"Classroom Surprise" Log Date: 1/23/00 Log Cast: Shenner, Paul Nighman, Paksi (NPC emitted by Shenner), Aleksi (NPC emitted by Shenner, Paul) Log Intro: Shenner, the Womprats, and Webb have had quite the time on Coruscant, thanks to an uncommonly swank gig for the band and the unexpected pleasure of a meetup with Luke Skywalker. From Luke, Shen has learned the disturbing news that Han Solo has gone missing again, and she's done her best to try to console the worried Jedi--which has led into making the surprising discovery that Jedi though he may be, Luke is just as human as everybody else in the galaxy, and can not only worry for his friends, he can even occasionally let himself get drunk. He, Shen, and the NR diplomat Poguala have indulged in a drinking contest that's had another surprising result--Pogs giving Shenner a collection of five purple gems. Since then, Shen has heard from Luke over the HoloNet that Solo has been found. But she's learned something else from the blond Jedi--that the gems are intended to be lightsaber components. Why in the world she has been given gems intended for a lightsaber is entirely beyond Shen's ken, and she is certain there must have been some sort of mistake. As huge a surprise as that was, though, that's nothing compared to the surprise that's awaiting her when she resumes her classes at the University of Caspar.... ---------- Back into the breach, turbolasers blazing, up the CDU and all that! In other words, now that Shenner's back from her vacation on Coruscant, it's time to hit the classes again. Her body charged up from a morning's workout with the remote she's programmed with a repetoire of Jairen's swordplay routines, her mind charged up with a hot mug of cocoa, and her childlike affection for Caspar's take-no-prisoners winter weather charged up by a new layer of snow on the ground outside, Shenner ambles her way into the classroom in the midst of a small knot of her fellow students, chattering away in reply to a volley of questions she's getting lobbed at her from acquaintances who have never been to Coruscant. "Yeah, yeah, I saw the _actual_ plaza where the Emperor's statue was standing -- no, I didn't get to see Princess Leia -- our gig went great, thanks! You guys comin' to the Sandbar tonight?" The students filter in, one by one, or in massive clusters, chatting over their various holiday experiences, surprisingly refreshed and ready to greet a new semesters worth of classes. In rambunctious order they sort amongst themselves, vying for the best seats to see by, the best to hide from the professors keen gaze, and the best for chatting with all their friends and sharing holonotes when they should be paying attention to the lectures at hand. Few notice that the crinkled and wrinkled Dr. Spinelli is not standing at the head of the room at the podium as he usually does. Instead, it would seem that he is perhaps running late, a rather unassuming looking man, perhaps an advance doctoral student, carrying in various instruments and laying them with tender care down upon the display table as the students settle themselves in. "Where's Spinhead, anyway?" "Hey, who's that--" "Hsst, Sheebie, do you have my lesson disc?" The various murmurs around the room don't quite settle down as the realization that the expected professor is not actually present. Shenner, however, hasn't yet noticed. Long accustomed to tuning out any noise not immediately relevant to her -- a habit developed over years of practice on five different planets and honed to perfection in nightly employment at a bar -- the young singer's leaning over the satchel she's brought in with her, rummaging for her datapad and her _own_ lesson disc. This is one of the classes she hasn't needed to dig up an actual _book_ for, not yet, and so she's still relatively uncumbered there in her third row seat. When she straightens up again it's to place her datapad on her desktop before her, flipping it open to await her hunt-and-peck typing in of today's round of notes. Shenner(#3773POACF) This is a human female perhaps somewhere in her early twenties. She stands at about 5'6" in height, with a lean, fit musculature adding substance to an otherwise frail-seeming build. Her skin is the pale hue of most of the galaxy's human races, with a scattering of small freckles adding detail to her fine-boned features. Her hair is a rich dark russet; red-brown brows and lashes set off her large and luminous green eyes, and she looks out at everything she encounters with a keenly intelligent intensity. Those eyes, along with a walk, stance, accent, and mannerisms seemingly more suited for a brash street tough than a slender young woman, exemplify the