What you don't know ... will kill you

[Syren Wyssholt]

This quiet night finds the barmaid perched upon a stool beside one of the open windows of the bar, her elbow rested against the sill, chin propped in the cup of her palm. Eyes the color of amber watch the stars as they appear here and there in the night sky, darkness spreading its blanket across the quiet lands.

The aromas of a myriad of foods on the menu this evening permeate the air and mingle with the scent of various tobaccos, body odors and perfumes; making for a strange yet not too unpleasant combination. Medium length hair, as black as onyx is pulled back into a low ponytail, held in place by a pretty red satin ribbon. Dressed simply in a loose-fitting cotton skirt, dyed black and a simple cotton blouse with the sleeves rolled up past her elbows; and black calf high suede boots to match. Gets rather warm working in the bar and the cool breeze wafting in through the window feels good against her face.

*****
A memory...


Across the Quicksilver river sits a small farming community once known as Deddry, Corellia. Once known more for its abundant orchards that produce the finest wne grapes than anything else, Deddry is little more than a dusty ghost town these days; long forgotten by most since the sprawling cities drew most locals in with the lure of 'striking it rich'.

Syren and Jessiah, her now deceased older brother, lived in Deddry. Holding out for as long as they could, it was shortly before the last raids came that Jessiah grabbed whatever possessions he could (mostly coin and a few family jewels) and fled with his sister. Once across the river, they felt it was safe to slow their mounts, taking pause to allow them to drink from a brook that branched off of the main river.

It was during this pause that thieves (or what Syren presumed to be thieves) came from seemingly nowhere; circling around the two and demanding their coins. Their mounts startled, the situation turned to chaos in the blink of an eye; Jessiah drew his weapon and before she knew it, Syren's mount reared, throwing her from the saddle to the stony ground.

In protective defense, she curled up into a ball and folded her arms over her head, pinning her elbows snug against her ribcage as the pounding clawed paws of several mounts crashed down around her. She must have been stepped on a few times because all of a sudden her body went limp and the darkness took over.

Upon regaining consciousness, the thieves were gone and Jessiah lay dead next to her; his throat slit and several stab wounds puncturing his chest and back. Sore and distraught, scared and alone, she sat there for hours mourning; cradling Jessiah's bloody body in her arms. When her tears had run dry and she looked up, she noticed flickering lights in the not too far distance through the trees.

Jessiah was too heavy for her to drag or carry, so she covered him with her cloak and limped her way towards those lights; where she came upon the Night Watch. Well after hours, she banged against the door a few times and was literally surprised to find someone open the door. Dishelveled, big pawprints stained her skirts and her shirt was torn in several places by the long claws of those trampling paws, broken and bruised; the kind man took her inside.

He asked her no questions. Instead, he helped her to a table where he tended to her wounds and then prepared her a warm bowl of Corellian stew. Finally, the silence was broken when she murmured her brother's name and broke down in tears once more. The man sitting across from her left the table and disappeared in the back; coming back moments later to inform her quietly that his body would be located and brought here, so she could atleast bury him at the temple.

Alamar; he had said his name was. Owner of the Night Watch Inn.

He never pressed her for any information that night. Even went out of his way to give her a room to use for a while. Turns out that while is still continuing as she's now the barmaid at the Nigth Watch.

****

That was two years or so ago, give or take a few weeks to a month. She and Alamar have grown close over time, still - he has never asked her about that night that led her to his door. And, she's never offered the tale freely; preferring to keep it hidden deep inside where the pain can be kept from the view of others. Some of the clientele scares her, remembering the peculiar scent of the thieves who took her brother's life.

They were never found.

Another small detail has stuck with her over the past couple of years about those thieves - a tattoo worn on their left hands, branded neatly in the skin between the thumb and the index finger. She's never told a soul what that tattoo looks like. Its out of fear that she keeps it silent.

The image is that of a black rose, with a single tear drop of blood and a sword piercing the petals of the rose. She's never heard anything about any guilds or such bearing such a mark, but it scares her nonetheless. Had anyone bothered to look a bit closer at Jessiah's body before burial, they'd ascertain that his death was delivered by the hand of a skilled hired assassin and not some lowly thieves.

