Risk didn't like Sith.
It was a dangerous dislike to have in the Sith Empire, but it was there
all the same. Sure, they paid well. Sure, their squabbles kept her and
the Clan with a never-ending supply of jobs to pick from. But Sith?
They were dangerous, unpredictable, and if she were honest with herself,
it boiled down to the Force.
Their use of it.
Their abuse of it.
The way they thought they had the right to trickle thoughts into a
mind, the way they thought they had the right to dictate conditions,
controls, plans, avenues - the way they felt they were the only ones to
have the right of power.
The Mirialan had her gauntlets pulled off, a file in one hand as she
sharpened the claws attached to the back of the gauntlet's hands. Her
helm was set aside as well, an almost meditative look to her scarred
face as she worked. Schink. They were sharp, sharp enough to stab into armor, sharp enough to rake skin and leave bloodied gashes behind.
It all came down to the job, didn't it?
She'd landed the Clan a nice little gig, babysitting a Sith House and
its assets. The first job had gone off without a hitch, covert shipping
from the homeworld of Dromund Kaas to wherever the Sith had begun to
hole up. But then she'd met the allies of the House she'd stitched a
job with.
Schink.
They were all Purebloods, the heads of the Houses. And they were
hotheads, the other two - pacing and growling, using the Force on
whomever they wanted. Her lip curled as she once more filed the claws,
scar slashing across her face pulling skin oddly with the expression.
One of 'em had lost one of their number - she didn't know the ranks
they'd used and by that point she was more inclined to turn and leave
than stick around and ask what the kriff everything was about.
It wasn't part of her job, to be involved. And it wasn't in the Clan's
interest to be involved, either. Not judging by the snarls and threats
and bickering she'd seen. There was another Clan involved with the lot
and she knew she was frowning, fitting the gauntlets back onto her
forearms and meticulously locking the clasps, sliding the claws against
each other. The other Alor'd spent too much time with the Sith, she
figured, and the Clan was suffering for it.
"Risk," a voice called from her helm, the woman picking it up and sliding
it on, locking it into place. "Got a job from a regular."
"Who?"
"Arwen."
Risk grinned, standing up. "Forward it."
~~~~
"Please!"
Risk's helm moved as she turned to face the sobbing woman.
"Please, don't... don't kill us. We...we can pay you!"
The twin blasters pointed, one at the unconscious man, clobbered on the
back of the head by Risk, and the other at the sobbing woman. The
contract details were displayed inside her helm, eyes moving as she
scrolled through the particulars.
"Sorry lady."
She pulled the triggers, hitting both the woman and the man in the
center of their foreheads. The jerking and crumpled fall of their
bodies made a soft, impactive thud on the plascrete.
The little boy, hiding behind a fallen table, let out a shrill scream as
the sight of his parents filtered into his brain. The contract had
specified the couple's death and the boy's survival. Holstering her
blasters, Risk moved quickly, picking up the screaming child and firing
one last shot, stunning the kid. Carefully cradling him in her arms,
Risk left the scene.
The boy was delivered to his uncle, her fee was paid. The reason for
the mark had been laid out, and it was one Risk was happy to help with.
She'd kept her cool, as much as she'd itched to leave the bodies
mangled.
The kid would get over the jarring experience. With some therapy he'd
get over what his own parents had done to him, too.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Friday, August 14, 2015
Blasters Ready (Part 1)
Perimeter sensors were always on her belt and the Mirialan pulled a few
more off as she took a slow walk around the large scouted site. The
pirates who'd escaped the fate of their comrades in the tunnels had
cleared out, the woman checking her HUD to make sure the only life
around was wildlife. One blaster was holstered as she changed the power
cell out, switching blasters around to do the same for her second one,
keeping them warm, safeties off.
The bodies still doting the area were piled up in a makeshift pit, lighter fluid doused on them all before she ignited it. The bonfire crackled and Mirisk kept her helm on, counting on the filtration system to make sure the tell-tale scent of burnt flesh didn't offend her nose. Rot and decay and blood and sweat were the way of life - but that didn't mean the scent of scorched flesh was perfectly pleasant.
"A'lor," a voice called out on the comms channel used by the Clan, "--cuyan." Torenth's voice was grave and sedate, belying the manner the Rattaki conducted himself in.
"Who missed their round?"
"New kid, in training," came the calm reply.
"Catch them."
"Confirmed." The comm flicked off then, the bulky man breaking off from the skeleton crew making the slow survey and heading through the thick amazon forest. It was impossible to hear anything of the probable exchange between Torenth and the survivor over the chirp and sounds of the jungle but in due time Torenth returned, another corpse slung over his shoulder.
It was added to the still-burning pile.
Later on, before the small crew broke off from the perspective clan home and returned to their own ships, a campfire merrily burned and almost rustic shelters were erected. Bottles passed around between the members of the clan present, helms set aside but armor proudly worn as they sang and ate. The meal was small and simple, roasting one of the local lizards (even though the initial party containing herself, Jet, Hawk and Bear had ridiculed the idea) and discovering they were pleasant enough on the spit.
