"Home One is Where The Heart Is" Log Date: 9/25, 9/26/97 Log Cast: Thomas Drake, Christopher Morgan, Rellawy Woodlake, Chewbacca, Mon Mothma Log Intro: Her dreams were full of fire. There were presences, too, sometimes no more than vaguely defined wraiths at the edge of her mind, sometimes all too distinct faces of beings of a dozen different species yet all united in purpose. Leering at her, reaching for her, poking, prodding, drowning her in the rush and press of their emotions, crushing her beneath the combined weight of their minds. Over it all, a thunderous bass voice chuckled its amusement, and crooned to her that she would adorn his wall forever. Her hands would be the tools of Kelga the Hutt, and only at his whim would the wild talent she could barely suppress as it was be loosed. Until he gave her leave to touch, to take away pain, to heal... she would burn. All was fire and noise, cacophony that left her blind and dazed and willing to do almost anything, even succumb to that booming voice, if only the chaos in her head would stop. It did not stop, but it was... interrupted. A surge of cleaner, purer fire... a slim shining blade like a honed beam of sunflame. Someone's blue eyes full of wrath. Blaster shots. Screams. Explosions. And someone breaking the chains, scooping her up into firm, strong arms, carrying her away. Borne out of fire by fire, she found that she could relax, could find within the second fire a twinge of something familiar. Frightening, but far more desirable than the booming, malevolent laughter. _Thomas?_ she wanted to call, but the effort to remember how to make her voice work was beyond her, and Rellawy dropped down into darkness. ---------- 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 Fortune's Fool <9103> Manta Ray <9105> Midori <9109> Morgan Nudj <9108> Odessa's Dowry <9102> Rampart <9107> The Voidrunner <9110> Whistler Tap. Tap. Drake's foot twitches imperceptibly as he waits for the turbolift doors to slide open, and when they do, he darts out abruptly, into the very large and suddenly very quiet docking dome, Rellawy tossed rag-doll-esque over his shoulders. He stops, blinks, and looks around--"What," he frowns just so, "No more?" Morgan says "Plenty more. They're called 'civilians.'" Morgan makes a few 'toy pistol' motions at some understandably-jarred squatters with his 'hand cannon.' The thing's thicker than his forearm and has, of all things, a coolant system. The girl... lolls. Seemingly barely aware when they'd first stormed into Kelga's audience chamber, crumpled over not long after that, she is hardly capable of doing much more than that as she hangs draped over by Drake's head. Her weight is inconsequential -- as a particular Corellian observed of her, she doesn't have much in the way of bulk. Morgan says "You never know about the homeless. Could be stormtroopers in disguise." Morgan says "Look for white boots under the filth." Morgan says "Or, shoot, and look later." "First question," Drake stops for breath, "Now what? You want to lead me back to Home one, or hang out here for the night?" Morgan says "We've just stormed the keep of a ... well, a /creature/ that lives not a hundred levels above us. A minute's work, in the lift, and he could send an army after us. And /you're/ the warrior mystic?" Morgan says "No sense of tactics at all. Shall I blow up the lift, just to be certain?" Morgan grins, lopsidedly. "So I flunked a couple classes," Drake mutters irritably, "Alright, then. We'll be right behind you--don't bother. Let them wander around the place for a little bit." Morgan says "Do you think they'll assume we stopped for a drink?" Morgan peers at Drake as if he's gone mad. Morgan leads the charge toward the docked vessels, wordless. "Once they stop bleeding," Drake calls jauntily, traipsing towards the Rampart. Morgan kicks some garbage at Drake, teetering with the weight of his 'Rambo kit.' "Yeah, yeah," Drake mutters, turning towards the entry ramp. Drake boards the Rampart. Drake has left. Morgan grumps irritably up the ramp of the Fool. Morgan boards the Fortune's Fool. Morgan has left. You board the Rampart. Rear Passageway -- Rampart(#1500RFJ) Perhaps the largest open space next to the cargo bay on the ship, this junction is located towards the