The Padawan grins back down at Karliri, a sloppy, mischevious sort of grin. "Sometimes. Sometimes. My lecture schedule says maintaining a mysteriously grave mien is a second semester course." With a grandiose wink, he clearly turns his attention, though not his eyes back to the others.
"Varkon, Laaca. You've seen enough to know what the sort of mission needs. I trust that you can handle assembling basic supplies. Remember that if it comes to it, a Dark Jedi fights not against the blaster in your hand, but against your intent. Be ready to exploit that."
And then he frowns, concern apparent in his dark eyes. "I, at this time, know little of this Gaspori system, but if a Sith moves there, there will be ripples. Karliri, let us build a picture of the system when it is still."
The Padawan nodded, as he absorbed this omen. "As you command, Master." Centering his mind, Flarerider closed out the hard, crystalline facets of Quel'Jang, much as he once closed away the roaring hunger and rage that permeated his homeworld.
"Like as not, they move for a reason. I assume that our Seers have not yet pinned it down. Is there a file on the places and history of Gaspori IVc for us to peruse?" He would, you see, prefer not to spend his time upon the Lambda consulting Hyperbing for the history of a random moon. It would also be better to beat the Sith to their goal, and seal it away, in order to dispel their reason for being there. Confident as he was in the lightsaber tucked within his utility belt, blazing battles in the streets never really went as planned.
For a split second, the call to simple competition rang in Crys's mind, and ached there like the song of a siren. But he had sought his feelings, and knew it to be true: He thought Quel'Jang had the potential to be a prick. Why give him the excuse to impose discipline upon the pride of Clan Flarerider the hard way?
And so, he walks along with the Duro and the Arkanian, slightly to the fore, his bearing now erect and straight. Each step is measured and precise, and though he follows that line of the communicator, it is with an unusual lack of deviance from it, complete efficiency in his motion.
As his communicator rings, Crys's hand pulls aside the sleeve of his jumpsuit, revealing the thin wristband beneath, the gesture somehow apologetic for its rudeness. A touch, and the message appears in thin air, over his arm, his eyes flickering over it for only the barest of moments.
The message burned in his brain, the man smiles that mischievous grin once more, even as he registers the likelihood of the others receiving exactly the same message over exactly the same system. He makes a sound that sounds rather suspiciously like a dog barking, before he says, more seriously, "All of you, too? Unexpected." And then, somehow, some way, he manages to make that mischievous grin actually glint. "As a group, then?"
Quel'Jang can still feel him as he approaches, that much Flarerider knew. But testing his own limits against the stern taskmaster was, in someways, important to the man. He would learn what the man had to teach. But the Jedi master would never understand the Ralian teachings. He couldn't. For the moment, he would loop even more strongly to the inside, soothing his presence to the minimum.
"You may call me Crys." The male human bows then, with all the regal nature of some ancient, secluded court somewhere, his hand gesturing in front of his jet black jumpsuit, trimmed with a thin, silvery fabric. "Just got in here a short bit ago, yet I already find I miss having one of those stars at a reasonable orbit. It's a bit cold outside." The grin he flashes as he speaks is at the borderline of self assuredly warm and cocky, softened by the mischief that another human or near-human could easily read in his eyes.
"Mm. I fear your eyes are far more suited for astronomy than mine, yet, a degree or so to our left of that, I cannot see the deep field. Perhaps that is your nebula."
Though the human's silver-gloved fingers but wave in the direction, the intent is perfectly clear enough to guide the other's eyes, should she choose to follow them. Approached, he can only chuckle slightly. He'd not been here long, and it did seem to be a small and insular station. May as well consider it friend making, Crys supposes.
~ This might well get interesting.
What exactly, he had been expecting when he had shipped out of his homeworld, seeking better training in his art than he could find on that backwater, Crys wasn't exactly sure. It was fair enough to say, however, that it really hadn't quite been this particular order, or this particular place. As he slumped by the bulkhead, which did little to conceal his tall, broad shouldered frame, the human did decide that he had, he thinks, expected to at least train under the sun.
While his eyes could not help but be drawn to the burning pinholes in the eternal cloak of night beyond the station, it was not long before he tired of the view, and strode to the bar itself, a few low words getting him a tumbler of something amber and fizzy. Walking back towards the duraplast, he followed the Duros female's eyes, mostly out of idle curiousity. "Seeking something in particular, Traveler?" His voice is low, the tone polite, but curious.
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