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Post by Whill Shaman Erevis on Apr 9, 2013 11:55:33 GMT -8
The Refugee Sector was an area of Nar Shaddaa delegated to millions of refugees from the Mandalorian Wars and the Jedi Civil War. It was mostly a construct of cargo containers and prefabricated structures. The conditions were horrendous and the refugees were ruled over by brutal Serroco thugs and the Exchange.
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Moth Emon
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Post by Moth Emon on May 14, 2013 12:18:01 GMT -8
From his hiding place beneath two broken, colossal heaters, Lenhar watches the masses of refugees in flux. Men, women, children - all mix and toil in the filthy refugee housing. Among the crowd are a group of men, dressed in fine black, with body guards carrying rifles. The refugees gather around them as they talk of freedom.
"Free rides off the planet!" they claim
Lenhar retreats farther under the heater and up through a small square hole he cut along the underside. Inside the junk heater is a cleared out space large enough for Lenhar's body and a few of his only possessions: a scraps of a filthy blanket, a rotten tomato, and his father's lightsaber.
Lenhar thumbs the saber handle carefully and returns it to his stash. Outside he can hear a rise in commotion; he craws back out to watch.
The men in black are joined by boxes, carted in by hover craft, which sputter nearby. In the crates are fresh food; Lenhar can smell it from under his heater: real meats, cheeses, fresh vegetables - Lenhar's mouth begins to water.
But he knows these men. They will lure refugees with their promises and onto their hovercraft, but every time the craft rises over the refugee barrier and up to the extravagant city, Lenhar's stomach always drops, as if he's watching twenty people die all at once.
This is, however, the first time any of them have brought fresh food. The air is alive with excitement. The refugees knot in tighter, eager to at least see the crates.
"This is not a trick," the man in black says. "There is food enough for everyone here. The Hutts have given us full permission to help relocate the refugees here, giving them transport off the moon and to one of many locations: Coruscant, Taris, Naboo; you decide!"
The body guards shift uncomfortably as the crowd tightens. Lenhar knows he should let them pass, but the allure of food is too much. Making sure no one is looking, Lenhar crawls out from his hiding spot and circles the crowd.
"The wars that have plagued many of your planet's are over! Go home, make a new home! If you succeed, we succeed. As a token of our sincerity, we off you this food." the man in black motions to the boxes and a body guard splits the top with a crow bar.
The crowd shutters as one being. A man pushes past Lenhar and begins to insert himself through the crowd.
"One by one, onto the hovercraft and we'll take you out of here. You'll even get a free meal!"
The refugees eye each other, each afraid to be the first to get on. The man in black grabs an apple from the box and tosses it once before taking a bite. From the crowd the man pushes forward with rage on his face.
"Where is my wife?" the man spits. He steps forward, met by the raised rifles. "Where is my son?"
The man pulls out an object from his clothing and rushes the man in black. A rifle goes off and the thick, tight crowd bursts into a frenzy. Many flee, but the mass surge inward towards the food. The screech of the rifles is barely heard over the roar of the crowd, but Lenhar can see their sinister red flare light up from the center.
Lenhar scatters with those who flee, but winds his way around again. The food is drawing him in like the others. The black men in the center are screaming, trying to get back to their ship, but the crowd has surged in behind them, cutting them off. Lenhar can see the pilots in the hovercraft frantically preparing for launch, then overtaken by refugees who flooded the ship.
A blaster shot skims by Lenhar's head, causing him to drop to the ground. He can feel the seared skin down across his face. A few refugees are crawling and crying out, grasping at burnt sections of their body. The blaster fire continues. The fear from his burning skin replaces his hunger and Lenhar crawls frantically along the ground, away from the writhing mass. He escapes into an ally and hides himself, covering his face with his palm, and desperately trying to remember his father's training.
You have to focus. The art of healing is not simple; by its very nature, healing involves circumstances that will always be less than ideal.
Lenhar tries desperately to breathe himself into peace, but the screams from the crowd fill his head and the burning is ruthless.