rear of the ship, though nearly every part of the YT-1300 Corellian Transport is accessible from here. A short, gnawingly winding passage leads fore to the cockpit, while a straight one leads to the cramped room elegantly referred to as the 'crew quarters,' which is to say there may even be a mattress somewhere in that direction. Opposite the quarters to the starboard side lies a short stairwell that leads to the cargo bay, and numerous access panels containing wires and systems wisely, but not actually left alone. Contents: Drake Obvious exits: Crew Quarters Cargo Bay Cockpit ---------- Interlude: Some corner of her mind, suffused by the sunfire that had driven away the faces and the voices and the laughter of the Hutt, knew it when she was carried aboard the _Rampart_... when the arms that bore her along set her down to sleep upon a bunk... and left her. _Come back, Thomas..._ He didn't hear her, though, and the sunfire retreated to the back of her awareness. The dreams began to come back, and in their grip, Rellawy tossed and turned.... ---------- Crew Quarters -- Rampart Although hardly large enough to be called 'quarters,' this area could be nothing else; a juvenile bunk-bed fills one corner, and a pair of bureaus fill the opposite one. A pathway has been cleared between the door and the bunks, but the majority of the floor is cluttered with jackets, trinkets, bits of undescribable material, and perhaps even last Tuesday's mystery entree. The lighting is adequete, but only barely. A low doorway leads out in to the corridor. Obvious exits: Corridor Drake ducks inside from the corridor. Drake has arrived. Drake ducks into the crew quarters as soon as the ship finishes accelerating into hyperspace, tossing his lightsaber in a corner with his splattered cloak. He crouches next to the bed, regarding the patient levelly. She lies where she has been placed -- well, not _lies_, exactly. Rellawy Woodlake has curled herself into a fetal ball under her blanket, her slight form's position visible for all that she's burrowed her head in under her pillow as if unconsciously trying to shield herself. Drake is not good at this part. No longer is there a thug Drake can kill, a tangible target; this alternate side of the Force which Drake does not use quite so often is nevertheless the idea. Duck-toed and awkward, Drake takes a deep breath and lays a hand on the girl's head. She mumbles unintelligibly, barely more than a breath of air, as the pillow is moved aside to reveal her tousled and filthy hair and her face. And it takes no more than that simple contact to relay, in a sudden urgent rush, tangled and unfocused emotions: fear. Horror. A sense of being overwhelmed by too many... whats? Too Many, at any rate. But it takes no more than that touch, either, to start stemming that tide, and as it begins to happen, Rell lets out a tiny whimper. "Stupid, stupid girl," Drake mutters under his breath, pulling up a folding chair and brushing the hair from her face -- obviously, mind you, to make sure there's no head trauma. "Rell," he says quietly, very much a different person from the blade-wielding dervish in Kelga's chamber only minutes ago. There are bruises, and there is dirt, but her skull seems sound -- perhaps the Hutt had guessed that damaging his 'prize' would only hinder her ability? At the sound of her name, she jerks in the bed, eyes flying open, without sight. "Rell," Drake repeats sharply, "It's me, Drake. You're on the Rampart." Drake grabs a clean cloak and tosses it over his left shoulder. Her gaze snaps around, then, and seemingly into focus, towards the sound of the man's voice. She blinks, opens her mouth and closes it again, and then winces, all without making a sound. But there's recognition in her eyes. Drake rubs his eyes tiredly, the familiar sight of space streaking by comforting outside the window. "Hey," he says again, still quietly, "--How d'you feel?" Rellawy's eyes shiver closed and then open again; when she finally speaks, it's in a hoarse rasp, and her accent is far thicker than usual. "M'head's hartin'..." "I'm not surprised," Drake tries to smile. "You'll be fine. The pain should subside shortly. Just rest for a while, eh?" "Jus' too many, too many'f 'em... och, I still _feel_ him...." Rell's voice