Sabinian Tellar
Aug 13th, 2017, 11:51:25 AM
Perhaps the sun lenses were too much, but Sabinian Tellar was a man who had visited Jovan Station before, and knew what to expect. While on Bothawui the differences and disparities that made members of the Alliance of Free Planets unique led to clashes and incompatibilities that had become the flavour of the day for the Alliance Senate, here on Jovan Station that melting pot of cultures had been seasoned to perfection, forming a delicious fusion cuisine that was a delight to experience. Here on the mercantile concourse it was showcased like a buffet: more races, and languages, and cultures than Sabinian cared to count, shouting and screaming from shop fronts and illuminated signs at the top of their lungs - or whatever else that particular species happened to have. It was loud, and bright, and garish, and beautiful. If he were a weaker man, he would have wept with joy at the sight.
Sabinian was not a weaker man, however; and the sun lenses were not to hide the misting of tears that the display of unity might have hypothetically inspired. Their function was far more pragmatic, but was no less a result of of the Alliance's wondrous diversity. Sabinian had walked this concourse before, and knew the kind of sight that awaited him; a sight that the last several hours aboard a dimly lit Sullustan transport had done little to prepare him for. Sabinian often chose to travel by more obscure avenues, rather than by the homogenized and humanocentric commercial transits that criss-crossed Alliance space. He found it fascinating to experience space the way that the more uniquely evolved chose to: the way that the sensitive eyes, shorter stature, and comfort within subterranean spaces of the Sullustans made their ships different from the wide corridors and tall ceilings of the serpentine Sluissi, or the bright and humid yet cool spaces and the intriguingly unorthodox consoles of starships designed with Mon Calamari eyes. It was one thing to learn and understand the differences, but it was something else entirely to immerse yourself within them, and gain new appreciation for the struggles that came from being different from what the galaxy had arbitrarily decided to describe as normal.
For Sabinian, the brightness of Jovan Station's Imperial-designed corridors, and the vibrant lights of the concourse were too much for his eyes to comfortably adapt to. The lenses shielded him against that, a small buffer to ease his vision from one light level to the other. Yet, Sabinian had never seen a Sullustan wearing anything similar. Perhaps their physiology had evolved to adapt more readily, transitioning from the light levels underground to those on the surface. Or perhaps Sullustans were simply built of sterner stuff, choosing to simply endure their way through whatever discomfort humanity chose to cause. Given recent events, Sabinian suspected the latter. So many of those he had met on the transport crew had lost someone during the Imperial bombardment of Sullust that had been the final provocation for Project Starkiller; and yet the Sullustans did not wallow, just as they had not wallowed in the defeat of the Confederacy of Independent Systems; nor in the face of any of the other myriad human-inflicted setbacks that punctuated the long history of their people. As much as the lenses were there for his own comfort, they were there as a reminder as well, of the things that others endured with grace that his human form refused to.
Counting off the various establishments as he walked, Sabinian allowed his mind to turn to more satisfying subjects. Choosing a place to eat was often a lengthy undertaking, and here on Jovan Station he was simply spoilt for choice. Despite his desire for cultural immersion, Sabinian had not yet overcome his squeamish reluctance towards the living cuisine enjoyed by some of the station's inhabitants, so that narrowed the selection somewhat; from the rest he made an arbitrary selection of five, and left them in the back of his mind to slowly marinade until a decision could be reached.
A smile found it's way to his lips, nuzzling in at the corner like a nuna pup trying to encroach under the covers on a cold night. He stopped, eyes turned upwards to read the address of his destination. He'd heard much about Madame Maillanaarro and her establishment, though he knew enough about the Cizerack not to fall into the usual trap of misunderstanding what a Teahouse was for.
The smile broadened as he stepped through the door into the Teahouse's reception and entranceway. His eyes studied his surroundings covertly behind the protection of his lenses, but as his gaze settled upon the woman waiting behind the reception desk, he made a show of removing them slowly, using his chest to carefully push them closed without seeming to be paying attention to anything other than the lady in his sights. As he walked, slowly but purposefully, he made a point of reminding himself of the differences between Cizerack culture and the more male-centric cultures he was more accustomed to. A Cizerack woman would not be impressed or swayed by a show of authority; a man flashing his badge around would likely seem quaint rather than intimidating. Charm was the better angle. Thank the Force - and his genes, for that matter - for leaving him so well suited to that approach.