You have to go beyond the flesh; reach with your mind, touch with the force. Do not focus on the pain, that will distract you.
Lenhar begins to weep. He can't get there: that state that his father had taught him to reach, where cooling energy would flow from his hands. Footsteps thunder past him on the street, followed by heavy ones and the shine of blaster fire. Lenhar lifts himself into a large trash canister and covers himself in garbage. He can hear soft-footed men race down the ally, followed by the crash of boots and fire.
Healing is about being apart from yourself, looking at the whole picture, and then bringing it to balance. The force really has only two functions: creation and destruction: all other functions flow through these.
Lenhar holds his face tightly, trying not to scream out. Fueled by fear, he tries to will the healing energy to come forth from his palm.
What you must understand is that the art of healing is not just creation, but destruction too; sometimes you must tear apart in order to repair.
The healing energy will not come. Lenhar stays motionless in the canister, shuttering silently to himself.
"Please, please," he begs silently.
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Moth Emon
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Post by Moth Emon on May 16, 2013 8:52:59 GMT -8
When Lenhar wakes, the commotion has subsided. The blaster mark across his eye still burns, but has lessened. He crawls out from the trash canister and stumbles a little in the street; it's been a while since he's eaten, and the fatigue of hunger shows. The streets are quiet and the square where the refugees had gathered the day before is abandoned. To Lenhar's surprise and astounding joy, there are scraps of food littered all over the courtyard. Squashed tomatoes, cabbages, canisters of meats, cheese, bread - Lenhar takes off at a dash, ignoring his street instincts to wait and watch.
He scrapes up the first canister of meat he sees and pops the top open. He gloats down the mush, liquid and all and tosses the can aside. He moves on, scraping up chunks of lettuce, fruits, and whatever else he can. When he eats his fill, he uses his raggedy clothes as a pouch, carrying all that will fit. He almost cries as he makes his way back to his hiding spot, dumping his treasure into a small box where his rotten tomato lies. He returned to the field as many times as he dares, bringing back full loads of his shirt with food. His smile stretches his burn scar and the tears aggravate the wound, but is joy is boundless. This food might last him for weeks.
Hidden away again in his hiding spot, Lenhar nibbles at a bruised lettuce leaf, ignoring the dirt. The day had turned out better than expected, though he still painfully bears the price of his feast.
Full and happy, Lenhar tries again to heal his mark. He reaches deeper, as his father taught him, touching the pain with his mind and drawing it out. The fire of the wound dribbles slowly away, like water through a small crack. Fueled by food, Lenhar keeps his concentration until his scar all but tender. Exhausted, he settles down and tries to get some sleep.
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Post by Randolph Beviin on Oct 14, 2013 15:20:17 GMT -8
Through the crowds walked a man who for all reasons looked normal at first glance. On closer inspection the five foot tall man deserved closer inspection he had stormy grey eyes that would suck a mans soul into them. His goatee and hair by stark contrast were a dirty blonde, but none of that mattered. Not because of the hat he wore, not because of the archaric looking repeating crossbow on his back. It was because of of what was on under his cloak. Beskar`gam was hidden beneath his cloak.
Had more people payed attention to his armour maybe they would have parted in front of him, as it was though they were to interested in their own lives, trying to eek out a life here. Had he been wearing his buyce things would have been different. He however had not worn it, people were wary of Mandos these days because of the war. His reasons for being here? He had heard tell that a forcie was hiding out here.
Inwardly he chuckled. The last time this place was this full was during the mandalorian wars and the following years. Here again they were bursting at the seams because of them. Yet again people were needy, always looking for help. The Jedi? They always wanted to help those in need. Word had gotten out that those who were sick were now cured, miraculously which only meant one thing. Magic whoo doo.
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Post by Randolph Beviin on Oct 19, 2013 5:00:14 GMT -8
As Randolph stalked through the aisles and the thousands of people he continued to search, all his senses straining to find any tell tale sign of his quarry. Instead all he heard was noise, much of it indistinguishable from all the noise around him. The cry of a baby, a scream of a woman people begging. It was enough to turn eve the darkest of hearts sympathetic. Of course Beviins wasn't dark, simply stone and he carried on.
