"Namesakes and Outlandish Notions" Log Date: 3/28, 4/5, 4/9, 4/11, 4/12, 4/14/00 Log Cast: Webb, Avy, The Womprats (NPCs emitted by Shenner), Emma (NPC emitted by Shenner and Avy), assorted Marines (NPCs emitted by Webb), Ariani (NPC emitted by Shenner and Avy), Jairen, Shenner, Palekuma, Sien'sk, Amadeus, Marek (NPC emitted by Sien'sk), Ian (NPC emitted by Avy) Log Intro: On the whole, life's been pretty much easy for young Shen Veery as of late. Closing in on her twenty-first birthday, the former street thief has led a life of learning by day and music by night -- and that, interspersed with the regular training under her Jaer friend and sword-teacher Jairen, as well as the constant affectionate companionship of a certain Marine of her acquaintance, is pretty much how she wants it. In fact, that constant affectionate companionship of a certain Marine has gotten to the point that Jonathan Webb has already brought up the idea of eventual marriage -- an idea that at the time Shen hasn't been exactly ready to swallow. The Lieutenant's _also_ proposed the notion of the two of them purchasing a larger place in which to live together. From where Shenner sits, this is almost the same thing as actual marriage... for although Webb has certainly spent the majority of his free time with her and made himself perfectly at home in her cramped little flat, she hasn't found that to be the same thing as actually owning a home in conjunction with him. Webb hasn't forgotten the idea, though -- and strangely enough, it takes the rather distressing news that an acquaintance of his and his recent bride have decided to name their offspring after him that prompts Jonathan to eventually bring it up again... ---------- Webb enters the Sandbar. Webb has arrived. The Sandbar A large, comfortable room creates the main part of Plaxton City's infamous Sandbar, survivor of no less than three rounds of destruction, once more back on its feet. Refurbished to much the same state it had enjoyed prior to the invasion of Caspar at Imperial hands, the place boasts dark wood panelling on its walls, and myriad booths and tables of occasionally battered but sturdy lighter wood, and a number of both old and brand new holoposters hung here and there on the walls. Several deep blue glass windows allow light in from outside, while keeping the ambient light level fairly low. The marble bar that survived the recent war still remains, more battered than before, but once again serving as the domain of Ariani; the loft, too, has been restored, providing yet more seating and an excellent view of the low stage towards the back of the room, where the local band called the Womprats play each night. ----For help with tables, type "PLACE HELP" ----For help with drinks, type "BAR HELP" ----For a closer look at the room's details, type "DETAIL LIST" -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Webb => Emma => Ariani -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- leads to Fountain Square - Plaxton City. Avy enters the Sandbar. Avy has arrived. With the turning round of the seasons to something far less cold albeit no less precipitation-laden, the Sandbar's nightly population is on the rise again; cold and ice and heavy snow, after all, are much greater deterrents than mere rain to all but the most determined to get intoxicated. And after all, if there's anything in which Plaxton City abounds, it's umbrellas. A veritable forest of them has sprouted by the door, and their owners, all in assorted stages of dampeness -- not to mention intoxication -- are happily spending what's left of the night listening to the Womprats do what they do best: music. They're in a primarily instrumental mood tonight, it seems, with Shen on her silver flute, Karm on her recently acquired fiddle, and Tethra on his horn all chasing one another around a multilayered melody line over the top of Aa'leet's keyboards and Loren's driving percussion. Webb's one of the conspicuous ones, in these surroundings... not for anything in his appearance, but for his attire, and his demeanor. He's not exactly kicking asses and taking names, but still, he's afforded a healthy amount of room by the crowd. His expression is one of intensity, focussed upon the assortment of playing cards in his hand. A lit cigar, of quality sufficient to appease the tastes of the infamous Troy McTavish, is clenched between his lips. And at the table are four similarly focussed sentients. Webb's mannerisms differ slightly from this group, for he can be seen to look up towards the stage every so often, particularly those moments when Shenner's flute dominates the music. Webb You see before you a human male who you would guess to be approximately in his mid-twenties. He stands just a touch under six feet tall, with a rather wirey but unquestionably fit build. His eyes are grey in colour, with just a hint of blue. His hair is of a shade somewhere between blond and brown, and could appear to be either depending upon the light of the room. At first glance, he's the sort who probably wouldn't stand out in a crowd of his species... though discrete patterns to his mannerisms, or the sharpness gaze can be quite memorable. His attire is decidedly military, drab slate green being the dominant colour. He wears fatigue trousers which bear a mottled pattern of blended blotches of charcoal over the green. A simple t-shirt of the same shade of green, though solid in colour, covers his torso. The sleeves come halfway down the upper arm, and hint at the presence of a tattoo upon one well-honed bicep. It would only make sense that he's also wearing combat boots, obviously well-cared for, but also well broken-in. A thin chain hangs about his neck, bearing a pair of metallic identification tags, backed with black rubber so they won't clatter against each other. A maroon beret is worn atop his head when appropriate. Where he can get away with it, he's likely to sport a holster strapped about his right thigh, occupied by his sidearm (CDU Model C3/Kylan-3 Pistol), and a blade is sheathed upon his ankle. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => E-11 Blaster Rifle => Vibro-Blade => Field Armor 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 entirely in black from head to foot: a billowy, long-sleeved silken shirt tied off at her waist, unbuttoned enough to reveal the top of the form-fitting, sleeveless jumpsuit she's wearing beneath it. The jumpsuit's neckline cuts a straight line just below her collarbone, before running down uninterrupted along the rest of her body to calf-high suede boots. Even the thongs that hold the braid of her hair swept back from her face are black, terminating in three clear glass beads and a pair of small black feathers. All that relieves the stark black garb is a glint of silver at her breast, some sort of pendant dangling around her neck. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => XiX Blaster Pistol => 6576 Galactic Standard Credits Spending a rare and cherished night in the Sandbar is it's proprieter. The familiar redheaded public icon sits casually behind the long, curved bar, shadowed by two everpresent hulking and suited Sarians. Spring is indeed here, and the booming business has returned with the melting of the snow. And while the patrons seem to be enjoying their brandies and ales and flouncy cocktails, the interest seems to be centered on the Womprats. Their music fills the establishment, and Avy is perhaps more delighted to see their return to her bar'd stage than she is to see the return of spring itself. All these patrons in the place tonight mean that Emma's scampering hither and yon, ferrying drinks and the occasional actual edible object back and forth. Adroitly dodging hands that periodically grab at her and periodically retaliating with a daintily placed kick in appropriate shins, the young waitress is in her element. She bubbles with charm, sparkles with perkiness, and manages to get away with things like interrupting five incredibly focused individuals at cards long enough to pipe, "How you all doing on your drinks? Need another round of anything?" Webb in particular gets one of Emma's scintillating smiles as she catches him glancing up at Shen in the midst of a veritable storm of sixteenth notes scurrying across the stage, and she asks him warmly, "Howsabout you, Lieutenant?" Soft whisps of richly scented smoke waft upwards from Webb's cigar as he puffs lightly upon it... never does he seem to really draw upon it. Of course, it's not like one it supposed to breath that smoke into one's lungs, anyways. "It's a special day," says Webb distantly, his gaze momentarily scanning those of the others at the table, "A round of the good stuff... something appropriate to the occasion. On me." Webb gestures to those at the table with him as he removes the cigar from between his lips. He keeps his cards close to his chest, of course, "Unless you're flying, Cutter..." Webb looks across to a flight-suit clad Marine, who sombrely shakes his head in response. Webb smirks faintly and declares, "Two, and make 'em good ones, Navy..." as he tosses down a pair of his cards, only to retrieve two more from the dealer, who seems to be the only one among the group attired in blue rather than slate green. "It's an important anniversary," Webb says to Emma, "And I got myself a namesake." The lengthy trill of notes pouring forth from Shenner's flute is delightful, and causes a smile to dawn across the face of the redhead perched behind the counter this late and booming evening at the bar. There are many familiar faces in the crowd tonight; The spring has brought back the wash of regulars, the occational of which will push their way to the bar and attempt to offer greetings to Avy over the din of the crowd and the blare of the music. She slips herself off of the stool where she's been comfortably seated for the whole length of the last two sets, and drapes an arm around the shoulders of the SandBar's longtime tender, Ariani. "Get the band a round, would you? By the Force, they've worked their butts off tonight." "Already got some glasses lined up," Ariani promises with a wink, indicating five glasses and the mixes for Corellian Suicides -- with Shenner and Loren in their ranks, what other drink of choice can the Womprats have? Speaking of drinks, though, Emma blinks guilelessly at Webb as he makes his declaration. Her