"Greeting, my young new friend."
The syllables were a melodious whisper, almost a hum in the air, harmonizing with the faint, crystalline song of the gems around them, floating in the chill, winding around spires of stone. The sound vibrated in his ears, settled under his skin, a welcome and — a warning? There was more to it than just the wind of the words; when she whispered, the Force did too.
His shrewd hazel eyes took in a thousand things about the woman that stepped into the dappled, kaleidoscopic glow of the cave's crystals and stood before him in the space of a breath: tall but slim, dark-skinned, silver-haired, braid trailing all the way to the floor, tapered ears. Fine robes under that thick cloak, blue, gold, and white, a lightsaber at her belt, a blaster on the opposite hip. A pendant with a clan logo on it, Arcona's, swaying when she paced forward, stride calm and sure, shoulders back, smile soft, friendly…
And each of those things and many more told him a piece of the puzzle. Athletic and armed, but without weapons at the ready, posture open, easy — she was capable of fighting but it wasn't her first choice, not when there could be diplomacy. The ridiculously long hair, so well-kept and styled — she was patient and fastidious, but a romantic, perhaps a traditionalist following a custom of either the visible Miralukan or Sephi blood that ran in her veins. And, her experiences had allowed her to keep the impractical braid, so either she was a non-combatant — unlikely, given previous observation — her enemies were too dull to make use of the asset — also unlikely, given its obviousness — or she was quick and clever enough to make sure no one ever got their hands on it — in which case, she was dangerous. The necklace was a keepsake, perhaps, conveying sentimentality, someone who cared quite a lot, or perhaps just a showing of how proud she was of her own unit — and yet Master Turel knew her well enough to call upon her personally, away from either of their clans, just for Moz. Arcona and Odan-Urr's alliance had famously started, in part, with this woman — yes, even allowing for loyalty, she was no zealot. And the smile, too kind and too knowing — whatever they were here for, she had expectations where Moz only had questions and a quickly growing list of facts and inferences to reference in solving his mystery.
The heartbeat passed, and Moz's gaze followed her movement as she completed her step, folding her hands, fingers knit, in front of her — habitual, prayer-like, religious? Yes, devout, even. She had to be — and tipping her head forward. "It's good to meet you, Azha Moz. I am indeed Atyiru, though you can call me Atty if you like! Turel spoke quite well of you."
"And...of you," the Mirialan replied, though truth be told, he hadn't made much room in his quickly-moving mind for his Consul's words beyond the basics he needed for this mission, not with all the questions he'd been buzzing with. "Did he tell you why he wanted me to come here, or why he wanted us to meet?"
"He may have hinted." The way her facial muscles twitched, pulling at her eyebrow, Moz would have sworn the woman was winking, were it not for the fact that she had no eyes. "Who really needs a reason? Why, we're here now, you and I! Let's make the most of it."
"Everything has a reason," Moz argued. "Everyone has a motive. And it can always be figured out, if you look hard enough."
"Is that so?"
"It is."
"You seem very sure, indeed, little one," hummed the Miraluka, starting to pace slowly about the cavern, footsteps crinkling lightly in scattered drifts of snow on stone. Fond of pet names, called him little, young — older than him, but surely not terribly much. Affectionate. Overly friendly?
"I'm not that little," the Odanite pointed out. "I'm taller than you, matter of fact."
"Are you? Hum. Who would have known? Tell me, how's the weather up there?"
Willing to joke. Sense of humor? Debatable, he added to his observations. "Cold," Moz snorted in answer. He turned in place so that he could keep his eyes on her, watching as she drew her fingers along some crystals. Their glow brightened slightly at her touch. Them reacting to her, or her influencing them with the Force? "So what are you here for?"
"Lots of things, dearie. To make a new friend. To reminisce. To build some snowmen. Oh, and later, a picnic with drinking chocolate…"
He couldn't tell whether or not she was mocking him, or if she was completely serious; and the way she abruptly bent to start patting ice crystals into a small figurine didn't help him puzzle it out.
"'To tell Azha what his actual mission is and how she's part of it?'" he offered, voice a little tight. She laughed brightly, and it echoed through the spacious vault of rock and permafrost.
"Ahh, yes, and that too. Later, of course."
"One, two, three...there, now it's later."
"A fair attempt, but not one I'll concede to." Atyiru stuck two small pebbles on the snow blob's side, perhaps an approximation of eyes, and then stood with a satisfied sound. "Let us say for now, dear Azha, that I am here to teach you absolutely whatever you wish to learn. What would your response be then?"
"I wouldn't mind that," Moz said carefully, still somewhat wary of the odd Arconan. He didn't know her, even if Turel did...but the Force seemed to know her, and she it, and that mystery, like so many, intrigued and worried him. Trust, no, but make use of, maybe… "Anything I want to know? About the Force or people or the clans or you?"
"Anything you wish," repeated the foreign Consul. "If, that is—"
Of course there's an if, there's always an if, there's always a reason— The Mirialan's senses screeched and his hand dropped to his pistol, freeing it.
"—you're willing to claim it."
And with that, and a faint, luminous smile, she twirled her lightsaber into her hand, activated the blade, and danced towards him like a sprite on winter winds just as her sprayed a salvo of scarlet between them.
