring one 
  of them back to your master. He will be very pleased with you. Go." Drake 
  delivers the 'orders' with a straight face.

"Master...pleased..." The young man, revealing the militancy of his nature, of 
  his training, that had been so hidden before, raises his right hand over his 
  chest in the strangest of salutes -- a hand with middle and ring fingers 
  extended, cutting sideways and diagonally into his chest with the thumb side 
  of the hand -- and says, "Understood...." The next word, through the grit in 
  the way he says it, is something he obviously resents having to say 
  subconsciously to Drake: "....sir."

Drake watches the salute carefully, and finally gives the fellow a nod of 
  approval. "Good. You are dismissed." Private Pyle.

The young man nods, and with a quick step, marches toward the turbolift, into 
  the turbolift, and is off, the only reminder of his presence being perhaps 
  the afterimage of the brilliant colors of his armband on your retina.

Behind that turbolift, finally, a pair of blue-green eyes peers out from 
  shadow.

Drake wipes his brow, leaning against one of the supports on the Rampart and 
  muttering curses.

Her features tightening a moment, first with a look as of warding off pain and 
  then with simple caution, the fair-haired girl slips out of her hiding 
  place, and angles a course towards the _Rampart_. She carries nothing with 
  her; indeed, there's no sign of a weapon upon her.

Drake's gaze drifts tiredly over to Rellawy, and he waves her over. "I would 
  call," Drake calls, "But I don't yet know your name."

Only when she is within safe speaking distance of the ship and the man before 
  it does she answer quietly, "I'm called Rell."

Drake is, for some reason, trying to catch his breath. "All right, Rell--we 
  can stay out here or go aboard, whichever you feel like."

The young woman pauses, frowning, staring hard at the man. A beat passes, and 
  then she says, grudgingly and with the faintest touch of confusion, "You 
  should be restin'."

Drake blinks at Rellawy dumbly. "--I...? Look--just, follow me, okay? This 
  won't take all that long."
Drake strides up the entry ramp to the Rampart.
Drake boards the Rampart.
Drake has left.

[Drake escorts Rell onto his vessel, and once aboard, he leads her to the
 cargo bay...]

Cargo Bay -- Rampart
The single largest open space on the Rampart, the cargo bay is designed to 
  hold (or, alternatively, jettison) as much cargo with as little trouble as 
  possible. The bay doors can be operated from a lever on the far wall or from 
  the cockpit, but generally remain closed. The only other feature 'down 
  below' is the presence of numerous access panels, which from the rust and 
  dents visible appear to have been removed a few times before. A single, 
  short stairwell leads up into the ship.
Contents:
Drake
Obvious exits:
Up  

Drake clambers down the stairwell and walks out into the middle of the empty 
  cargo bay. "Have a seat--anywhere," he calls, his voice echoing throughout 
  the ship.

Warily, the girl follows her guide into the vessel, moving with hardly any 
  sound as she treads upon the deck -- a function either of her slight form or 
  of the worn state of her boot soles. At Drake's recommendation, she 
  considers, then simply lowers herself to sit upon one of the lower stairs. 
  "Here will do me." Her brogue rolls through the empty bay as well.

Drake turns around, folding his arms across his chest. "I want you to tell me 
  everything you can about -- what you can do, how you learned."

The young woman frowns, not saying anything for a moment or two, again staring 
  hard at the man before her. There is no surprise, and more than a little bit 
  of caution, in that freckled face. At last, she answers shortly, "I am a 
  healer." The final word comes out of her as "hayler".

Drake takes a moment to absorb that, pacing across the bay. "A healer; very 
  well, then--tell me about it. How do you heal the injured? Why?"

A low, husky chuckle -- oddly bitter-sounding -- erupts from the girl who's 
  called herself Rell. "There is _no_ why to it, Thomas Drake. It happens, 
  whether I will it or no."

Drake finally takes a seat not too far from the girl, head tilted. "So you are 
  driven to heal -- it is nevertheless how you heal them that is important, as 
  much as why. Are you simply compelled to get them medical attention, or ...?"

"I heal them." The statement is blunt, unequivocable, and bleak.

