Crow

[Máiréad Vrána]

She canted from one side to the other with each casual step, hands buried in the leather pockets of her coat as she traversed an earthen dam dividing the small reservoirs. It was a nice, hazy sun as its descent transitioned from late afternoon to the turn of evening, and the constant creak of insect chirps assisted in setting a lazy mood. Browning grass crinkled beneath each footfall as the woman neared the end of the reservoirs, rows of wheat sprouting up to flank her ahead.

A few minutes and a couple hundred meters later, the darkly clad woman emerged from the wheat fields and turned down the dusty road, bits of gravel crunching to announce her approach towards the vendor's square. It was a typical Ansion harvester town, home to some rather expansive wheat fields and vineyards and a couple nerf ranches on the outskirts. The buildings were mostly concentrated around the second-rate spaceport bordering Ritto's farm. The houses and shops were colorful and quaintly designed, and there was a fair amount of water sources to set the scenery, so Schedristad received occasional tourism during the middle seasons.

The woman's inky hair and solemn trenchcoat fluttered in the slight breeze, taut fabric whipping against her shins and wispy strands clinging against her bronze face whenever the wind picked up. She received a lazy wave from one of the residents, and a few others acknowledged her with a nod as she traversed the main street and maneuvered closer to the center of town.

Her favorite place to dine was a café along the outermost road, where she eventually wound up and claimed her usual table alongside the canal pathway. The umbrella was drawn as the sunlight was waning, and the clatter of newly washed dishes could be heard from within the kitchen. Taking her seat outside, she unsheathed her hands from her pockets and placed a pen and small book on the table, and leaned fully back to watch the serene flow of the artificial river as she waited for her server.

 

[Switch]

It was times like these when even a woman like Switch had to stop rethink their place in the galaxy. She had taken and lost her fortune enough times to count on both hands. She had killed countless people, and hurt countless more. She had seen more of the galaxy than she had ever thought possible, and left a mark in her own small way. She'd even had a decent couple of years since taking her life back, perhaps even a few pretty good days scattered among them. It seemed almost fitting that it would all came back to knock her on her ass.

Finally, after so many years, it was time for Switch to die.

The woman had been careless and stupid, sliding recklessly from failure to failure in recent months as she sought out the next big high. Finally it had gotten the better of her, her face and the name she clung to so tightly plastered across the underworld for neglecting to kill some Hutt. It was a testament the edge she had lost somewhere along the way, and all she had to show for it at the end of the road was a death mark and an army of faceless enemies.

Chewing absently at the bitter, unlit cigarra between her lips, brown eyes glanced out the window at the approaching spaceport below. If you could even call it that. She was touching down in some harvester town, the name of which she had forgotten on the journey, and she had no idea when she would be safe to leave. It had taken the Hutt's share of her savings to orchestrate her "escape attempt" from the Smuggler's Moon, the ship she had chartered making a hasty getaway before getting brought down somewhere in the swamps of Nal Hutta. If she had been thorough, then the notorious slicer and former pirate known only as "Switch" had been on that transport.

Shaken from her memories by telltale shudder of cheap landing gear, the fugitive shook the clutching arm of an older, sleeping man from around her shoulders. She had secured a place on the ship with his ticket, and he had proved a much welcome distraction during the voyage, but she had no intention of being nearby when he awoke. Keeping her steps as soft as she could in the growing bustle of rising passengers, a dexterous, pale hand snatched the red leather duster draped over the sleeping man's seat. It was supposed to be windy here, and she had more than earned the parting gift.

Vanishing into the faceless throng around her, the woman shrugged her slim shoulders into the ill-fitting coat as she disembarked, just another tourist and a planet nobody important visited. Before any trouble could find her, the woman picked a course and started walking, the bottom flaps of her stolen coat gather dust as they continually flirted with touching the ground.

For a while, the brooding woman just walked, her course unclear beyond the vague objective of losing herself somewhere unfamiliar. It was only when the sunlight began to grow a violent red when a new sense of urgency took over, slender fingers hovering anxiously over the goggles dangling before the loose, plunging collar of an old black button up shirt. Her searching gaze zeroing in on a quaint cafe nearby, the woman made an embarrassingly hasty walk towards it as she looked for a table.