contradiction that anyone who observes this girl long enough can soon discover: that for all her fragile appearance, this is no delicate flower. Rather, this young human is one that burns. She is clad in castoff clothes that might have once done duty as military fatigues. Her pants are camoflauge-colored, dappled green and gray and brown, and sporting strategically placed pockets not only at her hips but along both legs as well. A dark olive green tank top hugs her upper body, tucked into her pants and occasionally visible between the unfastened higher buttons of a faded slate green shirt with old loose threads where a name patch might once have been sown, and whose sleeves are rolled up along each of her arms. The shirt is tied off at her waist, giving open access to the utility belt slung round her hips -- and the blaster holster riding on her right thigh. Three particular details don't quite fit with the rest of her garb, though. Round her neck on a silver chain hangs a small pendant of brass and silver; also round her neck, on a silken cord, is a tiny shell-shaped ocarina. And securing the end of the braid that usually swings behind her at about the middle of her back is a fine silver clasp. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => XiX Blaster Pistol => 6576 Galactic Standard Credits Paul_Nighman A tall and lanky Corellian of 6'3" stands before you, marked by a lean and muscular build. His face sports rugged handsome features and a cleft in his chin. Hair a light brown with gold highlights, there is one unruly swatch that has the tendency to fall over his brow. Expressive hazel eyes peer out, marked by a green sunburst surrounding their pupils. His skin has a naturally tanned look to it. Long muscled arms with light scars and nicks crisscrossing them finish with large strong hands that move expressively when Paul is speaking. His voice is deep, warm, and gravelly. Broad shoulders are graced by a deep forest green shirt, a slightly high collar dipping down toward the front of the throat to expose a healthy expanse of collarbones. A black vest drapes over it snugly, casually undone and open in the front. Black breeches mold his legs, tapering down to tall black boots. Only those with the most discerning of gazes will note the knife concealed within the right one. Hanging from a black belt and strapped to his left thigh is a blaster holster, complete with weapon. The ensemble is simple, but elegant. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => SS-V Blaster Carbine Each instrument carefully nestled, the unfamiliar figure ascends up to the professorial podium and coughs lightly, the amplified room making the discreet sound loud and clear ... please finish getting seated and pay attention. Reaching into his pocket, the sandy haired man draws out a pair of what appears to be ... glasses?? and shines them with a handkerchief. His voice is deep, rumbling, and for one pair of ears in the room, shockingly familiar. "Welcome back," greets the man, his eyes scanning with a cursory glance over the room, taking in faces briefly. "And welcome to Music and Instrumental Anthropology, or as many students like to call this class, MIA ... Missing In Action." His lips curl in a wry smile, but the humor does not reach the man's eyes. "Hopefully you will not find that you get lost along the way this semester." He pauses, taking a light breath and drawing his hands behind his back for a moment. "I'm sure some of you are wondering if you are in the correct classroom, as it is noted in the Course Catalog that Dr. Spinelli was to be teaching this class. Unfortunately Dr. Spinelli was called away from his duties here, and in turn, I was asked to fill in until he can return, or for the duration of the semester, which ever arrives first. I am Dr. Paul Nighman, Ph.D. in xenoarcheaology, with vast experience in the arenas of primitive cultures and musical instruments." Just as the unfamiliar substitute teacher is clearing his throat for the students' collective attention, just as the initial cadences of his gravelly baritone fall upon her ears, Shenner freezes in her seat. _Ohmigod,_ is all she's able to think, somewhere in the back of her mind. Everyone else in the class abruptly vanishes out of her awareness as her attention rivets itself upon the rangy figure at the front of the classroom. The initial white flash of shock fades out of her mind, only to be followed by a jumbled clash of panicked thoughts. _Paul?! Here?! He's gonna teach-- He's gonna be here for how long-- Ohmigod-- Is it too late to leave?