They were family, hard and lean, molded by combat and camaraderie. When they broke camp Mirisk was the last to leave, making sure her people were lifting off before she headed to her own vessel. Sensors linked to her console, Mirisk waited until the last ship aside from hers had become nothing more than a glimmer in the sky before she initiated liftoff protocols, shouting at the navi-system before making her own way to the stars.
The clan would thrive here, she thought - enough space to allow the clan's armortechs the room to refine their craft, the armstechs to produce the weapons that helped keep the clan in the high ranks. Enough room to set up training rings for the children, the teens. She unhooked her helm and set it on the flight console, hitting it on the hook to stay in place. Enough water and nearby game to hunt and keep the clan safe if their supplies were cut. And clear access to the stars from something that'd make a good landing pad. All they'd need to do would be get a few towers in for communications, move their munitions in... her mind ran over the checklist.
"Incoming message-" the system chirped, Mirisk fitting her helm back in place before checking the name. One of her clients, of course.
"Risk, 'ere."
Back to business.
The bodies still doting the area were piled up in a makeshift pit, lighter fluid doused on them all before she ignited it. The bonfire crackled and Mirisk kept her helm on, counting on the filtration system to make sure the tell-tale scent of burnt flesh didn't offend her nose. Rot and decay and blood and sweat were the way of life - but that didn't mean the scent of scorched flesh was perfectly pleasant.
"A'lor," a voice called out on the comms channel used by the Clan, "--cuyan." Torenth's voice was grave and sedate, belying the manner the Rattaki conducted himself in.
"Who missed their round?"
"New kid, in training," came the calm reply.
"Catch them."
"Confirmed." The comm flicked off then, the bulky man breaking off from the skeleton crew making the slow survey and heading through the thick amazon forest. It was impossible to hear anything of the probable exchange between Torenth and the survivor over the chirp and sounds of the jungle but in due time Torenth returned, another corpse slung over his shoulder.
It was added to the still-burning pile.
Later on, before the small crew broke off from the perspective clan home and returned to their own ships, a campfire merrily burned and almost rustic shelters were erected. Bottles passed around between the members of the clan present, helms set aside but armor proudly worn as they sang and ate. The meal was small and simple, roasting one of the local lizards (even though the initial party containing herself, Jet, Hawk and Bear had ridiculed the idea) and discovering they were pleasant enough on the spit.
They were family, hard and lean, molded by combat and camaraderie. When they broke camp Mirisk was the last to leave, making sure her people were lifting off before she headed to her own vessel. Sensors linked to her console, Mirisk waited until the last ship aside from hers had become nothing more than a glimmer in the sky before she initiated liftoff protocols, shouting at the navi-system before making her own way to the stars.
The clan would thrive here, she thought - enough space to allow the clan's armortechs the room to refine their craft, the armstechs to produce the weapons that helped keep the clan in the high ranks. Enough room to set up training rings for the children, the teens. She unhooked her helm and set it on the flight console, hitting it on the hook to stay in place. Enough water and nearby game to hunt and keep the clan safe if their supplies were cut. And clear access to the stars from something that'd make a good landing pad. All they'd need to do would be get a few towers in for communications, move their munitions in... her mind ran over the checklist.
"Incoming message-" the system chirped, Mirisk fitting her helm back in place before checking the name. One of her clients, of course.
"Risk, 'ere."
Back to business.
Mirisk Foxun (Aliit'alor Clan Foxun)
Name: Mirisk Foxun
Nicknames: N/A
Bounty Hunter Name: 'Risk'
Clan: Foxun (Aliit'alor)
Clan colors: Purple, grey, and a dash of red - associated meanings purple (fanon, luck), grey (canon, mourning a lost loved one), red (canon, honoring a parent)
Emblem - forthcoming
Age: 38
Species: Mirialan
Homeworld: Akaan
Languages Spoken: Mando'a, Mirialan, Huttese, some Smuggler's Cant, Basic
Status: Single
Children/Adopted Children: ???
Favorite drink: Tihaar
Clan structure- (TBD)
General Skillsets: Ranged combat, hand-to-hand (a style specializing in disarming and debilitating blows coupled with body use for a physical advantage), bladed combat (no-holds-barred), decent pilot (not a hot-shot ace but good enough), battle planning, technologically apt (able to surf the holonet with ease), armor repair and crafting (pretty good/average armorsmith).
As a general rule, Mirisk is good at combat - certainly not an amazing specialist, but well-rounded and adaptable to a situation.
----
A mix of ranged and front-line combat forces, Foxun carved a name for themselves as determined, steadfast, and capable of executing their ends diligently. Clan Foxun went on to continue its banner under the extended contract-alliance with the Sith Empire, setting a reputation as well working warriors and skilled hunters.
Foxun is a few generations old as a Clan, and Mirisk assumed leadership after battling the previous head of the Clan for control. Foxun has taken mercenary work and the individuals of the Clan are free to work as they will but are a bonded and knitted, devoted clan. Their base is traditional - home to the young, the venerated old, and the training grounds of the clan. There are a number of armsmen in the clan as well as 'camp' professions.