Finishing her approach, she found herself standing awkwardly before a table seating a lone woman, dressing in dark clothes with a book and pen before her. Paying little mind to how ridiculous she must look with her hand clutching a pair of goggles around her neck, an unlit cigarra forgotten between her lips, and an over sized, brilliant'y red leather long coat looking to be millimeters from slipping from her shoulders, the former pirate took a gentle grip at the back of a chair opposite the unfamiliar woman.

For just a moment she stood frozen, old, conflicting instincts dueling for supremacy behind uncertain, chocolate eyes that seemed reluctant to make direct contact. Taking a steadying breath, the woman thought of all the ways she could ask for a seat, or at the very least introduce herself to the stranger before her. Finally a soft, wavering voice, seemingly light years removed from the sardonic, clipped tones she had perfected over a decade of violence, was released with the breath she was holding.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" Abigail Dolsa spoke, her voice youthful and unfamiliar to her ears as she centered her gaze on the woman before her.

[member="Máiréad Vrána"]

 

[Máiréad Vrána]

She stirred from her reverie, sitting up straight and rotating her torso to study her practically self-invited guest. Her brown eyes flashed a momentary murk of distaste, but it disappeared quickly enough and she nodded her consent. "I'm not with anyone. It's fine." She took another scan of the stranger before adjusting her posture and pointing her feet forwards. She wasn't exactly a local, but she had resided in Schedristad for a couple years now, and it was hard to forget faces around this town. The other woman's features--especially her clothing--certainly did not register.

Guardedly, the black-clad coat placed a palm over her book and searched for the waiter. Thankfully, his timing for the situation was impeccable, the young man in his plaid sport jacket making his way in between the two females and standing at attention. "Hello, ladies." He cast a glance towards the stranger with a similar expression of suspicion, but amended it with a smile before focusing on his more regular customer. "Chandrillan red for you today?" he asked.

"As always, Luke."

The man returned his gaze to the opposite chair. "And for you, miss?"

[member="Switch"]

 

[Switch]

After a moment's hesitation, Abigail pulled her chair away from the table as quietly as she could. She gave the raven haired woman an obligatory, tight-lipped nod, quietly expressing her gratitude as she slumped down into the seat across from her. She cast a wary glance over her shoulder as a waiter approached their table, giving the darkening area around her a quick examination before turning back to face the table.

She blinked once, her eyes falling upon the recent arrival as he looked her over expectantly. "...What?" In a flash, Abigail pieced it together, a nearly imperceptible flush filling her face for the briefest of moments. "I'll have the same." It came out just a bit faster than she would have liked, the woman's frustratingly terrible first impression continuing to worsen as she remembered the unlit cigarra dangling from her mouth. With a move she could only hope was as graceful as she intended, she plucked the stick from her lips, absently depositing it on the very edge of the table.

[member="Máiréad Vrána"]

 

[Máiréad Vrána]

The dark woman and the waiter exchanged a curious glance in reaction to the other patron's unusual response, and she found herself subconsciously dragging her small book just a few centimeters towards herself. Luke concluded that they would not be sharing tabs... or bottles. "Be back with your wine in a moment, then."

So now she was back to being alone with this odd individual, and the more seasoned of the two customers mentally weighed whether or not she was going to be able to enjoy the prior silence. Her rusted eyes peered at the bright coat sitting across from her and pursed her lip, half amused and half tense. Some random stranger with an apparent penchant for long coats had just walked up to her table and ordered "the same." It could happen to anyone. But then the woman in black wasn't just anyone. Was she being played with? "Here to see the Pastel Chateaus?" she asked near-monotone, facing her guest straight on.

[member="Switch"]

 

[Switch]

Casting a final glance at their waiter as he turned to get drinks for the table, a welcome sense of relief washed over Abigail as her fight or flight instinct shifted a bit closer to neutral. Shoulders relaxing into a comfortable slump, she once again met the gaze of the older woman before her whose evening she had so rudely interrupted.