roughens as she speaks. She curls over on her side again, clutching at the pillow, her eyes clenching shut. Drake quickly grasps Rellawy's shoulder, delivering commands in a firm, somber voice: "Clear your head! Open your eyes, look at /me/--there's nobody else here, they're gone. We're light years away." Blue eyes sheened over with tears lift their gaze once more; Rellawy looks actively ill, and the shoulder under Drake's hand is shaking. "L-left?" she croaks. "Left the moon...?" "Yes!" Drake really does smile at that; one of those 'hey, I just pulled that off' smiles. "We're in hyperspace. None of them followed us." Rellawy blinks, seemingly dazed. "But... Lerren... H'rraal... he was hurt...!" The girl looks alarmed, and she abruptly tries to sit up; from the look that slashes across her face when she tries this, this is a less than wise idea on her part. Drake is more than happy to prevent Rellawy from doing so. "...And is doing much better," Drake replies sternly. "They're all doing fine, kid. We're not ditching anyone. Stop worrying about someone /else/ for once. Please." It's quite clear she has no strength, for it takes no effort at all to keep her from rising. But her expression is positively crestfallen, as she rasps mournfully, "Th-they wouldnae let me heal 'im...!" "It's the way things are," Drake says just as sternly, "You can't fix everyone. Especially not when you need to stop and fix yourself. I was a fool for letting you stay in the first place." Her brow furrows, and for a brief moment, she _almost_ looks affronted, perhaps considering protesting the idea that Drake has any say over her whereabouts. But instead she slumps a little further back along the pillow, and mumbles, "Cannae fix m'sel." "I can -fix- you," Drake shrugs, "But you can help yourself. Though..." he laughs, shortly, to himself, "For now, you just rest. We've a while before we get to Home One." Rell's brows crinkle again, dark golden lines drawing together above her eyes, but if she is curious about their destination, she shows no sign of it. Instead, almost before the suggestion is out of Drake's mouth, her eyes close once more, and she is sleeping the sleep of the profoundly exhausted. ---------- Interlude: This time, her sleep was less disturbed, and when Rell awoke, she felt almost rested. She started when she found herself in the crews' quarters of the _Rampart_, despite having awakened there before, and only after the initial surge of fright had died down did she realize that she could feel no thrum in the deck that spoke of the ship being in motion. Nor, she realized after she tentatively considered the other 'feel' she could sense from the vessel aeround her, did there seem to be anyone else on board the craft. There was life outside the craft, though. Not as many living beings as dwelled on the Smugglers' Moon -- but a great number of beings, nonetheless. Was Thomas Drake among them? She remembered the Jedi's voice telling her, just before she'd plummeted back into slumber, that he had brought her to a place called "Home One". A ship? Another moon? A planet? Anxious to find out -- and both anxious and nervous about finding Thomas Drake, Jedi Knight, and apparently the man who had saved her life a second time -- she ventured out of the _Rampart_ to find out. ---------- You walk down the ramp of the Rampart. Hangar Bay The primary hangar bay for the Alliance Flagship, this facility is large beyond words. Deck upon deck of hangars, catapults, landing pads and launch strips open into the main bay and beyond the force-shield into space. Turbolifts move between decks and control rooms dot the platforms; security details spaced at regular intervals about the hangar. While this hangar is home to a number of the ships aboard the Home One, there are other fighter hangars elsewhere in the cruiser's body. By way of turbolifts, one can reach any of the landing decks; the main access to the body of the cruiser being a large bulkhead off the main platform. Contents: Artoo Fortune's Fool <9103> Morgan Rampart <9107> Red One <9402> Rogue Five <9410> Rogue Four <9409> Rogue Leader <9403> Rogue Six <9412> Rogue Two <9411> Rogue_3 <9408> Obvious exits: Central Corridor Morgan grumps away under the Fool, looking pleased with himself. Impressive, when