_ Swallowing hard, Shen shoots a glance towards the door of the big classroom, determing much to her dismay that it's disturbingly far away, much too far away for her to have a prayer of sneaking out of the room unobserved. No, she realizes in dismay, she'll have to stick this out somehow. _Maybe if I keep my mouth shut he won't notice me-- Maybe he won't recognize me-- Oh holy suns he's not gonna call the karkin' -roll-, is he?_ Perhaps there is a Maker. Perhaps prayers are truly answered. Although her phrasing was not exactly worshipful, it would seem that someone or something has heard the young redhead's plea, as Paul Nighman steps down with a datapad in hand. "Please pass this along, and check off your name for attendance." The first student garners his attention as he passes it to the young blonde who takes the pad from him with a smile. It would seem that she is pleased by the new professor, though considering the hardassed reputation of Dr. Spinelli, any possibility of a respite would be welcome in the face of a newly dawning semester. After all, how could he possibly be worse? At least Dr. Nighman looks like me might remember what it is to be young and adventurous ... only dry as dust Dr. Spinelli. Many students used to wonder if he was not perhaps some carefully preserved mummy instead of a flesh and blood man. He certainly never showed any indications of having a pulse, let alone an actual heart. A wry smile is returned to the young woman before Dr. Nighman turns to ascend up to the podium again. "Today, we are going to start with Caspar itself, looking at some of the earliest instruments discovered here in archeological digs lead by Dr. Canto Molari on the behalf of the University." His hands busy themselves with the controls before him, a focusing beam bringing to life the first instrument lying on the table, the three-dimensional hologram appearing before the students in the air, five times the size of the fragile looking remains of what looks like a drum. "Shen, hey, Shen?" comes a very soft whisper in the redheaded singer's ear, courtesy of the dainty little dark-haired Sarian girl seated immediately to her left. "You okay, Shen? You look a little white." "I'm okay, Paksi," comes the hoarse reply. Somehow, Shenner manages to find the resolve to turn and give her classmate a small crooked grin, making enough eye contact to convince the other girl to settle back down into her seat. But it doesn't stop the Sarian girl from sending over a line of text onto the singer's datapad, from her own: He's cute, isn't he? This might be fun! _Yeah,_ Shen types back onehandedly, _cute._ But she's looking neither at her classmate nor at her datapad; instead, her attention settles on the holographic image of the drum, while she tries very hard to suppress the shiver of memory that courses through her at the mention of Molari Canto... and the shiver of memory that courses through her with every syllable Dr. Nighman utters. Turning once again to his students with an assessing eye, Paul Nighman makes a choice despite the syllabus that rests before him. He hadn't bothered arguing the issues with Dr. Spinelli. He was just as truculant and opinionated now as he was twenty years ago when Paul has studied under the man. As he recalled, he was barely able to stay awake during the uninspiring man's endless lectures and pronouncements. He could not for the life of him recall a single disccussion. It was a class of black and white, right and wrong. No debate. Absorb and reguritate the information. No ... no, this class will be different for once in the past fifty years. His head cocks to one side as Paul rumbles, "As an archeologist and an anthropologist, one has to consider many factors as you unearth relics from the past. Age, construction techniques, purpose, use, location, materials." His gaze shifts over the faces which, despite his concentration, tend to blend into a sea of ovals peering back at him. Well ... and a few triangles and trapezoids every so often. "Now then, examining the shape of this instrument, the coloration, can anyone make an educated guess at what it is, what it is made from, what it's purpose might have been, and whether or not it is indigenous to Caspar?" Paksi's hand shoots up, while she taps the button on her desk's console to indicate her requesting the lecturer's attention. A gentle chime sounds from her seat, and immediately in its wake her youthful voice pipes out hopefully, "It looks like a drum, Dr. Nighman..." The initial surprise at being consulted for actual questions ripples across the class, but Paksi's opening sally encourages three more hands to shoot up with questions of their own. Shenner, in the meantime, shoots a nervous glance at her classmate and sinks a little lower in her own seat. _Just look at her, Paul, just look