voice can be heard to peal out loudly, even over the music: "Oh wow, really? What? Who?" The young waitress practically vibrates in place with this opportunity for fresh gossip before her. "How special? I can get you some _really_ good stuff if you boys want it!" And she flashes her sunniest smile at the gathered soldiers, as well as their naval comrade. Considering that the table of soldiers seems to be 'gambling' with nothing more than toothpicks, there's an awful lot of grim poker-faces around. "The kid's name," Webb winces faintly as he antes his 'bet', "Is Lorris Jonathan Benjamin Pallando." Webb's apparent distress prompts a grim smirk from one of the Marines who he's playing against... a woman of about close to Avy's age (maybe a little younger), who has somehow aquired a thin streak of grey in her copper coloured hair. "On a brighter note," Webb says, his spirits seeming to lift a little, "Today is the 10th anniversary of the day I got blooded." Jairen enters the Sandbar. Jairen has arrived. Stepping through the opening door is a familiar figure to the regulars at the Sandbar. Jairen pauses for a moment, hood down, gloved hands resting on his sword hilt as usual, and glances around the room for a moment before quietly moving towards the bar. Laughing heartily as Ariani motions to the already partially prepared glasses, Avy nods redirects her glance again towards the stage. Arm still wrapped about Ariani's lithe shoulders, she excecutes a friendly squeeze before letting the bartendress go back about her business. The party of enlisteds playing cards at the booth where Emma has taken station has caught her eye this evening, and she's been delighted in watching the unspoken exchange between the chiseled Marine and the slight redhaired performer who currently dominates the stage. Another nudge is protruded onto Ariani as she bustles passed Avy again. "Looks like our girl is thouroughly attached. Who'd'a guessed when we hired her on, huh? I bet Loren's just dying." With this theory offered, she scoops up her half-filled mug and takes another long sip. The sight presented for Jairen's consideration is not only familiar, but tonight including the bonuses of several particularly familiar faces as well. There's the full complement of Womprats upon the stage: Shenner, on her flute, seems in the final bars of an instrumental with her flute, the notes dancing like birds taking flight. Emma is hastily scribbling down orders at the table Webb occupies, and when Webb grimly delivers the reasons for tonight's celebrations she can be heard to squeal in delight from several meters away. "You got a SON?!" comes her cry, at the top of her considerable lungs. Several bemused heads turn in her direction, and Emma promptly scampers off to the bar, crying, "Hey, 'Ani! Hey boss! Webb's got a SON!" Webb groans and smacks himself upon the forehead. Well, that about does it for 'poker faces'. The reaction of Webb's fellow card-players is swift and amusing. 'Cutter' nearly falls off of his chair. Blackcat turns as red as a beet (as redheads are often wont to do) as she tries to restrain her laughter. Watching his fellow officers having a good chuckle at his expense (especially that Navy file... whatever his name is), Webb barks out, "/Not/ a son... a /namesake/. One of Captain Hormone's kids. Can't we just talk about something merry like leeches, or killing people?" Blackcat manages to snap out of her little fit long enough to quip, "Could be worse... knowing the good Captain," she giggles hysterically, "It could've easily ended up Jonathan Palpatine Pallando." Webb frowns dourly. The swordsman approaches the bar, nodding to Ariani. "A chilled wine, m'lady." he gives his usual request. He turns his head as he hears Emma rattle off that Webb has a child and looks a tad confused for a moment. But only for a moment. As Webb corrects the young woman he smiles slightly to some inner thought. The racket of the crowd isn't enough to stifle Emma's enthusiastic bounding towards the bar. "A son?" Avy mouths, her jaw dropping visibly. Webb's correction is unfortunately lost in the prattle, and the establishment owner exchanges an uneasy glance with the Bartendress, and then with her bubbling younger sister. "Webb? Jonathan Webb? You're talking about Shen's longtime attachment, right?" She demands with a tone of half-disbelief. Oh, it could be worse all right, Webb. For Emma's timing is particularly superb tonight; in fact, the band finishes its number on the very tail end of her high-volume proclamation, and five pairs of eyes shoot their gazes first to the bar and _then_ over to the table where Webb's compatriots are currently laughing themselves silly. Shenner, in a sudden fluid moment of black, is off the stage in two seconds flat and striding towards the bar, yelling, "What was that, Emma?" It's obvious enough that the band's about to take a break -- and now, some of the patrons are starting to snicker. "Well, he SAID there's a BABY, and it's named after him, and why else would a guy have a baby named after him, and get somethin' really special out, will ya, 'Ani?" Emma's at the bar now, chattering a parsec a minute, while her older sister does her best to keep a straight face. _She_ has noticed the Marines' collective hilarity, and she shoots Shen her best 'don't fret, kiddo' look. Palekuma enters the Sandbar. Palekuma has arrived. Bap. Webb's head hits the table as he groans with distress. Yeah, he's overjoyed with this occasion, particularly with the bizzare spin that Emma has put on it. Looking up after several seconds, he spots someone across the room and calls out, "Corporal Fields!" Another uniformed Marine, this one an unassuming woman with sandy blond hair looks up, and turns towards Webb. Webb motions her over, and like a well-trained, well-armed pet, the Corporal makes her way over. Rising up from the table of card players, Webb says, "Take over for me... and cheat like a bastard." The enthusiastic young corporal takes the seat which Webb just vacated, picks up his cards, rearranges them, then with a casual flourish of her hands, they simply vanish, only to have Fields seemingly pull them out of thin air a moment later. Palekuma, with glazed look on his face, walks into the bar. Without paying attention to his surroundings he heads to the bar. Seeing his young singer friend approaching the bar with the all too familiar Shenner-Death-Gaze on her face, Jairen smiles and takes a small step back away from the group that is forming. This mess needs to be straightened out quickly, he surmizes. His wine can wait. The ensuing events have laid clear the facts of the matter. The rather mirthy misunderstanding at Webb's expense does cause a grin to pull at the corner of Avy's mouth. But, as the spark of a singer bounds from the stage to challenge the quite oblivious Emma, the President manages to don one of those poker-faces that Webb's table seems to be so sorely lacking. Again she exchages a humored glance with Ariani, the smirk only revealing itself momentarily before tucking back away behind the stony facade. Her mug is held steady in mid-rise to her lips, awaiting the next unfolding in the comedy that's brewing. "Didja hear, Shen? Webb's got a--" Emma begins, only to be interrupted by the black-clad singer's drawl, "I heard." Shenner's eyebrows have climbed very nearly up to her hairline, and though she does smile gratefully at Ariani as the bartender shoves a Corellian Suicide towards her, and though she notices Jairen and bobs her braided head at him in greeting, it's obvious most of her attention's upon the waitress. Emma, undaunted, cries perkily, "There's Webb! Ask him, Shen!" In the meantime, Ariani drawls sidelong to Avy, "What say you run our good lieutenant's buddies some Velgarth Darks, boss?" They wanted special, didn't they? If there's anything in the Sandbar with a bigger kick than a Corellian Suicide, that particularly potent mix of three kinds of brandy might well qualify. Palekuma climbs up an empty barstool (which is not easily done given his short stature.) He let's out a gurgled sigh as if sitting at the bar was a particularily exhausting task. Sien'sk enters the Sandbar. Sien'sk has arrived. Webb makes a bee-line over towards the bar, in rather focussed pursuit of Emma, who is spreading that little rumour like a wildfire. As he slides up to the bar he asks politely of Ariani, "Ani... might you have a roll of duct tape back behind the bar there... I need to umm... seal something." Webb glares in Emma's direction. Jairen nods back to Shenner, giving her a small 'calm down' nod and smile. "Vendui' Dalathir." he says to her. Other than that, he just stands there, letting the scene unravel as it may. Amadeus enters the Sandbar. Amadeus has arrived. Already flipping the Velgrath Darks' signature highball glasses, etched with the establishment's namesake, onto a serving tray, Avy grins and nods towards the lithe 'tender. "You got it, 'ani. After this, I might have to make them doubles." She chides with a grin iced on her lips. The rich fragrance of the brandies fill the air as they're gracefully poured into the clear recepticles, displaying a particularly lovely triple-layered effect. The varying shades of amber begin to sink into each other as the redhead pulls an apron over her casual garb, tying it snugly about her waist, and smoothly hefting the filled tray to her hand. "This round'll be on *me*." She winks with a chuckle, already heading down the length of the bar and preparing to round it's end to delve into the population of the crowd. Emma emits a tiny squeak at the look on Webb's face, not to mention Shenner's. "Ummm," she pipes, "umm... bye!" And she scampers off again at top speed, looking for a reason to escape. Ooh, look, customers! She zips over to Palekuma and Sien'sk, focusing that million-watt smile of hers upon both the newcomers and babbling, "Hi, welcome to the Sandbar, can I get you something?" This leaves Shenner free to sidle over to Webb, slide an arm around him, and shoot him a pointed look. "Sooooooo, Jon. What's this about you and a baby?" Palekuma looks up at Emma grins. He speaks very quickly with a squeaky voice, "What do you have that's good?" He asks. As Emma beats a hasty retreat from the scene, Webb answers flatly to Shenner's inquiry, "Captain Pallando fathered another horde of spawn. One of them got named after