Log Date: 9/4/98 Log Cast: Jonathan Webb, Stalh, Shenneret Veery, Ariani (NPC), Paul Nighman Log Intro: It is Shenneret Veery's first night on Caspar, and thus far, the day hasn't really been much of a winner. She's already had a mysterious encounter with a man named Aidon Semmes, who's claimed to know someone with her surname in CSA space -- and the implications of this send Shenner staggering. The implications that the man might be romantically interested in her are just about as disturbing, and it's not helped her one bit that she's been swamped by memories of her last visit to the planet the whole time... memories involving Paul Nighman. Uncomfortable with facing either Avy Laarken or Nelun with her fears about the place, suspecting she's going to have to go to that beach and face it -- and her memories of Paul -- sooner or later, Shen is trying to put off that inevitable confrontation by checking out the bar owned by the woman who's flown her here. Hopefully, she tells herself, she can distract herself from the memories crowding her mind. Shen doesn't know she's about to run into a Corellian who's caused her about as much trouble as Paul, and furthermore has no idea that Paul himself is actually on the planet.... [Song Credit: Although I wrote the lyrics Shen sings here, the tune is Heather Alexander's "Black Jack's Lady", from her album _Life's Flame_. Look for it at science fiction conventions. :) ] ---------- The Sandbar A large circular room creates the main part of Caspar's infamous SandBar. Dark wood paneled walls adorned with all sorts of paraphanalia set the relaxed athmosphere of the bar. Photographs and holovids are pinned randomly around, seemingly with no order at all. Posters from years past hang proudly, displaying obscure bits of Plaxton's recent history. Several windows made from a deep blue glass allow light in from outside, while still keeping the appearance of the bar rather dark. Along one curved wall a marble bar stands proudly, where Ariani busies herself making drinks and cleaning occational spots of the bar. There is an abundant amount of seating in here. You notice quite a few booths and tables, as well as a loft which protrudes out over the bar. A popular local band plays smooth jazz in the background. ----For help with tables, type "PLACE HELP" ----For help with drinks, type "BAR HELP" -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Paul_Nighman => Stalh => Webb => Kitchen => Susan => Ariani => Emma -=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=- leads to Fountain Square - Plaxton City. Webb enters the Sandbar. Webb has arrived. Stalh enters the Sandbar. Stalh has arrived. In the Sandbar tonight, the usual band is in place, plugging vigorously away at a pounding jazz number, instruments tossing notes intricately back and forth. But among them is one young redheaded human girl apparently new to the place, grinning ferally as she keeps up with the other musicians on a borrowed guitar. Shenner has claimed a chair on one end of the stage, and is keeping credibly up with the band, watching the leader of the group for the changes, and laying down a line of rhythm under the main melody. Ignoring the waitress as he enters is a man who seems quite content to be ignored for the most part. He sits himself down at a table near the door facing the rest of the establishment. He closes his eyes tiredly and just sits, listening to the music or perhaps the silence that feels his head. Webb comments to those about as he steps into the establishment, "Evening sentients." He frowns to himself and takes upon an expression of comptemplation as he tries to figure out just where the heck he picked up /that/ corny mannerism... and decides to /never/ say that again. His attention is then drawn to the band, which sounds somehow different to him today... By the grin spreading across his face, one could suppose he might consider it to be a good change. His gaze specifically focusses upon the new addition... Slender, pale, with dark russet hair and sparking green eyes, this new musician on the stage looks rather scruffier than the usual players, her clothing old and faded and rumpled. But she handles the guitar in her lap with utter assurance, and as the leader of the band once more steps up to the mike, the redheaded girl joins the rest of the musicians in laying down background harmony, proving she's as comfortable with her voice as with the guitar. Webb looks at you for a moment. Webb slides up onto one of the empty barstools at the bar and spins upon the stool to face Ariani the bartender, "Wow... the new girl..." he motions with a sweep of his hand towards the band, "She's pretty good. I'll have my usual..." Ariani grins at Webb's apparently cheerful mood... which serves to her as a guideline as to /which/ of Webb's usuals to serve him. Oh yes, he can't