"A Night for Revelations"

Log Date:
	1/29, 1/30, 2/4, 2/6/00

Log Cast:
	Tarroc, Shenner, Webb

Log Intro:
	Shenner's finally managed to start off the second half of her first
year at college -- since this time, her freshman year hasn't had the problem
of being interrupted by a war. But something has happened to start the term
off with a shock, what with the substitute professor that's taken over her
Music and Instrumental Anthropology class:
	Paul.
	She hasn't dared try to talk to him outside the relative anonymity
of the classroom -- and she has no idea how the Corellian xenoarchaeologist
has reacted to her presence in his roster of students. It's been all she can
do to show up in his class each day since the term has started, participate
in class discussions, and turn in her homework for his inspection. She's
strenuously avoided thinking about Paul's eyes surveying her work, or Paul's
hands handling it.
	It's been distracting enough to try to think of how she'll tell the
man she loves _now_ that the man she loved _then_ is back in her life, even
in the innocent capacity of professor. It's been enough to keep her at least
partly distracted even with the presence of Luke on Caspar... and at last,
she's had to psyche herself up to break the news to Webb by taking the 
route of something in which she's very rarely engaged with the Lieutenant:
a formal dinner date.
	While Shen waits for her Marine, however, she's about to discover
that another old friend of hers is on Caspar as well -- and how his life
has been changing as of late...

----------
You step onto the slidestair leading up and are swiftly carried up to the 
  Infinity Casino.
Club Infinity - The Oceanside
        The entire scape of Plaxton City and the ocean is amazing. Being one 
  of the highest points in the city, the restraunt's encircling windows allow 
  you to see all the activity and buildings of the city below. No movement can 
  be felt, even though the restraunt's floor slowly rotates, changing the view 
  while you are here. Large exotic plants fill the room, and even hang down on 
  platforms from the domed ceiling. Several tables and booths are set in 
  various vantage points, and a high, black bar occupies one side of the 
  large, central column, that also serves as the kitchen, and where the 
  slidestair is located.
Type "Place Help" for help finding a table.
Type "Bar Help" for help obtaining a drink.
Type "Dining Help" for help ordering food.
                 -=-=-=-=-=-=<<Real Objects>>=-=-=-=-=-=-
=> Tarroc
=> Bianca
=> Moliari
                  -=-=-=-=-=<<Visible exits>>=-=-=-=-=-
 <S>lidestairs leads to Entertainment Center - The Oceanside.

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.
Tonight, Shenner is clad in what, for anyone who knows her, is surprisingly 
  ornate garb: a silken wraparound shirt with flowing sleeves, patterned in 
  subtle splashes of teal and green and blue... dark blue velvet pants that 
  closely hug her legs, but not so closely as to hinder movement... and 
  calf-high, smoky gray boots of a rich, soft suede. Her hair remains in its 
  usual braid with the fine silver clasp securing its end, but she's added a 
  delicate golden cuff to her right ear, from which dangle a pair of small 
  peacock-hued feathers and translucent blue beads that glitter in the light. 
  Around her neck rests her usual brass-and-silver pendant, distinguishable 
  only by its chain until she removes it from hiding within her shirt.
                -=-=-=-=-=-=<<Carried Virtual Objects>>=-=-=-=-=-=-
=> XiX Blaster Pistol
=> 6576 Galactic Standard Credits

Bianca
        Exhaling an unmatched confidence and poise, the young woman with 
  pitch-black tresses and clear-blue irises moves about with a sly sensuality. 
  Her thin, red lips part to reveal a heart-stopping smile directed to return 
  your gaze. The hair is drawn back in elegent style to reveal the high 
  cheekbones and well-defined features, and her skin is flawless. The black, 
  velvet, floor-length dress she wears compliments her curvy physique as if it 
  was of her very being. It does not reveal too much, but sensuates her image. 
  A simple silver rope circles her neck, and she twists it while waiting for 
  your order.

Moliari
        Recalling an old age and an era long past, the large, portly man 
  behind the polished counter is dressed in a white, pressed serving jacket 
  and sports a trimmed, handlebar mustache. He speaks proudly of his culinary 
  talents in a heavy off-world accent, and welcomes you to test his deft 
  skills at making anything tasteful.