(more when I brain it, emblem inc!)
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Molari: Lands of Thedas (Part 2)
Of all the pieces of technology to remain working Molari was most thankful for his saber. It had been the only piece of technology to remain functioning in the strange land he traveled across, the man packing up what few pieces he had and returning them to his ship. The lights were completely off, everything dead as she sighed, running a hand through his short-cropped hair.
He had no words for the creatures he had encountered. He felt their taint though, a grasping evil nature that clung to their flesh, their rotted flesh. He wondered what Sith had twisted them and raised their mangled corpses from the dead for that was a power he had never encountered before. But it was one he knew was possible and yet...
And yet the place crawled with a lower taint, something that left him uneasy at night, uneasy during the day. The sounds of the forest were unfamiliar, the cries in the deep woods were different, the creatures not similar to anything in the archives he had studied since childhood. A few days past he had stumbled on a small creature, rounded and pudgy with hairless skin and towering ears. There was something a bit like a fox, but longer in leg, with larger ears. And there had been a towering shadow that swept across the air like a thranta, but its cry was unlike anything he had ever heard.
And it looked like...
Like a dragon.
But dragons, he knew, were nearly extinct; the monstrous Krayt dragons had begun to vanish and the large ones called as mounts by the armies of old had gone not just out of fashion but seemingly out of existence.
But the recollection, the resemblance, had been uncanny. And it had shaken the man, awoken a primal fear that he had thought he had trained past; when the rumbling cry had torn the air the Jedi had stopped his motions, moving under the cover and letting the beast swoop overhead. It had crested the sky and disappeared towards the mountains and the Jedi had waited until the forest itself had slowly stirred back to life before he found his breath easing.
There were armies and bandits who crawled the hillsides and woods, primitive weapons that made even slugthrowers seem high-tech brandished. The Jedi had slipped unmolested until he came near a town, one enclosed by guarded walls manned by heavily armored Knights. But they bore no lightsabers and their connection to the Force almost seemed...artifical.
Her had no words for the strange feeling they gave him, as if something noble and yet wrong stood tall. And beyond those guards there were bells, an unfamiliar song of an unfamiliar religion. Where had this come from, this song praising Andraste and the Maker? The cries of 'mage' and 'templar' were spoken of as if they were world-shattering forces and there was no planet he had learnt of, Republic or Empire or Hutt or Rim, that had sects called by those names.
What was a mage? What was a templar? What were the green cracks people spoke of, and what were demons?
The last two he found answers to as he watched the small township. For slitting the air a green light coalesced, and from it tore out creatures he had never seen before, figments of putrid nightmares - misshapen forms with hands too long, features too horrific, and a presence he had never encountered. The Knights were prepared, drawing their weapons - but their weapons were plain ones. Against what looked to be demons from the nightmares of even the most stout of Sith.
The demons - for the towns people screamed and yelled enough that he could pick out the names - cackled and roared in exultation. The Knights fought but the air ripped and then squeezed and more demons came from the sickly-green rend in the sky. The Knights rallied against the barred gate, defending valiantly, but... Molari started to run forward.
They were cut down as a boil of hatred poured from the rift in the air. It quaked the ground, claws red with fresh blood as it cut through their armor as if it was cloth and not the metal he could tell it was.
He wasn't fast enough to save them all.
He accepted that, even as he drew his saber, blade hissing through the air as it ignited.
He could save the ones who were left. And he could, perhaps, save this town of innocents.
He had no words for the creatures he had encountered. He felt their taint though, a grasping evil nature that clung to their flesh, their rotted flesh. He wondered what Sith had twisted them and raised their mangled corpses from the dead for that was a power he had never encountered before. But it was one he knew was possible and yet...
And yet the place crawled with a lower taint, something that left him uneasy at night, uneasy during the day. The sounds of the forest were unfamiliar, the cries in the deep woods were different, the creatures not similar to anything in the archives he had studied since childhood. A few days past he had stumbled on a small creature, rounded and pudgy with hairless skin and towering ears. There was something a bit like a fox, but longer in leg, with larger ears. And there had been a towering shadow that swept across the air like a thranta, but its cry was unlike anything he had ever heard.
And it looked like...
Like a dragon.
But dragons, he knew, were nearly extinct; the monstrous Krayt dragons had begun to vanish and the large ones called as mounts by the armies of old had gone not just out of fashion but seemingly out of existence.
But the recollection, the resemblance, had been uncanny. And it had shaken the man, awoken a primal fear that he had thought he had trained past; when the rumbling cry had torn the air the Jedi had stopped his motions, moving under the cover and letting the beast swoop overhead. It had crested the sky and disappeared towards the mountains and the Jedi had waited until the forest itself had slowly stirred back to life before he found his breath easing.