just have one like all of those normal people. He has no less than three. What Webb ends up with is a tall glass of iced tea with a wedge each of two different varieties of local citrus. The redhead up on the stage weaves her low tenorish voice in with the rest of the backup singers, and the song begins building to a thunderous close, the beat as driving and inexorable as a thrust into hyperspace. And when in a crash of chords the band concludes its song, leaving resounding silence to be immediately filled by the applause and cheers of the appreciative crowd, Shen cuts off at precisely the same moment as the rest of them. There's a lopsided little grin on her face, and she stands up off her chair to bow with the rest of the musicians. Webb takes a sip of his iced tea (which is apparently the proper 'usual' for the circumstances), then turns towards the band and joins into the applause of the other patrons of the Sandbar. "Thank you!" calls out the lead singer, a tall, leggy blonde woman who'd been manipulating her synthesizer with the skill of an adept. "Let's hear it for the new kid, give it up for Shen, people!" And she gestures magnanimously down the stage at the redhead with the guitar, who grins broadly at the audience. The lead singer then concludes, "And that's our break, 15 minutes, and we'll be back, folks!" The band members then start dispersing off the stage, one or two of them slapping the redheaded girl on the shoulder, and the lot of them dispersing into the crowd. Among them, the redhead trades teasing jibes back and forth, and willingly yields to suggestions that she wander to the bar and get herself something to drink. As Shenner ambles in that direction, it can be seen that the girl's apparently been at this for a while; her slender face is a bit sheened in sweat, and her face has a healthy flush from exertion. The sound of clapping draws the human sitting at the entrance to the Bar out of his reverie. Opening his eyes slowly and adjusting to the light is the man who then proceeds to rub his temples, trying in vain to clear the onset of yet another headache. Paul_Nighman enters the Sandbar. Paul_Nighman has arrived. Webb takes another sip of his iced tea and watches from his stool at the bar and watches the approach of the new musician in this establishment... this 'Shen' as the lead singer introduced her. Once he thinks Shen is close enough to hear him among the various other patrons he comments, "Not bad kid. Not bad at all." A tall Corellian slips through the doorway as a few customers walk out. He'd stood outside for several minutes, debating whether or not to even enter in the first place. Of course he recognized the voice, loud and clear. It was both the reason for his decision and his deliberations. By his features it's also clear that he is not yet certain as to the wisdom of this decision. He is thrown off by the fact that the band has suddenly stopped playing, and that the hostess has approached him. To back out now would seem foolish, possibly noteworthy, and at the moment Paul Nighman does not wish to be noted. He steps back into the small area of shadow, glancing about before pointing out a rare darkened table in the corner. Out of the way. Out of sight. "There," he murmurs low and rough. The redhead has, indeed, moved into Webb's earshot, and as she deftly interposes herself between a pair of sizeable green scaly patrons of the establishment, she turns and glances at the man who's hailed her. "Thanks," she calls back cheerfully, before turning to wave at Ariani and call, "Heya, gimme somethin' with some kick to it, will ya, my throat's killin' me!" 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. A few small scars dot his face, though other than that his complexion is perfectly clear, though pale enough to suit some corpses. He is dressed moderately casually at the moment, wearing a deep blue cotton dress shirt with a pair of khaki coloured pants. The pants are belted with a black leather belt, which bears a CDU Ranger logo upon the belt buckle. Upon his feet he wears a pair of black leather sneakers that look somewhat beaten up, and perhaps chewed upon by small animals with sharp teeth. A lightweight trenchcoat of deep forest green hangs from his shoulders to keep him from getting too soaked by the rains. -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Combat Armor -=-=-=-=-=-=<>=-=-=-=-=-=- => Webb's Backpack(#4707V) As the redhead glances toward the doorway and the hostess, Paul instinctively jerks back further into the shadows, even though Ariani has drawn away from him fractionally as she indicates that he should feel free to seat himself. He holds for a moment, waiting for the girls attention to pass before moving smoothly and silently, shifting into the booth and tucking himself into the corner, giving him an excellent view