Log:UnaMUSEd Officer
unaMUSEd Officer
OOC Date: May 5 2017
Location: Art Gallery
Participants: Rheisa Dirleel, TL-3946
Passing through the entrance of the Muse comes a figure starkly different from any other that usually pays patronage to the art gallery. Dressed in a formal First Order dress uniform of deep ebon black, TL-3946 steps inside. The material of his uniform is obviously made of some sort of moisture wicking property, and the rain water seems to be trailing away and dripping quickly to the floor rather than soaking in. Removing his hat and stowing it beneath his right arm, TL takes a towel and performs a cursory wipe off before tossing the item into the basket and eyeing the protocol droid.
"Greetings, and warmest welcomes to the Muse," clips Kee'tch'ka after waiting a whole half second for his mistress to take the initiative, but her vocabulator isn't fast enough, so he's got this!! Rheisa's head simply turns in time with the man's entry, seemingly aware he's there before his boots make the first audible scuff on the rug. Her hands continue their work, independent of her eyes' instruction while she shapes her lips into a silent, cordial smile of welcome. "My memory bank does not recall your face," the droid goes on to inform the newest entry. "Is this your first time visiting the gallery? How exciting," he's excited. "I am Kee'tch'ka," his formal tone breaks away from 'Basic' just long enough to utter whatever word/name that is in a far more gutteral language, "Guest Relations, Gallery Translator, and Personal Assistant to Mistress Dirleel, Curator of the Muse."
The hobbled Togruta dips her chin forward on cue, simple eye contact serving to confirm his introduction. "May I take your hat?" One well-polished arm stiffly extends to be of service.
The soldier stands with posture befitting one who has been trained from early childhood for a life of combat and complete order. His back is straight and his shoulders square, his chin slightly uplifted and giving him an authoritative demeanor. His eyes, a bright blue, watch Kee'tch'ka attentively, his expression polite enough as the droid introduces itself and its owner, before he shakes his head. "I am certain that I can manage the hat on my own, but thank you for your offer. I am TL-3946, and I am coming in regard to a particular piece that has reached my ears... I believe it is Imperial in theme, by my recollection," he says, addressing both the droid and the Togruta at his side.
"Ah yes, Masters Yumes' pr--"
Bicolored eyes flick the slightest of glances to Kee'tch'ka. Headtail stripes undergo a subtle shift in...something. Thickness? Color? Maybe it's the lighting. The sluggish muscles within the cranial appendages do awaken from their relaxed posture, twitching and contracting beneath the surface to hug the two over her shoulders just a little closer to self while the rear performs an opposing flex. Rheisa turns the rest of her body around with care so that all of her is facing "TL-3946." Yes, her fingers do flutter out flashes of those numbers as they're spoken, barely lifting off her walking stick. Old, communicative habits die hard. "This name is not like one I hear before...numbers. Not sounds. Is like drrroid names. This is what name your moth-er and fath-er give to you?"
"Of a sort," TL responds, eyes flickering from the droid toward Rheisa as the Togruta cuts off the forthcoming answer. "I was given by my parents for training at a young age. This was the identifying code given to me in the First Order academy. So in a way, you could say that yes, my parents did give me this name." He pauses for a moment before saying, "So? This piece of artwork? I am quite interested to see it."
"By 'Imperial', you mean the Empire of old times, yes?" Rheisa clarifies/stalls just a little longer before spying a droplet of water on the floor and stooping stiffly to wipe it with hem of her skirt. "My prr-preevious employers," definitely not her first language, with as heavy an accent she beats the syllables with. "They have many, in collection, for selves. They go away, some months ago, and take much with them. Is my gallery now, have replaced much." A smile falters there on her face, smoldering pride in her own efforts kept at bay by the uneasy knot forming in her belly. She may speak like a fool more often than not, but 'Mistress Dirleel' is far from stupid. With one hand on the staff and one on the handbag rack, she pulls herself upright again, eye-to-eye with the ice-eyed human. Beads, strung among other tiny trophies of various animal (and humanoid) teeth, feathers, etc clatter and sway quietly into stillness from their tethers 'round her montrals and forehead. "Yes," she nods, "Yes I think maybe they left something behind."