you consider the various stains on that shirt of his. It is with an awkward gait that Rell limps down the ramp of the _Rampart_, glancing about her uneasily in all directions. She hadn't quite believed it when Drake told her she was no longer on Nar Shaddaa -- but it begins to sink it that this is exactly the case, as the young woman staggers out of the vessel. Morgan tilts his head, whacking it on something big. A string of curses that would make a sailor blush follows, hence. When he's calmed, he quips, "So, how does it feel to be out of the Hutt's slimy clutches and into mine?" Rellawy jumps, whirls around, and stares. The girl doesn't look quite so much like death warmed over anymore -- unconsciousness stuck in the reheat unit, perhaps. She blinks a few times, and blurts, "You. I saw ye, in the Deck...!" Morgan slides out from under the ship, so as not to hurt is head when going in for a better look. "You're a sharp one." Morgan looks at you for a moment. "Doesnae take much wit, only mem'ry," comes the reply. It's obvious she's uneasy, as blue-green eyes flick round the hangar, still taking in everything in sight. "You, I'm remem'brin'." Morgan grumbles. "Do you know how hard I work at being easily dismissable?" Dark golden brows draw together over the lass's eyes. "Ye shouted at me, but ye also left a big tip. That doesnae usually go together, on Nar Shaddaa..." Her tone's almost distracted, and her arms wrap around her, as she reflexively rubs her hands up and down her upper arms. If she's aware that the words directed at her were probably a rhetorical question, she gives no sign of it. Morgan rises, dusting himself off. Unfortunately, most of his personal dirt looks quite firmly attached to the variously filthy surface it tarnishes. "It takes a certain amount of reckless stupidity to be labeled 'eccentric' and get my privacy. Had to give tongue to half the ... ah, fergit it." He smirks. "Welcome to the headquarters of the Rebel Alliance. I'm Major Morgan, and I'm guessing I won't be your guide if Tommy has anything to say about it." Chewbacca has connected. "Tommy?" the girl echoes blankly, just before comprehension dawns across her eyes. Oh. Right. Rell turns back to the man addressing her, nervousness still evident in her face, especially at the clarification of where exactly she happens to be. She swallows, a ripple of motion down her slender throat, before stating quietly, "M'name is Rellawy Woodlake." Morgan grins boyishly. "Rellawy. Ms. Woodlake. Ever so much politer than 'Yo, woman!'" Rell stares again at the Major, perhaps trying to reconcile this individual with the person she'd seen in the Burning Deck. Or perhaps simply bemused by the notion of being called 'Ms.' -- her mouth quirks at that. "'Tis worse I've been called," she murmurs, a trifle scattered in her attention. But something makes her begin to frown, and she whirls in a small circle, as it _finally_ hits home that she's no longer where she expected to be. Not with Lerren. Or H'rruuk or H'rraal. And -- dismay floods her face, as she unexpectedly wails an oath in another tongue, then appends to it, "The box! Lost the frekkin' box...!" Morgan cants his head, curiosly. And people call /him/ crazy. He attempts a smile. "I'm ... sure it's ... uh ... around here somewhere." Morgan makes a token effort, a glance around the bay. Mon_Mothma has arrived. Rellawy presses her hands to her face, evidently quite upset. Slender shoulders quiver a moment with frustration before she gets herself somewhat back under control, but still, she begins to pace, fretfully. "Ye dinnae understand...! A friend gave it t' me, to bribe the Hutt with, and, ah, fardlin' hells, it's a fine mess I made o' _that_...!" Mon_Mothma's arrival is quiet, inobtrusive; she lingers near a fighter and observes, one elegant brow arched. Morgan shrugs, helplessly. Upon spying yon Chief of State, he turns the shrug into an awkward salute, or somesuch. It _then_ occurs to Rell to notice something the Major said, and she whirls back to Morgan. "Wait... ye know of the Hutt...!" But, having turned back to him, she catches his salute. _That_ makes her start anew, and, skittishly, she whirls around again. Morgan He is an average man of some indefinite age in the late twenties; just