Syren remembers very little about her life before that fateful night that claimed her brother's life. And though Alamar has always been a father-figure to her, he has never asked her any questions about her previous life.

As her eyes peruse the common room of the bar, drifting slowly over the alien faces of the few that still frequent the place, they fall upon the man who has taken her in and she finds herself wondering if he knows more than he has ever let on. Her eyes narrow slightly as her thoughts continue to travel down that dark thought. He looks over and smiles to her, which chases those thoughts away as she smiles back some.

Returning her attention to the window, she sighs quietly, and wonders if there is anyone out there who may have seen the events of that night unfold or if they heard anything from any braggarts about it.

So many questions, no answers....

[Garth Selachii]

“Hello.”

A voice, smooth and emotionless spoke from behind Syren. There a young man in a shabby-smart black suit stood. His cropped dark wavy hair and clean-shaven face gave the beguiling impression that he was no more than a boy, but his height alone told otherwise. Subtle tone of muscular structure was just visible beneath the cloth of his suit and shirt – bordering on athletic but not so much that he would be marked immediately as strong.

“I’m sorry if I interrupted your train of thought,” he apologized.

His voice was beyond his appearance too. Old, oddly - but not overly deep. It was the same feeling that one would get from his eyes, of wisdom and maturity beyond that which a normal man of his stature would have. The light in the bar, albeit dull, gave his normally pale skin a healthy glow. Arms still folded behind his back and he spoke again, ever polite.

“But I was wondering if I could order something.”

[Syren Wyssholt]

A voice from behind her makes her jump on the stool, snapping her head around to look at the one who startled her from her thoughts. At first, her eyes look as wide as a deer's when caught in the headlights of oncoming traffic, but that look soon subsides as the rapid racing of her heart returns to its normal rythmic beat and she catches her breath. He'd startled her something good!

"Ah, sorry. He-hello."

Her voice stammers and she clears her throat quickly, trying to pass it off as simply having a frog stuck in her throat; figuratively speaking, of course.

To aid in pulling herself back together, she lifts a hand and tucks a few errant tendrils of hair that simply refuse to mind the binding intentions of the ribbon behind her ear while rising from the stool.

"Sure. Um, there's a menu ..."

And a menu with a drink list tucked neatly inside is offered to the man who's appearance certainly leaves one wondering after hearing the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes - eyes that seem to hold the answers to all of the universes questioning wonders.

"What can I get you?"

[Garth Selachii]

Garth accepted the menu book with a small nod in thanks. He already knew what he wanted to order, but thumbed through the pages for the sake of appearances. Some of the food was listed in different languages, which he knew the barest minimum of – therefore making his translations often quite humorous. The young gentleman perused the drinks list; hoping to find a vintage chardonnay there, however found that he was no in luck. He clapped the folder shut.

“A white wine.”

A small smile twitched his lips.

“If you would like anything, please…”

A vague motion with one hand that signified he would pay. She looked as though she could do with a little time off of her feet when her mind could just be at ease, as opposed to reeling in wonder as he imagined it had been moments ago.

[Syren Wyssholt]

As the gentleman browsed the menu, Syren paid attention to his eyes, noting how they seemed to skim rather quickly over the contents; not truly reading them. This has her thinking that he either is illiterate; but that wouldn't be the case because of how educated he sounds to her when he speaks and the look of knowledge held within his eyes.

'A man whom knows what he wants ...

Just as he puts on aires for appearances sake, so does she; by taking a damp, clean cloth to wipe down the counter area some. Granted, the polished smooth solid marble counter is already spotless, but she has to do something to keep her mind busy.

The interior of the Night Watch is the direct opposite of its exterior. Outside, it appears to be nothing more than a roadside dump that would probably house more rats and disease than anything else.

The interior rather rich and lavish in its decor. Marble counters, rich teak wood used for the rafters, supporting beams, tables and chairs; whose seats and backs are covered with a deep wine colored velvet and padded perfectly to provide optimum comfort.