me." Webb almost winces as he mentions it, as if the thought were making his head hurt, "The parents, it seems, have one /hell/ of a weird sense of humour." The door is pressed open gently by the tall frame of the once robed Twi'lek. A being can only stand being baked like a nerf-roast for only so long. The near seven foot male move toward the bar, his hands clasped at the small of his back (left wrist in right hand). Emma draws a look. Y'know the kind. Who are you? What can I give you to escape with me life? That expression one uses when confronted with a person whom has entirely too much energy. Yeah.. I'm sure we all know what the expression looks like. Aaaanywho.. Now that Sien'sk's player is done rambling the Twi'lek shakes his head to the energetic woman and says, "No.. Not particularly. I'm just going to go sit at the bar." Phew.. He begins toward the bar... and wouldn't you know it? Another landmine decides it's going to rear it's ugly head. The burly spacer we've decided to name Marek. "Ey! It's Tails... I thought you'd died after that special yeh had!" He gives a hearty laugh in Sien'sk's direction.. which just gets the large man a glare from Ariani, whom then looks to Sien'sk. "Don't mind him Sien, hon... What can I get ya? Another glass of water?" The Twi'lek shakes his head some and settles onto a stool, his hands pressing against the edge of the bar. "You wouldn't happen to have anything like Whyren's Reserve.. would you?" Jairen continues to watch the exchange between Webb and Shenner with a rather amused look on his face. However, he says nothing to them as it is not his place. Instead, he turns back to Ariani. It's time for that drink. "M'lady, about that chilled wine..." he starts in an amused tone of voice. Against all his better judgement and all sane concepts he thought he possessed, Amadeus decides to venture into the Sandbar. The gentle layer of smoke and haze wafts over his form and begins to linger as the fresh air from the outside world ceases to blow with the closure of the bar's doors. He breathes out a deep, cold breath from within his lungs, dispersing the cloud around him as his eyes adjust to the light of the watering hole. Walking slowly away from the exit towards the deeper recesses, it is not long before the old man smells the familiar smell that is alcohol. The smell, it seems, lingers within his nostrils as he snorts quietly but often to rid his senses of the odour which he does not find pleasant at all. Taking a seat at a booth that seems to be out of the way of everyone except a hovering waitress, the robed figure takes a seat and stares out across the expanse towards the motley collection of space farers, tramps, distinguished guests and other patrons of the Sandbar. By now, the exchange at the bar has rather seized the attention of the musicians, too. Loren's doing his level best to avoid snickering, but once he's got a Corellian Suicide in his hands, the drummer is suitably distracted. Karm and Tethra and Aa'leet are all watching their lead singer as avidly as they can manage while maintaining a discreet distance -- though it might also be noted that the keyboard player's attention swivels over to the Twi'lek patron who's just come in. Twi'leks being rare on Caspar in Aa'leet's experience, a new one _does_ tend to catch her... and in the meantime Shenner, taking pity upon the Lieutenant she's embracing, hands him _her_ drink. "Here," she tells Webb wryly, "you look like you need this more than I do." The tray balanced steadily on the hand of the redheaded Sarian is elevated quite high above the mass and various heights of the crowd that she's trudging her way through. The layered brandys swirl slowly in their glasses, diffusing any number of glow-orbs that may be shining through the thick, warm liquid, and a gentle wave spills over the edge of the collective recepticles. Finally, the slow pace through the mass of sentients pays off, and the tray is lowered and slid expertly onto the table full of Military Enlisted. "With my compliments, folks." She grins, removing a highball and placing it in front of each of the inhabitants of the booth. "Everything's, good, darlin." Emma beams with a nudge to the Palekuma. "You want something with a kick, take the Avy's Special." She proclaims with a toothy smile and a pensive glance over her sholder to the scene she just retreated so quickly from. But, in a flash, the bubbly demeanor is focused again on the newcomer recently perched on the stool beside her. Webb peers at the beverage that Shenner has just offered him. It doesn't afford all that much scrutiny... probably not as much as it should. In fact, only after he has downed the beverage in what rather short order does the question that he probably should've asked first occur to him. Wincing profoundly at the beverage which just rolled down his throat like a carpet of napalm, he asks, "Uh, what was in that?" Rubbing his bald head, the short alien takes Emma's suggestion into consideration. Finally Palekuma nods in agreement and with his quick voice that is barely understandable he mutters, "Kick is good. Definetely good. I'll try, yes." A peal of young baritone laughter can be heard from nearby: Loren, collaspsing against Tethra in mirth as he gets a gander at the look on Webb's face. The big black-skinned horn player is a bit hard pressed to keep an entirely straight face, too... and Shen, in the meantime, attempts to look as straight-faced as possible. She's better at it than Tethra, though a mixture of surprise and amusement has kindled in her emerald eyes. "Don't tell me you don't know a Corellian Suicide when you taste one?" Relaxingly the band that inhabits the stage here is thankfully silent. With a small shudder, Amadeus could still remember the last time he entered this place, many moons ago - the high pitch shrills of one of their songs still penetrated his being every time he thought of the memory. Shaking off the mental image, the Brother refocuses on the crowd to see what faces he knew, if any, here. The outburst of a space catches almost everyone's attention, including Amadeus, who notes with curiousity cemented to his brow the being who is Sien'sk. The swirling purplish-pink eyes fixate on the Twi'lek for a moment before letting it trail off into nothing, his strangely coloured orbs getting a fix on another target: a fellow seeker, like himself. Stroking the top of his lip pensively, Amadeus seems to be totally drawn on his quarry to the point that he does not notice a waitress ask him for his order repeatedly. "Uh, Sir?" she asks once more, her appealing tone finally striking a cord that he can hear, "Huh? Oh, sorry my child. I was off with the Solar Winds, I was," he replies, an old but sincere smile flicking his lips as he gazes at her. "Just water," he replies after a moment of consideration. "Yes, that will do nicely, thankyou." He watches the waitress depart for a moment before turning back to his object of fascination at the moment - none other than the President, herself. "There sure is, Sien, hon." Ariani affirms, turning on her heel with an amused glance towards the Marine and the the singer in her midst. "Just let me know if you want another one of those, you two." She adds, her head poking into a transparasteel refrigeration unit, and retrieving an Whyren's and a glass for the familiar Twi'lekii patron who has just settled himself at the bar. "Just got a shipment of em, Sien. I thought'a you when they got here." Webb's voice has aquired an ever-so faint rasp to it as the 'scorched earth' effect settles into his vocal cords. "Sweet merciful..." his voice trails off, and he spits out a Corulagan word which sounds like the sort of thing which would have to be an expletive. He manages to regain some measure of composure, enough to answer nonchalantly, "No." Emma waves a tanned arm towards Ariani and calls, "An Avy's special, over here, huh?" The datapad where she takes her orders is plunged back into the pocket of her apron just as the tall, wide glass, and slim shotglass is shoved down the bar towards the sunshine-haired waitress. In a swift movement, she plunks the shot into the highball, and hands it over to Palekuma. 'Here ya go. This should set you back for awhile." She winks, and quickly turns to lavish her attentions on other patrons. While he'd waited for Ariani to finish with whatever it was before she answered, his attention had drifted over toward the band, the famale Twi'lek in particular. Definately rare that you'll encounter a Twi'lek on Caspar. If he had a credit for all the odd looks he'd gotten in his time here, he'd be quite the rich being. As Ari speaks, Sien'sk turns around and gives a toothy grin, his white, pointed teeth shown off rather fully. "Thank you Ari." As he hears the name of the drink he winces a bit and turns to look for the destination of the potent drink. "I hope he holds alcohol like a wookiee." He shudders and turns back toward his glass of Whyren's Reserve. Marek speaks up again and slaps Sien'sk on the back before he has a chance to get to his drink. "Ah... Ye' just hold yer alcohol like an Ithorian!" The burly spacer laughs again and Sien'sk just sorta.. gives one of those.. yeah.. sure.. smiles. He rotates his right shoulder some before he lifts his drink off the bar and takes a shallow sip, savoring the flavor for a moment before swallowing, letting the burning feeling slip into his belly and wash the warmth of the armoatic, sweet, amber-colored drink over him. Studying Webb very carefully, Shenner can't entirely suppress a crooked grin of entertained interest. Having rarely seen Webb in anything except top physical form and full alertness -- much less _intoxicated_ -- the singer can't help but wonder exactly how well her Marine will process a Corellian Suicide. "Feel better yet?" she asks, her voice and expression the very picture of nonchalant solicitation... but set off against that arch amusement in her eyes. "I can see why you'd wanna knock back a few, though, Jon. Pallando namin' a kid after you and all..." Tethra calls over, then, in his deep rumbling bass, "If he handles his children anything like he handles his musicians, they shall be a most alarming family." "You said it," Loren chortles. "His whole thing tryin' to get Shen to sing _opera_ _still_ cracks me up...!" The delivery of the drinks to the tableful of military is quickly