at her and don't look at me, nobody here but us xenomusicology students, I'm perfectly invisible..._ Where's some of Webb's camouflage makeup when she needs some? Lifting his gaze to the voice in question, Professor Nighman's gaze passes over the young redhead sitting next to the Saurian girl, a quizzical frown crossing his brow for a moment till he focuses on the girl with the answer, his gaze dropping for a moment to find her name. "Yes, Paksi, that is correct, this is a drum, but the question is, what -kind- of drum? What is it for?" His eyes then flicker over to another hand that is raised, pointing a finger as he invites the student to speak his mind. "Yes ..... Aleksi? "Well, um, Dr. Nighman sir, I'd expect they _played_ on it," Aleksi declares with a straight face and a too-innocent tone that provokes one of his neighbors to hit him with a hat and two more of them to snicker. Then all four of them peer uncertainly at the teacher, wondering if they've just overstepped the bounds of this unfamiliar man's classroom decorum, though one of them still jibes, "Well, duh, ion-brain, and ships go fast in hyperspace!" Elated at her success in drawing Dr. Nighman's attention, Paksi eagerly waves her hand again and suggests brightly, "Well, it could either have been someone's personal instrument, or, um, if the materials and markings match they could be indicative of a drum used in certain religious ceremonies!" _Oh hells,_ thinks Shenner uncomfortably, _is she gonna keep this up the whole class?_ Decidedly leery of making eye contact with the sandy-haired bespectacled professor, she slams her gaze down on her little datapad and pretends to type in notes, though after two minutes of typing "Paul Nighman" over and over on her tiny keyboard she finally gives in and punches in the command to make the device simply record the entire lecture. Maybe, she tells herself numbly, she can study it later... if she can make herself listen to Paul's voice twice. One brow rises up at the rather pathetic answer, and replying dryly and drolly, Dr. Nighman parries the awkward thrust with, "Did they? How can you tell? If you had done your requisite reading from the previous class, you would have remembered that many early cultures made instruments, not for the purpose of playing, but as elaborate gifts. As some parents believe of children, meant to be seen, but not heard. Mr. Aleski, I do not require that you have the -correct- answer, but I -do- expect that you will put a little more thought behind the rest of your answers this semester." A wry smile curls in punctuation of the gentle remonstration. "For example, if we are to assume that drum is made for the express purpose of playing, which most are, then the question goes a degree further. How is it played? Why is it played? Did this culture enjoy music? Were drums used as a form of communication? Were drums used to measure time or to lead armies? To simply say it is played is ignore the anthropological details of the situation. Objects were made by people, for a purpose. If you ignore the details of that purpose, then you might as well be writing fiction, rather than accurately trying to report history. Even then, I suspect your book would be rather dull." Again, there is a wry smirk as Paul returns his attention to Paksi. "Those are both excellent observations Paksi. What others can you make?" _Oh gods,_ Shenner inwardly groans, sliding a green glance sideways at Paksi and wondering if she'd lit up the same way every time she received a crumb of Paul Nighman's attentions -- even his comparatively platonic ones. Memories churn through her, recollections of herself and this man in intent conversation, and how indeed she'd felt like the world had opened up before her eyes with each tidbit of knowledge he'd shared with her. And it's those memories that make Shenner sit up a bit even as Paksi starts hopefully elaborating upon the markings depicted upon the side of the drum, bring Shen's chin back up, draw her gaze to the man addressing the assembled young sentients. She feels something shift in her, not really able yet to put a name to it, yet telling herself all at once that she can't spend the entire semester hiding. And so she acknowledges the emotions roiling through her system, letting them exist, but determined not to give them control of her. Her hand comes up. And when Paksi's done speaking she puts in, "I'd guess a closer look would be warranted at the markings on the side of the instrument before hazarding a guess as to its origins. It could have been made on Caspar, but since the Sarians came from Mergansar it could have been from that planet as well." Listening attentively to Paksi's observant