of the room at large while keeping him relatively out of sight. "You," booms one of the green scaly patrons in a voice just a few steps over a subsonic rumble, turning to peer down nearsightedly at the redheaded girl, "you will be singing more in this place?" And the bartender, coming over to chuckle at Shenner's forthright gaze and wave, tells her wryly, "Define 'kick', kiddio, it's on the house!" Webb takes another long sip of his iced tea, drinking up that wonderful caffiene goodness before he leans over so that he can see around one of the scaly patrons which blocks his line of sight to Shen, and asks of the musician, "So, are you going to be a regular here now?" "Brandy," growls Shenner pleasantly, more than willing to let the house give her the best of whatever it's got as long as the house is paying. And with an almost challenging edge to her gaze, though it's anyone's guess who or what she might be challenging, she appends, "Corellian, and I want it older than I am!" As the bartender grinningly turns to comply, the girl turns and eyes Webb, amiably enough. "Yeah. For a few nights at least. Miz Laarken wants me to sing for her." "GOOD," rumbles the big reptiloid by Shenner, a Barabel, who overhears her commentary to Webb and evidently finds this news of interest. The sentient settles down onto a stool with the kind of deliberate motion you might expect of an asteroid coming to rest, or perhaps a being who's had a sizeable amount of drink. Keeping a low profile, and his gaze on the girl, the Corellian is both focused and distracted. Slumping down a touch, he stares openly. And while the girls words are for the most part lost in the din of the bar, her mood and energy speak clearly across the distance. While the intensity of his gaze does not shift, a certain degree of tension and perhaps even dread, seems to ooze away from the man. Webb's grin spreads a little wider for a moment as he nods, seemingly in approval at having a few more opportunities to hear the new girl play. Of course, he doesn't quite voice this approval as loudly or bluntly as the Barabel fellow next to him, but the message is clear enough. He likes what he heard. The brightly demanded Corellian brandy is produced, and Shenner, with a rough gratitude, takes up the glass and raises it to Ariani. And she promptly chugs back a sizeable swallow of it, making the other reptiloid produce a thundering roll of noise that may well be his species' version of laughter. Shen looks entirely fine for a moment, before her green eyes well over in a surge of tears, and a violent cough shakes her frame. Webb sighs quietly at Shenner's antics with the Corellian brandy... first as he watches her take that first painfully big gulp of the powerful liquid, then again, but perhaps with a hint of amusement which he tries very hard to restrain (it still shows though), as the brandy finally bites back. "Careful kiddo... if you drink it like that, you'll have a voice as smooth as crushed gravel by the end of the night." A cough, a splutter. The noise of a being not being able to hold liquor brings Stalh's attention to the red-flamed woman. His eyes, almost black, glow wildly in the Bar's light. His leather gloved hands move from his head to clasp together - apart then together. After a few moments it is obvious that slow contemptuous clapping can be heard coming from the direction of the blacked dressed man. As the girl splutters, the Corellian in the corner smiles a touch wryly. It's a lopsided thing, a mixture of humor and something oddly bitter, as if he'd had a taste of something that didn't agree with him. At the inappropriate applause, however, his gaze shifts, narrowing to focus on the source with a touch of displeasure, a frown of suspicion. "'Mfine!" Shenner croaks to Webb, looking up through teary eyes, still grinning broadly and defiantly. Not yet aware of Stalh's sardonic clapping, for the din of the bar and the rumbling amusement of the pair of Barabels has drowned it out for her, the girl sucks in large lungfuls of air and then manages to gasp out in reply, "Hey... night's still young!" Webb smiles back to Shenner at her antics, indicating that his comments were good-natured, and not intended to be insulting unlike /some/ people in the Sandbar tonight. As a waiter brushes by, Stalh grabs the man and issues him closer. Tipping the man kindly, Stalh let's him go on his way - the waiter apparently heading towards the bar. Within moments the waiter returns with a visous liquid placed neatly in a glass. Nodding silently to the customer, the waiter returns silently to the kitchen. One of the Barabels gives the young redheaded musician what he probably intends to be a friendly whack between her shoulderblades, to help her clear her throat. As it happens, the whack almost knocks Shenner over... almost. Shen manages to keep