There was something in the woman's stare that stood out to Abigail, a force of personality that made her hair stand on end. She could not quite put her finger on what it was, but there was a formidable presence sitting in the chair across from her, sending a chill running down her spine that she more closely associated with the tension before a firefight. She really didn't like the way this woman was looking at her, feeling equal parts like she was in an interrogation chair and the tail end of a sour date. She found herself squaring her shoulders, her posture correcting itself as she sat up just a little bit straighter.

"...Just a tourist." It wasn't clear at exactly what point the goggles had come up to cover her eyes, but the comforting orange tint filled her with some welcome confidence as it abolished the swelling shadows around them. "Felt like getting away for a while, and I heard the country was lovely." Her shattered base momentarily forgotten, the recent fugitive was slipping into old, confrontational habits as she, for some reason felt pushed into the proverbial corner by that gaze.

[member="Máiréad Vrána"]

 

[Máiréad Vrána]

"Mm." It was no more than an utterance of acknowledgment at her company's reply, an impassive vocalization to be left to the interpretation of the other woman. Observing every shift in composure, the dark woman lifted her head in a half nod that brought her nose underneath her eyes. The stranger had an air of confidence about her, yet a distinguishing absence of boldness. The goggles didn't do her any favors for improving first impressions.

Her unswerving gaze was only interrupted by the return of Luke, a small tray in hand with an assortment of glasses on top. "Here you go, ladies..." He leaned in, maintaining the tray's balance with his steady palm while transferring the wine glasses to the table, then the unopened bottles of red wine, Chandrillan. After the table was set, he tucked the empty tray under his arm and procured a corscrew from his pocket to unseal the vessels of crimson liquid. Once the deed was done, he nodded and returned indoors.

She made no move to retrieve either bottle or glass, settling slightly back into her chair. "It is a nice place to get away..." Still unsatisfied with her assessment of the stranger, she continued to stare warily out of the corner of her eye.

[member="Switch"]

 

[Switch]

The goggled woman made no move to acknowledge the waiter as he returned, the tinted periphery of her gaze more than sufficient to take note of the bottles placed before her. It was immediately apparent that this was a grade above her typical standards, nothing so cheap or common as the gut rot she had acquired a taste for. The provided glasses alone were sufficient proof that she was out of her depth, their like never associated with her standard fare. It seemed perfect for the woman before her, the entire table seemingly taking on a respectable air in deference to the authority she so effortlessly exuded.

The woman remained motionless, her weighted stare boring into her in a way she very much hated. Abigail wanted to run away from those eyes, but there was nowhere to go. She wanted to fight, but she had no weapons or clear advantage. Most people she encountered over drinks either attacked her or were disarmingly friendly, and the absence of both left an infuriating pit in her stomach. She silently wished she had never taken that stupid coat with her, it's bright color and oppressive weight leaving her feeling bolted down. To top it all off, it was getting dark, and she had no plans on how to handle that.

What the hell was I thinking?

Without a word, Abigail reached a steady hand across the table, grasping the nearest bottle by the neck to drag it towards her. Maintaining her steely grip, another hand snaked out to pick up one of the two glasses, neglecting the stem entirely as she placed it down on her side of the table. Her gaze locked upon the other woman, she slowly tilted the bottle above the table, the rich liquid sloshing into her glass until it was about ready to overflow before setting it back down to the side. Wasting no time, the brunette brought the rim of the filled glass to her lips, taking her first sip of such a dignified brand of alcohol.

[member="Máiréad Vrána"]

 

[Máiréad Vrána]

Nothing of her body betrayed movement, save her lungs and the occasional blink of her eyelids. Both of them were just sitting there, stationary like gargoyles. It seemed like a score of seconds passed before the stranger gradually; methodically reached for her glass and beverage. The dark woman just continued to monitor in silence, motionless in observation of the simple yet somehow intense operation of pouring cherry-colored fluid into the conical top of a stemmed drinking glass.