He walked for hours with no succeeds. So he tried a different tactic. Walking up to a boy on the side of the busy road in an alley he crouched down and smiled. Hello, I was wondering if you could help me. My mother is very sick and I have heard of a woman around here that heals those who are in need. Have you heard of her?
Looking up from what he was doing the child spoke and revealed two missing front teeth. Yeth I have heard of Madam Zeroni. The jutht liveth acroth the threet. Watching as the man reached under his cloak he gave the kid a chip. A credit chip worth 10 credits. Tucking it in his sock he ran off to tell his father about the kind man.
Well that was easy. Taking off his repeater he walked across the street Randolph kicked in the door. Immediately adrenaline began to course through his veins. Inside the first room was a receptionist and three gravely I'll people. Walking by them he opened a second door less quickly this time. Inside he was greeted with a dingy looking woman in her late 30s. He blonde hair was matted and greasy, hanging over her head as she worked. Her hands moving over the dying person she whispered something before looking up. It was to late though, a metallic bolt had impaled itself in her chest and she crumpled over.
Walking over he took the lightsaber as proof of his kill and left. Leaving before authorities could show up, ifthey ever would and got lost in the crowd.
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Post by Celia Oshala on Nov 10, 2013 23:25:51 GMT -8
I track my sister Clara's transmission to the Refugee Sector, but the trail then grows cold. In the end, though, it turns out that just asking questions about her is enough. I am referred to the local morgue, and I go in fearing the worst. My fears are confirmed when the coroner pulls back the sheet and there she is. He tells me she died two days ago, and her body was found a few meters from the door of the medical facility she'd apparently been trying to reach. The autopsy revealed that she was killed by a fast-acting poison favored by one of the small-time gangs based out of Nar Shaddaa. I am informed that her husband disappeared three months ago and is presumed dead, so I give permission for her body to be cremated, and for the ashes to be sent back home to Onderon. The coroner gives me a bag containing everything Clara had in her possession when they found her; it isn't much, just a blaster, a datapad, and the nightgown she was wearing when she died.
The datapad is one of the models that stores coordinates, so I am able to track her movements over the last week of her life. That's how I'm able to find the men who poisoned her. I capture one of them, who admits under threat of death that his organization killed her husband and poisoned her to tie up the loose end. I sense he's telling the truth, but I kill him anyway. Over the next three days, I hunt down and eliminate the other members of his organization. I know it isn't the Jedi way, but I wonder if the Masters who caution against seeking revenge have ever actually had cause to seek revenge. Nonetheless, I feel empty when I finally board a shuttle off this moon.
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Post by Deleted on Dec 2, 2013 9:53:05 GMT -8
*The shadows are my refuge, I shall fear no master. This is the mantra that has kept me safe for these past two weeks since escape from my master's house. In the alleyways of these metal cans that some use for shelter are where I am safe. And what do I have fear here? The deepest black of this world is far lighter than the midday sunshine of Dathomir in the tribe of the Nightbrothers. They sold me to the Hutts, but I harbor no resentment, since the price of my life bought life for my clan for a year more. But the docility could only be masked for so long; beneath the surface, an animal bent on freedom roared against the shackles which held it in place. And so half a decade of servitude ended in the carelessness of a morning promenade when I proved that the life of a slave was not enough to break the body of a Nightbrother. I ran without second thought or remorse and managed to end up in the Refugee Sector, where records of the inhabitants are either nonexistent or fraudulent. What offers me a disservice is the tattoos upon my face; among all Zabrak, the patterns vary from individual to individual. Thus the shadows, which protect my visage from the condemning light, and a cloak, which I requisitioned from a sleeping vagrant. No man here I can count on to not betray me, so it has been a quiet two weeks of loneliness and hunger. And yet I find that this tasteless freedom is worth more to me than the flavorful palate of servitude. I will continue to live on my own in hiding, until I can find my way off of this rock.*
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Bloodrage Pirates
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Post by Bloodrage Pirates on Dec 22, 2013 9:21:39 GMT -8
Arkan strode through the streets of the refugee section of the city. He liked this place, no authority, no disturbance and plenty of parking! He had docked the Cutlass in an abandoned warehouse near the other side of the sector, no docking fees there. He was going to meet his potential new crew in a docking bay not far from it with a challenge for them. In the mean time he just took in the scenery. No-one was likely to challenge a heavily armoured pirate in the middle of nowhere but Arkan would have liked a little something to pass the time.