Tarroc
     Of average build and a height of more then six feet, the human before you 
  is certainly in fairly good shape. His hazel eyes, the color of a turning 
  autumn leaf, peer out from an expressive face. He conducts himself in a very 
  reserved and cool manner -- his movements are all measured and methodical. 
  As far as his age goes, it would appear he's in his early twenties, but his 
  eyes betray experience beyond his years. His dirty-blond hair is cut in a 
  fairly conventional fashion, kept out of his eyes. However, it seems to have 
  grown past naval regulations as of late. When he speaks, it is with the 
  savvy of a seasoned veteran; despite his age, he definitely has a commanding 
  presence. Possessed of a quiet confidence, he no longer has the personality 
  of a young officer, unable to commit to a decision; this has been replaced 
  with a certain sureity of what has to be done, and his ability to do it. 
  Despite this apparent change in personality, his eyes somehow hold a certain 
  serenity to them; his expression could be best described as pacific.
     He is currently wearing a fullbody, bright-orange flightsuit typical of 
  New Republic starfighter pilots. The controls of the vacuum suit are 
  attached to the white harness on his chest, a strap running around to his 
  back. Several pockets are on the legs of the pants, some areas bulging out 
  obviously where some miscellaneous items are stored. A blaster is worn in a 
  holster below his waist, though by it's positioning higher up you can tell 
  he doesn't draw it often. He also seems to have added a shoulder holster to 
  his flightsuit which also bears a sporting blaster. His boots are loose and 
  kept on his feet by black straps, one of which appears to bear about nine 
  blaster clips. A patch on his chest bears the callsign "Vertigo" etched in 
  black lettering, and another black patch beneath it reads "D'agor" in white, 
  recessed lettering. The symbols of NRSC Deliverance and Rogue Squadron are 
  on his left and right shoulders, respectively.
 The most recent addition to his equipment is a silver cyllindrical object, 
  roughly a foot in length, clipped to his belt.
                -=-=-=-=-=-=<<Carried Virtual Objects>>=-=-=-=-=-=-
=> IR-5 Blaster Pistol 
=> Quick-6 Sporting Blaster 
=> Lightsaber 

Sitting quietly at a table nearby the window, Tarroc has all the animation of 
  a statue. His gaze has been fixed on the seascape for several hours now; his 
  chin rests in his hand, his drink has gone unnoticed for nearly an hour. He 
  doesn't seem to be pensive or brooding, however -- just lost in a reverie of 
  sorts. The waitress has respectfully opted to leave him to his thoughts.

The Infinity is a trifle upscale for Shenner's tastes most of the time -- but 
  then again, a change from the rowdy atmosphere of the Sandbar _is_ sometimes 
  to her tastes, to give her senses a break as well as to treat herself to a 
  classier than usual meal and atmosphere. Tonight, it has the added bonus of 
  being the place where she'll hopefully be meeting Jonathan Webb, and visions 
  of a cozy, lengthy chat over a fine dinner with the Lieutenant are bringing 
  a crooked little grin to the young singer's lips as she makes her way into 
  the place. Once she's out of her winter gear her russet head is easily 
  distinguishable from a distance, and she sweeps a hopeful emerald gaze 
  around the room in search of Webb as she ambles towards the bar -- in search 
  of something hot to drink to chase the rest of the chill out of her bones. 
  Tarroc's quiet figure gazing out towards the ocean is noted along with the 
  other patrons in the room, and for a moment Shenner blinks, something 
  niggling at her about him -- but recognition doesn't yet strike.

The rotation of the restaraunt finally places the young D'agor in a position 
  where he'd have to crane his neck to continue watching the ocean. As quickly 
  as he lost himself in the mesmerizing movement of the water, he 'awakens' 
  and picks up his glass to take a sip. His gaze sweeps the restaraunt and an 
  odd sensation of familiarity is felt as he takes in his surroundings -- 
  rather odd considering he's never been here before.