notations on the materials of the drum, in that they appeared to be neither clay, nor wood exactly, but some kind of pod or gourd perhaps?, as well as her notations on the markings along the drums side being similar to other markings found on ancient Casparian instruments. It is the interuption that catches Paul's attention to the girl next to Paksi though, taking on the conversation without raising her hand or waiting for his commentary. Drawing a breath, Paul notes, "Thank you for your insights Paksi, indeed you are correct, the drum is not made from clay or wood, but from a Pulalo gourd." Turning his head to consider the redhead again, Paul notes, "A very astute observation as well, though I would appreciate if you would raise your hand so that I can call on everyone in turn Ms ..." and his gaze drops to familiarize himself with the individual before he stiffens. Hazel eyes remain lowered for a moment, taking the opportunity of being new to cover his pause. He found her name easily. Too easily ... they should have been glowing red neon. A warning sign before he had even begun the class. Eyes scanning the names randomly, he finishes mildly, "Ms. Veery. Perhaps you would care to enlighten us on some of your other theories about his artifact?" Paksi shoots Shenner a stare of intermingled pleasure that she's expressed some acquaintaince with the history of her people -- and a trace of jealousy that she's usurped the attention of the professor. But the Sarian's an easygoing girl, and her annoyance doesn't last long; in fact, she peers at her companion with a vivid interest. But now Shenner is only peripherally aware of her dark-haired, dark-spotted friend. The young singer clears her throat and then pronounces in gruffly apologetic tones, "Sorry, Dr. Nighman, I'll do better next time." Though, truth be told, she's not entirely sure whether she's annoyed at herself for just up and speaking out like that -- or relieved that she's gotten past the hurdle of making the man aware of her presence in the class. His apparent lack of reaction throws her for something of a loop, and then she tells herself sternly that regardless of however well he might or might not remember her, regardless of whether she's the slightest bit important to him still, it's hardly appropriate for him to interrupt his lecture. With only a flicker in her expression and a hard swallow her only signs of her internal distress, she proceeds to elaborate as long as she's been given the floor. There is little that gets in, or out, of the shell that is now Paul Nighman. It isn't that he cannot feel however. If anything, he feels all too keenly, and as he stands there at the podium he has the advantage that no one can see his hands, which grip the laminate tightly, knuckles going white. He is relieved that speech is not necessary, as it would seem that Shenner will indeed take him up on his challenge. It is well, as Paul is not at all certain that he would be able to get past the sharp lump in his throat. _Of all the Universities, of all the disciplines, and of all the classes, I had to walk into hers_ Perhaps it was inevitable. He knew she had been on Caspar, but last he had heard, she had taken a turn toward the military during the war, which he knew she had survived. Once she had planned on joining the New Republic, and he had interfered for fear of her life. Which he then placed into jeopardy. But it would seem that his sources were incorrect, or perhaps it was only due to the war effort. But as she had always told him she would, she was in college, studying ethnomusicology. Not the same as xenoarcheaology, but with some ground in common. Hazel eyes study her minutely, noticing all of the not so subtle changes about her. Her hair, her figure, her eyes. But one thing remains acutely familiar, and the sight of it brings up another sharp twist within his gut. About her throat hangs a pendant, and upon that circle of metal, his gaze falls and holds intently. "Given that Paksi's said it's a gourd -- and I think she's right, the color of the frame's consistent with some of the plant types that grow in this system -- I'm goin' with the theory it's from Mergansar. Sarian culture was agricultural on that world before it achieved interplanetary travel and came here. Gourds would be a natural source of material for instruments. Plus, the partial hologram suggests great age. Although it's hardly a universal behavior, it's still nevertheless very common that a culture'll be making its instruments from synthetic materials by the time it reaches the point of getting into space." She's changed. She's leaner, fitter. Her hair is much longer now, pulled back from her face and