excecuted, and Avy pulls the tray from the table and tucks it under her arm. Laughing with some of the patrons as she edges her way back to the bar, and taking down one order for a Chakla to be delivered somewhere in the vacinity of the center of the packed room. The dripping tray is thunked onto the curved marble bar as the President-turned-Waitress for a night circles back to the mixing ground behind the polished length of bar. "Opera?" She pipes, giving Loren a lucritive glance. "I hadn't heard *this*!" Laughing and retreiving her own mug from beneath the counter, only to find it empty, she shakes her head. Topping the glass off with a bottle of spicewine within reach and taking a sip, she offers a nudge to one of the two dark-suited, burly Sarian men seated nearby. "Want one, Ian?" She asks with a grin. "You gotta drink it all in one shot!" Ariani calls down the bar to the recipient of the Avy's Special. An almost guilty grin paints her bowed lips as she offers a knowing glance to Sien'sk, then turns her gaze back to the unknowing patron with the potent cocktail several stools down. At the table where Webb was previously seated, the young Marine Corporal who took his place is now in the process of taking the officers at the table for everything that they're worth, after allowing them to gain some ground against her. With a faintly pleasant smirk that tells very little about what the Corporal is actually thinking, she shuffles the deck in a confusing blur of motion, and deals out a veritable barrage of cards. While no money is changing hands in this game, one can't help but get the impression that there's something more at stake than the toothpicks which they're using to signify points. Meanwhile, Webb scrunches his nose perculiarly in response to Shenner's question, and appraises the situation, "Feels like someone set off a bloody fusion bomb in my sinuses," then segues back to the whole Pallando thing, "I think it was his wife's idea. She's a little squirrelly after all. Lorris Jonathan Benjamin Pallando..." As the words roll off Webb's tongue, his face scrunches again, "I'm flanked by a goose-stepping /twit/ and an airheaded businessman." A uh-oh-what-have-gotten-myself-into look falls over Palekuma's face. Although this is face soon changes to a false pshaw-I-can-it-look and he nods at Ariani comment. The black-haired, blue-eyed boy Corellian with the starburst tattoo, so frquently parked behind the drumset up on the stage, laughs out loud and tosses a nod in Avy's direction. "Can you believe it? The man actually wanted us to all show up and audition for a freggin' _opera_, for cryin' out loud!" In the meantime, Karm just shakes her shaggy dark head in weary knowing amusement, beckoning to Aa'leet and returning with her to put at least _two_ of their number back on the stage and fill the bar with suitable background music. Aa'leet goes with her bandmate readily enough, though the white-skinned Twi'lek female _does_ keep half an eye on Sien'sk as she goes. And in the meantime Shenner slips an arm around Webb, turning him about and attempting to encourage him to sit down on the nearest stool. "Shameful," she agrees with him in firm straight-faced tones. And she calls over to Avy, looking deadly serious, "Hey, boss, I think we need another of those specials over here!" Sien'sk The Twi'lek male before you is obviously one of the larger Twi'lekki to come off of Ryloth. He's easily 6'10" and around 260 pounds, pure, quick muscle. He carries himself with dignity, his headtails are crossed infront of his neck, hanging down slightly over his shoulders. His eyes are a bright golden hue, sparkling with a strange sort of intelligence. As if he knew that he was larger, perhaps even stronger than most of the persons he would encounter.. and that it doesn't seem to scew his view towards others. In fact, if you watch, he seems more of a gentle giant, whom could be terribly dangerous if thoroughly provoked; Which most likely takes a great deal of effort. Wraped about his forehead and down his lekku is a long strip of bantha hide, tanned black. It wraps and ties about the tips of the sensative lekku. His skin, is surprisingly smooth for a Twi'lekki, without the pock marks and scars of most Twi'lek males. His teeth, also aren't crooked and snarled. But rather straight, though they still bear the typical pointy ends of twi'lek teeth. His shoulders are rather broad, a bantha hide vest hanging off of them. HIs current attire answers the question, "What /does/ he wear under those robes?" The affore mentioned vest holds well to his form, though not constircting, just perfectly tailored to his large angled torso. At the tops of each bicept, where shoulder meets arm, is a strip of some sort of leathery material. They're help up by a knot that keeps them from sliding down over the rounded bicept. The left arm bares two such strips while the right holds one. at his wrists, and several inches up the forearm, are a pair of banthahide braces. His pants are also hide. While his outfit does have a bit of style to it, the numerous scratches on the braces, his vest and his pants lead one to believe the material choices were made purely for their utility. His feet are still covered by his sandals. Ian is quickly smacked on the back by the other suit-flanked Sarian with a hearty laugh. "He wishes, Ma'am." An incredulous look is shot sidelong to the Protectorate Gaurd that seems to find this situation somewhat humorous. "Better keep it coffee for now, Mrs. President." Ian croaks, adjusting the comlink in his ear as he speaks. "But, feel free, of course, Ma'am." He smiles, folding his ornately tattooed hands into his lap. "He's right!" Emma pipes to the ususpecting patron. "All in one shot. Like this!" She grins as she faux motions through slamming an invisible glass. His eyes narrow instinctively. Not from the smoke filled room or the stifling odour of a spacer who has gone far to long without the use of a refresher unit, but rather from the behaviour of a certain red-headed Sarian. This was not the Seeker who shared his sentiments that cold wintry night, he noted with concern. No, far from it, he silently adds as he watches her interact with the band, her raucous laugh abrasing his ears. "Be careful where you lay your plans," booms a voice into Amadeus' ear. Startled to say the least, the old man instinctively turns to his side to face the owner of the voice but finds none. Just as he knew he wouldn't. "My people's plans are none of your concern," he replies softly, his tone filled with regality but lacking its normal, passive authority. To those sitting near Amadues this sight would be parculiar indeed for the robed human seems to be talking to ... no one. He continues to look at Avalyshaar, his gaze only plucked from it by the speech of another male. "The Marine." the deep voice booms into his head once more. "I know what he is," replies Amadeus, his voice void of all emotion. "I do have my own eyes, do I not?" He shakes his head and rubs his hands together already knowing that the voice will deny his last claim, for the eyes he saw with were indeed not his own. "Be gone," he whispers, mainly to himself. "Be gone." Painfully aware of his small stature, Palekuma tries to prove that he can take it like his taller fellow bar patrons. "Of course," he says to Emma while scratching the ridge that is his nose. "Shameful, indeed!" Avy laughs, her attentions quickly torn from the pair of ProGaurds to lean forward onto the polished bar that's had perhaps more stories passed across it than cocktails. "You were absolutely ment to sing with the 'Rats, Shen. Don't go listening to men like that. They'll always steer you wrong." She winks and settles herself onto the stool placed nearby for her. It's all mirth that she's spouting of course. "And, I think you're right." She announces with Shenner's request, and pulls several bottles from beneath the bar, and sets them heavily on the marble top. Glasses are retrieved and filled, and another slim shotglass is carelessly plunked into a potent and fragrant highball filled with swirling liquids. With an expected oversplash spilling over its edges, it's gingerly shoved towards the singer and her consort with a wide grin. "This'll take the burning from your brain, Lieutenant." Webb sighs whistfully at Avy's appraisal, and gets that distant look as if he were picturing something in his mind. "Oh, I don't know," he comments thoughtfully, "Personally, I think something would hemmorhage in the good Captain's brain if he heard that kind of music coming from anyone except his inbred blueblood friends. What are you trying to poison me with now?" He snaps back to the situation at hand, fixing Shenner in his steely gaze as he lifts the beverage that's been shoved towards the two of them. Another shudder is given as the poor being is railroaded into a near death experience. Or.. well.. Atleast what was for /him/ a near death experience. He turns away from the bar, right hand still holding a mostly full glass. He takes another savoring sip of it while his eyes begin to roam about the main room of the bar. Ah.. that Twi'lekki female again. He smiles faintly at her, watching her and the bandmate come towards the bar after Shenner. He looks almost as abruptly as he'd looked, fearing appearing a bit rude for looking so long. His golden eyes simply look someplace else, toward Amadeus for a moment, then on toward the stage. Eventually, he turns around again, looking up and down the bar. Bored? Horrible understatement. Huh... now there's something interesting. He hand't noticed the president earlier.. but his eyes focus first on her guards, then the woman herself. He sips his drink to pull his attention away, setting it on the counter, his eyes stare down into the amber liquid. "You now don't want your water, sir?" In the meantime, while Amadeus was talking to his 'imaginery friend', the waitress had come returned with his order. She arrived only in time to here his last request to 'be gone', so her usual cheery face is now somewhat perplexed. "Don't mind him, lass, he talks to the fairies that one does..." The deep brogue that stems from a dark and stocky man cuts the air and draws back Amadeus from his reverie with who/whatever he is in conversation with. "My water, yes. I still want that, thank you." he stammers quickly, completely uneased for a