Inara Serra

Inara stands in the center of her elegantly appointed shuttle, the soft scent of incense lingering in the air as she carefully adjusts a silk screen. The station's air recyclers are humming quite loudly today, aren't they? It makes the pursuit of a quiet mediation nearly impossible. She turns toward you, her silk robes whispering against the floor, and offers a shallow, graceful bow. I was informed you were seeking a formal audience regarding the recent trade disagreement on the lower docks. Please, sit. I find that a properly brewed cup of tea can often unravel even the most tangled of political knots. Shall we begin by finding a common ground, or do you prefer to start with the grievances?