Greeted by Bianca, startled and pleased that the woman remembers her, Shenner 
  settles herself down on a stool while requesting a shakla with two shots of 
  Corellian brandy -- "And could you tell me if Lieutenant Jonathan Webb's 
  here yet?" Answered in the negative, Shen sighs to herself and resigns 
  herself to waiting around for Jon's arrival. So much to tell him -- and 
  she's still not entirely sure how to tell him about some of what she has to 
  say. While she waits, the redheaded young bard tries very hard not to 
  slouch; this isn't the Sandbar, after all. And with the silk and velvet 
  she's wearing tonight, slouching isn't exactly easy on her attire, either. 
  So she directs her restlessness into pulling out her pendant -- only to drop 
  it again as she's inevitably reminded of one of the biggest things she's got 
  to tell Webb about. _Ack. Careful how you go there, street rat..._ 
  Increasingly nervous, she takes the pendant off and starts running it from 
  one hand to the other, and finds herself wondering if she shouldn't ask for 
  a little more brandy in her shakla. After all, telling your current lover 
  that your ex-lover is teaching one of your classes could well be construed 
  as news best delivered while just a touch drunk.

Tarroc is not exactly a master at dressing for the occasion, unfortunately. 
  Were it not for the fact that the Infinity Club was not seeing much business 
  yet this evening, they might have turned him away. Screaming orange 
  flightsuits don't exactly fall into the dress code here. He runs his gaze 
  over the people present once again, then pauses on one in particular. A 
  faint smile can be seen in his eyes a bit more than his mouth. He stands, 
  scooping up his fruit punch as an afterthought, and approaches.

No, flightsuit-orange is not an easy color to miss. And so the restless 
  Shenner, once Tarroc draws within easy range of her, finds her gaze drawn 
  back to that particularly vivid shade of attire. She blinks again, her head 
  quirking slightly sideways, her slim form sitting up a bit straighter on her 
  stool at the bar. And just as Tarroc comes up near her she lifts a bemused 
  hand, pointing his way and beginning to call, "Hey, do I know--"

Tarroc tilts his head to the side slightly, his smile widening. "Yes, you do." 
  A simple, succinct answer -- one that wouldn't have come from the well of 
  contradicting emotions that Shenner knew previously. "How are you, Shen?" He 
  remembers her, at least.

It's the voice, at last, that makes recollection click into place; Shenner's 
  bardic ears recall the cadences of Tarroc's voice even if his delivery of 
  his words has changed. "Tarroc," she blurts then, startled and then pleased 
  as she gets to her feet in greeting, gesturing to the unoccupied stool next 
  to her. "I'll be -- it's been a long time! Are you here with Luke and his 
  diplomat friend?"

He knew Luke was here, of course -- he knew as soon as he arrived at the 
  system. The diplomat friend would probably be a Poguala. "No, not this time. 
  I'm just passing through..." He takes the offered stool and turns toward the 
  youth who is only a couple years his junior. "I had a feeling we'd run into 
  each other again. How are you?" Again, his speech is infinitely more 
  measured than it was previously; it doesn't hitch nor trail off.

As Tarroc takes his seat beside her, Shenner drops her pendant on the bar next 
  to the mug of hot shakla that's finally shown up while her attention was 
  diverted. And indeed, her attention stays on the flightsuit-clad young man, 
  in a manner that suggests she's just a trifle shellshocked at the changes in 
  him. Green eyes sweep their gaze up and down Tarroc's form, only to catch 
  sight of the cylindrical object dangling from his belt... and there, her 
  gaze stops, eyes growing wider. "I'm fine," she says in a rather feeble 
  voice, pointing in bemusement at the lightsaber while looking wide-eyedly 
  back up at its owner, "but it looks like you've been, uh, a bit busier'n' I 
  have..."

"Actually, since I took my leave of absence from the military, things have 
  been more quiet than they used to... even considering some new 
  responsibilities." His reply is even -- his gaze doesn't follow hers to what 
  he knows she is looking at. "Though Master Luke has been doing his best to 
  keep my occupied, of course."