"Excuse me for disturbing you," he offered, his Festian (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Cassian_Jeron_Andor) accent softening the words and curling the consonants. The lenses were tucked into the collar of his shirt, and in the same moment his hand continued onwards, delving into his jacket to pull out the ident card that displayed his credentials and shield. "I am Inspector Tellar with Alliance Security. I am hoping I can perhaps trouble you for a few questions about a man I believe is employed here.
Sabinian was not a weaker man, however; and the sun lenses were not to hide the misting of tears that the display of unity might have hypothetically inspired. Their function was far more pragmatic, but was no less a result of of the Alliance's wondrous diversity. Sabinian had walked this concourse before, and knew the kind of sight that awaited him; a sight that the last several hours aboard a dimly lit Sullustan transport had done little to prepare him for. Sabinian often chose to travel by more obscure avenues, rather than by the homogenized and humanocentric commercial transits that criss-crossed Alliance space. He found it fascinating to experience space the way that the more uniquely evolved chose to: the way that the sensitive eyes, shorter stature, and comfort within subterranean spaces of the Sullustans made their ships different from the wide corridors and tall ceilings of the serpentine Sluissi, or the bright and humid yet cool spaces and the intriguingly unorthodox consoles of starships designed with Mon Calamari eyes. It was one thing to learn and understand the differences, but it was something else entirely to immerse yourself within them, and gain new appreciation for the struggles that came from being different from what the galaxy had arbitrarily decided to describe as normal.
For Sabinian, the brightness of Jovan Station's Imperial-designed corridors, and the vibrant lights of the concourse were too much for his eyes to comfortably adapt to. The lenses shielded him against that, a small buffer to ease his vision from one light level to the other. Yet, Sabinian had never seen a Sullustan wearing anything similar. Perhaps their physiology had evolved to adapt more readily, transitioning from the light levels underground to those on the surface. Or perhaps Sullustans were simply built of sterner stuff, choosing to simply endure their way through whatever discomfort humanity chose to cause. Given recent events, Sabinian suspected the latter. So many of those he had met on the transport crew had lost someone during the Imperial bombardment of Sullust that had been the final provocation for Project Starkiller; and yet the Sullustans did not wallow, just as they had not wallowed in the defeat of the Confederacy of Independent Systems; nor in the face of any of the other myriad human-inflicted setbacks that punctuated the long history of their people. As much as the lenses were there for his own comfort, they were there as a reminder as well, of the things that others endured with grace that his human form refused to.
Counting off the various establishments as he walked, Sabinian allowed his mind to turn to more satisfying subjects. Choosing a place to eat was often a lengthy undertaking, and here on Jovan Station he was simply spoilt for choice. Despite his desire for cultural immersion, Sabinian had not yet overcome his squeamish reluctance towards the living cuisine enjoyed by some of the station's inhabitants, so that narrowed the selection somewhat; from the rest he made an arbitrary selection of five, and left them in the back of his mind to slowly marinade until a decision could be reached.
A smile found it's way to his lips, nuzzling in at the corner like a nuna pup trying to encroach under the covers on a cold night. He stopped, eyes turned upwards to read the address of his destination. He'd heard much about Madame Maillanaarro and her establishment, though he knew enough about the Cizerack not to fall into the usual trap of misunderstanding what a Teahouse was for.
The smile broadened as he stepped through the door into the Teahouse's reception and entranceway. His eyes studied his surroundings covertly behind the protection of his lenses, but as his gaze settled upon the woman waiting behind the reception desk, he made a show of removing them slowly, using his chest to carefully push them closed without seeming to be paying attention to anything other than the lady in his sights. As he walked, slowly but purposefully, he made a point of reminding himself of the differences between Cizerack culture and the more male-centric cultures he was more accustomed to. A Cizerack woman would not be impressed or swayed by a show of authority; a man flashing his badge around would likely seem quaint rather than intimidating. Charm was the better angle. Thank the Force - and his genes, for that matter - for leaving him so well suited to that approach.
"Excuse me for disturbing you," he offered, his Festian (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Cassian_Jeron_Andor) accent softening the words and curling the consonants. The lenses were tucked into the collar of his shirt, and in the same moment his hand continued onwards, delving into his jacket to pull out the ident card that displayed his credentials and shield. "I am Inspector Tellar with Alliance Security. I am hoping I can perhaps trouble you for a few questions about a man I believe is employed here.