The lighting is soft and cozy, making most people feel relaxed and at ease. This leads to having them spend more time and more money, not too mention to keep them returning.

"Right away."

Skirting off down the length of the bar, she scoops up one of the bottles of white wine and then grabs a wine glass, and fills it three quarters full. Strolling back down from whence she came, she sets the man's wine down before him and smiles again.

"The offer is appreciated, but I don't drink until I'm off duty. It's um ... a smart thing to remain sober around here while working."

[Garth Selachii]

“Yes.”

Garth brought his hand down so that his index and middle finger were wrapped around the stem of the wine glass, but he did not lift it. His gaze lingered on the liquid inside the glass – he did not often drink alcohol. It clouded judgment and caused irrational behavior, hardly befitting of a young gentleman.

“You don’t look like you were enjoying having to sit here,” he remarked after another moment’s awkward silence.

[Syren Wyssholt]

Curious, the long blood red nail of her left index finger tapping lazily against the marble surface of the counter, Syren watches the way the gentleman holds the wine glass. Over the past two years, she's learned much simply by watching the way people behave. The motions of their eyes, body language, and how to read the words that are left unspoken, hidden between the context of words that are spoken.

Her own eyes slowly drift, from the man's eyes to his mouth, to his tie then to the hand holding the wine glass. From what she can see, there is no tattoo of a black bleeding rose branded between the thumb and forefinger; that is assuming his left was used to lift the glass.

Her right hip juts out as she shifts the weight on her aching feet. No, she's not overweight, but she's on her feet for ten and twelve hours a day here at the Night Watch. She's a normal height of five foot four inches and weighs around one-hundred-ten pounds when soaking wet; but for her height and small bone structure, that's perfect.

"Would you enjoy sitting here day in and day out, serving the same patrons the same orders?"

Both elbows are rested against the counter now, her chin lowered to become supported by her fists placed underneath; she passes a cursory glance around the common area then looks back up to the gentleman when satisfied that no fights were breaking out, no weapons were drawn beneath tables and the local town whore was snoring away on the couch sitting by the hearth.

"So, what brings you to this backwater bar?"

[Garth Selachii]

“I like to see new places.”

This was a lie, but a convincing no one less. When an emotionless expression is the one which a person wears always, it becomes nigh on impossible to detect deceit. Garth had even learnt to regulate his bodily functions to a degree, so that the only sign of his lying was the barely visible but telltale change in size of his pupils.

“Why do you work here if you do no enjoy it?”

[Syren Wyssholt]

A slow, subtle nod as he returns a reply to her question, rising up from her bent over the counter position; dragging the flat of her palms along the smooth, polished surface.

She is simply human. No possessing of magical force powers that she is aware of, no magics, nothing. Just a plain human woman all of twenty-three years of age - stuck in a town that time seems to have forgotten as the rest of Corellia moved on with the rapid advances in technology, medicine and life.

Her shoulders slump visibly then she turns and grabs a bottle of water she's been nursing most of the night. Long since grown warm, she swigs from the container anyways and wets her whistle.

"One has to work somewhere in order to earn a living, don't they?"

A glance over her shoulder, just long enough to set the bottle of water down on a small, short shelf, then she looks back to the gentleman.

"Besides, what makes you think I don't enjoy it? I could be having a bad night, that's all."

True. She could be having a bad night. A bad night that's lasted two long, drawn out years. Then, from out of nowhere she adds;

"Just memories that should have been buried long ago."

Dark eyes lift to meet his, her head canted to the right slightly; again her weight shifts to her right foot, thrusting out her left hip some.

"And ... well .. the owner ... "

A pause.

"And why am I telling you this? Usually its the patrons spilling out their life's sorrows and heartaches to me."

[Garth Selachii]

“I don’t have any sorrows or heartaches to spill.”

There was something genuine about that; truth in it. He really didn’t have any sob story to tell like most. His upbringing had been pleasant and his job was one he adored. He wouldn’t have changed anything in his life for the world, and he knew that.