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Post by Deleted on Feb 6, 2014 15:21:05 GMT -8
Unsurprisingly the filthy degenertating landing pad matched its surroundings well, the refugee sector, the under belly of Nar Shaddaa, places didn't come much worse than here. If one wanted to find filth, rot, waste or a good fight, this was the place to be. It was the one level in which bribery and corruption was matched by the basic needs of the malnourished. Here was a dangerous place indeed.
Flex mask firmly in place an aged fifty year old smuggler plodded down the boarding ramp of the Nemesis class patrol ship, the ramp closed firmly behind him and the ship became automatically weaponised, so to speak, Pathogen wondered if on his return he would find the odd dead body of those to prize his vessel as an opportunity.
He turned and made his way toward the first line of great corroding dumped crates and gutted starfighters that made up the assembly of accommodation.
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Post by Bloodrage Pirates on Feb 15, 2014 8:55:32 GMT -8
There was lots of talk in the tavern after Arkan had left. The Echani Pirate had been recruiting for his crew and several clients had been given information about a place and time to meet. Dajo, a male Rodian, was chatting with Ganrax, a male Tarc about the opportunities that piracy had to offer. The Tarc was boasting of his combat prowess, the powerful Ganrax apparently had a bounty on his head. The bounty was smaller than he saying and is crime was not nearly as elaborate as he was making out but that was the nature of the criminal. There were others talking about Arkan's exploits even if they themselves were too afraid to take the Captain up on his offer.
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Post by Deleted on Feb 17, 2014 14:00:59 GMT -8
Entering the 'town', to use the word in its loosest sense. He searched for a den of thieves for even in a place such as this there would be a cantina, a place that most likely sold starfighter lubricant as ale, nevertheless as in all places a cantina served as the best place to gather information. He paused momentarily ensuring his weapons were easily accessible and with nothing to restrict there quick withdrawal and then he entered, his goggles behind the flex mask adapting to the low light level.
The general hubbub died down to a burble and a huge hulking Aqualish lurched out of a darker corner and spoke in a spluttering basic.
"Whash ish your business stranger?"
Pathogen looked up evenly at the alien.
"My business is my own."
The Aqualish shoulders shuddered and then a great belly laugh erupted.
"You states yoursh business or find a bolt betweens the eyes."
Pathogen didn't move, his goggles aiding his eyes and pin pointing targets and threats.
"I'll take my chances."
The Aqualish quite without warning lunged forth and shoved Pathogen, the hunter simply tucked into a roll to his right behind a table and pulled his Series III out and fired a single shot straight between the creatures eyes, the Aqualish dropped dead with a thud and Pathogen rose to stand astride the still smoking body.
"Anyone else feel the need to question my business in this fine establishment, if so make a formerly line."
When no one moved, Pathogen looked around.
"Then we have an understanding, each being to his own business, now be about yours."
That said he walked down the steps and toward the bar he lay the Series III on the bar.
"I'll take some water now."
The Bartender walked over with a small glass of water and when he drew close Pathogen asked him quietly about the Exchange. The Bartender nodded toward a Rodian and a Ganrax who were seated in a booth across the way. Pathogen slid the Bartender a five chits then walked casually over to the duo who paused there conversation. Without asking Pathogen sat opposite them laying his pistol on the table. The two eyed him suspiciously.
"We ain't here for trouble Hunter."
The Ganrax said.