When the glass arrived at the mouth of the red-coated woman, that was when her suspicion was quenched. Her hand loosed from her book, and the vaguest hint of a triumphant smirk curled subtly at the edge of her lips. She only kept watching afterwards out of a cruel sort of playfulness. She had won the 'game'. Now she was just wondering how long it might take to prompt some sort of impetuous action from the other patron.

Leaning inward to retrieve her own glass and wine, she only removed her eyes from the opposite individual long enough to lazily fill her cup before returning to her more relaxed posture. "You have good taste."

[member="Switch"]

 

[Switch]

Holding the wine glass to her lips, Abigail allowed her eyes to flutter closed as she savored the unfamiliar taste on her tongue. This was her first real glass of wine, and while she had managed to suppress the contented sigh building in her throat, there was no disguising the subtle relaxation in her shoulders. She made a mental note to keep an eye out for this stuff in the future.

When her eyes opened again, it was clear that the mood had shifted for the better. While the darkly clad woman's hard eyes remained on her still, that penetrating stare had been replaced by a look she could only describe as satisfaction. Even with her general lack of savvy when it came to matters of etiquette and tact, Abigail couldn't shake the distinct feeling that she was the butt of a joke told just before she entered the room. It annoyed her almost as much as the previous look, but in a manner that was much easier to push back down into her gut. Besides, this wine was doing wonders for her mood, and she wasn't even tipsy.

Taking the compliment in stride, the newcomer fought the urge to keep drinking, placing her unfinished glass back on the table as gently as she could. "So do you, I guess." She nodded her head toward the other bottle, as if to steer the general understanding away from the fact she had copied the older woman.

[member="Máiréad Vrána"]

 

[Máiréad Vrána]

There was a puppy dog character about her eyes, or maybe that appearance was simply amplified by the obtrusive goggles affixed to the other woman's face. She was not ignorant of the necessity for some, but it wasn't every day that such an individual sat down at her table. Her eyes shifted to determine the position of the sun in the sky, and saw the embers of its reddened semicircle peeking over the distant fields of grain. Any minute now, and the elaborately framed streetlamps would turn on.

"It's simply a habit," she answered, lifting her cup slowly. She finally took a drink from her glass, a steady and gentle flow to her throat that was too voluminous to be a mere sip and not enough to be considered engorging. Her consumption was with an elegant composure, though perhaps betrayed that she was more than just a little seasoned. There were nights when she went through multiple bottles, sometimes without even making it to her meal. And no one would have minded, what with her being a regular here. But getting drunk in the company of a stranger felt imprudently disarming.

As predicted, the streetlamps ignited upon their black posts and beautifully curly braces to illuminate the paved pathway they sat upon and crystalline water of the canal it paralleled. The lamps had no effect for the moment, the bleary coloration of dusk forcing a foggy effect on the atmosphere as the sun made its last, desperate stand. But soon it would be dark enough to see.

"Your name?"

[member="Switch"]

 

[Switch]

Abigail took another heavy sip from her glass, encouraged in no small part by the strange woman getting started on her own. Her style of drinking eluding to a lack of refined taste, forgoing any of the dainty sipping one might associate with a fine wine. While her initial sampling had lasted a good few seconds, her followup wasted no time relishing the new flavor on her tongue before it made its way towards her stomach. This was a habit more suited to knockout drinking, a utilitarian method meant to smooth the potentially unpleasant journey from sober to drunk.

"Well, as far as habits go..." She felt her eyes drift briefly to the discarded cigarra, unassuming in its constant temptation as it threatened to roll off the table into her lap. "...There are worse things." Her voice had trailed off toward the end, speaking more to the table than to the woman behind it. There was something strange about the raven haired local sitting across from her. Something about the way she looked, spoke, even how she drank her wine exuded a judgmental, but oddly disarming vibe. It was making the slicer uncomfortable in her seat, but the growing promise of alcohol settling in her mostly empty stomach was threatening to coax her out of it.