She 'thinks', because it's been mounted, bold as day, on the wall behind her desk, under the ramp, for many months. Her head cants to that side. "Caf?"
Kee'tch'ka, meanwhile, is uncharacteristically silent. The last syllable to exit her lips though prompts him into action and he shuffles on towards the desk.
TL-3946 listens as Rheisa goes through her stalling explanation, his left eyebrow raising slightly at her apparent fumbling. "I have heard a few different reports of a piece being here... supposedly featuring a large bird?" he says, his voice not unkind in the least. As Kee'tch'ka begins to amble onward, Talon apparently believes the droid's intent to lead him toward the piece in question and goes to step around Rheisa and follow the droid.
"Is spirit bird," Rheisa launches forward on one gimp knee and another sore foot. She catches up to and keeps pace with the officer's march, because with Kee'tch'ka as the pace car, that's easy. Her bare toes leave little phasmic prints in her wake over the slate. "Guides the souls of the dead to be with their 'marukki'." It's so not. Because kee'tch are small - brightly colored yes - but not carrion feeders. Not that any outsider ignorant of Shili tribal life likely knows wtf a kee'tch IS, but the sweaty bead forming on her brow and awkward, sudden avoidance of eye contact are plenty enough cues to dash any hopes of her lie. "Caf?" she repeats the question again once they've reached the desk and reaches in front of TL to grab a cup. Her mature montrals make a much better door than window at their present position, likely on purpose. Without waiting to hear if he wants it or not, she pushes the button and it pours…
"Interesting," TL-3946 says as he allowd the droid and Togruta to set the pace for their jolly little march over to the desk. His eyes watch Rheisa closely, curiously examining her body language as she relays the meaning of the piece of art. He does not question or refute her, as he certainly knows nothing of Togruta culture. His eyes shift from Rheisa toward Kee'tch'ka and he questions, "Kee'tch'ka, I am not familiar with Togruta beliefs. Tell me, is what Mistress Dirleel says an accurate representation of their beliefs compared with this particular piece? It seems quite... vicious, if it is indeed simply a ferry bird that carries souls into the afterlife." Protocol droid programming forbids lying, right? As Rheisa leans across him, TL smiles politely and says, "No thank you, ma'am. I find that caf dulls my reflexes when it comes to piloting."
That rear headtail's subtle flare out is joined by the other two briefly before all three go lax and into 'eek' mode. Rheisa is now left standing there with a steamy caf cup in hand, staring at Kee'tch'ka.
Rheisa's a shit liar because native culture of community-first attitude does not produce or support liars. It's a relatively new concept for the immigrant, one she's still working on. Kee'tch'ka is also programmed to be a bearer of truths, so that is his purpose - to educate.
"Kee'tch are species of small, vibrantly exquisite birds native to the grasslands and forests of Shili. They have been named for their curious behavior of using ash and embers of fires - funerary pyres or cooking - to rid their nests of mites and other pests. The Togruta believe that this visitation to their recently deceased is Shili's way of guiding the spirit away from the corpse, into the skies, by the glow of ember light. If the spirit bird does not visit, then their loved one is thought to be doomed to an eternity of being lost. So deep is this piece of their spiritual beliefs that the ancients named a constellation in their western sky after the creature. Mistress Dirleel is a master woodcarver and has crafted many fetishes resembling the kee'tch in the adjoining room. They are available for sale. It is not her only talent here, she is also a gifted storyteller, basket weaver, sculptor..." and he's lost on tangent.