'Master' Luke. If the lightsaber at Tarroc's side wasn't a big enough clue, 
  the manner in which Tarroc refers to Skywalker would clench it for Shenner. 
  The musician stares at the young officer she'd known not too long ago, 
  realizing all at once that something about him does now in fact remind him 
  of Luke Skywalker: a serenity of some kind, a depth, a steadiness that she 
  had never seen before. "I'll... be damned," she murmurs at last. "I'll just 
  bet. Okay, you win..." And all at once she laughs, a little giddily. "I 
  managed to turn from street rat into a college student and a bar singer and 
  a soldier, at least while we had the war goin' on, but you got me beat, pal."

He allows himself a wry smirk. "Not many more important things than going to 
  school, Shen." Well, some things certainly don't change. He tilts his head 
  to the side slightly, then queries: "And a soldier, too? I think you've 
  gotten a fair amount accomplished yourself, young lady." He knows the title 
  sounds funny as soon as he utters it; again, he is not appreciably older 
  than the girl he is speaking to.

Shenner makes a face, then shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. "Well, y'know, 
  the Empire was kickin' our asses around here, so it wasn't like I had 
  anything better to do." Finally realizing her shakla's arrived, she takes it 
  up and starts blowing on it to cool it down, while trying very hard not to 
  gape at D'agor. She more or less manages to succeed, and this is a change 
  from the street musician he'd last seen on Calamari; now, it seems, Shen has 
  managed to begin her own maturation, even without the assistance of the 
  Force.

Tarroc nods slowly. "I was pulling to have us move in and try to help, but the 
  Council wouldn't hear it." His ardent support of New Republic intervention 
  seems a distant memory now, despite the fact that it was only a few months 
  previous. "I was surprised when I arrived that the Caspians had affected 
  much of the reconstruction already."

Now Shenner grins, a lopsided little grin that's touched with no little pride. 
  "One of the things I like about this place. We get our asses kicked, we 
  chase 'em off, we rebuild." With a contented sigh she lets the shakla hit 
  her system, finally beginning to warm her from within, and then quirks her 
  head at Tarroc. "Glad to hear the NR was tryin', anyway. Didn't think you 
  guys'd leave us hanging."

"We kind of did, unfortunately. Some of us were trying, though. As much as 
  hearing the opinions of all the peoples is a cornerstone to the Republic, it 
  binds their hands in many matters." He takes a sip of his fruit punch -- a 
  non-alcoholic variant, of course. "What brings you to this restaraunt, if I 
  may ask? All dressed up, even."

Shenner's dark russet eyebrows arch up, and her chin comes up to. "What," she 
  drawls, "can't a girl dress up nice every so often?"

Tarroc smiles disarmingly. "Of course you can -- my question still stands, 
  though." He takes another sip, his head tilted to the side slightly as he 
  waits for the young woman's reply. Perhaps he is genuinely curious, or 
  perhaps he's just being conversational. Either way, it would be difficult to 
  believe he has an untoward motive for asking.

And Shenner seems to understand this, for her next action is to look 
  sheepishly off across the quiet bar, while playing with the spoon in her 
  shakla mug. "Meetin' my, uh..." Is the young musician actually _blushing_? 
  "Boyfriend," she finishes then, clearing her throat.

Tarroc's smile can only intensify. Only recently himself has he had the 
  pleasure of finding someone he truly... connects with. "Nothing to be 
  embaressed about," he points out, "I didn't know what I was missing until a 
  few months ago."

"Yeah, well..." And again Shenner shrugs, this one with just one shoulder. 
  "Jon and me, we don't get too much time together to do somethin' _nice_, so 
  I figured, tonight we'd eat out, and it'll be easier to talk to him about 
  some stuff I gotta talk to him about..." Then she blows out a breath, 
  looking a trifle uneasily down at the pendant glimmering upon the bartop. "I 
  hope."

"I'm sure things will go just fine. Are you expecting him soon?" He pauses for 
  a moment, idly wondering who Jon might be. "Out of curiosity, is he anyone I 
  might know?" It's a big galaxy, but Tarroc has gotten around a fair amount.

"Lieutenant Jonathan Webb, CDU Marines," Shenner explains. And that's 
  unmistakably pride coming into her voice and eyes now; pride, and more than 
  a little warmth. She glances at the nearest chronometer and then goes on, 
  "He's not due for a bit yet... I'm early... but the weather gets pretty 
  goofy around here during the winter anyway." Then, at last, she grins. 
  "What, you in a position to know Caspar servicepeople?"