There were armies and bandits who crawled the hillsides and woods, primitive weapons that made even slugthrowers seem high-tech brandished. The Jedi had slipped unmolested until he came near a town, one enclosed by guarded walls manned by heavily armored Knights. But they bore no lightsabers and their connection to the Force almost seemed...artifical.
Her had no words for the strange feeling they gave him, as if something noble and yet wrong stood tall. And beyond those guards there were bells, an unfamiliar song of an unfamiliar religion. Where had this come from, this song praising Andraste and the Maker? The cries of 'mage' and 'templar' were spoken of as if they were world-shattering forces and there was no planet he had learnt of, Republic or Empire or Hutt or Rim, that had sects called by those names.
What was a mage? What was a templar? What were the green cracks people spoke of, and what were demons?
The last two he found answers to as he watched the small township. For slitting the air a green light coalesced, and from it tore out creatures he had never seen before, figments of putrid nightmares - misshapen forms with hands too long, features too horrific, and a presence he had never encountered. The Knights were prepared, drawing their weapons - but their weapons were plain ones. Against what looked to be demons from the nightmares of even the most stout of Sith.
The demons - for the towns people screamed and yelled enough that he could pick out the names - cackled and roared in exultation. The Knights fought but the air ripped and then squeezed and more demons came from the sickly-green rend in the sky. The Knights rallied against the barred gate, defending valiantly, but... Molari started to run forward.
They were cut down as a boil of hatred poured from the rift in the air. It quaked the ground, claws red with fresh blood as it cut through their armor as if it was cloth and not the metal he could tell it was.
He wasn't fast enough to save them all.
He accepted that, even as he drew his saber, blade hissing through the air as it ignited.
He could save the ones who were left. And he could, perhaps, save this town of innocents.
Ciphered Holos: Aran
Disappointment was a bitter feeling to swallow. And it gnawed the same way as guilt but without the possibility of resolution; it ate and it settled in the gut and clenched the throat. And it was hard to even understand - but then there were clear moments of comprehension, clear moments where recriminations were flung at herself. She had been bitter, had been petty. For little reason other than pricked vanity and pride. It had been humiliating to be found so lacking, that feeling coupled with the old and awoken feeling of failure.
Regression. Disappointing Ark, the Pureblood who had become a mentor. An ally. An inspiration for climbing to better, new heights; to aspire to grow to.
A petty drunkard wasting away, a sore and blight with no purpose or worthwhile accomplishments. That'd been what she'd been when Ark had found her - someone courting self-destruction who had found no purpose, no passion. Someone with no dreams left, holding broken shards in bloodied hands. Someone with no future, bleakly facing death and no longer fighting for a place in the galaxy. And she'd regressed, reverted back to that drunkard in a moment of concern; harshly judging Ark and his motives against the mistaken view of someone who'd seen him as not only an obstacle but a rallying point for destruction.
Her apology had been heartfelt, an almost bleak apology as the tone Ark had spoken to her in had set in. She remembered the people who had spoken to her in that tone, the way they'd all eventually thrown their hands up when she hadn't grown more wise, more controlled, more reserved. She remembered the first time Ark had spoken to her that way, when he'd rescinded his offer of solace and protection, pulled his hand back because she had been nothing but a disappointment.
And the dangerous edge in his voice, the growl. A warning, the reminder that although he had been kind he had been kind purely on his whim. A suddenly brutal reminder that crossing him would have consequences, the same way her rash and foolish actions trying to stop him from taking Sverdas had resulted in the death of her pet. The knowledge that she had hit a line, offended him, insulted him.
Ark had been kind. Accepting. Understanding. Encouraging. Inspiring. Protective.
He had given her shelter and resources and a place to study and work, as close to a home as she was likely to ever find again. The space to carve out her own place, find her footing. Become what she had the potential to become. And she'd risked it in a stupid and petty moment.
But how to show Ark she'd meant her apology? Actions, he said. Prove it, he demanded. But how? Offering objects wouldn't prove anything; placating gifts would be worthless to Ark because they were things, not actions. Things could be given without learning the lessons required - she knew that from her own past. Gifts were merely motions, meaningless objects that carried nothing in their acquisition other than the implication of time.
Time wasn't enough. Sinking time into something didn't show she'd really moved past the drunkard wasting away on a worthless moon.
Actions.
Her mind wandered, settling with every centering breath. She was in the little tucked ruins she had found when getting lost, legs folded under her as she'd dropped into a meditative seat.
The doubt and self-recrimination were powerful feelings - but they weakened her. They weren't helpful; they were the sort of dark emotions that crippled a person and destroyed the possibility of their use in furthering her connections to the darkside. She had to accept them though and use them to be stronger, use them to strengthen both her resolve and her dedication. Reject the weakness they invited and turn them around. She could - would - do it. She had to be more than she'd been a scant year ago.
How to prove it.
She let out a breath.
How to show she'd moved on.
Actions.
Doubt and recriminations and disappointment she turned to anger, let them fester. Loathing for herself began, for the weaknesses she clung to. She focused on those feelings, nurturing them the same way she'd once called up peace.