"You don't sound very enthusiastic about it," Drake says quietly.

Rell doesn't bat an eyelash. "I am not."

Drake nods once more, and again his look is sympathetic. "Your talent is not 
  unheard of; many had it in the days of the Old Republic. They were the Jedi 
  Healers--not Jedi Knights, but people whose ability was limited--either by 
  their own choice or by quirk of fate--to empathic and healing pursuits. The 
  fact that you cannot control it is more likely a need for discipline than a 
  permanent condition."
"You are nevertheless," Drake adds solemnly, "The only one I have ever 
  encountered, and you may well be the last."

"And you are proposin'... what?" The girl sounds dubious, but for now, at 
  least, Drake seems to have her attention.

"It is ultimately up to you," Drake nigh forces himself to say that. "If you 
  stay here, on Nar Shaddaa, the man you saw me with will come after you; it 
  is only a matter of time. I can teach you to control it, to embrace it 
  rather than spurn it; to live in harmony with rather than opposition to the 
  Force. I can see about getting you a job somewhere more reputable than Nar 
  Shadda, and where you go after that is anyone's guess."

Listening to all of this, Rell frowns yet, then demands, "If I am as ye say 
  the last of Jedi healers -- how do ye propose to be teachin' me?" Her voice 
  this time is slightly more ragged; clearly, a nerve is being struck within 
  her.

"The Jedi Healers were a subset of the Jedi Knights themselves," Drake 
  explains, "Some of them were Jedi Knights who refused to fight, and others 
  simply did not have the inclination or ability to be Jedi Knights. 
  Regardless, I am familiar with the healing arts. Do not worry about whether 
  or not I can teach you; worry instead about whether or not it is the path 
  you wish to take."

The girl's gaze flits away, but not before a flash of pain crosses her 
  green-blue eyes, and not before she swallows hard. "I must... think on this."

"Think carefully," Drake advises, "But I want to leave as soon as I can--I 
  don't want to give those men any more time to come after me, or you. Even if 
  you decide not to learn whatever I can teach you, I'll give you a one-way 
  ticket to any place you want. If those men end up getting to you, Rell, you 
  won't be the same when they're finished. You will hate me, and everything 
  else--you will be one of them, one of the ones that destroyed the Old 
  Republic and the Jedi Knights."

She does _not_ ask questions like 'And you would do this why?' or 'What's in 
  it for you?' -- the obvious enough answers have already been stated. But 
  Rell does swing that gaze of hers back around to Drake, and her regard has 
  turned suddenly sharper. Searching. Measuring. Behind that weighted stare, 
  two things could be immediately sensed, for one who is Jedi: something in 
  her seeks to look through and into this man Drake... and it is entirely 
  buried beneath her consciousness.

Drake just stays where he's seated, looking tired--exhausted, even, a recent 
  lack of sleep is evident; but Drake does not try to pick up on her thoughts, 
  and remains isolated.

And, then, the girl says again softly, "You should be restin'."

"I'm going to," Drake mutters indignantly, "As soon as I'm convinced that 
  you're not going to be picked up by the overdressed gentlemen with the 
  armband."

Rell's gaze actually softens a little, at those muttered words. "I know how to 
  hide," she answers gruffly, perhaps trying to offer some kind of comfort. 
  "I'll be takin' a diff'rent way back to the Deck."

Drake shakes his head. "Jedi do not have to look with their eyes. Once they 
  know who to look for, they can track you very, very easily. That they can 
  find you you cannot dispute; how long it will take, how long you can avoid 
  them ... that is anyone's guess. If you want to take your chances--that, 
  too, is your decision. I will be back from time to time if you do."

The girl counters, rising from the stair on which she sits, "If I am to be 
  goin' anywhere... I must speak with Lerren. I owe him that."

"Very well." Drake also rises. "I will see you before I leave, either way. May 
  the Force be with you, Rell."

The girl's brow crinkles at the benediction, and less than fully sure of it, 
  she answers back tentatively, "Likewise.... I will.... find my own way off." 
  Then, still occasionally casting a look down at the man as she goes, Rell 
  ascends the stairs.

[End log.]