"I'm not interested in the small bounty on your head Ganrax, in fact I'll wave it in agreement you give me the information I require. Now here's how it's going to go down. One, I incapacitate your friend here and then I shoot each of your fingers off until you tell me, or two, you tell me what you know of the Exchange and then I incapacitate both of you, you have two seconds to decide."
Two minutes later Pathogen left the bar apparently the Rodian and Ganrax had drunk too much and were now both slumped head down on the table.
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Bloodrage Pirates
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Post by Bloodrage Pirates on Feb 21, 2014 4:12:45 GMT -8
Arkan was waiting on a roof overlooking the meeting point that he had given to all the prospective new members of his crew. There was already a Wookiee and a Duro hanging around in the general area. He check the time on his wrist mounted datapad, it was almost time. The Captain took several steps back from the edge of the roof and silently prepared. He then sprinted towards the edge before leaping off with as much effort as he could muster. His armoured form glided through the air clumsily, gravity was not on his side. He travelled as much horizontal distance as he wanted before he slammed into the ground next to the Wookiee.
Once the dust cleared the Duro and Wookiee could see Arkan crouched above a crack in the street. He rose slowly and stood to full height, still a good six inches shorted than the Wookiee. The Pirate eyed up both potential members before calmly remarking.
"There is only one place on the crew, whichever one of you would like that place must bring me the corpse of the other!"
The Duro quickly took several steps back from the Wookiee who appeared to be smiling as he drew a particularly nasty looking knife from his belt. The Duro spent the extra time he had gained by stepping back looking into his holster. He found his blaster gone, replaced with a long knife. Arkan had arranged this before they even left their first meeting in the tavern. The Duro drew his knife but things were not looking good. The Wookiee lunged forward and struck the Duro, leaving a long gash down his left arm. The Wookiee seemed to smile more and roared as he lunged again. This time the Duro was ready and he dodged to the side and countered. The Wookiee roared again, only this time in pain at his own wound. His eyes began to burn with fury and his muzzle curled into a snarl as he attacked again. This time he feinted to his left and the Duro bought it. His real strike almost decapitated his opponent and sent blood spurting into the air. Arkan was satisfied.
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Post by Deleted on Feb 21, 2014 15:58:25 GMT -8
A meeting point was much more than he had hoped for, a meeting point and a time slot, well beyond a Hunter's dreams. So, carefully was the way Pathogen opted to tread, things were never as they seemed, often as not the way forward was not as straight as it seemed and a hunt could be long arduous and tiring, tiredness was a killer, a cold silent killer. Pathogen had fought many wars with that cruel mistress and had trained so his body never truly ever slept, not fully at least, and years it had taken to adapt. Only a light sleep did he now enter, so he could be alert at a moments notice, yet rested enough to perform clinically.
The thought being a trivial matter he pushed it aside, there was work to be done.
Pathogen opted for the conventional grounded route, nothing to arouse suspicion, however when he was five clicks away he slunk into an alley and nimbly clambered atop a taller structure for a better view at what lay beyond. His hand went to his flex mask but pressed something hidden beneath, a small barely audible whirring sound as the built in magnification zoomed in on the spot, even from this far Pathogen could make out three individuals, one judging by his mass of fur and height was quite clearly a Wookiee, the other two Humanoid to say the least. At least then there was no trap, none at least Pathogen could see. It seemed then that judging by what he saw there was a bout going on and the central figure; staying out of the rather one sided contest was the overseer and thus that marked him as the next being on Pathogen's list to speak to.
Having mapped the area and flicked through his goggles various filters, such as infra red and thermal he descended and made his way toward the area, cleverly the overseer had selected a space that was open, but was not hugely overlooked, Pathogen had already decided that to enter form the east was the safest and most strategical entry point as it was the only area with a slight overhang from crates above. The West lay more of a boundary with a build up of crates and only one entry or exit. To the North Pathogen had only spotted one clear pathway, however he fancied that a grate that lay across one of the crates could be prized or even served as a possibly entryway. The South, well that was quite interesting for it held a rusting and rather unsafe looking gantry its corroding girders barely supporting its weight as its latter half would attest to, since it had slumped into a fetid pool of who knew what. The small pool to the South was a particular point of note and interest.