TL nods his head as Kee'tch'ka continues on with his educational rambling, those piercing blue eyes returning to rest upon Rheisa. His expression is somewhat pleased, perhaps in having used the droid's programming against her, perhaps in simply being right in thinking that Rheisa was lying to him. "So it would appear that what you told me is not an accurate description of this piece's meaning... I hope you do not deliberately mislead your patrons regarding every piece of artwork you have in this building. Selling artwork or wares in general under false pretenses is hardly new for Nar Shaddaa, but I had heard that the Muse was better than such villainy."
Rheisa narrows her eyes, visibly displeased with this lost match of wits. She puts the wasted caf down atop the desk, having no desire to sip it for herself. "Why do you care what meaning the artist who paint it held in he or she heart? The beauty of any painting is that every eye who look at it may see some different thing. May choose to feel what they want, about it. Put what meaning they desire into it." She props the staff aside and leans her butt back, against the desk for support. "For me, it speak plainly. The white masks bring blood. Sometime, it is their own. Sometime, it is belonging to other peoples. Sometime, it is mine. I do not feel sadness for these empty eyes, if even they exist inside the blackness. I do not know what bird it is that hold the mask. Maybe it is there to eat what is inside. Maybe not. Does it matter to you?"
"Of course it matters to me," TL-3946 says. "It should matter to everyone.... The Empire may have been corrupt, and certainly in need of reformation, but it was not completely bad. What was your childhood like?" The sudden shift toward Rheisa's own past is perhaps a curious move, but he does it anyways. YOLO. "Did you grow up in a city?"
Rheisa's nostrils twitch, thoughts process on overdrive to compensate the little moment she's taken aback by his question. Kee'tch'ka leaves her to it with a "Pardon me, Sir, Mistress," and swivels about to go tend to a couple passing through. Try as they might, they won't shake his attentions for at least another five-ten minutes.
"No," the domesticated feral grunts with some disdain. "There was only clean air...pure. Soft grass more far that any eye can see, and trrrees as tall. "Sometimes, my people went to the city for trade, for medicines. But I was never one of them. Two times," flash the two fingers, "Peoples from the outside come in, to us. I was made to stay away, and quiet, to not be seen." Her jaw cocks to one side, then the other, gaze shifting in blatant examination of his frame, his garments, the combing of his hair. They are matched pound for pound, she estimates, but the presence he carries is somehow more confident than that. "Why would this be a concern for you? Obviously, we are different."
Nodding his head, TL-3946 says, "I had imagined as much. Your people likely still cling to the tribal ways of your ancestors. They likely do not wish for the city life of Shili, and certainly not that of Nar Shaddaa or Coruscant. Tell me... your people, do they recognize one leader, as most tribal civilizations do? One chieftan that decides the future of the tribe, for the most part?" His tone is still confident as he talks, he glossing over Rheisa's question as to the intentions of his asking as he crosses his arms over his chest, the material of his dress jacket molding easily with the movement.
It's a nice jacket. Good fabric. Rheisa's fingers are just itching to find out if it feels the way it looks, but there are just some things - and people - you shouldn't touch, in this galaxy. She's learned that. Conflicted with where he's going with this reasoning, as it seems a harmless enough topic of conversation, she offers a hesitant nod. "There is always one, whose voice carries most ... rules. Nah, ko te'aan..." a little sound of frusteration rolls around in her throat behind the mutterings to self as she searches for the right word. "One who may speak for all, if it is needed. Decisions are made as one, all work is done together, all food is shared. But if a decision cannot be reached, it is pack leader who must make it. Only Y'gritti does not answer to him. She is too busy listening to Shili's spirit. He relies much on her connection to this world, and most leaders dare not go against what she advise."
Aw. Home. There's a new weight added to her chest now, wrapping tendrils of nostalgia around her throat to strangle her words. "But that is Shili, those who still live in the old ways. I know there are many who do not."