When she was asked her name, she began to voice an answer before stopping in her tracks. Her wine-soaked tongue had made contact with the roof of her mouth, producing the muted hiss that started off the name she used to wear. She could hardly afford to continue carrying that name with her, not with all the credits that had been attached to it.

Playing off the hint of a reveal as licking her lips, she took a slower, stalling sip of her wine as she willed the beating in her chest back under control. She had understood what had to be done, or at least some abstract version of it, but this would be the first time she would have to prove the decision she had made with her own voice.

"Name's Abigail." The name rang strangely in her ears, like an alias yet to be broken in. That name belonged to a girl she didn't know, a wealthy little brat ignorant about how the galaxy worked. It still hit her like an elbow to the ribs, and it was all she could do to keep her voice even for the logical followup question. "And that makes you...?"

[member="Máiréad Vrána"]

 

[Máiréad Vrána]

Her slowly dilating pupils continued to angle towards the corners of her eyes, analyzing every movement she could perceive from the stranger like a specimen under a microscope. A short breath steamed out from her nostrils in amusement as she watched the other woman practically gulp down her next increment of wine. It was indicative enough that she wasn't as interested in drinking the fine beverage for the sake of drinking a fine beverage. But her vision was too hampered by the haze of dusk to see the eyes and how they reacted, and It was not like the black-dressed woman had never downed the ruby red liquid to escape a mental melancholy herself.

She didn't bother to verbally acknowledge the stranger's comment, simply taking another sampling from her glass as she had a million times before. It briefly crossed her mind that it might serve her well to maybe give Chandrillan a reprieve and shuffle through some new wines for a period. But she knew she wouldn't. Indeed, there were "worse things".

Abigail. Now that was a name that exuded sophistication from it, though she supposed names meant little to the majority these days. A meaningless facet, lacking of purpose in this age. "Máiréad," she answered, almost before Abigail could finish her query.

Máiréad suddenly stirred from her relaxed position and sat up straight again. "What's your drink, Abigail? Your real one?"

[member="Switch"]

 

[Switch]

Abigail rested an elbow on the edge of the table, her chin and cheek propped up by a relaxed hand as she leveled a stare at the other woman. She gave a small gesture of acceptance, more of a subtle shrug into her own palm than a nod of any kind. The unreasonable, rising sense of alarm was falling away as the seconds ticked by, the slicer finding some familiar footing with the older woman's economic manner of communication. It didn't take a genius to accept that this lady was formidable, loathe as she was to give her credit for it, but the more primal elements of her fear had been left behind with her dry throat.

...Máiréad, huh? She supposed for every Jane, Leia or Abigail, the galaxy needed a Máiréad or two to spice up the name tags.

In response to the dark woman's next question, Abigail felt a little smile tugging at the corners of her lips. In some small way, she felt as though she had just been caught misbehaving. It was a familiar sensation that chased away just a hint of the twisting indecision she was actively pushing down. She ran a slender finger across her glass, making a deliberate journey around the rim as she made a point of weighing her options. "Whiskey in general''s an old favorite... taken a shine to taanab gin lately. This though?" She lifted her wine once more for emphasis. "...Not bad!"

[member="Máiréad Vrána"]

 

[Máiréad Vrána]

After inquiring about Abigail's choice drink, an odd tinge of generosity seemed to wash over her mind briefly. Had her company confessed to a more neutral opinion of the wine, Máiréad was considering purchasing a replacement. But the enthusiastic "Not bad!" was sufficient to bed those thoughts. Her eyes swayed towards the glittering canal as she tried to deter her lips from committing to a cocky smile. Even as she tried to tame her own arrogance, it was still obvious that she ceaselessly craved the powerful luxury of being right. "If it was bad, I'd have nothing to do with it."

She finally felt completely at ease now. The sun was nowhere to be found, the night was nearly pitch, and the streetlights were now actually useful to the normal human eye. Tipping her glass carefully towards the disappearing horizon that rested upon the innumerable heads of wheat, Máiréad offered a rare sentimental sort of comment. "Some people have never left this." It was certainly nothing conventional to proceed from her mouth, and she regretted speaking thus the moment it escaped her tongue, imagining her more-or-less divine perception to have been diminished in Abigail's eyes. Still, it was a fact she had long pondered, and today she finally was able to impart her musings upon an offworlder who might understand the significance.