moment. Definitely not the mystical and collected Lord Brother of the Covenant, at all. Fishing inside his robes, he fetches a fistful of cred chits and drops them onto the table - the coinage being more than enough for a very expensive liquer, let alone a solitary glass of water. "Thank you my child," he says solemnly, ignoring the laconic man and his jibe and turning back to Avy and Webb. Slinking back into the shadows that the wall provides, he takes a sip of his drink. "You should not have come here, Amadeus." the voice speaks. "They will harm you." Taking another sip of his clear liquid, he tries to steady himself - his old hands trembling slightly. "I grow weary of your premonitions," he responds tiredly, the weight of age flowing into his eyes to make them dull slightly. "So tired..." The five Womprats seem to cover a range of physical builds, from slender and delicate clear up to big and brawny... with Karm and Tethra on the latter end of the spectrum, and Shenner and Aa'leet on the former. Aa'leet is even a touch smaller than Shen, and accordingly, the size difference between her and the big Twi'lekki male is quite noticeable. And, if the glimmer in the keyboardist's big dark eyes is any indication, aethestically pleasing. Still, she's very good at what she does, and she applies herself diligently to a keyboard-and-horn duet with Karm... ... while Shen leans against the bar and fixes Webb with a gamine grin. "I'll drink it if you don't want it," she offers brightly, "but from the look of ya, Jon, this is at _least_ a two-drink situation, doncha think? I mean, hells, ol' Ernie might take to calling the kid Jonathan on a regular basis!" Oblivious to the multiple pairs of eyes settled on her, possibly because she's used to being a public icon of some description, but possibly because she's chosen to spend an evening in the somewhat delightful establishment that she owns, Avy very nearly chokes on her own warming glass of spicewine as Shenner infers that Webb's namesake may end up commonly called after the Marine. He seems to be aging before her very eyes with this theory presented, and the President sputters a warm laugh. "I can just see poor old Pallando having a near conniption, by the Force when, 'Little Jonny' wants to become a Marine." The glimmer is noticed, perhaps a bit after the fact.. but he does notice. Turning back toward the band he watches the keyboard player for a moment before his gaze is pulled back toward Avy by some thought in the back of his mind. Though.. his eyes don't get all the way there before the thought is gone and he's looking back toward the other Twi'lekki. The glass is raised to his lips and he draws in a nice, deep draught of the amber liquid, again savoring the flavor and the slight burning before he swallows and the warmth spreads from his belly out. In almost a slump, he leans back against the bar, his eyelids getting heavier with the minute. Now watching the female twi'lek with half-lidded eyes and a faint smile on his face, one can only hope it doesn't come across as something more than sleep and a slight buzz. Webb hmms distantly, brightening slightly at the thought, though hardly bursting with exuberance. Yeah, the thought of Captain Hormone's kid growing up to become a hard-driving type AAA cut-throat Marine is certainly an intriguing one, particularly with the conniption that would result. Or the kid might turn out as neurotic as both parents... squared. Ooo. There's a thought to shiver by. "I'll drink to that," he sighs, then downs the glass, apparently trying not to taste the beverage in question. His eyes get exceptionally wide as the liquid slides past his tongue and plummets down his throat. Of the five musicians of the Sandbar, Karm and Aa'leet in particular are a study in contrasts: the one tall and black-skinned and muscular, the other pure white of skin, delicate, small. The one a human, with a magnificent crown of frizzy dark hair, the other a Twi'lek, with her lektu curled about her fine-boned shoulders. But the one thing they have in common is their music, and the jazzy duet buoys up the conversation in the bar. While Aa'leet's fingers dance across her keyboards, she does periodically slide the big Twi'lekki male she'd spotted a glance... and once or twice, she smiles. Trusting her bandmates to hold down the musical fort, Shenner watches Webb down his second drink, and a hint of the admiration she normally reserves for individuals who successfully drink her under the table kindles in her expression. "Howsabout now?" she teases. "Feel better?" Webb doesn't seem to be wobbling by any measure. After all, it is only two drinks. His expression and tone, though, seem to have mellowed just a touch. "Tastes funny," Webb appraises the beverage, which is quite a comment, considering what he'll eat when deployed to the field. A tattooed Sarian hand is brought quickly to the comlink in his ear, and Ian hunches over to listen, perhaps trying to duck out of the range of the crowds persistant din. He exchanges a glance with Brian, the other burly Sarian Protectorate Gaurd, and he stands, taking several steps towards the laughing President who is quite apparantly enjoying her 'night off'. But the rumbling laughter is quickly halted as Ian places a large hand on her slim shoulder, and leans down to murmur something to the Sar-Spotted ear of the redhead. Any trace of the exchanged is lost in the rattle of the crowd, butthe look on Avy's freckled features in quite visible. Red brows knit in concern and she nods slightly to the gaurd as he steps back. "Shen, Lieutenant, I've been called away." She says lowly, thoughts very nearly visably whirling behind her stormy gray eyes in the dim amber glow of the Sandbar. "Shenner... Give me a holo, if you remember to in the next few days, would you?" She asks as she stands, untying the dark-green apron from her waist and pulling it over her head. The laughing demeanor has melted, only to be replaced by the granite, aging features of Presidentcy. Bidding quick adeiu's to the Ariani and Emma following her goodbyes with Shen & Webb. The two hulking gaurds fall in step on either side of the somewhat petite politician, and relatively quickly, she is escourted through the crowd and out the sliding door that serves as the entrance to the booming hot-spot. The smiles for the Twi'lekki female draw a slight increase of the Twi'lekki male's smile... perhapes because he didn't realise he was smiling in the first place? Eh.. Maybe. He sets his drink down and stands up slowly, making sure to have his footing solidly under him abefore he turns and nods toward Ariani, murmuring a, "Goodnight," to her before turning and starting toward the door, not really expecting the busy tender to catch the words. Hands clasp at the small of his back again as he moves, glancing briefly from band to door. His eyes seem mostly focussed on the door than the slender Twi'lekki keyboard player. Hate to slam into the door and look the fool, hmm? Once he comes to the door he gropes for the handle a little, glancing back away from the performance area to the door as his blind groping doens't get him anything but a few fist fulls of air. Huh... Once his eyes are helping him search for the door handle he finds it, and uses it to allow him out... yeesh.. messed up after one drink.. lightweight. Laughter dances in Shen's green eyes now, and she leans over to poke with one slim finger at the good Lieutenant's chest -- or at least, before Avy distracts her by her abrupt departure. But Shenner's used to the President zipping out of the bar as quickly as she comes, and so she calls back serenely, "Sure thing, boss!" Right now she's got more fascinating matters to deal with. Like that mellowing of her beloved's expression. And she informs Webb wryly, "You ain't answered my question, though. Feel better?" Up on the stage, as she plays, Aa'leet steals one more glance towards the big Twi'lek male. He's leaving? Awww. Well... perhaps if she's lucky she'll see him again, hmmm? Avy walks out of the Sandbar and the door closes automatically. Avy has left. Oh.. maybe... he's pretty hard to miss, that big Twi'lek... unless of course there a convention of Wookiees or Togorians or something equally large that he gets lost in the middle of.. Sien'sk walks out of the Sandbar and the door closes automatically. Sien'sk has left. "I mean it tastes /real/ funny," comments Webb, still engrossed in that line of thought, now that it's caught in his grey matter. Hmm. "Of course, if the names have anything to do with it," he says thoughtfully, "It's just as likely that the kid will turn out to extremely dull, but very aquisitive... or rash, ignorant, and pedantic. But at least there's no 'Heinrich' in there..." With little regard to his surroundings, Palekuma pulls out small arsenal of crudely labeled containers from his bag. He places them on the bar counter next to his drink which is still full. He then removes a notebook and leafs through it for a few seconds before resting a page riddled with unreadable scribblings. With his notebook in hand as a reference he selects several containers and puts them back in his bag. The tiny sullustan merrily begins to open each of the remaining containers. Taking a pinch or two from each container a small pile of various colored shavings. A small tube of is removed from his pocket and Palekuma begins to painstakingly fill it with the afore mentioned shavings. And _still_ her question goes unanswered... at least vocally. Shenner grins to herself, finding it obvious enough that Webb's taken a decided step towards relaxing. It's tempting, very tempting, to slip him something else to knock him loopy... but then again, it's even _more_ tempting to arrange to do it in private. "The very thought makes me ill," she affirms sagely, "and I think there's probably just one remedy for it, soldier..." Shifting her lean so that she can curl an arm about the Lieutenant's shoulders, she goes on with that same straight face, "The way I see it is, you can go back over there with the Corporal and keep up the card game, and wait for our set to get done... _or_, you can let me walk you home and you can tell me all about it." On this last, Shen's eyes gentle a little. Hrmm, the back of her mind notes, Webb drunk means Webb talkative? "Whaddya say, Jon?" Webb eyes the Corporal's ever growing pile of toothpicks, and