her balance, and as the pair of reptiloids look on -- perhaps amusedly, it's hard to tell with their alien countenances -- the girl leans back against the bar, managing to make it look exactly as if this was a casual intention rather than a grab for the bar's support. But her first swallow of brandy has kindled an amber fire somewhere between her throat and her belly, and she fully intends to get that fire stoked up into a roaring blaze. She promptly chugs down another swallow of her glass's contents, and when she's done, she coughs out in ragged but profound contentment, "Yeah, this is the happenin' place on this rock...!" Holding a tray as she walks through the jostling crowd surrounding the red-headed musician is a barwoman. Carefully and skillfully she weaves closer to Shenner, leaving some amazed just how she did so without spilling a drop of the famed liquid. Bowing slightly in respect is the woman who kindly displays the drink and says plainly, "For you Ma'am. Curtesy of an old Corellian friend." She waits patiently for the musician to acknowledge her. The approach of the waitress catches the girl's attention, and she turns and peers at the woman, still hanging onto her brandy glass in the meantime. She might be noticed to pull herself up slightly, her face abruptly darkening, and she barks out shortly to the woman, "Male or female?" Stepping back slightly at the flamed haired woman's abruptness, the waitress takes a moment to gather her composure. "Male." she says timidly, her voice like a mouse frightenly aware of a predator. In hoping to win grace, the waitress curtsies slightly and smiles. Webb is human, and yet his countenance has a certain vagueness to it that rivals the Barabels at times, especially when he's still trying to conceal his amusement. He mutters to the scaly patron next to him, "Well, I'll say this for the kid. She's got a certain energy." With that, Webb turns his attention back to his glass of iced tea, which somehow got empty without him realising it. He pushes the glass away and asks of Ariani, "Another please." Soon another glass is placed in front of him. Again, there is little comprehension of what is said, but _this_ old Corellian knows the girl well enough to know when something is amiss. Some habit, call it self preservation, has the man shifting in his seat, lower and over to one side to allow the booth to block him. If he still had his hat, he'd be drawing it over his features about now. Momentarily forgetting Webb and the Barabels, Shenner pins the waitress with an abruptly narrowed gaze, and then eyes the drink. "I ain't got any male Corellian friends, lady, you must be mistakin' me for somebody else," she answers, the bite of the brandy... and perhaps a shift in her mood... turning her voice darker and huskier. "Sorry." Although timid and shy, the waitress is fully committed to her duty to serve. Holding the tray slightly higher in what could almost be described as a peasant holding aloft an appeasement for an angry god. Her mouth remains closed, but her darting blue eyes look onto Shenner in a vocal sorrow. A fleck of concern creases her face, indicating that insulting her could be the probable message taken if her service is refused. Shenner might be crude, but she is not insensitive, and the waitress's imploring expression makes the redhead frown uncomfortably. She pushes off from the bar, stepping forward to peer narrowly at the drink, and she grumbles out, "Okay, okay, don't get bent outta shape, okay?" She takes up the offered glass, setting the one she'd had down on the bar behind her, and squints at its contents. "What's this stuff, and where is this 'friend' anyhow?" The girl turns her red head and peers warily through the crowd as she speaks. "Sir? Sir, would you like anything from the bar?" That voice, and the figure that goes with it, standing right in front of his gaze, makes Paul glance up. In his slumped position, added to the fact that he is clearly spying on the members of the bar, Paul looks rather comical as well as disreputable. He offers the waitress a sheepish smile, sitting back upright and unconciously tugging at his clothes, as if the sheer straightening of his shirt could add respectability to his countenance. "Ah, Corellian brandy," he orders without much thought. The woman shrugs, "All the order said was this was to be delivered to you, with an attachment saying paid for a man - an old Corellian pal of yours." Quickly she adds, "A single shot of Corellian brandy," her sorrowful eyes brightening with the woman's approval of her services. Her brightening eyes seem to have an effect on her mouth which starts to curl up into a cute little smile. "With a double shot of water." she continues, innocently unaware of the mocking subtleness of the proferred drink. Stalh shifts forward in his seat, placing his full