Never Grew Out of the Scrapes and Bruises

[Ibaris Varanin]

Seeing one of the many that she may or may not have called 'uncle' as one of very, very few children present at gatherings in the defunct Fringe Confederacy was a treat. That he had seemed to mellow made him different from the haze of her memories at the ages of five to seven. [member="Alen Na'Varro"] had this firmness and power to him that left a distinct impression in the catalogue of her past, that to see him as she did last night, a man that was warm and welcoming, that insisted she call him by his given name...

...well, she didn't know what to think; she walked up to his front door at the prescribed time, still not knowing but having decided she liked the idea of this Alen well enough, and gave it a rap-rap-rap with the backside of her knuckles. She pulled the hood back from her face and off her head, stuck her hands back in the pockets of her jacket, and waited in the most comfortable wear she knew: that which took her through countless environments in search of the subjects of her studies or chasing along with the others, composed at the basic level of sturdy boots, trousers loose yet not baggy, a shirt and a jacket. More or different layers and accessories were added as necessary, and longer sleeves were preferred - they could be rolled up, if needed.

The basic level was opted for, hair put back to be out of the way; she looked nothing like the night before, and exactly as Liam and their friends had come to know over the past six years. In this, she looked more like her Papa than anything.

 

[Aran Finn]

[member="Ibaris Varanin-Jacobs"]

Times change. People change. Against the sheer unexpected events that life brings, none can hope to stand firm. Alen Na'Varro was no different. Age had mellowed the bearded man; he was too tired to let rage alone drive him. He couldn't hate the galaxy anymore. He couldn't fight for fighting's sake. He had the love of family in his life, and his eyes had opened to his need for atonement. Through it all, he had believed with fervor that he was in the right. He had despised weakness, and sought to make the galaxy in the image that he had envisioned. Men had died, fleets had been burned, worlds had been destroyed for the sake of that vision. Na'Varro was all too aware that he had caused more chaos, pain and suffering than he had cancelled out. Time was against him. He had to act now, and decisively, to save his soul.

Clad in a white tank top and grey sweatpants, Alen greeted young Ibaris at the door with a tired smile. His eyes still had steel in them, but the fire of the past was all but gone. Na'Varro was still a man one treaded lightly around, but that was based more on his reputation than anything. At face value, he was just a single dad in his early forties who had seen too much.

"You're on time." Eyes regarded her attire. It was suitable, he decided. He let a pregnant pause linger for a second as she stood there expectantly, then turned his back and began walking down the dark hallway. "Come in. Don't bother taking your shoes off."

They walked through a large antechamber, taking a left and heading down another hallway. Laura's room was the second door on the left as they made for the garage.

"Laura's not home," he explained. "She's on Corellia at the moment. Something about a presentation about biospheres? I dunno ... that science stuff was always way over my head."

They came through a doorway and into a garage. A rather racy landspeeder was parked over the far end, resplendent in racing green paint and white stripes down the centre. Pre-Gulag vintage, though Alen didn't elaborate. His focus was more on the mat to their direct front. It was made of traditional materials, and not at all soft. He looked sideways at his young charge.

"Remind me again, Ibby.." The bearded man frowned as if trying to remember something important. "How much do you know, and how much do I need to teach you?"