Let it go. You're not immortal anymore.

[member="Switch"]

 

[Switch]

Her judgement of the wine had been an honest one. While far removed from what she may have loosely called a comfort zone, there was something enticing and different about the beverage. There was a much clearer flavor settling along her tongue, as well as a distinct aroma coming from her glass. It was sweet, but not by the standard definition. Her appreciation was not enough to stop her eyes from rolling at that remark, but she did manage to suppress what might have become an embarrassing giggle.

Draining the last drops from her wine glass, Abigail placed it back on the table to make a move for her bottle. It was only at that moment that she realized just how dark it was out side the illuminated bubble she found herself in. There were patches of light all over, but it did little to eliminate the oppressive, inky blackness that had swallowed up what had once been a horizon. As if on autopilot, slender fingers ghosted up to the side of the woman's face to tweak the settings on her goggles just a little higher.

Her defenses bolstered once more, she promptly gave herself a slightly more conservative refill than before. She had no intention of reducing it to "queen portions" or anything like that, but the red liquid had damn near spilled over during her first pour. She had just set the bottle down again when the older woman before her spoke again, her comment bringing a puzzled furrow to the newcomer's brow. Her words prompted Abigail to take another look into the distance, her unclear gaze passing over the shadows surrounding them. It was certainly quiet here, quiet enough that she had lost track of time in a hurry.

She returned her attention to the table, trying to figure out some hidden threat or message behind the deceptively honest observation. There was something strangely foreboding and depressing about it, but it wasn't enough to provide any insight beyond a creeping sense of sadness in her chest. Feeling as if she had missed a crucial detail regarding something important, her features twisting into a faint, frustrated pout, before quickly obscuring it with another sip.

[member="Máiréad Vrána"]

 

[Máiréad Vrána]

Her first serving empty, Máiréad brought her bottle to the lip of the conical glass with a soft clank and permitted the liquid to exchange vessels with a refreshing gurgle. Resetting the bottle, she merely held her refilled glass and gazed across the all but invisible fields of grain as the stalks rustled in the intermittent breeze. There was something humbling and discomfiting about it; almost haunting. It hadn't dawned on her until now, but she felt less fearful of the scene with the younger woman nearby. It may have been her favorite location to dine, but there was always an uneasy tension inside of her whenever she looked at this darkened view of the endless harvest. It bothered her that it contained the unknown. The only solace was provided by the tranquil canal separating her seat within civilization from unguarded plains.

Luke found the time to make a reappearance, distracting Máiréad from her distant contemplation as he set a basket of fresh bread in the center of their table. He then provided a dining menu for Abigail, and to conclude his interruption, lit a candle with the literal snap of a finger. His task completed, the young man retreated to the café interior for the third time.

Alternating her vision from dark farmland to goggled female, the raven woman let her face lose some of its steel. It was apparent that both of them were here to escape something, whether past or present, major or minor. And while Máiréad wasn't an exceptionally benevolent soul--nor did she have much the capacity to be so anymore--she also didn't have a great deal to occupy herself with aside from the book still lying on the table before her. Might as well try to warm up a little more.

Máiréad took a sip. "Where are you from?" She had an educated idea, but why not let the stranger divulge some more? Never hesitate to allow someone else to talk. They might reveal more than their words intend.

[member="Switch"]

 

[Switch]

Abigail did not realize she had been staring until that waiter shook her from her reverie, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. The older woman had adopted that distant look again, and for the life of her she couldn't decipher its meaning. Blinking way her fixation, she flashed the server a cheeky smile as he offered her a menu. To top off his display, the young man caused the table before her to be bathed in surprisingly effective, if dim candle light, all with the snap of his fingers. It was certainly a nice trick, and more than enough to return her shoulders to their previous, relaxed slump.