These were useful emotions, feelings that would drive her onwards and upwards and help her climb to new heights. These she could turn and spur herself with, could settle her mind in to and relax finally. Now she could call up the 'gift' Ark had given her, the chaotic images she could barely grasp, the gaping wounds and clawing panic and horrible pain and sudden, inescapable death and destruction. She pulled it up much the same way she'd have wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, letting it rise up and enfold her thoughts.
The images pulled up the shattered and grasping memories of her first meeting with Xekseko and Venrirr, the itching and scraping of those horrific eyes. The unintelligible and incomprehensible, destabilizing agony. She still could not make sense of it all - the colors, the shapes, it had been beyond her comprehension. The jokes about colors had been nothing compared to the reality and inability to understand. Paired with the gift from Ark, the swirls of everything he had placed in her mind, she felt a slick sheen of sweat rise.
And yet she continued, feeling it help her find a new avenue of connection and understanding towards the darkside. She turned her mind and thoughts to the pure feelings of it, a sigh of breath as she gave herself over to it.
Regression. Disappointing Ark, the Pureblood who had become a mentor. An ally. An inspiration for climbing to better, new heights; to aspire to grow to.
A petty drunkard wasting away, a sore and blight with no purpose or worthwhile accomplishments. That'd been what she'd been when Ark had found her - someone courting self-destruction who had found no purpose, no passion. Someone with no dreams left, holding broken shards in bloodied hands. Someone with no future, bleakly facing death and no longer fighting for a place in the galaxy. And she'd regressed, reverted back to that drunkard in a moment of concern; harshly judging Ark and his motives against the mistaken view of someone who'd seen him as not only an obstacle but a rallying point for destruction.
Her apology had been heartfelt, an almost bleak apology as the tone Ark had spoken to her in had set in. She remembered the people who had spoken to her in that tone, the way they'd all eventually thrown their hands up when she hadn't grown more wise, more controlled, more reserved. She remembered the first time Ark had spoken to her that way, when he'd rescinded his offer of solace and protection, pulled his hand back because she had been nothing but a disappointment.
And the dangerous edge in his voice, the growl. A warning, the reminder that although he had been kind he had been kind purely on his whim. A suddenly brutal reminder that crossing him would have consequences, the same way her rash and foolish actions trying to stop him from taking Sverdas had resulted in the death of her pet. The knowledge that she had hit a line, offended him, insulted him.
Ark had been kind. Accepting. Understanding. Encouraging. Inspiring. Protective.
He had given her shelter and resources and a place to study and work, as close to a home as she was likely to ever find again. The space to carve out her own place, find her footing. Become what she had the potential to become. And she'd risked it in a stupid and petty moment.
But how to show Ark she'd meant her apology? Actions, he said. Prove it, he demanded. But how? Offering objects wouldn't prove anything; placating gifts would be worthless to Ark because they were things, not actions. Things could be given without learning the lessons required - she knew that from her own past. Gifts were merely motions, meaningless objects that carried nothing in their acquisition other than the implication of time.
Time wasn't enough. Sinking time into something didn't show she'd really moved past the drunkard wasting away on a worthless moon.
Actions.
Her mind wandered, settling with every centering breath. She was in the little tucked ruins she had found when getting lost, legs folded under her as she'd dropped into a meditative seat.
The doubt and self-recrimination were powerful feelings - but they weakened her. They weren't helpful; they were the sort of dark emotions that crippled a person and destroyed the possibility of their use in furthering her connections to the darkside. She had to accept them though and use them to be stronger, use them to strengthen both her resolve and her dedication. Reject the weakness they invited and turn them around. She could - would - do it. She had to be more than she'd been a scant year ago.
How to prove it.
She let out a breath.
How to show she'd moved on.
Actions.
Doubt and recriminations and disappointment she turned to anger, let them fester. Loathing for herself began, for the weaknesses she clung to. She focused on those feelings, nurturing them the same way she'd once called up peace.
These were useful emotions, feelings that would drive her onwards and upwards and help her climb to new heights. These she could turn and spur herself with, could settle her mind in to and relax finally. Now she could call up the 'gift' Ark had given her, the chaotic images she could barely grasp, the gaping wounds and clawing panic and horrible pain and sudden, inescapable death and destruction. She pulled it up much the same way she'd have wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, letting it rise up and enfold her thoughts.
The images pulled up the shattered and grasping memories of her first meeting with Xekseko and Venrirr, the itching and scraping of those horrific eyes. The unintelligible and incomprehensible, destabilizing agony. She still could not make sense of it all - the colors, the shapes, it had been beyond her comprehension. The jokes about colors had been nothing compared to the reality and inability to understand. Paired with the gift from Ark, the swirls of everything he had placed in her mind, she felt a slick sheen of sweat rise.