over six feet tall without those boots. His sun-streaked brown hair is short, though far from regulation. His liquid azure eyes shine like the Devil's, when not hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses framed with silver wire. His skin is smooth, lightly tanned and peeling. His hands are big, strong, and capable. He wears a pair of drab khaki trousers tucked into military boots, secured at the waist by a utility belt supporting a number of tools, a large knife, a comlink, and a blaster pistol. Hanging untucked over the belt is a worn and faded shirt in the vile olive that comprises the non-drab khaki half of the military's artistic range, buttoned to the second from the top. The sleeves are rolled to the elbow. Mon Mothma She is taller than the average woman, with formal white robes -- the sort preferred by the Old Republic's Senators -- draped in pristine folds over her slender, ramrod-straight frame. Her movements are graceful and well-defined, and her voice, couched in an elegant and educated accent, is at once inspiring and arresting: the voice of an orator. Arresting, too, are the warm green eyes that are as perpetually studious as the rest of her appears serene, as if she is aware of all that transpires about her. Her just-greying auburn hair is trimmed to a short but feminine swirl about her head, framing a visage whose lines seem to contain the story of the Alliance itself. She is in her late forties, is vital as a woman twenty years younger, and apepars to have a core of solid granite. About her neck is the symbol of her home planet, Chandrila, along with a medallion of the Old Republic. "Please, don't let me interrupt," the tall woman murmurs as she stays distanced from the others, her eyes lighting with recognition on Morgan and the Wookiee before resting with some inquiry on Rellawy. Morgan says "Peripherally, maybe. I mean ... I knew what I was going into. What I expected to have to destroy, or maim, or whatever. But I didn't get much more than that." Mon_Mothma looks at you for a moment. Rellawy swallows again, looking with a wary gaze back at Morgan. "So, ye're tellin' me... ye helped Thomas Drake take me from the Hutt?" Morgan backs away a step, puts his hands up. "You said it, I didn't." He resumes his normal carefree slouch, then. "Don't let it get around. Rumors of responsibility and positive emotion could tarnish my lovably gruff image." Obviously confused by _that_, Rell stares at Morgan searchingly. And at last, sucks in a long breath and releases it on the words, "Then ye're the third I'm owin' thanks." Uncomfortably, she edges back a bit, as if either bothered by Morgan, or perhaps reluctant to intrude on him. "I... I didnae see Drake upon his ship, have ye seen him? I must be askin' if he's talked to Lerren... that box was valuable...!" Mon_Mothma watches Morgan, green eyes silently intent; she is fairly obviously interested in his response to this young woman's question. Morgan smirks, and his eyes dance. "Owe. I like that word. I hope I never get over it." Dismissing the thread of conversation, he sniffs, looks up afresh. "Not today. He's probably hangin' from a ceiling somewhere. I dunno, d'care. He'll wile me into busting more heads when he needs me." "Major Morgan," the Chief of State inquires gently, "where is Mr Drake?" Morgan finds it hard to suppress annoyance and/or the full strength of those gritty vocal cords when he perceives patronization. "I /just said/ ..." He stops, does a double-take. Considers to whhom he is speaking. "Like I tol' her, I haven't seen him since yesterday. His ship is here, so he's not left. Other than that, you got feet. Ma'am." Mon_Mothma's brow arches again, and her face clouds. "I believe, Major, you could use some cleaning up. In more than one way." The look she gives Morgan is piercing before she regards Rellawy once again. "Who is your friend?" Looking very much as if the foremost thought on her mind is, _What in the name of earth, sea, and sky am I -doing- here?!