Pathogen walked silently and purposefully, he did not creep but he took steps of intent without seeking to make an obtrusive noise and in this manner he entered what one might loosely describe as an arena. He coughed politely to draw the attention of the two beings present; noting that as Pathogen predicted the Duro had come off considerably worse.
"Excuse me gentlemen, I am presuming this is some form of try outs, I apologize for my lateness."
Pathogen was not overt about stating his business, of course he hinted subtly at it and was mindful to adopt a stance of readiness, weapons at the ready, of course it was not in his manner to make this obvious either and to onlookers he would appear a casual fifty something year old smuggler or gun runner; tread carefully he must to not drop the disguise his mask offered. If a fight with the Wookiee was inevitable, a sudden fleet footed-ness would belie his apparent age.
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Post by Bloodrage Pirates on Feb 24, 2014 12:00:52 GMT -8
Arkan watched the brief confrontation with an unseen smile. His initial thoughts in the tavern were indeed correct, he predicted the Wookiee would win. Not a far-fetched prediction. The Captain only turned away from the Wookiee and was about to speak but another being made his presence known. The Wookiee quickly looked to size up a possible new opponent. The Echani turned much more slowly towards Pathogen. His keen eyes looked over the older looking male lowlife, probably more dangerous than he appeared. He was almost certainly armed and was no doubt an experienced spacer.
"You say try-outs, I like to think of it more as a performance based job interview."
The Captain knew the Wookiee was only armed with the knife he had and the one he took from the Duro but heavily suspected this new potential crew member had at least one blaster on him. Not such a fair fight, something Arkan didn't usually believe in but he wanted the best for his crew. He activated the panel on the right thigh of his armour and he took out one of his blaster carbines. He then casually threw it onto the ground just in front of the Wookiee.
"The rules haven't changed, you need to bring me the corpse of your opponent to get on my crew!"
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Nux
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Post by Nux on Feb 24, 2014 14:52:12 GMT -8
She had not spent much time reading the lay of the land, nor had she tested the mettle of her adversaries. They were all fighters, they would be given an honorable end. This one weighed the options, used his gadgets, fussed with his eyes. She tailed him silently at around sixty paces, and gave no indication that she had arrived, but merely stood nestled in shadow, as the one she had followed made his presence known. She slowed her breathing and readied herself should things turn, as they often did in the ring.
There was no need to check that her weapons were ready.
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Nux
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Post by Nux on Mar 10, 2014 8:41:47 GMT -8
The Duro's body moved slightly on the ground, muscles still half-heartedly performing the last will and testament of a being no longer in this world, but the next. Nux did not waste time with formalities or an order of ceremonies. That was for another place and time. This was an arena. This was familiar.
Still moving silently, the warrior moved past the one who busied himself with his eyes, and his gadgets, paying him little mind, except to clock the movements of his hands, should he wish to engage. At this point, she was unwilling to consider him an opponent. Indeed, he may have been merely an observer, as was common in a setting such as this. If it proved otherwise, he too would fall.
She shrugged out of the furs that covered her fighting form, letting them fall to the ground. Under the cowl was a powerfully built, slender human wearing skins from every corner of the known 'verse. At her side was slung a blaster in a well-worn holster, slung low on the hip, and on the other side, a blade. She also carried a small pack, which also met the ground. The blaster followed, set carefully atop the pack as a light rain began to fall, plastering her shock of white-blonde hair to her scalp. The blaster Arkan had thrown remained in the mud at the Wookiee's feet. The woman drew her blade, silently daring the Wookiee to move for the blaster, or meet her in melee combat. Her blade was a fearsome-looking ryyk kerarthorr, which any being versed in such matters could tell had been custom-made for the woman in their midst. At this, the injured Wookiee snarled a warning, disgusted at the bastardization of such a weapon in the hands of a human.
She replied in kind, uttering an oath in the Wookiee's own tongue, and wishing the warrior a good death. The Wookiee stood silent, and drew up to its full height, well over a foot taller than the woman, who stood easy, arms at her sides, ryyk curved back along her arm.