And yet she continued, feeling it help her find a new avenue of connection and understanding towards the darkside. She turned her mind and thoughts to the pure feelings of it, a sigh of breath as she gave herself over to it.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
CID Drom K'thn
FILE NAME "DROM"
Name: Drom K'thn
Other Names: Drom, Kit
Status: ALIVE
Personal Status: ....kriff if I know
History: [scribble scribble]
Relatives/Family: None known
Associations: LADY MAR'TENN, MAC, COREM, J'TRE, PRESS-BLACK GANG
DATABASE NAME /DROM/
I first stumbled on THE BOX when fixing up a losing fighter in the old free-clinic that the 'Fifth used to play security for. The GFC moved out of security Nar Shaddaa shortly after SPICEQUEEN and the DARK BLADE CARTEL unleashed V-DEX on to the market and just as quickly pulled it back off. Working for DROM started before that though.
Slipped in as a substitute doctor for a fight night on the sly and bribed my way in through COREM and MAC with the right spice and a pretty boy. I should feel bad about the kid but he worked his way up and runs his own business. He owes me a favor now too, so that's useful. Still...feeling a bit bad for using him. It was mutual?
DROM keeps his employees at arm's length. There's an underground fight ring he runs - blood sports with kids - that covers THE BOX's real expenses. LADY MAR'TENN and her services cover the rest giving DROM and MAR'TENN a tidy profit to operate with. They pay to J'TRE, a Hutt with the PRESS-BLACK GANG who operate in their section of Lower Industrial Nar.
DROM first comes off as having no personal vices but I've watched him - and his emotions - enough to know that his weakness and strength is LADY MAR'TENN. MAR'TENN and he were definitely romantically involved at some point and I suspect came up with THE BOX as a way to dovetail their industries and interests and work together without arousing suspicion.
CURRENT STATUS: Alive, obviously, and running the Box still. Employs my alias "Doc" whenever I feel like showing up. Haven't been by in weeks, he must think Doc is dead again.
Name: Drom K'thn
Other Names: Drom, Kit
Status: ALIVE
Personal Status: ....kriff if I know
History: [scribble scribble]
Relatives/Family: None known
Associations: LADY MAR'TENN, MAC, COREM, J'TRE, PRESS-BLACK GANG
DATABASE NAME /DROM/
I first stumbled on THE BOX when fixing up a losing fighter in the old free-clinic that the 'Fifth used to play security for. The GFC moved out of security Nar Shaddaa shortly after SPICEQUEEN and the DARK BLADE CARTEL unleashed V-DEX on to the market and just as quickly pulled it back off. Working for DROM started before that though.
Slipped in as a substitute doctor for a fight night on the sly and bribed my way in through COREM and MAC with the right spice and a pretty boy. I should feel bad about the kid but he worked his way up and runs his own business. He owes me a favor now too, so that's useful. Still...feeling a bit bad for using him. It was mutual?
DROM keeps his employees at arm's length. There's an underground fight ring he runs - blood sports with kids - that covers THE BOX's real expenses. LADY MAR'TENN and her services cover the rest giving DROM and MAR'TENN a tidy profit to operate with. They pay to J'TRE, a Hutt with the PRESS-BLACK GANG who operate in their section of Lower Industrial Nar.
DROM first comes off as having no personal vices but I've watched him - and his emotions - enough to know that his weakness and strength is LADY MAR'TENN. MAR'TENN and he were definitely romantically involved at some point and I suspect came up with THE BOX as a way to dovetail their industries and interests and work together without arousing suspicion.
CURRENT STATUS: Alive, obviously, and running the Box still. Employs my alias "Doc" whenever I feel like showing up. Haven't been by in weeks, he must think Doc is dead again.
CID Karv Drakkan
FILE NAME "STAB"
Name: Karv Drakkan
Other Names: [scribble scribble will look up PMs later]
Status: ALIVE
Personal Status: ....ally. Kriff me sideways.
OOC threads: PM threads (escape from Republic Space) (trips down memory lane and some torture (Book/Karv) (more torture (Karv/Book))
History: [scribble scribble will be filled in later]
Relatives/Family: Eidozi (LIGHTBRIGHT) (confirmed, Li'barrah managed to earn a black mark for attacking family. Stupid 'twi for doing that),
Associations: Krassk Vukal/House Vukal. Sphere of Defense. Mandalore. Mandalorians. Lots of guns. Tal Kad. More guns. Did I mention guns?
DATABASE NAME- /STAB/
STAB and I go way back. PROTEUS had STAB on retainer for capturing force sensitives for experimentations with SERUM. STAB and some members of TAL KAD (notably LILSTAB - you need a better name, come on...)( COLORGUNS? It might work.. LIGHTBRIGHT) were hired by PROTEUS for bounty hunting work.
STAB and I had some lovely fun, and by that I mean he tortured me a lot and I screamed more than enough. There was detaching of legs but happily PROTEUS wanted me in some semblance of 'whole' (that's what you get for pissing off the big bad Darth personally) so I got both legs back. You can't even feel the scars anymore.
In revenge when I found out STAB was wanted by the Republic and SIS I played 'Capture the STAB' and nabbed him. Evaded detection for a bit and played my own version of torture on him. Got a lot from his screwed-up head. Note to self, STAB is a kriffer to get information from in 'traditional' ways. Handed STAB over to the Republic authorities and was pretty sure that was the end of that.