weight on the table. A small smirk splashes his face as he looks through some members of the bar, trying to guage the look on the 'brat's' face. The frown lingers on Shenner's face -- what Corellian does she know who'd be buying her drinks? She flashes a suspicious green glance through what she can see of the crowd, a hint of trepidation flaring up in her features. _Trace? Shikh...? Bright suns, not.... ahh, hells, not--_ And she can't let herself finish the thought. Shenner's expression then hardens, and in a reflexive motion, she abruptly tosses back the contents of the glass that's been brought to her. She doesn't see Trace or Shikh anywhere... and if it's neither of them, she doesn't want to think about who that would leave who'd be referring to themselves as an 'old Corellian friend'. "Thanks," she then rasps hoarsely at the waitress, thunking the now empty glass back down onto her tray and turning very deliberately back to the bar. With a curtsy, the waitress turns and quickly darts through the crowd back to her haven that is the kitchen. Webb's attention to the conversation has dwindled... somewhat. Well, maybe it'd be more appropriate to say that it's now being focussed in an entirely different manner. A soft-leaded pencil of sorts has appeared in his hand, and the napkin which Ariana gave him with his drink now sports an already fairly detailed scene of the patrons within his line of sight, namely Shenner and the two Barabels, with Ariani opposite them and looking on. Somewhere cringing in the back is a shadow which might be Mr. Nighman. A look of disgust stains the face of the blackened man. 'That just didn't work.' He shakes his head, silently sending out wave patterns of what he would /like/ to do that waitress for making a mess of his ordered drink. An urge of rage sweeps over the diplomat as he slams his gloved fist hard onto the table. He leans back against the booth harshly - his apparent mood very - very obvious. Some of the band members have begun to saunter back to the stage; two of them have once more taken up their instruments, and are starting to warm them up. The lead singer, heading that way herself, waves inquiringly at Shen from some distance away, and Ariani has to point out the wave before the redhead turns to spot it. "A minute, gimme a minute," Shenner calls out. The lead singer nods steadily and continues to the stage. And Shenner, her expression very odd for a young woman who'd just been grinning ear to ear a moment ago, peers down at the remaining portion of her original glass of brandy. Then she picks up, hauls in an enormous breath, and starts drinking down the rest of the stuff. His view unblocked once again, Paul has the distinct sensation that he's missed something. Something crucial. Clearly the girl's mood is not what it once was. He settles back in his seat as the players once again take the stage. After all, this is what he came in for. In a manner of speaking. Sort of. Webb apparently decides that the drawing that he just (rather quickly) completed is now sufficient, and leaves it at that. He sighs quietly and looks about at the various other patrons to find something else to keep him amused. Lifting his glass of iced tea in one hand, he slowly turns about upon the barstool, scanning the crowds for familiar faces. The brandy fire within her has inched up several degrees, and Shenner stands there with her palms against the bartop, her eyes closed. She pulls in several breaths and releases them, waiting for the alcohol to start spreading the warmth she'd been seeking throughout her frame, and once it does, she feels ready to turn and head for the stage. To face the crowd. And try to deal with it if a particular disturbing Corellian is, in fact, somewhere on the premises. She plasters on a lopsided grin that doesn't quite make it to her darkened eyes, and tells Webb and the Barabels, "'Scuse me, boys, we're on again." Webb grins to Shen as she walks by headed on the way to join the band and wishes her well, "Give 'em hell, kid," before continuing his perusal of the faces before him. Hello? What's this? None other than that well-loved diplomat, Mr. Stahl. Hmm... suddenly Webb's gaze has taken on a much more unsettling tone to it. Shenner tosses off a salute of sorts to Webb, and with that, she starts back towards the stage, missing the way the man she's just left shifts expressions as he spots Stalh across the way. Still oblivious to the latter man herself, the girl presses through the patrons in the place, darts between a few tables, and hops up onto the stage to join the rest of the musicians, meeting their approving grins with one of her own that she seems to be wielding more than wearing in earnest. Stalh does not even sense the prying eyes of Webb. Rather he is much more contented in eying the supposed singer mount the stage. An