listens to the protests of the Naval officer at the table as yet another hand is won. "I think she's doing alright on her own," Webb answers in one of those distant, sage-like tones, before he gazes down at the young woman leaning against him. "Maybe we'd best be going, hmm?" With the tube filled Palekuma lights it. He takes a good hard pull of the homemade cigarra and smiles. He turns on his stool and for the first time really looks around the bar. Nothing grabbing his attention immediately, he blindly grabs the drink on the counter. Palekuma gulps down the strong beverag recommended by Emma. His eyes open wide and he begins to cough uncontrolably. During his fit he drops the smoking cigarra. He bends down to pick it up and manages to slip off the stool and crumple to his knees on the ground. After picking up the cigarra, he glances around wondering if anyone noticed his slip. With a big crooked grin, Shenner inclines her head and gets to her feet, holding out her hand to the Marine. As she does so, she turns and hollers off to Ariani, to Emma, to the band, and indeed to the bar at large, "We're outta here, people -- don't burn down the bar without us! See y'all tomorrow night!" Various waves calls of acknowledgement are her reply, and a knowing leer from her drummer. And once she's pulled Webb to his feet, she murmurs contentedly, "C'mon, soldier. Let's go home." Soon enough, she's off with him into the night. [And, outside...] "Soooooooo," drawls Shen lazily as she escorts you out of the bar and out into a comparatively warm night, "wanna walk home, Jon, or shall we hit the public transport?" The prospect of having you even just a trifle tipsy is all too temptingly delicious -- but Shenner's a sensible girl. You might be just a bit drunk, but you're hardly wobbling, and besides, it's a nice night. Even if it _does_ suggest the possibility that you might burn off a bit of that alcohol by the act of walking home, she's not quite sneaky enough to try to cajole you too heavily onto a bus. Nah, Shen is much more a fan of the direct approach. She wraps her arms around you and grins impishly up at you, adding in a murmur for your ears alone, "I got half a mind to take you home and put some of my best brandy down ya." Webb is about as steady as rock at the moment, at least physically... except perhaps on the most subtle levels which probably aren't going to make much of a difference unless he's to attempt something that requires rather ludicrous amounts of precision. "Oh, I think we can walk home," he murmurs back to you... and even though he doesn't exactly look drunk in the least, there's something different about his voice. His tone is a little distant, almost dream-like, and just maybe there's even a tiny little hint of something that almost sounds like sadness wedged in there somewhere. And as you embrace him, his arms enfold you with the utmost gentleness, as if he were handling some delicate treasure. "You got it," Shen whispers, watching your eyes and noting that difference in your voice and the way you're holding her; it makes her want to put your head in her lap and run her fingers through your hair for a while. For now she'll settle for linking her arm wtih yours and setting off at an easy pace for the Residential District. "And you can tell me all about what you did to be cursed with Pallando naming a spud after ya." Humor twinkles in her eyes, at this. Webb squints a little as he walks alongside of you, taking a pace that seems somewhat more leisurely than would be considered normal for him. "Not sure what there really is to explain about the whole thing. Near as I can tell, his wife named the kids. She can be a little... /strange/." By his tone of voice, he makes it quite clear that this is the potentially distressing sort of strange. "Strange," repeats Shen, a grin still tugging at one end of her mouth. "'Course, from where I'm standin', 'Jonathan' actually sounds kinda nice on a kid. Though I guess if they wanted to connect their kid with you, there's some pretty scary implications there. They could ask you to" -- and she drops her voice conspiringly -- "BABYSIT." Webb's expression becomes one of obvious distress for a moment, "Lorris Jonathan Benjamin Pallando... this kid's name is like a form of child abuse." He smirks grimly and shakes his head, "I trust that if they ever come looking for me to babysit, you can tell 'em I'm offworld." "Hey, if I got anything to say about it, I'm puttin' an anti-babysittin' alarm on the front door," Shen parries. "Me and a spud -- even if his name _is_ Jonathan -- well, let's just say that ain't the smoothest of combinations!" As the two of you proceed northward up Mergansar, a spring-scented breeze riffling through the air and the sounds of passing skimmers providing occasional punctuation to the ambient noise of the night, she squeezes your waist and gives an appreciative shudder for the direness of such a situation. "But don't worry. I'll keep 'em off your trail." Webb peers at you sidelong silently for several moments. He smirked faintly, coinciding with your remark about how you and children just might not be the best of combinations. Then he gives a faint nod of his head, and murmurs to you lightly, "Maybe in a few years..." To _that_, Shen makes almost as big a face as some of the ones she's seen you make tonight. "Hey pal," she mock-chastises, "can you see me with a kid hangin' off my shoulder, and the... how do they put it? The 'glow of motherhood'." That particular phrase gets an ironic drawl to go with it, even as the young singer turns you a bit to the left so you can cross the street with her -- at least, after that last pair of skimmers darts by. Webb turns his head to gaze directly at you for a moment. And all the while there's this contemplative look about him, as if he were taking that to be a serious inquiry. Then one corner of mouth pulls up, and during a lull in the spring breeze, he murmurs warmly, "Sorta." Something in your tone makes Shen look up again to meet your eyes, once the street is crossed; something in your voice calls up a bit of a blush to her cheeks, though she smiles broadly in answer to your expression. "You're loopy," she accuses, but in affectionate tones. Truth be told, the thought of parenthood -- and specifically, the incarnation of a small Marine or a small bard -- is pleasant... but more than a little intimidating. And so she tries to change the subject, piping as the two of you turn down the side street that eventually cuts over to Minutes Road, "So what's this I hear about today bein' some kinda anniversary for you, anyway?" "Maybe," answers Webb to the accusation that he is in fact 'loopy'. Intimidating as that thought might be, that contemplative smile and that warm gaze lingers, only to become somber again at the mention of the 'anniversary'. His eyes turn skyward for a moment, as if searching, "Getting blooded. 10 Standard Years ago today..." "Blooded," repeats the singer at your side, thoughtfully. Several ideas as to what exactly that means flicker through her mind, but what actually gets voiced is a simple, "Tell me about it?" Home is getting closer, but it's still a decent walk away. And the warmth and closeness of the night, for her, are encouraging conversation. There's some hesitation there... enough to imply that this isn't necessarily the sort of thing that's the easiest to explain. "The expression means to make one's first kill. It's a bit of a euphemism... not sure where it originates, but I gather from my time serving under Blake that it's been kicking around for a few millenia, at least." Shenner catches the shift in your mood, though she hasn't yet entirely made sense of it. She's silent for a few moments as the juncture with Minutes Road grows progressively closer, and at last as that corner is turned she inquires softly, "So it stays with ya, huh?" Webb flashes one of those brief yet distant sorts of smiles, and sighs softly, "It's not exactly a haunting experience. No regrets... would've been worse if I'd shyed away from it." He hesitates, "But, yeah, it sticks. Clear as the day it first happened." Shenner's expression has turned solemn now too, and as she walks with you down Minutes Road towards her apartment building, she looks up at you with a kind of grim understanding that may well jar somewhat against thoughts of her features glowing with motherhood. She has, after all, killed. "What do you do when the day comes round again?" is her succint query. Webb emits a quiet chuckle as he ponders that question, then shrugs his shoulders, "After all of these years, you'd think that I'd know the answer to that question. But I can safely say that I don't really know. But the day always stands out whenever it comes around." The apartment building is in sight now, but still Shen pauses for a moment and once more wraps her arms around you. She'd be considering helping that tipsy state of yours along, but now the desire's modulated into something tenderer. Softly she suggests, "What say we find out whether lighting a candle or two and stretching you out on the couch so I can rub your back is appropriate to the occasion, hmm?" Seeing as he's been decidedly unhurried on this little trek, he's certainly willing to stop and endulge in the warmth of a rather lengthy embrace. He wraps his arms about your torso, but doesn't pull you to him. Rather, he just allows the closeness to develop quite naturally. The two of you might be getting stared at by passers by, but he cares not about that. "Hmm. I think that's keeping with the spirit of things." Oblivious to the glance she does in fact get from a tired-looking older woman hurrying along on her way somewhere, Shenner takes the time to just gaze up at you for a while; for good measure, she lifts up a hand and traces the side of your face with her fingertips. Not for the first time in your relationship, and probably not for the last, she finds herself marvelling as to how exactly she's managed to come across you. Her warrior. Her defender. Her Jonathan. Shen's hand cups itself against your cheek for a moment, before she brings it down again so that she can take up both of your hands in both of hers. And she flashes a broad smile up at you as she murmurs, "Sounds like a plan. C'mon, then, soldier." With that, gently, she tugs you off again... for home. The suggestion was only fitting, really... what