"I became acquianted with a few Caspian marines while the New Republic was 
  trying to get a mutual-defense pact with the government, though I don't 
  believe I met your boyfriend." He smiles fractionally into his glass as he 
  drinks, then continues, "Though I wouldn't mind meeting him at some point."

"Well, if you're gonna be on Caspar long enough, maybe you'll get to." 
  Shenner's smile grows a trifle bigger with the slight change of subject, 
  now. "My band's still performing most nights at the Sandbar -- and Jon comes 
  in to meet me when he can, so who knows, maybe I can introduce ya. So how 
  long _are_ ya going to be around?" Thoughtfully, she adds, "Not here with 
  Luke... gonna see Sinjon, then, or what?"

With an affable smile, Tarroc nods. "I'll look forward to getting the chance." 
  Tarroc isn't at all surprised that Shenner has found a companion; despite 
  their first meetings, he always thought she had a certain magnetism. After 
  this short reflection he continues, "No, I'm not here with Luke.. I would 
  like to meet Sinjon, of course, but that was not my motive for coming 
  either. I'm not really sure why I came, actually. I just..." Tarroc still 
  has difficulty quantifying some of his senses. "...felt like I ought to be 
  here."

Oh. Well, one thing's for sure, as far as Shenner can tell: if Tarroc D'agor 
  is now a Jedi, he certainly seems to have the 'make cryptic commentary' 
  thing down pat. She can't quite stifle a grin at the thought, though she 
  gives it her best shot. And then it suddenly occurs to her: "_You're_ not 
  here about the gems, are you...?"

Tarroc's brow furls slightly. "Gems?" He seems genuinely confused, of course 
  -- in part to the fact that he hasn't the slightest idea what she might be 
  talking about. A mental connection is made between her question and the fact 
  that there are gems in a lightsaber, but nothing more comes of that point. 
  His own lightsaber has gems given him by Poguala, and functions perfectly.

"Well, Luke's diplomat friend gave me these gems, see," is Shenner's 
  explanation, as she tosses a small gesture down at the saber at Tarroc's 
  side. "And Luke said they're for makin', well, _those_, and so I'm like, why 
  the kark do _I_ have these? But the Representative said somethin' about 
  knowin' who I was supposed to give 'em to when the time came, or something 
  like that." Shenner frowns to herself, pondering this, and then concludes, 
  "But you got a saber, so I guess that can't be it." Something else has 
  changed about the girl, too -- or perhaps, something that's always been 
  there is now more refined. Stunned though she clearly is by the discovery 
  that this old acquaintance of hers has joined Luke Skywalker in the august 
  position of Jedi, she's managed to keep her expression and voice more or 
  less under control, limiting her surprise to being expressed in those intent 
  green eyes.

"Yeah, the gems focus the energy into a cohesive beam..." He wonders whether 
  optics might have been a course of study Shenner has taken; he doesn't 
  continue explaining for the time being, as he certainly wouldn't want to 
  bore her. This explanation about what Poguala said confuses him -- he vows 
  to remind himself to ask what exactly she meant later. "Are you playing 
  anything with your band, or do you just do vocals?" He shifts the subject 
  back to one more conversational.

Optics not exactly being on the roster of expected courses for a 
  xenomusicologist in training, Shenner is _not_ versed in the theory behind 
  lightsaber construction by any stretch of the imagination -- but then again, 
  this doesn't necessarily mean she's bored, either. A spark of interest 
  flashes across her expression at that offhanded first comment, and she 
  doesn't quite succeed in hiding her disappointment as D'agor changes the 
  topic again. But she does put on a confident crooked grin, proclaiming with 
  surety, "Are you kidding? I can play anything I put my hands on. I got the 
  guitar and the flute I used to busk with when I was on Calamari, and my 
  ocarina, and my drum, and the namdhi Jessa gave me, and I'm kinda hopin' 
  I'll be able to squeeze in time to learn how to play the fiddle. But yeah, 
  they made me lead singer after the war. So we're the Womprats now."