attractive human who walks past his table to exit captures his attention fully for a brief moment, as he watches he fine /fine/ figure glide on past. His eyes fixate on the door when it is closed - as if magically he is still viewing the woman's shapely behind. As Shen takes the stage along with the rest of the musicians, the lead singer turns to her and murmurs something inviting-sounding to the young redhead, something that makes her blink. With a well-uh-sure expression flashing across her slender features, the kid then squares her shoulders. And accepts the guitar she'd borrowed before, slinging its strap over her shoulders. She plays with it for a few moments, and she can be seen to turn to the rest of the band, showing them a few chords, clearly sharing information with them. Some of the group give their lead singer inquiring glances, but the blonde woman seems entirely comfortable with what she's doing. And when the band members begin to take their places on the stage, it is Shenner, and not the leader of the group, who moves into the center position. The Corellian sits forward at the table, safe in the awareness that the lights shining down onto the stage will easily blind the young singer to the bulk of the audience. He doesn't even notice when the drink arrives, looking up with a touch of surprise as the waitress gently clears her throat to get his attention. "Something to eat?" she cajoles. After a moment Paul nods, pointing out an appetizer of bread and brikali dip, the woman nodding her head in approval. As she departs, Paul's gaze swivels back toward the stage, curious despite himself. The redheaded girl on the stage brandishes her borrowed guitar slightly to her side, as if it were a blaster rifle and she were about to fire it off from her hip. As various pairs and triads and clusters of eyes begin to turn back towards the stage, Shenner doesn't bother to introduce herself, or announce the name of the song she's about to perform. She simply gestures into the air, chopping off four beats to lay down the tempo. The band lays in with a low growling beat. And four measures in, in her husky, brandy-roughened voice, Shenner begins to sing. Webb divides his attention for a moment between the band, and Mr. Stalh. He scratches his chin for a moment as the band starts playing, with the newcomer as lead. Webb looks quite contemplative for the moment, in a manner which seems both idle and vaguely serious at the same time. A hungry kid from Plawal's dome Wants off her forsaken home And a smuggler man's the first to come With a tale of his freighter's fame To journey into Rebel space Her credits and her trust she'll place In a dashing grin and a beautiful face And a ride upon the _Corell's Flame_... Shenner veritably growls out each syllable she sings, her voice darkly edged, her hands beginning to pull answering growls forth from her guitar's strings. Taking a sip of his drink, Paul seems to be both intrigued and enjoying the music. But eventually comprehension dawns, and blossoms, and the drink is nearly gagged on. Putting the drink down slowly, he lays his palms on the table as if to push up and leave, a frown creasing his brow. But move he does not, for only listening to the rest of the song will give him the whole picture ... A cursive mutter - something about strangling a cat is expelled from the diplomat as he rises to his full height. Pulling down his slightly crumpled jacket as he walks, Stalh edges closer to the stage - craftfullly avoiding the many beings watching the show from where they stand or moving back to their seats for a more comfortable performance. Within metres of the stage the diplomat slows his pace, as he does so, his left hand reaches to behind his jacket as to retrieve something... The band's drummer is slicing out riffs on his cymbals, punctuating the first beat of every measure; the guitars are pulsing out simple beats in time with the redheaded singer's voice. And Shenner, staring out into the stagelights, faces her audience with a sardonic curl to her mouth and eyes turned nearly black in the glare shining down upon them. The kid continues on, sullenly growling out a bridge: But while they're stopped on Tatooine He gets more drunk than she ever has seen Tries to blast in where no man has been... That's the way of a Corellian swain! And she snarls her way back into the original melody line, with the next verse: Her weapon smacks across his head He's crumpled, dazed, into his bed Into Mos Eisley's streets she's fled For she swore she'd never be waylain Next morning in the docking bay She finds his freighter's launched away And she's left there in the sweltering day With a curse for the Corellian's name! Webb seems to be enjoying the song much more than Stalh is... but don't think for a moment that doesn't mean he isn't watching his favorite of all