But nooooooo - OTHONE stopped by and asked me what I knew about STAB after that whole debacle, and then let slip STAB was spotted in the local 'tina. When I went on the run from the Republic it was natural to find the one place no one would look so I hired STAB to extricate and hide me. That lasted until JADE contacted me needing help with DHEROVEER.
CURRENT STATUS: Ally. Alive. In a truce.
STAB and I have agreed that we are 'even' and are not going to 'take things personally' at the moment. STAB seems to have neglected to tell his people about the change in states, given COLORGUNS and a least one other took pot-shots. SELKIE and I chatted old business while STAB explained the situation to his people.
Apparently STAB wants some help in confusing the Republic and SIS in regards to his latest pet project. Suspect STAB is behind the attacks on SIS outposts and is sending them a message. Color me intrigued, and sorry Z, but I think I'll take this one up.
Name: Karv Drakkan
Other Names: [scribble scribble will look up PMs later]
Status: ALIVE
Personal Status: ....ally.
OOC threads: PM threads (escape from Republic Space) (trips down memory lane and some torture (Book/Karv) (more torture (Karv/Book))
History: [scribble scribble will be filled in later]
Relatives/Family: Eidozi (LIGHTBRIGHT) (confirmed, Li'barrah managed to earn a black mark for attacking family. Stupid 'twi for doing that),
Associations: Krassk Vukal/House Vukal. Sphere of Defense. Mandalore. Mandalorians. Lots of guns. Tal Kad. More guns. Did I mention guns?
DATABASE NAME- /STAB/
STAB and I go way back. PROTEUS had STAB on retainer for capturing force sensitives for experimentations with SERUM. STAB and some members of TAL KAD (notably LILSTAB - you need a better name, come on...)( COLORGUNS? It might work.. LIGHTBRIGHT) were hired by PROTEUS for bounty hunting work.
STAB and I had some lovely fun, and by that I mean he tortured me a lot and I screamed more than enough. There was detaching of legs but happily PROTEUS wanted me in some semblance of 'whole' (that's what you get for pissing off the big bad Darth personally) so I got both legs back. You can't even feel the scars anymore.
In revenge when I found out STAB was wanted by the Republic and SIS I played 'Capture the STAB' and nabbed him. Evaded detection for a bit and played my own version of torture on him. Got a lot from his screwed-up head. Note to self, STAB is a kriffer to get information from in 'traditional' ways. Handed STAB over to the Republic authorities and was pretty sure that was the end of that.
But nooooooo - OTHONE stopped by and asked me what I knew about STAB after that whole debacle, and then let slip STAB was spotted in the local 'tina. When I went on the run from the Republic it was natural to find the one place no one would look so I hired STAB to extricate and hide me. That lasted until JADE contacted me needing help with DHEROVEER.
CURRENT STATUS: Ally. Alive. In a truce.
STAB and I have agreed that we are 'even' and are not going to 'take things personally' at the moment. STAB seems to have neglected to tell his people about the change in states, given COLORGUNS and a least one other took pot-shots. SELKIE and I chatted old business while STAB explained the situation to his people.
Apparently STAB wants some help in confusing the Republic and SIS in regards to his latest pet project. Suspect STAB is behind the attacks on SIS outposts and is sending them a message. Color me intrigued, and sorry Z, but I think I'll take this one up.
CID Drom's Box
The Box stank.
It smelled of sweat and blood, dank water and sewers. It had that coppery tang in the air, the heat rolling off the bodies packed into the rooms of the clubhouse barely combated with a derelict air conditioning unit. Grime on the walls and bricks making up the building had built up for years until the once-white walls were stained brown, handprints etched in smoke and dirt, markers of people long gone.
The Box stood in the lower levels of Nar Shaddaa, the smuggler's moon. The Box paid its dues to the Hutt who ruled the streets around it and its thugs, the great and mighty J'tre and Press-Black gang. The Box's owner, Drom K'thn, managed to keep just enough autonomy that something was up. His establishment had no gangs working its roster, no protection money cut from the till - but it felt like it should.
Once you got inside the Box you realized there was something off about the club. It had a bar and served you every vice you could imagine - from spice to hookers, deathsticks to pretty boys - and sometimes when you looked things felt... wrong. There was no other way to put it, like the Box existed with a thin veneer over top of it, something darker than sex or drugs lurking.
A rival to J'tre wanted to know about the Box - about Drom, what it did - and was willing to pay for any information gleaned.
It just begged the question of how hard it would be to find out what secrets the Box held.
Regulars know-
Mac, the head bouncer of the club. Standing six-foot-and-seven, Mac was a tall human built like a brick wall, all muscle and scars. Mac ran a tight shift, keeping the peace in the Box with an iron fist that echoed the strict control Drom himself seemed to hold over the place. Slicked-back hair cropped short, the man was often seen in the presence of the regular staff, making sure no one at the club bothered the rest of Drom's staff.