“Our roles shall have to be reversed.”

For the first time, he lifted the glass, but still did not drink.

“Does the owner mistreat you?”

There was a naivety in his eyes as he spoke, a childish curiosity.

[Syren Wyssholt]

“I don’t have any sorrows or heartaches to spill.”

A slender dark brow lofts gently. No sorrows or heartaches? How can that be? Especially in the Night Watch - the bar that seems to be a beacon to those who are slaves to their misery, wallowing in it nightly, drowning it within the numbness that comes with overindulging in alcoholic beverages; taking out their frustrations with the hired 'love' given by the women of the night.

"Yeah? Well you're pretty lucky then, Mister. 'Round these parts, everyone's got a sob story to tell. I swear some nights it comes down to a near p*ssing contest to see who can weave the most heart-wretching, tear-jerking tale."

She nods some, her lips purse then she licks at them lightly.

"No, no! He's been real good to me, I have no complaints about Alamar."

Meaning the owner of the Night Watch. Her eyes drift over towards the arched partition which separates the kitchen from the common room just in time to see Alamar poking his head out to size up the gloomy crowd.

Syren looks back to the gentleman, then manages to quirk what might pass for a smile.

"Would you like a nipple for that wine?"

A slight jerk of her head, indicating the glass he holds but has yet to drink from, a hint of jest carries in her tone.

[Garth Selachii]

“No, thank you.”

He would have laughed, were his mind not preoccupied.

“If the owner has been kind to you,” he said, pulling the conversation back to its topic.

“Then why was he troubling your thoughts?”

[Syren Wyssholt]

A short, curt nod as the gentleman doesn't even crack a smile. Odd. Most would have. Still, she eyes this man of mystery for a passing moment or two, then drags a stool over to sit down and get off of her feet for a while.

"Oh, he wasn't the one on my mind. Someone else was, but it's very personal and I don't want to discuss it; especially not with a stranger - no offense."

Amber eyes shift to the counter where she busies herself with scraping some tacky alcoholic residue stuck to the counter that had been missed during the prior wipe down.

"Where are you from? Because you don't look like any local I've ever seen."

[Garth Selachii]

“Coruscant.”

Selachii, in an unpredictable move, rose the glass and took a small sip. He savored it a moment, looking unsure as to what his opinion on it was, before setting it back down. Now a smile grew and lingered. It seemed genuine, too.

“Have you ever been to Coruscant?”

[Syren Wyssholt]

She chuckles some, mostly contained under her breath so not to bring embarassment to the gentleman, if that's even humanly possible; as she watches him finally draw a sip from the glass.

"There! You should smile more often, it enhances your face value."

She nods.

Then her expression takes on one of concentration as she thinks about his question. Soon, a very slow shake of her head follows.

"No, not that I can remember, atleast. What's it like there?"

[Garth Selachii]

“Horrible. Don’t ever visit.”

The smile didn’t seem to fit with those words, but it remained.

“I like this place so much more.”

His shoulders rolled slightly.

“It’s warm. It feels like a home away from home that I’ve never had.”

One hand ran carefully over the gleaming countertop.

“Pristine yet comforting.”

[Syren Wyssholt]

His smile seems to be somewhat contagious, as hers grows a wee bit more and his response draws a genuine laugh from the young woman.

When the laughter subsides, she watches him again, his body language particularly. Her eyes narrow slightly, not all that noticeably and she thinks that he's hiding something; nervous, or maybe even conniving.

Her nose wrinkles as she shakes her head, looking at the man as if he is just plain ol' nuts.

"Here?! This place .. more!? Have you looked around with open eyes? Sure, the interior of this Inn is rather nice, but the rest of this town sure sucks."

[Garth Selachii]

“Coruscant is all concrete. Sterile. Pre-packed, built from the box.”

Garth inhaled – a musky scent. Age, old age, that was what it reminded of him of. Like wood just beginning to get that ‘antique’ feel to it.

“This place has personality. Individuality.”