A tinge of regret finds his heart for a few moments at the mention of 
  Jessalyn, and for once he is unable to hide his feelings outwardly; his 
  posture slumps slightly and he sighs. He makes a valiant effort to cover it 
  up, however, effecting a laugh, "The Womprats! What a charming name!" It 
  wasn't with as much gusto as he would have liked.

"Funny, that's about the look I get from half the people I see when I mention 
  that, and that's from the people who ain't been to Tatooine," Shenner 
  drawls. But then she catches the slump, and her brows knit in a bit of 
  consternation. Hello, what's this? Oh. Jedi. Luke's student. So's Jessalyn 
  -- Tarroc must therefore know Jessalyn, right? The logic fires off through 
  the young singer's head in rapid succession, and then she mutters 
  sheepishly, "I guess you know her too, huh?"

"I do," he remarks, though his tone turns up dry. He pulls himself up in his 
  seat and clears his throat, opens his mouth to speak, then falls silent. He 
  can't think of anything even remotely appropriate to say, and for the first 
  time since last Shenner and he had met, he feels uncomfortable. "I ought to 
  get going, I think. If I'm sure I need to do anything here, it's to go find 
  a place to stay."

Shenner's expression twists into a chagrined 'what'd I say?!' sort of look, 
  before she mentally kicks herself. _Nice one, street rat!_ "Sure thing," is 
  what she says aloud, however, as she plasters on a smaller edition of her 
  crooked smile. "Guess I'll see ya 'round, then? Um, if I see Luke again -- 
  you want me to tell him you're here?"

"He knows," Tarroc says simply, finishing his drink and leaving it on the bar. 
  "Yeah, I'll try to drop by the Sandbar one of these nights. I'd love to hear 
  you play. See you around." He offers up a half-smile -- it's all he can 
  manage right now -- then turns and heads back to his table to leave a few 
  scripts that would cover his drink and a tip a few times over. That done, he 
  heads toward the slidestairs, waving once before he departs.

A wave... and Shenner frowns softly to herself, wondering, again, exactly what 
  she said. That Tarroc's upset about Jessalyn is obvious enough -- but will 
  she get to know more than that? Is it any of her business, since she barely 
  knows him? _One can argue you barely know Jessa, either,_ she chides herself 
  then. _After all, it ain't like you knew -she- was gonna be a Jedi either, 
  huh?_ Chewing absently at her lower lip, she waves to D'agor and watches him 
  go, looking troubled... and at least, now, distracted from the nagging of 
  her _own_ troubles, as she settles in to wait for Jonathan Webb.

[And very soon...]

Webb steps off the slidestairs.
Webb has arrived.

_I'll be karkin' damned,_ Shenner thinks, watching the door through which 
  Tarroc D'agor has vanished. She's unable to do much of anything else for 
  several moments, so stunned is she by the encounter she's just had. At last, 
  still boggling, the young singer turns on her stool and returns her 
  attention to her half-forgotten shakla, needing its warmth to try to 
  resettle her. But that turning returns her attention as well to the pendant 
  she's left lying on the bartop, and with a restless sigh, she runs its chain 
  along the fingers of her free hand while she drinks down mouthfuls of 
  cooling, brandy-laced cocoa. "Jon," she mutters fretfully, "don't keep me 
  waitin', huh?"

One quick glance at the time has been more than sufficient to lead Webb to 
  the conclusion that he's probably left a certain someone waiting. 
  Apparently, the speed of the slidestairs is not up to his satisfaction, and 
  he edges past several sentients who seemed to be quite content with just 
  standing there, being carried up by the slidestairs. His hectic arrival 
  creates no small amount of commotion, and which prompts at least one waiter 
  to look at Webb as if he just dropped through the ceiling in full armor.