Drom, the enigmatic head of the The Box. Somewhere between burly as one of his hired bouncers and businessman-sleek, Drom keeps a watchful eye on his beloved club but keeps everyone but bodyguards at an arm's length. Drom is at the club nearly every night, managing something, talking with clients and important guests. For such a down and outs location the Box manages to attract fairly high-brow clientèle on odd nights.
The Box holds regular "fight nights", rowdy affairs in a temporarily erected cage that are as brutal as any combat. Fan-favorite for winning this year's Box "Champion" title is a plucky Rodian, Jntrix Kem, known for being wily and wiry more than brute muscle. Jntrix frequents the Box when not fighting, making nice with his loyal fans who hope he will secure his title in the upcoming ring nights.
Head of the Box's attached "adult" services is Lady Mar'tenn, a Pureblood rumored to be either a sadist, Sith, or both. Lady Mar'tenn and Drom were once rumored to be an item but if they are or aren't is anyone's guess as they two keep their relationship in public to be strictly professional. Lady Mar'tenn's range of associates span every legal (and illegal) vice to be found on Nar Shaddaa. In the power structure of the Box Lady Mar'tenn stands almost as equal to Drom in terms of implicit authority, the bouncers and staff obeying her commands as readily as they obeyed Mac's or Drom's.
Corem, the head bartender and fixture at the Box for ten years is known to be a man with a vice or two, always having one of Lady Mar'tenn's boys nearby. Corem and his fleet of bartenders man the many drinking holes and keep the alcohol flowing. Corem himself has been noted to note drink a drop - but he offers a shoulder to his favorite customers (those who buy him a little more time with Lady Mar'tenn's lovely boys) and a willing ear like a good bartender does.
It smelled of sweat and blood, dank water and sewers. It had that coppery tang in the air, the heat rolling off the bodies packed into the rooms of the clubhouse barely combated with a derelict air conditioning unit. Grime on the walls and bricks making up the building had built up for years until the once-white walls were stained brown, handprints etched in smoke and dirt, markers of people long gone.
The Box stood in the lower levels of Nar Shaddaa, the smuggler's moon. The Box paid its dues to the Hutt who ruled the streets around it and its thugs, the great and mighty J'tre and Press-Black gang. The Box's owner, Drom K'thn, managed to keep just enough autonomy that something was up. His establishment had no gangs working its roster, no protection money cut from the till - but it felt like it should.
Once you got inside the Box you realized there was something off about the club. It had a bar and served you every vice you could imagine - from spice to hookers, deathsticks to pretty boys - and sometimes when you looked things felt... wrong. There was no other way to put it, like the Box existed with a thin veneer over top of it, something darker than sex or drugs lurking.
A rival to J'tre wanted to know about the Box - about Drom, what it did - and was willing to pay for any information gleaned.
It just begged the question of how hard it would be to find out what secrets the Box held.
Regulars know-
Mac, the head bouncer of the club. Standing six-foot-and-seven, Mac was a tall human built like a brick wall, all muscle and scars. Mac ran a tight shift, keeping the peace in the Box with an iron fist that echoed the strict control Drom himself seemed to hold over the place. Slicked-back hair cropped short, the man was often seen in the presence of the regular staff, making sure no one at the club bothered the rest of Drom's staff.
Drom, the enigmatic head of the The Box. Somewhere between burly as one of his hired bouncers and businessman-sleek, Drom keeps a watchful eye on his beloved club but keeps everyone but bodyguards at an arm's length. Drom is at the club nearly every night, managing something, talking with clients and important guests. For such a down and outs location the Box manages to attract fairly high-brow clientèle on odd nights.
The Box holds regular "fight nights", rowdy affairs in a temporarily erected cage that are as brutal as any combat. Fan-favorite for winning this year's Box "Champion" title is a plucky Rodian, Jntrix Kem, known for being wily and wiry more than brute muscle. Jntrix frequents the Box when not fighting, making nice with his loyal fans who hope he will secure his title in the upcoming ring nights.
Head of the Box's attached "adult" services is Lady Mar'tenn, a Pureblood rumored to be either a sadist, Sith, or both. Lady Mar'tenn and Drom were once rumored to be an item but if they are or aren't is anyone's guess as they two keep their relationship in public to be strictly professional. Lady Mar'tenn's range of associates span every legal (and illegal) vice to be found on Nar Shaddaa. In the power structure of the Box Lady Mar'tenn stands almost as equal to Drom in terms of implicit authority, the bouncers and staff obeying her commands as readily as they obeyed Mac's or Drom's.
Corem, the head bartender and fixture at the Box for ten years is known to be a man with a vice or two, always having one of Lady Mar'tenn's boys nearby. Corem and his fleet of bartenders man the many drinking holes and keep the alcohol flowing. Corem himself has been noted to note drink a drop - but he offers a shoulder to his favorite customers (those who buy him a little more time with Lady Mar'tenn's lovely boys) and a willing ear like a good bartender does.
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