better way to celebrate the anniversary of something so violent and brutal, then to engage in something suitably warm and tender. It just might be possible that while you were gazing up at him, he was doing more than a little marvelling of his own. "Lead on," he murmurs with a spreading grin as he falls into step beside you. It doesn't take long to get home, not from this part of Minutes Road... and that, perhaps, is even something to marvel about: home. For the longest time Shen hadn't really thought of the new apartment as 'home', not since Rekkie Sheldon's death during the war. But your continued presence in the place has gone a long way towards winning that title for the cramped little flat. Shen doesn't say much else as the two of you get back to her front door, but then again she doesn't really need to. Nor does she break her contact with you; only one hand is necessary to punch in the code to open the door. Much more enjoyable a task for both her hands is to take the time to help you out of your jacket, coax you down onto the couch, and separate you from your boots. She knows you don't need the help -- but she wants to lavish the attention anyway, and she murmurs tenderly as she settles you back upon a cushion, "Get comfy, hmmm?" "Okay," murmurs Webb in a tiny sort of voice that's a far cry from his more commanding tones, as he settles down onto the cushions of the couch with a rather contented-sounding sigh... then shifts to conform to one of the cushion lumps. For a moment, he just lays there, getting that vaguely contemplative expression, before he asks, "You know... this place really does have quite a bit of character..." Once you're suitably ensconced, Shen wanders off to fetch a candle from her closet, a small candle cradled in a clear crystal holder. This she brings back to set upon the coffee table, and when she lights it an aroma of sage and sandlewood begins to permeate the room. Then she's off again, to dim the room lights and let the candle's flickering glow manifest itself. "Oh?" you can hear her say lightly, before she comes back from the kitchen area with a small bottle in one hand and a pair of shot glasses in the other. "Would this be the Built With a Cookie Cutter character," she drawls as she sits down on the edge of the couch, "or the Slightly Bigger than a Breadbox character?" Webb takes in a deep breath of the candle's scent and lets it out slowly. A slightly devlish grin settles across his features, implying that some clever answer is forthcoming. "More like," he pauses as he watches you settle down beside him, "Sometimes, this place reminds me so much of you that I don't even notice how tiny it is." The little bottle turns out to contain not brandy, but rather something that smells of orange and chocolate, and of which Shen pours herself only a tiny amount. Sipping it carefully, she grins down at you and moves her free hand up to smooth your hair back from your brow. "Ahh, this is just the place I've dumped my stuff," she demurrs. "You sure you ain't just thinkin' of me?" Webb angles his head so that he can peer up at your face out of the corners of his eyes. "Well, when you put it that way," the corner of his mouth pulls upwards, "You just might've hit the nail square on the head." What's good for the mookla is good for the mokk; if you get to be tipsy, then as far as Shen is concerned, she gets to be a bit tipsy too. So she sips down her liqueur while stroking your brow and then trailing her fingers down along your face and throat. "Awww, well... guess it beats you thinkin' of me because of a storage closet at the base, even if this place ain't much bigger than your average storage closet." Through a rather deft little manuever, Webb manages to brush his lips against your hand as it draws near. His eyes are heavy-lidded, belying obvious relaxation and contentment with this current arrangement. "I did see a place the other day... had our name written all over it. Was out near the shore." Shenner's fingers pause for a moment, both the ones that hold her little shot glass and the ones that are tracing out the shape of your lips. Her expression turns tenderer and simultaneously ever so slightly startled; then, she blows out a breath and asks in rueful tones, "Still wanna get a place, huh?" "Yeah," murmurs Webb with something of a dream-like sigh. "Not that I have anything against this place, mind you. Buuut..." His grin spreads a little as he peers up at you through heavy-lidded eyes, "I can see distinct advantages to moving up into something that's a little more... us." In reply Shenner grins lopsidedly down at you, watching you warmly even as she takes the time to drink down the rest of her finger of liqueur, holding it on her tongue for a few moments before letting it roll down her throat. Then she sets the glass aside, freeing both her hands to stroke over your brow and chest. "You're startin' to sound awful domestic, Jon," she teases. "Hmm," murmurs Webb as he slowly reaches up to you, curling his hands around you to let them rest upon your shoulderblades. "Nothing wrong with getting a little domestic." He casts a sly wink up at you. "Whoa. You start seein' me with a kid on my shoulder, talkin' about gettin' a place... yeah. Domestic. Definitely domestic." Shenner's smile is ever so slightly embarrassed, but her gaze is warm, and her hands keep trailing lightly across you. Their weight is a gentle one, as soothing as a well-used blanket. "Tell me about this place?" Webb's expression turns quite thoughtful as he summons the image of this house into his mind. "Well," he murmurs, "It's not exactly huge... certainly not a mansion or anything. And the way it's painted at the moment is actually kinda ugly... washed out yellow," his grin widens again for a moment, "But suffice it to say, it's bigger than this place by a good measure. And it looks like it's built pretty solid. It can't be more than 10 minutes from the beach. No lawn to speak of... soil is pretty rocky in that area, but there's a fair bit of indigenous vegetation. Wildflowers... lots of little wildflowers. And there's a couple of old breezepines, curved and twisted by the sea breeze. It has a deck that faces west, out towards the sea." "A _deck_?" The picture being painted for her brings up several fascinating mental images -- jarring against a very pragmatic jolt at how much a place with an ocean view must cost. Even as Shenner keeps caressing your chest, running her palm lightly back and forth across it, she starts shifting her position to better snuggle down beside you. "It sounds great, Jon, but how the kark would we afford somethin' with a _deck_?" Webb shifts slightly to give you sufficient room to curl up with him upon the couch, without running the risks of toppling off of it. One of his arms draws a little tighter about you, while the one that would've ended up beneath you is shifted out the way, its hand sliding up to stroke your hair. "The deck's not exactly huge either. Significant, but not huge... and it seems as if there's many significantly 'better' ocean views to be found. Shape of the bluffs kinda blots a lot of it out. Surprisingly, a lot of the more expensive homes are either further up the coast, or further inland, like it you head out north and start to get into the mountains." Mmmm. Comfy. Having perfected the fine art of how best to curl up with you upon this couch, Shen nestles easily into your embrace but keeps a hand free to keep up those tender attentions to your chest, your neck, your face. With the other arm, she tries to coax your head over to nestle against her chest. "Well... I guess you'll have to take me to go see it. I'd like to." Webb's eyes drift closed for a moment as his head comes to rest against your chest, with his ear positioned directly over your heart. "I haven't actually seen the inside of it yet. For all I know it could just be walls around a huge crater." He emits a soft chuckle, which is more felt than heard with this proximity. "But somehow, I don't think that's the case." Shenner cradles you close, taking a simple but profound pleasure in the feel of holding you in her arms. "I can't think of too many reasons why somebody'd build a house over a crater, no," she murmurs, a rich chuckle adding a throaty warmth to her voice. The liqueur might be helping, too; the scent of it flavors her breath ever so slightly, and a faint scent of orange and chocolate wafts down to you as she speaks. She pauses. And then in a soft voice she tells you, "I... like the idea of havin' a place with you, Jon. Our place." Her hand keeps up its stroking, gliding through your hair. Webb seems content to simply lay there, listening to your heart beat for several measures, before he shifts slightly to peer up at your face, almost nuzzling against you in the process. "So what would you do with more space, anyways?" he inquires curiously. She's more than willing to let you move about so that she can smile down at you. And smile Shenner does, while she runs her fingertips along the plane of your cheek, following the shape of the bone beneath. "Well," she murmurs tenderly, "for starters... I could... do more workouts. I can barely swing a sword around in here without hittin' somethin'. And I could do somethin' really scary... and get a bed that's wider across than I am...!" Webb hmms contemplatively as he slowly slides up and brushes his lips against the base of your throat, "I like that idea... not that sleeping /really/ close together isn't appealing to me, of course." He pauses for a moment, and plants another delicate kiss, "If the chimney is any indication, it might have a fireplace. Would be nice to have a more spacious kitchen... and an actual bathtub in the bathroom." The thought of a fireplace, coupled with the thought of a real bathtub, cupled with the kiss you've placed there against her skin, coaxes a sound not at all unlike a whimper out of Shen. "Damn," she breathes, "this is soundin' nicer all the time... but you ain't answered my question yet about how we're supposed to pay for it...." "I think we can do it," murmurs Webb. "This place isn't exactly stretching the limits of our means, after all. The Corps makes sure it's Marines have a fair standard of living... at least in our home life. We're not supposed to live /too/ comfortable of an existance in the field, after all." He's demonstrating one of his many