[Syren Wyssholt]

"Yeah, the personality of a wet mop."

She utters, scanning a judgemental eye around the room, not really seeing what the man sees in it all.

"If you say so, Mister."

Syren rises from the stool and smooths out the wrinkles that formed in her cotton skirt.

"Well, I'm done for the night and I need to go into town to pick up a few things. Do you need to rent a room or anything before I clock out?"

[Garth Selachii]

“Oh, no. I have a room already.”

He stood up, as the tapster had. Inquisitively, he asked,

“If your shift is finished, does that mean that I can buy you a drink now?”

[Syren Wyssholt]

Which makes her blink, a hand rubbing slowly over a hip as she looks from the man to the door then back to him again. Well, the market would be open a few more hours and even if she doesn't make it, she can pluck a few fresh flowers from someone's yard on her way to the graveyard.

Not a night goes by that she doesn't bring fresh flowers to place on her brother's grave. She spends about two hours there each time, sometimes in silence, other times telling him about her day and her wishes. A few times, she's fallen asleep there.

"Uhhmm, sure. That'd be nice."

[Garth Selachii]

“I don’t believe you.”

Garth wasn’t one to skirt around issues. Though he lied, he lied directly and with a sometimes off-putting boldness.

“You already have plans.”

[Syren Wyssholt]

"Excuse me?"

The tone in her voice takes on one of scoffed surprised.

"Yes, I do have other plans, but nothing that is terribly pressing."

Still miffed, she looks him over then raises her hands about chest level, palms foward.

"You know what ... just .. " she shakes her head. ".. just forget it. I don't need this.."

Syren turns and walks away towards the door, grabbing her cloak off a hook set into the wall near the door, taking pause to drape it over her shoulders and fiddle with the clasp that seems to give her a hard time.

[Garth Selachii]

Garth’s hands locked the clasp in place in a matter of seconds before he drew them away, anticipating some resistance.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to offend,” he apologized.

[Syren Wyssholt]

At first, yes, she did resist; her fingers trying to push his own away. But, she wasn't getting anywhere fast with getting the darn thing to clasp herself, so she relented, with downcast eyes; even as he apologized.

"Forgiven."

Lifting her head and giving it a light shake to send a few pesky strands of hair out of her eyes, she looks up to the man and sighs.

"Would you care to accompany me? I see my brother every night. That's where I was going to head off to until you asked about buying me a drink."

Conveniently she leaves out the small, minor detail, that her brother resides in the graveyard; dead for two years now. Mentioning that now will lead to questions - not that it won't end up becoming a Q & A session once there - but, for now; she has some time to not think of the events that led to his death. A welcome relief, even if it's just for a few minutes.

[Garth Selachii]

“I would like that.”

Garth nodded and motioned towards the door. As Syren approached he held the exit open before stepping out into the dark. The young gentleman buttoned up his high-collar and took a breath of cold night air.

“Won’t your brother mind?”

[Syren Wyssholt]

Syren's smile is slight, a hint of saddness in it, though possibly hidden unless someone were to look hard enough. She shakes her head, pulling her cloak more taut around her slender body, hoping to stave off the cold settling across the open expanse of the plains as the desert air dips into the low twenties.

"No, he won't mind. In fact, there isn't much he can really say about it."

Dark eyes lift to meet those of the gentleman now on the porch with her, a twinkle dances in the left one; reflecting the silvery light of the moon when it peeks out from behind a few lingering dark clouds.

A slight jerk of her head, summoning Garth to join her as she steps off the porch. Small plumes of desert dust puff up around the soles of her boots with each step taken, carrying her further from the Outpost and closer to the main road.

A night wind kicks up, swirling fallen leaves ahead of them; Syren shivers.

"It's going to get rather chilly this evening. Anyways, we don't have far to go. Just up the way a bit, to the first right. A few more blocks then under some wrought iron gates right by the forest that has only been known to the locals as 'The Woods'. Quite an inventive name, isn't it?"

She chuckles a bit, flitting the occasional side glance up to Garth as they walk along.