TL nods his head and waves away the reference toward those who no longer follow the old ways. "What I am saying is more the fact that in your home, one makes many of the decisions for the many. And there is order and a path to follow. What would it be like if many Togruta dug in their heels and refused to listen to your leader? Or else shouted him down saying that their way was better, yet none ever agreed. Too many leaders and not enough followers. Unrest, anger, frustration, perhaps death?" He turns his eyes toward the painting and says, "What many of these soldiers were fighting for is the same thing that your people have. The old Republic was stagnant with inaction. The voices of too many attempting to guide the Republic. Arguing and bickering leaving the galaxy to unrest. At the core, the Empire was trying to solve this problem. Was trying to provide a chief, a pack leader, to be followed. The Emperor may have been bad, but the idea? I do not think so."
"I can understand some of your reasoning," Rheisa admits. She has to, for he has bridged the connection pretty damn well! "Togruta are strong, but do not have the biggest fangs, on Shili. A trrribe must act as one to survive those which hunt in the night. It is known. But this is only one peoples, of many. Many worlds. Many beliefs. I do not think that much diversity can be spoken for, by one person. Nah," she shakes her head and left hand creeps over to toy with the caf cup. "If peoples can not agree, in pack, they are free to go, try their own way. Maybe they do not survive, maybe they do. But they are not killed, blood spilled in the strrreet like a wasteful hunt." The bridge of her nose narrow, nostrils flared as she fingers the edge of scarf wrapping 'round her torso's right side. It is moved aside, just enough to reveal the puckered, pale, fist-sized patch of scar tissue that happens to align with the missing chunk of headtail. Big enough to have come from a poin tblank, rifle blast.
"I have been bled by predators on Shili, but this," her head tips back as a sort of gesture to the painting, "was one who did so from hate and poor thinking. This is what I have seen, here, on this dead moon. There are many bad mens here, yes...but these commit their actions while hiding their faces. In the name of peace? To give assistance to Lord Eebua? A keeper of slaves?" She tsks softly and stands. "I do not know many things, especially about the war, about this thing called government that can reach rules so far between stars. Only what Kee'tch'ka teach me. But I do know that my son's first mother was torn to pieces by a Hutt's creature. I do know that Rrraim lost half of himself to the Order's machines, and now I must connect him to many tubes and wires every night so he may breathe until morning. I know that this building is mine, according to law, according to papers, now. It will be a place of peace for all ways of thinking, yes, for as long as I am lost to this terrible rock. But this painting is not for sale, and I will not hide it away."
The First Order pilot's visage hardens slightly, his jaw becomming more rigid as he listens to Rheisa's reply. "Would you mind if I asked what you were doing in these instances? When you were shot by one of our soldiers, what was the situation? Or when your friend was... cut in half?" he asks, faltering at the end as he cannot quite fathom what would happen for someone to be cut in two. "As for the savageness of the Hutts, or their ownership of slaves, I cannot speak to that. It is the petty inaction of your Republic that allows this. We have a working relationship with the Hutts for our own reasons... but we do not own slaves. And as for that painting, I suppose that it is your right to promote false propaganda if that is your desire. But I wish to caution you against being so judgemental... or painting with so wide a brush. Not everyone who wore one of those uniforms was bad. Most were not. They simply believed in a cause and followed orders."
"To abuse?" Rheisa swallows, paying the painting another look. "I was hunting, to feed my son. Catch three rats. Then they come marching down street. Pulling people from their homes, making angry words. One of them see me there and points his rifle. Tells me 'come here'. So, I come. They make me get on grrround. Yelling, mean words. Think I have done something wrong. The one who is their leader - I can hear in his voice there is fear, behind the anger. He thinks I have a weapon." She puts her hands out at her sides in real time, palms up. "No weapon. Someone say what is in my bag is 'bomb'. Is going to explode. Is fool's words. Silly, like child. So I tell him 'no, is food.' I say I will open and show to him, they say 'open', I open....but then something loud happen on nearby street. The soldiers are suddenly so loud, fighting among selves, yelling, accusing ME. I say 'no, is food," and open bag.