talents, at the moment, specifically the one where he manages to unbutton your shirt while involved in complex discussion. And he does so with sufficient delicacy that it's only barely (if at all) noticeable when each button is pushed through its hole. After all, one wouldn't want that silk shirt to get wrinkled during this discussion, now would we? "I mean, my military housing allowance has been paying our entire rent here..." Wrinkles, schminkles; Shen's already rumpled that shirt of hers just by the simple act of snuggling down with you upon the couch. Not that she particularly cares -- though she'll pay for this kind of treatment of her clothing later. At the moment she's engrossed in running the fingers of one hand through your hair, while she considers all of the fascinating and a little alarming implications of actually sharing ownership of a place with you. "Half of it," she corrects firmly, since she's never been exactly comfortable with the idea of not putting at least _some_ of her own income into her own residence. But then she goes on, hugging you with one arm while her other keeps up its delicate moving of her fingers, "I... I'll... prob'ly be a little wonky about the whole idea, but you know that, right? And--" Wait a minute. What _are_ you doing with her shirt? Finally she begins to clue in when your fingers start connecting with the flesh beneath silken black, and her voice turns a little breathy. She's silent for a moment, before she gives a small rueful chuckle. "And here I thought you were a little too loopy to be doing _that_..." Webb offers forth a lopsided smirk as he murmurs to you, "Shouldn't fall asleep wearing a shirt like that. You'll get it all wrinkled." Somehow, he manages to sound amazingly innocent (/that/ must be a product of the alcohol) as he opens the last button, and unties the knot at the very bottom. "At any rate," he murmurs, "I don't blame you for being nervous..." His grin spreads a little more, "Way I see it... we're embarking on a bit of an adventure." With the undoing of the black silk shirt, the jumpsuit that hugs her form beneath it is accordingly revealed. It's leather -- but of the suede variety, butter-soft and as black as space, with fine gradations of texture adding depth and dimension to its surface. Shenner's not exactly expansively endowed, but then again, this jumpsuit of hers has a way of accentuating every curve she possesses, and there's something definitely tempting in the lush softness of the suede that currently clothes her breast. Plus, as far as Shenner is concerned, the feel of your hand coursing along that smooth darkness has a temptation of its own. She lets you ease the sides of her shirt open while she draws in a sigh and breathes wryly, "I had no idea you paid such attention to my clothes..." Expansive or not, the sight certainly does seem to appeal to Webb. His gaze lingers there for a moment as he carefully draws back the silk from your chest. This whole process of 'unwrapping' is conducted with the utmost of delicacy, as his gaze slowly rises to look up to your face. "Yeah, that's what happens when you give me alcohol," he murmurs softly as he slides one sleeve of the shirt down your arm, before turning his attention to extracting you from the next. Helpfully Shenner arches her back beneath you, giving clearance for the shirt to be drawn entirely away from her body. This makes her leather-sheathed chest do interesting things, too; the suede glimmers, ever so faintly, in the flickering candlelight. So do the delicate links of the silver chain of her pendant, lying there against the hollow of her throat. There might be something starkly elemental about the color scheme, black suede, silver chain, and near-white skin, if the warmth from the candle didn't soften each hue and seem to unify them. In the meantime she dismisses the obvious response: 'I'll have to get you drunk more often, then!' Instead, she is fascinated. The purposeful movements are familiar, but their almost languid pacing -- and that exquisite delicacy of touch -- are beginning to send little shivers coursing through her system. And wait a minute. Wasn't the plan going to be that _she_ was going to cuddle _you_? Shen's thrown ever so slightly off stride, but only for a moment. Bringing one hand's fingers to your temple and beginning to stroke there in lazy little circles, bringing the other hand round to your back once her sleeve is free and gliding it across your shoulderblades, she notes, "The night seemed to call for it." "Indeed," murmurs Webb in wholehearted agreement as he gazes into your eyes. The shirt, once fully shed, is treated with as much delicacy as before, though given the circumstances he's hardly about to get up to find a proper hanger for it. Instead, it ends up carefully draped over the back of the couch, before he lowers himself back into your embrace. The warm glow of the candle-light has added to the expressiveness of his features, and infuse the colours of his eyes with greater intensity. His fingers delicately close around the pendant that hangs about your neck, handling it cautiously, before he starts to remove that too. With one hand playing across the back of your neck, tracing out the very top of your collar and then delving beneath to warm skin, Shenner whispers, "My turn...?" She lets you reach for the necklace -- and in fact helps you remove it, her fingers brushing against your own as she helps you slip the chain over her head. Once the necklace is placed in a glimmering pile of silver and brass upon the table, her hand comes back to begin to search out the topmost fastenings of _your_ shirt. "My turn," she repeats in husky tones. Two can play at this game of careful, patient caressing. Or at least so she is determined, even if she isn't _entirely_ sure she can match that lightness of touch or keep herself patient enough to remain slowly paced. Not when she is seized by the urge to rub her suede-clad front against you. Just as you are challenged to take things at the same liesurely pace that has been established, Webb is now challenged to hold himself still while you attend to the task of removing his shirt. "Your turn," he confirms in soft tones that would be inaudible were it not for the placidness of the surroundings, and the proximity betwen your body and his. Somehow, he manages to hold himself in a position where you can freely access his shirt, though he appeases his growing need to lavish affection upon you by leaning to touch his lips to the side of your face. This too is conducted with the utmost delicacy, as if he were kissing something as fragile as a soap bubble. The result is a faint tickling sensation, as his lips trace a path up the side of your jaw. Talk about challenges: without a doubt, getting a shirt off a man who's leaned up close enough to bestow that feather-light kiss across her cheek qualifies. Shen has to pause in the midst of undoing buttons, her mouth parting and her eyes going heavy-lidded, at that ticklish contact and the new shiver it sends through her. Your shirt winds up half-unbuttoned, enough to give the singer trying to unclothe you access to one shoulder; there, her hand lingers, a warm, light weight. Her other hand treks down your side with slim fingers splayed, while she indulges in the fancy of a millimeter-thin forcefield between her palm and you. This makes her hand's passage strangely smooth even as she follows the angular plane of your hip. Webb's breath rushes out in the form of a sigh at the progress of the warmth of your fingertips across the sinuous contours of his superbly conditioned frame. The patience of each caress is eventually rewarded, with a ripple of tension that passes through his muscles from head to toe, nearly invisible to the eye, but quite apparent to the sense of touch. "Don't look now," he murmurs with a certain tone of seriousness that might almost seem comical given the situation and past admissions on both of your parts, "But I think I've fallen for you something fierce." It's not quite 'I love you', though it's close enough that Shenner's fine-boned features take on a hint of that awkwardness that plagues her each time those words are uttered to her. This time, though... this time there's something different in her expression. Perhaps it's the shot from that bottle of marnya she's downed tonight. Perhaps it's the strange fascination of seeing you mellowed and slow and dreamy. Perhaps it's the notion of committing to buying a place to share with you and make a home, rather than sharing with you a place that was hers to start with -- and not much of a home to begin with -- and perhaps it's all of these things. But for whatever reason, Shen smiles up into your eyes, her own acknowledging and returning that sentiment of yours while she replies, deadpan, "That's the brandy talkin', Lieutenant." Webb's shroud of seriousness is shed just as easily as it was donned. A soft chuckle emanates from deep within, as a warm smile spreads across his lips... lips which are in the process of convering upon your own. The initial touch, in keeping with the established theme of the evening, is slow in coming, but unquestionably tender once contact has been made. His eyes become momentarily heavy-lidded as he savours this contact. And then they drift open again, brimming with warmth and (gasp) love. "Y'know... I should probably warn you. I've been told that I can be pretty boring when I have alcohol in my system." Shenner's lips taste of chocolate and orange -- that marnya liqueur of hers is fine stuff. That fractional taste of it can hardly be said to set the throat afire like a Corellian Suicide, but it _can_ be noted to add a secondary flavor over the top of the flavor of that kiss that is simply _Shen_. Once you pull back from her again she takes a moment and simply drinks in the sight of you, struck by the emotion in eyes normally cool and reserved... and even around her, even in private, not normally so open. It awes her. And frightens her, just a little. But gone are the days when her heart might lurch at such an expression turned upon her, when her thoughts might be prefaced with 'The last time a man looked at me like that...'. Here and now she simply grins ear to ear, green eyes shining as she steadfastly draws you right back down to her and drawls into your ear, "I'll let you know if I'm about to nod off." [End log.]