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 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. But if you'd met him on the 
  street right now, it'd probably be quite difficult to coax yourself to focus 
  upon him for long enough to determine that much, for his appearance is that 
  unremarkable.
At the moment, his cboice of attire seems to be aimed at making himself 
  acceptable for a somewhat formal atmosphere, although in a reserved style. 
  Earth tones dominate the colour scheme, and certain utilitarian hints seem 
  to have blended into his attire, seemingly to survive the winter weather. 
  His trousers are a muddy-brown colour, that would doubtlessly hide such 
  punishment as dirt and grass stains, were they to occur. For now, they are 
  clean and sharply pressed. His torso is covered first by a dress shirt, 
  which has the distinction of being the only thing in Webb's attire that 
  actually has any remotely bright colour - in this case, a somewhat subdued 
  blue-green. Over this, he wears a burnt-green coloured v-neck sweater, then 
  a charcoal coloured trenchcoat that would seem to be heavy enough to stave 
  off the winter weather. At first glance, his shoes are polished enough to 
  pass as dress shoes, though they have the sort of sturdy sole that could 
  stand up to traversing rough terrain. When outside, he wears a black watch 
  cap, and a pair of black slit-fingered gloves, as any less would invite 
  frostbite in this weather.
                -=-=-=-=-=-=<<Carried Virtual Objects>>=-=-=-=-=-=-
=> Vibro-Blade
=> Kylan-3 Heavy Blaster Pistol
=> E-11 Blaster Rifle
=> Field Armor

The noise attract's Shenner's attention -- and palpable relief at seeing 
  exactly who has arrived surges across her face. She straightens up where she 
  sits by the bar, lifting a hand in hopes of catching your attention, not 
  quite willing yet to call out your name. If this was the Sandbar, she would 
  -- but then, she might not be heard over the din usually created by her very 
  own band, and then as well, this _isn't_ the Sandbar.

Webb slows from his double-time pace and smooths out his trench-coat, as he 
  attempts to look classy and polished by reasonable civilian standards, and 
  to look reasonably nonchalant as his gaze darts about the room, searching 
  out the bar. Catching sight of your raised hand, a grin spreads across his 
  face, and once again he's in motion, crossing the space between the front 
  and the bar... and instinctively slipping into a double-time pace once more.

Shenner rises to meet you as you draw near, her eyes widening a trifle as she 
  looks you up and down. "Suns," she drawls once you're within reach, a smile 
  beginning to dispel the look of strained, nervous restlessness in her 
  delicate features, "I didn't know you had these kinda clothes, Jon!"

Webb arches one eyebrow faintly and peers down at what he's wearing, then 
  slowly turns about 360 degrees to show off his attire, before he steps 
  forward to embrace you. A lopsided grin spreads across his expression as he 
  reaches up to toy with the dangling feathers, "You're looking pretty spiffy, 
  yourself."

"I wanted to wear somethin'... a little special," Shen murmurs, as she 
  willingly wraps her arms around you in return, impulsively squeezing you 
  close. And now it might be noted that there is tension in her 
  silk-and-velvet-clad frame, though she is now struggling to dispel it. 
  "Mmmm. Kark, Jon, but I'm glad to see you... wanna get a table? Get some 
  food?"

Webb ponders aloud, "Food..." as he gazes down at you, brushing his fingertips 
  along your earlobe, then following your hair down your back. "Yeah, I could 
  go for that," he murmurs, as he contemplates just what his last meal was. It 
  probably wasn't exactly haute cuisine, judging by the faint rumble of his 
  stomach that accompanies his thoughts.

Fortunately, food is easily acquired; this is, after all, a restaurant. And 
  Bianca, the ever-helpful hostess, is easily consulted as to the status of 
  the table reserved in the name of Veery for 2100 hours. Shenner gratefully 
  gestures you in that direction, even as she scoops her necklace up off the 
  bartop. But its chain dangling from her fingers reminds her of half of 
  what's on her mind -- and so, as Bianca leads singer and soldier to their 
  table of the evening, Shenner murmurs gruffly, "Food, and maybe some wine 
  too, 'cause I... I gotta ask you about somethin', Jon, and I've been getting 
  a little wiggy trying to figure out how to ask ya..."

Webb's gaze curiously homes in on that dangling necklace for a moment. After 
  all, it seems odd that you should carry it in such a manner. "Alright," he 
  murmurs as he squeezes your hand gently, "Not like I'm going to get called 
  tonight... not for anything short of total war."