Laying the menu flat on the table, Abigail leaned a bit forward to inspect the basket of bread before her. It smelled lovely, the threat of her mouth watering prompting her to claim a piece in a hurry. Once the warm prize was safely deposited on her side of the table, she leaned back in her chair with a sigh. She was about to give that menu a glance when the raven woman spoke once again, her simple, probing question drawing her goggled gaze up to meet hers head on.

Images flashed behind her eyes as she carefully lifted those goggles to her forehead with a wary blink, testing the effectiveness of the new light source without removing them entirely. She saw rolling green hills and a large house by a lake. She saw the dim interior of a star ship. She saw a beautiful, neat city of brilliant white stone. " Why? Think you've been there?" Her tone was friendlier than her lack of an answer would have suggested. The way Abigail saw it, it was a pretty silly, small talk sort of question to ask somebody. Who ever got a solid read on somebody just by where they came from? "Where do you think I'm from? Promise I'll tell if you miss." She perched her chin on a supporting palm, getting her face just a bit closer to that candle.

[member="Máiréad Vrána"]

 

[Máiréad Vrána]

Máiréad cocked her eyebrow at the implied challenge. Maybe it was a product of her arrogance, but she enjoyed the chance to triumph at such a dare. "Well, it's not every day one sees a young woman like yourself arrive in a small town on a rural planet--and all alone, as you appear to be." She scanned the ruddy outerwear resting so sloppily upon the woman's slouching shoulders once again. It continued to amuse her. "And your bright red coat might fit in perfectly for the local traditional celebrations, but I'd assume you weren't expecting a holiday dance tonight.

"Your goggles are rather peculiar, especially for a grown person such as yourself to be wearing at night." Her eyes shifted towards the candle flame, then back at the now unmasked face of the offworlder glowing in the flickering amber light. There were many explanations for abnormal eye sensitivity, from birth and developmental defects, to injury, to the intensity of the sun--or suns--of one's homeworld. It wasn't uncommon for natives of Ryloth to wear similar ocular gadgetry, considering the tidal-locked nature of their planet. But then Abigail didn't exactly fit the biology of most Ryloth natives.

"I suppose my first inclination is to say you may have spent some time in Kessel." Funny how one might live on many planets, but it was convention to specify that someone lives in Kessel...

Máiréad elevated her wine glass to wet her tongue, evaluating the merits of her theory even after she had spoken. If Abigail had grown up in the spice mines, then it might be more likely that she was accustomed to the dark. However, the mines were said to be so dark that sight was impossible. In any case, there was an entire galaxy's worth of planets to choose from, and it would be no small luck to guess the precise world her company had lived. "But then I could be entirely wrong..."

[member="Switch"]

 

[Switch]

Pinching the tip of her little finger between her her teeth, the teasing smile on Abigail's face evolved into a prideful grin as she leaned further into her palm. "Close... but no cigarra." She lifted her eyebrows at the other woman, a harmless jab to celebrate the minor victory. It had actually seemed like she was on the right track for a moment, but her assumption had ended up going the wrong way. It was to be expected though, she had no way of knowing that the fight was unfair. A visual scan of the slicer in hiding would do nothing more than mislead an inquisitive eye from her place of origin.

She leaned just a bit forward, as if to shine a focusing light on those those telltale eyes of hers. Close inspection would reveal that those warm, brown irises looked almost stuck, her pupils refusing to dilate in response to the darkness around her. When combined with the conventional beauty of her features, one could draw the conclusion that she was in fact a Hapan, one of the near-human natives of the Hapes cluster. Even so, the revelation would be no help for the raven woman, as Abigail had only set foot in Ta'a Chume'Dan, or Hapes for that matter, on one occasion.

She actually had no heirlooms or accent from her true childhood home of Naboo, and the tattoos currently covered by her sleeves would only indicate that a portion of her life had been off the straight and narrow path. "I'd be happy to tell you... that is, if you can't guess." A nagging instinct pleaded with her to stop poking at the woman, but she could not deny a certain satisfaction at her win being all but assured.

[member="Máiréad Vrána"]