_ (or something to that effect), Rell shifts an acutely uncomfortable gaze from the Major to the woman... and takes in the difference in Morgan's behavior towards her. As an introduction is requested -- eliminating any possibility of surreptitious escape -- the honey-haired girl speaks awkwardly up, "M'name is Rellawy Woodlake." A beat, then, imitating Morgan's own address of her, she appends, "Ma'am." Morgan scowls at his less-than-elegant dismissal, grunting under his breath. "Be inna' shower," he supplies. He stomps toward the doors. Mon_Mothma sighs softly, murmurs to Rellawy, "A pleasure," then calls in a louder voice, "Major, you seem to have some explaning to do." Morgan spins, surprisingly elegantly. A turn of the heel, and he is stomping directly toward Mon Mothma once more. "Yes'm?," he inquires. He seems content to study his feet. Mon_Mothma takes a breath and speaks softly, elegantly, as if a mother addressing a misbehaving son. "You disappeared, Major, in the company of someone who was supposedly confined to quarters. You return with someone who apparently has had some considerably problem with a crime faction. Explanations, not to mention formal reports, are expected." Morgan considers his response, this time. He attempts to keep his voice level and his manner civil, with some success. "I got him in his room, when y'asked. Didn't occur to me that the order still stood, ma'am. Nobody said nothin', and he was walkin' around for quite a while 'fore he up and left. I left for different reasons, we ended up inna' same place. He asked my help. I gave it to him. Far's I'm concerned, tha' was a couple of sick days." Rellawy's brow furrows, and she snaps her gaze back and forth between the two other humans, feeling very much out of place -- and suspecting that interrupting would be less than wise. Nevertheless, she _does_ interrupt, troubledly. "Ye're in charge o' Thomas Drake, ah, ma'am?" Morgan says "Tommy's in charge of himself, I think." Mon_Mothma's expression turns a bit droll. "I expect Mr Drake considers himself in charge of his own affairs, Miss Woodlake." "But ye... confined him, t' quarters?" Rell's brogue lingers a touch uncertainly over the words, the sound of someone not entirely sure what that might mean. Morgan watches Mon Mothma carefully, observing her reaction to his tale. When he finishes, he waits. Mon_Mothma takes a few deep breaths and folds her hands placidly before her, then nods. "When you see Mr Drake, please inform him I expect him to visit my office as soon as possible. I would also like a report on what occurred to be presented to myself and Admiral Ackbar at the earliest possible moment. I expect your lady friend would like to have time with you first, and circumstances do not seem to dictate a need for rush." Morgan looks over at Rellawy. "Lady friend? Izzat like when 'girlfriend' means 'an associate who is also a female?'" Rellawy blinks. Twice. Then turns quite scarlet. "I wouldnae know," she mutters. Mon_Mothma sighs, giving her head a shake. "I meant Captain Payne, Major. If you recall her?" Morgan stammers, "Cause, um, she and I aren't ..." He stops, dead. "Oh, I ... yeah. O'course. I thought ... um ... I'll go. In fact, I think I hear her. I'm almost positive." He makes a polite break for the hangar bay doors. Without expression the Chief of State watches Morgan depart (or, one might say, flee) before levelling her gaze on Rellawy. Morgan has left. Definitely, _definitely_ out of place here. Rellawy shows no indication of wanting to halt the fleeing Major. But as the woman who remains looks around to her, the girl uneasily returns that gaze. "Were you expecting to stay with us?" Mon Mothma asks gently. Rellawy swallows, before replying huskily, "I... havenae had much time t'... make any expectations. Ma'am." Mon_Mothma's smile is faint, quiet, and aloof. "When you've made a decision, let us know. I daresay someone who looks as resourceful as you would be a boon to us." Blue-green eyes go round. And the lass makes a little noise somewhere between cough and snort. "I look... _resourceful_?" she echoes, clearly not believing it. She casts a look down at her thin frame; she's not exactly dirty, but she is quite rumpled, and thin and pale to boot. Nodding, the older woman continues with an air of quiet confidence, "I have a reputation as a good judge of character. Trust me, you would be welcome here. We cannot offer you much beyond a great deal of work and personal risk, but the benefits are staggering. If, that is, saving the galaxy