diplomats like a Cason Hawk would watch a careless rodent. In fact, Stalh's movements, particularly the way he seems to creep like that draws Webb's curiousity even more so. Webb takes one last sip of his iced tea, before slipping off of his bar stool and heading off to check up more closely upon Mr. Stalh, creeping just a little in the process himself as he weaves his way towards the diplomat. An accidental bump from an alien draws no attention from Stalh, infact just a few feet on he 'moved' another patron from path. His blackening demonic eyes are just focusing on one thing - the singer. A wry smile curls at the corners of the ex-Imperial's lips as he reaches the stage. Looking up at the brat he chuckles coldly, and rapidly brings his arm to bear... The story is familiar, painfully so, and Paul frowns again, muttering under his breath, "But that's not the way it was at _all_," a low Corellian curse wafting out after a moment. "Sir?" queries the waitress at his side, Paul glancing up once again caught off guard and indiscreetly so. "Ah, nothing," he murmurs softly, "thanks," as he takes the proffered food. His attention has been torn between the girl and the waitress, and the very idea that there might be trouble afoot, other than getting himself inadvertently spotted, hasn't so much as crossed his mind. Shenner might have most of the stagelights blazing down at her, but if someone comes as close to the stage as Stalh has done, she can't help but notice him. Her face goes white and cold, and the only thing that keeps her from making an obscene gesture right then and there is the simple fact that both her hands are occupied with the task of making music. And despite the sudden frigid mask that drops across her features, the redhead doesn't miss a beat. Perhaps she notices Stalh's arm coming up and perhaps she doesn't; regardless, she growls out her next lyrics almost as if personally challenging the man to combat: With song by day and stealth by night And a vow upon the Original Light And her blaster's blaze to carry the fight Comes the birth of the Corellian's Bane! Her hair is like the setting sun Her grace and voice, they are rivalled by none And you soon shall rue the deed you have done If you cross the Corellian's Bane! Ah... the cold chuckle of one up to no good. Maybe it'd be best to make this a surprise for good ol' Mr. Stalh. Webb diverts into rear quarter of Stalh's vision, hoping that until now it looked as if his true heading was one of the tables in the back. Now, Webb's motions change suddenly, from nonchalant, to quick, light, cat-like steps which rapidly close the gap... which for him somehow seem more natural than his previous fairly nonchalant walk. Stalh locks eyes with Shenner. With his cold sardonic laugh still booming, the diplomat finally reveals what he was withdrawing from his back pocket. Sensing an onrushing being causes a visible slight flutter in the nerves of the man as he darts a look away from Shenner. Smiliing even more sadisticly, Stalh unclenches his fist and lets the object he is holding drop...Several credits drop to the edge of the stage, making unnaturally loud clinks on the wood. Silently he starts to turn, making his way to exit. Webb returns to his utterly nonchalant stance about arm's length away behind Stalh, and observes the fall of the credits. A slight smirk spreads across Webb's face at the gesture... an expression which betrays only mild surprise... after all, it's been Webb's assessment thus far that Stalh doesn't exactly go out of his way to give people legitimate excuses to tear extra orifices into the diplomat's hide... he just makes them wish they could. From behind Stalh comes a comment of, "How generous of you." Her face is fair and her breath is sweet But do not fall for her cunning deceit For she'll slice ya wide from your head to your feet 'Tis the way of the Corellian's Bane Shenner, if she's surprised by Stalh's actions, allows no more than a tight, narrow smirk of reaction to cross her face as she continues her song. One thing's for sure, though, there _is_ now an oddness to her eyes, a slight distraction, and something of the bite has left her words as she belts out another bridge: Corell's child better turn himself around Else his lady gonna lay him in the cold hard ground....! The front of the stage is blocked from Paul's view for the most part, and while he senses some sort of commotion, Shen's pale features heightening his sense that _something_ is going on, there is no apparent trouble. No brawl, arguement, fist fight, or fire fight. Eyes narrowed in curiousity, he scans the crowd briefly, though the lyrics pull his gaze back up to the girls face. Although the man fades into the crowd of on lookers his cackle does not. He regains his pompous arrogant sway for the first time tonight as he silently acknowledges