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Post by Whill Shaman Xixo on Apr 5, 2013 8:18:34 GMT -8
*The Thorip Norr was a cantina located in the Lola Curich Starport.*
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Post by Jest, the Mercenary on Jul 13, 2016 20:40:11 GMT -8
I step into the Thorip Norr, a wisp of wind behind me as the door slides closed. Inside it's quiet, the sounds of dull music playing for a crowd who couldn't care less that it's on. The bartender eyes me, as if sizing me up, and dismisses me as not a threat. For the first time in a long time, that's the correct assessment.
I have a seat at the bar rail, give the barman a nod as he cleans the glass. "Pint of the local stuff," I say. He nods back, and I busy myself with a glance around. The bar is sparsely populated this time of night, only a few stragglers left. Most are drunk, or on their way there, and likely the last thing the bartender expected was a new arrival at what amounted to midnight local time, alone. He slides the mug my way, and I lift the mask that obscured my face to take a swig. Bitter, just as I recall it being in my previous life. Some things never change.
The barman returns to cleaning his glass, but I know this is a distraction. He watches and learns, carefully eyeing the denizens of the bar for a master he does not know. I know that Gustav, his name, is more dangerous than anyone here knows. The serving girl, Tatiana, as well. I've seen her do things with a knife that would boggle the minds of most men, though you'd never guess it watching her attend to the bar's clientele. They were assigned here for their acting skills, I suppose, and they came highly recommended. Now I had a chance to see why.
I slide my mask back down now that my gulp is over. It covers everything from chin to hairline, letting black hair dangle freely at neck length. The whole idea is to remake myself, to get a fresh start, new perspective. This will be my tool to aid in that, and to assess my next step. Whenever I figure out what that is, anyway.
I clear my throat before speaking, painfully. Old wounds, you know. The bartender casts me a glance from his glass, and I slide a credit chit forward in response. He steps over, palms the chit, and raises an eyebrow inquisitively.
"Any work for a gun for hire, barman?" I say.
He snorts as if he's heard this question a thousand times, as I'm sure he has. He appears to ponder a moment, as if taking a mental inventory of the goings-on he's heard of the past few days. Suddenly, a spark, and he looks to me with a glint in his eye.
"If you don't mind running some protection, I've got a freighter going to Coruscant that could use an extra gun. Making the Perlemian run to the jewel of the galaxy, and the route's been thick with pirates lately. Don't expect much, but I'd count it as a favor if a fellow like yourself gave them an added sense of security."
A milk run, in other words, and the man throwing a drifter a bone. That, or one of the less-than-legal operations this bar entertains has some sensitive cargo it's transporting. Either way, fits my needs. He pockets the credit chit and, following a nod from me, fishes one of his own from within. Higher denomination, enough for a few nights' stay at some low-life port a man like myself might wash up in. He tosses it onto the rail, and speaks.
"They cast off tomorrow morning at oh-eight-hundred. Meet them at the Lola Curich spaceport, docking bay LS-1980. Don't be late."
I nearly miss his use of local military time. You're getting sloppy, old man. Not my concern anymore, however, and so I simply offer another nod, palm the chit, and rise to leave. My first job after a very chaotic life. It feels like pulling on a familiar pair of boots, the perfect blend of comfort with a little chafe in the old spots. Time to get to work.
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