The rain fell.
Nux shifted her weight ever-so-slightly to her rear foot, in preparation for the coming assault. The Wookiee did not disappoint, and rushed at the diminutive human. Her reply was a dance of motion, elegant and deadly. The Wookiee had favored the left arm, and now struck out with the uninjured off-hand. What would have been a killing blow instead found open air as Nux stepped inside of the swing, bringing up the reversed ryyk to make contact with the Wookiee's elbow, using the crushing force of the Wookiee's own attack to sickeningly dislocate the joint at an impossible reversed angle. The Wookiee dropped his blade, and lashed out with a backhand strike from its injured left arm. Blood from the wound received by the Duro spattered across the woman's face as the powerful arm pistoned toward her, but she countered with the reverse-side of the ryyk again, not bringing the blade to bear, but instead allowing the Wookiee's power and the weight of her weapon to do blunt-force damage. Again she caught the Wookiee at the elbow. There was an audible sucking sound as sinews and cartilage ruptured, and the creature cried out in pain and anger, opening his midsection to her impending attack.
Both arms of her opponent incapacitated, the warrior moved in for her first offensive motion, spinning the kerarthorr such that her blade now protruded a full two feet in front of her. She made two quick motions, minimal in deadly efficiency, and opened the arteries along the insides of the Wookiee's thighs with foot-long gashes, again resulting in her being liberally sprayed with dark crimson. Her hair, previously albino-white, was now red-black, covered in her opponent's life-blood. Turning to face the advancing Echani, the Wookiee was dead before its body hit the ground.
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Post by Bloodrage Pirates on Mar 10, 2014 17:51:27 GMT -8
Arkan watched, impressed, as the Wookiee was just taken apart by a small blonde girl. He stood motionless until there was only one alive. The rain had started to clatter off of the Captain's jet black armour which was air-tight when it was fully sealed. The rain started to wash the blood from the ground into the nearby drains and began washing the arterial spray from Nux. The Echani walked over to where he had thrown his blaster and picked it up, holding it casually in his right hand.
"You'll do, what's your name."
He spoke as he turned to face Nux once again. His mask hid his eye movement but he was visually inspecting the woman thoroughly to determine a great many things. Though he supposed most of these pieces of information would come to him in time, even if this one didn't seem like a big talker!
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Nux
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Post by Nux on Mar 11, 2014 7:53:23 GMT -8
She stood, ryyk held loosely in hand, and regarded the Echani before her. Her breathing was even, and her gaze penetrating, probing, questioning. When she spoke, it was in a voice tainted with the accents of twenty worlds. Basic was obviously not her first tongue, but she was confident in her speech.
I am known as Nux. Warrior of Rattatak. Who might you be?
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Post by Bloodrage Pirates on Mar 11, 2014 19:00:57 GMT -8
It never amazed Arkan that he could still visit planets where people did not know him by sight. It gave him hope, he was on the top of a lot of wanted posters on Republic worlds. Quite a few people on the Smugglers Moon knew who he was, it was the nature of their game, but not this one. He was glad, it meant his tricks would be "new" again.
"My name is Arkan Bloodrage, Captain of the Cutlass. I also happen to be very interested in who you currently work for and if I need to kill them for your services."
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Nux
Member
fixin' to cause some hurt.
Posts: 49
Traffic Light: Green
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Post by Nux on Mar 12, 2014 9:16:31 GMT -8
She stepped in close to the Echani, close enough that she was partly sheltered from the rain by his figure, and took in his scent, eyes never leaving his mask. Running a gloved finger over the chest-piece of his armor and down to his abdomen, the woman smiled knowingly. Turning from him, Nux sheathed the ryyk and retrieved her blaster, hooking the gun-belt around her waist, hoisted her pack, and picked the furs up off the ground, tossing them over her shoulders.
I work for no man, Arkan Bloodrage, Captain of the Cutlass. But I will work with you, to our mutual benefit. You will not be sorry.
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