the bar's patron's shocked expressions. Returning to his table he gulps down his Corellian Brandy, turning to Shenner as he does so. Placing the glass gently on the table, he blows a sweet tender kiss to the woman who he despises so much, bows and turns to open the doors. Some of the band, too, has noticed the bizarre arrival at the stage. But they, practiced musicians all, are keeping up a steady undercurrent of rhythm beneath Shenner's rasping singing. Two or three of the group stare hard at Stalh, but they keep going. And square in the middle of it all, Shenner, her face still hard but with a hard hollow darkness to her gaze, growls out And now through each dream-haunted night With eyes ablaze though they never give light Flying world to world with her gunshots bright Goes the form of the Corellian's Bane now So lock your doors inside to stay Young men best keep outta her way For there's none can stop her song, they say Or the hunt for her Corellian swain now... Webb stands before the stage, arms crossed in front of him, but actually seeming somewhat amused by Stalh's behaviour... If any one message is readable upon his face, it is something to the effect of 'Aww... how cute'. Outwardly he murmurs the word 'childish', as he watches Stalh walk away. Now, holding that taut, cold expression -- at odds with the raw edge of the words she's hurling out into the listening audience -- Shenner and her guitar stalk sharply through the final stanzas, the girl now blatantly ignoring the man tossing her the mocking kiss. With song by day and stealth by night And a vow upon the Original Light And her blaster's blaze to carry the fight Goes the course of the Corellian's Bane Corellian men, you'd best be true And faithful in the loving you do Or else let gods have pity on you.... If you cross the Corellian's Bane! With a final chilling cackle, Stalh throws open the doors to the bar. The chilled night's air enters the bar momentarily. A final glance and a final glare is all that is left of Stalh, as he exits. With the doors closed, the cold wind goes - perhaps one could guess, the chilling wind was not the outside breeze, but the diplomat's heart saying a fond farewell. This evenings experience has proven itself to be too peculiar, or too uncomfortable, for the Corellian to linger any longer. His gaze finally latches onto the disturbing individual man, a frown touching his brow and lips as the mocking kiss is blown toward Shen. As the girl sings defiantly, that last stanza hits too close to home for the Corellian's comfort level. The food before him barely touched, Paul's gaze drops away, and he pulls out a handful of credits, dropping them on the table before standing up. Perhaps he follows in the footsteps of the other man, but not in the spirit. He keeps to the shadows, walking slowly and discreetly, disappearing versus carving his way through the crowds. He offers the girl on the stage no farewells, fond or otherwise. He simply pries open the door, allowing the chill air to rush past him and into the room. Perhaps it reflects the state of his heart as well. The song has now gunned its way to its close, causing spontaneous bursts of applause from several female members of three different humanoid species in the audience. One Twi'lek female hollers out enthusiastic approval in her native language. And in the center of the stage, Shenner, one corner of her mouth curled up in as much appreciation of the applause as she can summon, executes a bow to the crowd. She turns to surrender the guitar back to its owner, and to yield the stage's center back to the band's leader. Several "awwwwws" sound out as the redhead abruptly tromps down off the stage. Her white face is cast into that hard expression as though frozen there, but her eyes are pained and bleak. And Shen sets herself a course for the bar, bent now even more than she'd been earlier that night on one thing and one thing only: getting herself as drunk as it is possible for a redheaded bard to get, having already poured out the state of her heart in her song. Webb yawns as a beep from his chronometre alerts him as to the increasingly late hour. He watches for a moment as his favorite musician of the group trudges towards the bar. He gets a short glimpse of her expression and murmurs to those about him, "Ah. I love happy endings." This draws a few strange glances which Webb seems to care not much about. Shen stops at the bar long enough to thrust a handful of crumpled bills at Ariani and bark out a request for a bottle of brandy... Corellian, unsurprisingly, as that seems to be the theme of the girl's evening. Apparently now oblivious to or ignoring any glances sent her way by the patrons of the bar, the girl stalks out of the place, bottle in hand, suddenly needing silence. And solitude. In moments, she is gone. [To be continued...]