And that's undeniable gratitude that she can be assured of your company, there 
  in Shenner's eyes as she settles in at the table with you. With a murmured 
  promise to be back shortly once time has been given to go over the menus, 
  Bianca glides off across the restaurant... but the young singer, thus far, 
  hasn't even bothered to glance at her menu, much less open it up. Fiddling 
  restlessly with the necklace, she stares at it with worried eyes, and then 
  breathes out hoarsely, "So, the new semester's started up, and I got this 
  new class I need to take, goes with my major, see? Music and Instrumental 
  Anthropology. Only... there's this little problem with the prof, it seems he 
  got called off for some reason or other, and I showed up the first day, 
  and... there's a substitute teacher, and..." As she speaks these words, 
  Shen's voice grows increasingly uneasy, till at last she is sounding 
  profoundly disturbed. "He's. Um. Paul."

Webb looks up from the menu that he has just opened, focussing his attention 
  on you once again, now that your worry seems to have grown to such levels. 
  Concern shows upon his expression as he gazes across at you, and his hand 
  slips across the table to touch yours. Now, the mention of Paul - that 
  definitely brings arched eyebrows. He takes in a breath, then murmurs 
  through a faintly sheepish smirk, "You uh... said you had a question?"

"Yeah," mutters Shen, her free hand reaching to twine fingers with your own, 
  her grip strong, but in search of support rather than lending it, right now. 
  Her gaze flickers unsurely up to meet your own. "You think I should, um, 
  punt the class?"

Webb peers at you silently for a few seconds as his thumb caresses against 
  your finger. His eyebrows are still arches in surprise, though they've 
  aquired the sort of quirk which would suggest that the situation seems more 
  bizarre to him than troublesome. "Uh, well..." he asks, "Can you handle him?"

Oh, holy _suns_, what a question. Shenner blows out a shuddering breath, 
  staring long and hard at the necklace in her hand as she does so. Can she 
  handle attending an entire semester's worth of classes taught by the first 
  man she ever loved? Cracking a weak grin, she mutters, "And I thought the 
  questions on last term's finals were tough."

Webb tilts his head slightly as he gazes across the table at you, and tightens 
  his grasp ever so slightly upon your hand. "Way I see it," Webb murmurs, "I 
  don't really have any business telling you wether you should or shouldn't. 
  You're the one who's gonna have to live with it, after all. But if you're 
  asking wether or not I trust you to handle things properly..." Webb pauses 
  as he smiles ever so faintly, "I do."

Shenner feels that clasp upon her fingers, and at both it and the warmth in 
  your voice, her gaze is coaxed back up to meet your own. Her eyes go full 
  and warm all at once, and a tremulous smile curls one side of her mouth. 
  "I... oh, suns, Jon, I... ain't sure I can..." Say how that makes her feel. 
  She settles, instead, for drawing your hand abruptly up to her mouth, her 
  fingers tightening their grip around your own as she brushes a delicate kiss 
  across your knuckles.

Webb's cheeks start to colour ever so faintly as your lips make contact with 
  his hand. His hand opens at the touch, turning to brush his fingers across 
  your lower lip. "Now, if you want me to try to give reasonably objective 
  advice..." he ponders for a moment, then smirks, "I say give him hell."

That prompts a husky burst of laughter out of the young singer, and she 
  cradles your hand against her cheek as her cheeks subtly twitch with her 
  chuckles. "What, drive him nuts with my very best research and papers?" 
  Shenner asks.

Webb's right eyebrow rises in a quick waggle as he raises one shoulder in a 
  faint shrug as his fingers graze along the contours of your cheekbone. 
  "Mmmhmm," he murmurs across the table to you, "Nothing less than a full 
  broadside."

It's a tempting notion, that's for certain. Shen manages a lopsided smile
  at the thought of finally getting an opportunity to prove her acamedic
  devotion to the man she once loved -- even if the prospect of seeing him
  daily still fills her with dread. Knowing that you won't be having a 
  problem with her being in his vicinity takes a great weight off her 
  shoulders, and makes that dread almost... bearable. Her smile grows.
  And her last words on the subject before she diverts her attention to
  the pleasure of a dinner with you in these lavish surroundings are a
  droll "Maybe I'll get you to help me plan my battle strategies...!"

[End log.]