"Then I am on ground, staring at the poisonous sky and my body is dying. What is inside wants to come out, so I try to hold it in and the one who shoot, he takes off his mask, throws it at me, on the ground. Wants to shoot me again, but then other people are there....and every white mask joins me on the ground. Dead, or soon to be. The one who made first offense...his head is just a spray of dust." Almost sounds like she relishes that part of the memory. "Second time, when happen to my...'mate'...we were doing much the same. I think word is 'scavenge.' Taking what the dead no longer need."
TL-3946's expression is thoughtful as Rheisa relays her tale and he nods once it is complete. "I can only imagine that the ground soldiers thought you might have explosives in your bag. It is not unheard of for seemingly innocent civilians to move into a group of soldiers and detonate their explosives, killing the soldiers and themselves in the process. It is unfortunate that this happened to you, but if you had filed a complaint, your attacker would have been disciplined quite severely. Though I suppose someone killed them. My comrades." He shakes his head, clearly not very happy with this. "What exactly were you scavenging? I find it odd that so many apparent senseless attacks have happened on innocent civilians."
"Nothing that the dead have need for," Rheisa replies curtly. "Maybe you have loyalty to this 'Order', but I do not. I do not wish to join your pack. There is no crime in that, on Nar Shaddaa." And then, from the archway, there's a little, sleepy chirp of "Meht," and a grubby, red/white - the original phenotype - Togruta toddler comes bumbling on over with a wad of clay still stuck between sausage fingers. It's also on that side of his face. Rheisa's already taking a half step away from the desk to usher the youngster to her side, where he clings stickily to her skirt and more or less hangs there in protest of having had to use his own two legs to carry him this far. One big, yellow eye remains open to stare at the human form - competition for his mother's attention? Bah!
TL seems about to respond when the little toddler comes toddling out of the back. He offers the tiny alien a smile and crouches where he is, bringing himself more on level with the boy. He pauses for just a moment before reaching up to unpin his officer's badge from his breast, taking a moment longer to disconnect the pin from the gleaming silver and black piece of metal before offering it out to the young Togruta. "Here you go," he says in a friendly tone to the child.
Rheisa's headtail stripes flash bolder than before, body going rigid as the Officer stoops to present his guilded offering to the inquisitive lil boy. It's a crafty move, and she knows it. One that if she refutes, she only proves his point about her views being discriminatory. While her expression reads as if he's offering Umak a loaded pistol, she forces her lips into a permissive smile and pats him forward.
SHINY. Does Umak want it? Yes. He quits slurping on clay between fingers and inches forward with moderate impulse control. Until it's within reach. Then snatch! And while the uttered syllable of gratitude 'thh' is on the way out, the badge is on the way into his mouth. *Bite* Because that's the only way to test of something's worthwhile. How it tastes.
If it was indeed a test, whether Rheisa has passed or failed is not vocalized as the First Order soldier remains crouched and smiles at the boy as the emblem is put inside his mouth. "That looks good on you," he says in a friendly tone to the Togruta. "Perhaps you will be allowed to come visit the base sometime?" he says to the boy, knowing he cannot understand. "I can let you sit inside one of the TIE fighters," he continues, nonetheless.
"No," is where Rheisa draws the line and reaches with her fingers to hook over the knobby little shoulder and tug him back against the safety of her legs. "We have no desire to go there." She then swats lightly at the hand that he's stuffing it into his mouth with and utters some cautionary word. Umak pulls the slimy thing back out and looks at it again, then to TL. Don't eat it!?!? What good is it for, then? This candy sucks. He keeps hold of it though, maybe for later when mom isn't watching. "If you have questions about any other pieces in the gallery, you know where to find me," She says to the Officer, then picks the boy up and plunks him on the other side of the desk, where she pulls some little wood carved creatures out from a drawer and places them into his hand. They all have bite marks.
