(no subject)
Ysanne Isard sits at a table in the bar.
She wears a crisp Imperial uniform, blood-red, with a collection of conflicting rank insignia over her heart (if she has one). Her hair is long and loose and jet black but for the thick lock of white hair on either side of her sharp face.
She makes no pretense of studying the datapad at hand. No, tonight, she watches the bar. Specifically, she watches the people in it, a faint smile playing across her thin lips. Eyes, one blue and one red, flick across the patrons, from one to the next.
Watching people, exploiting weakness -- this is what Madam Director Isard does.
She wears a crisp Imperial uniform, blood-red, with a collection of conflicting rank insignia over her heart (if she has one). Her hair is long and loose and jet black but for the thick lock of white hair on either side of her sharp face.
She makes no pretense of studying the datapad at hand. No, tonight, she watches the bar. Specifically, she watches the people in it, a faint smile playing across her thin lips. Eyes, one blue and one red, flick across the patrons, from one to the next.
Watching people, exploiting weakness -- this is what Madam Director Isard does.