confined into a tightly braided rope of red currently out of sight behind her shoulders. And like her face, her voice is more defined now, only the barest hint of street slang lurking within her accent, each full syllable delivered with the ease of a young woman who's grown accustomed to making herself heard before an audience. Any audience. Even though she'd never expected to have this particular audience again. You can take the man out of the scientist, but you can't take the scientist out of the man. As Shenner's words filter through the dizzying haze of his thoughts, a logical alarm goes off loudly. Without realizing, one brow rises in a familiarly droll and somewhat snide arch. The corners of his lips rise as his "opponent" has made a fatal error. "Very astute observation. Which then brings me to the next question Shenner." There he falters, the word, her name, falling off his tongue with ease. It used to come to him every day, every hour. In the heat of passion and the thrill of debate. During harsh times on Mandalore and sweet moments sitting in the safety of the branches of Dream. Coughing, Paul reaches out for a glass of water, taking a deep swallow of it to help clear his throat. His voice lifts again, questioning, but softer now. "If it -is- from Mergansar, then why was it found during a dig on Caspar? Clearly old, as you say, why was a drum made of natural materials found on a planet that is not it's original origin?? As you said yourself, most instruments would be made of synthetic materials once the age of space travel was possible. So, Shen, how did this -get- here??" Paul too is a changed man - not so much in appearance, but something more subtle, less understandable. There is an aloofness to him, each smile and response genuine, but only touching upon the surface. Though he seems well, fit and healthy, there is something about the man that has aged him well beyond the two years that have passed since he vanished from her life. Other hands start shooting up around the room, including that of the chastened Aleksi, as the boy determines to win back some of the face he's lost in front of his peers. But the redheaded lead singer of the Womprats acknowledges none of them, not about to yield her spotlight to any other person in the room, any more than she'd let someone throw her off stride during a song. What _almost_ undoes her is hearing her name in that rumbling baritone -- and not just her usual nickname, but the one-syllable form. But she's saved by his very aloofness even as the sight of it sends nervous jolts winging through her entire system and reminds her all over again that this man she'd loved had left her. "I think Paksi's probably got a lead on that, too," she parries without batting an eye. "Either it had great religious significance and was brought here as a treasured artifact... or it was somebody's personal drum and brought here as a treasured belonging. Any musician about to settle down on a new world'd be bound to bring along her instruments." She stops there, not bothering to clarify that she's speaking from personal experience here, especially with one of her own instruments that's followed her from world to world hanging about her very neck. Aloof? Perhaps his mein is controlled and calm, but those hazel eyes are heated and avid. It doesn't matter that other hands about the classroom are shooting up into the air. This is between him and Shen, a one on one debate, a meeting of minds, an examination of two people now two years older and different from what they once were ... and yet eerily the same. Leaving the podium behind, Paul starts to move closer to the student body, actively engaging the conversation, eyes burning into age old familar green. "Perhaps, but those are not the only possibilities. One must examine a multitude of possibilities before settling on one that takes your fancy. It is a dangerous thing to find something that you like, a theory or other ... idea, something that you embue more than you should into it. When you choose to cleave to only one ... then you cannot see the richness and variety that abounds all around you. You limit yourself, and the opportunity for true discovery." Wiping his hands lightly upon his pants, Paul glances about the room for a moment, his words a touch too impassioned and perhaps not purely about theory it would seem. _Focus_ His gaze alights upon the other hands, offering them a reassuring nod that they will in turn be called upon. He had a job to do then, he has a job to do now. And despite his feelings for this particular redheaded girl, he will see to his obligations. [This scene was never finished, but I'm posting it here for posterity! End log.]