from tyrrany appeals." Rellawy Woodlake's eyes darken, and she stares at the other female with the same sort of wary, searching gaze she'd directed at Major Morgan. She frowns, then says shyly, "I dinnae know... much about... this. You. Any of you. I... I was just tryin' to get off Nar Shaddaa..." Chewbacca has disconnected. Mon_Mothma nods but remarks nonetheless, "Life has an interesting way of directing you where you need to be, Rellawy. Consider that you have apparently been plucked from a desperate situation and placed in the presence of people who can help you...and whom you can help. The Alliance is not so large as we look threatening to the Empire, yet we grow stronger daily, from our convictions and within our ranks. Every person added to our number is a step on our journey to galactic freedom. I can think of no worthier goal in life." The young woman curls her arms about herself once more, perhaps unconsciously trying to shield herself -- though from what, is difficult to determine. But she does look into the other female's face at her words, listening, measuring them. At last she says, her voice small, "Ye sound like Drake." Mon_Mothma does not address that comment, at least not at first; she glances about the bay and inquires, "You know where you've been brought, yes?" "Major Morgan said," murmurs Rell. Mon_Mothma hmmms. "And what is your feeling about this?" Bluntly, the girl replies, "'Tis a far sight better than where I was..." But she's still looking about herself, skittish, restless, uneasy. Mon_Mothma does not speak but watches the girl with silent intensity, waiting for more. Rellawy turns back around at last, a frown tugging at her mouth. "I do need to find Drake," she states anxiously -- ducking the question. "I have t' find out if my friends are okay, and I must be gettin' back somethin' that was given me." Guilt flashes across her face, at this. Mon_Mothma inclinces her head in a nod and then states, still gentle, "We will help you as we can, but do bear in mind that you have been given a great trust in seeing who and where we are. My face is perhaps unimportant as I am fairly certain the Emperor knows of my role in this matter," and again her voice is droll, "but the others you may see here are not so well-known. I do not wish to see them or you put at risk." Something else flickers across Rell's expression at these words, and again, that searching young gaze lingers on her questioner's face. Her features shift, though, in the smallest and subtlest of winces, and she lowers her eyes. "I willnae speak of ye," she murmurs. "It's more than familiar I am, with th' keepin' o' secrets." Rellawy goes a little paler, shivering again, looking vaguely ill. Mon_Mothma speaks again, this time with a bare hint of delicate, maternal gentility. "Rellawy, many of us have had unhappiness in our past, difficult times, terrible suffering. That does not mean the future holds such things for us. Make yourself at home here and perhaps you'll find that you -are- home." Something in that gentle suggestion makes the girl's eyes close hard, makes her arms tighten around her thin frame. Rell shudders, swallows, then croaks out, "I'll... I'll hafta be thinkin' on it..." But her face has drained of what little color it has, and her voice of its volume. Voice a little stern now, Mon Mothma states, "Think, and think well. But now is not the the time for thinking. For you, it's the time of resting. And healing. Pain can be a source of great strength, young woman, once the wounds are healed. Consider that." Then, less strongly, she adds, "I'm afraid I have a meeting with Admiral Ackbar. If you have need of me, Major Morgan knows where my office is located. I am not easily reached, but rumor has it I can be found. All right?" The girl's ashen face remains pale, and even as the older woman speaks, Rell turns and stumbles towards Drake's vessel, mumbling absently, "Cannae heal m'self..." She staggers as she goes -- obviously having a bit of trouble keeping to her feet -- and if she hears anything of what was said to her, there's no sign of it before she vanishes into the _Rampart_. Mon_Mothma watches the young woman depart, gives her head a small shake, and withdraws again to the private areas. Mon_Mothma has left. [End log.]