Ombo
The Bull
[member="Bond"]
Planet: Corellia
Location: Macky's Brew
Objective: Getting drunk, maybe picking a fight with someone
Current Mood: Bored
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Ombo sat at the bar, drinking a Seltov Hammer on the rocks. His transport to Manaan was stopping here for a while, and he needed the drink in him if he were to face his people again. Killing a respected elder didn't do much for your popularity on any planet, but even less so when you do it in a method absolutely forbidden by your people. Of course, he had been deemed an outcast and exiled to wander the stars alone. The only possessions he had been able to retain were the ancient firas. Those were joined by a special trident he had made for him by an ancient weaponsmith.
The drink wasn't the best he'd ever had, but he didn't expect much from a rundown bar. It tasted of dish soap and unwashed hands, but he wasn't drinking it for the taste. He felt like giving the bartender an earful over the low quality of brew, but he knew that he could count on the whole bar being strapped to the teeth. His tendrils twitched as the old jukebox in the corner switched tracks to a popular hit from the group The Wampas called "I Swear That Tauntaun Was Dead When I Found It". The catchy beat and infectious rhythm caused Ombo to sway a little as he finished off his drink. Rather than asking for a refill, he chose to survey the rest of the bar.
As he had noted earlier, the bar wasn't in the best of shape. Small bugs buzzed around the dangling lights, which looked like they were about to fall and kill someone at any notice. The door was an old-fashioned saloon style gate, except one of the sides was hanging on one hinge. The few tables around the room were filled by local ruffians and pilots, all choking down food and swigging from the flasks as fast as possible before they hit the space lanes again. Ombo stood out among the mostly human crowd. His short stature and blue-gray skin were enough to draw attention, however the fact that he resembled a giant catfish probably drew the most stares. Of course, the deadly weapons hanging from his sides and at his back really didn't help. The bar had a sign that read "No Weapons", but it was quite obvious nobody was following its guidance.
He gripped his fira a little harder as someone bumped into him, but it was only a drunken pilot trying to hit up a bar stool. Ombo watched in mild amusement as the man slurred his words and tried all manner of pick-up lines on the stool. The man gave up eventually, walking away with disappointment when "sugartits" didn't respond to his catcalling. He eyed his empty glass again, regretting putting the alcohol into his body. If he were to be attacked, it would be wise to be at full capabilities. However, he doubted anyone in the room could take him on, especially because they were as drunk, if not more drunk, than he was.
Already on high alert, his tendrils twitched as he detected the presence of a force user somewhere in the bar. Since his training with the Jedi over the last few weeks, his use of the force had improved greatly, as well as his sensitivity to anyone else who could use the force. Of course, a week of training does not a master make, and he still had potentially years ahead of him before he could even be remotely good at using the force. Of course, he never thought he'd actually need it, considering he'd lasted 15 years in some of the galaxy's worst places without ever having to use the force. Recently, however, he had had the desire to at least attempt training with the force, especially when he heard that he could use it in combat to increase his prowess. Maybe this force user that he had detected could help him on this journey. Either that or he could try to kill him.
Planet: Corellia
Location: Macky's Brew
Objective: Getting drunk, maybe picking a fight with someone
Current Mood: Bored
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ombo sat at the bar, drinking a Seltov Hammer on the rocks. His transport to Manaan was stopping here for a while, and he needed the drink in him if he were to face his people again. Killing a respected elder didn't do much for your popularity on any planet, but even less so when you do it in a method absolutely forbidden by your people. Of course, he had been deemed an outcast and exiled to wander the stars alone. The only possessions he had been able to retain were the ancient firas. Those were joined by a special trident he had made for him by an ancient weaponsmith.
The drink wasn't the best he'd ever had, but he didn't expect much from a rundown bar. It tasted of dish soap and unwashed hands, but he wasn't drinking it for the taste. He felt like giving the bartender an earful over the low quality of brew, but he knew that he could count on the whole bar being strapped to the teeth. His tendrils twitched as the old jukebox in the corner switched tracks to a popular hit from the group The Wampas called "I Swear That Tauntaun Was Dead When I Found It". The catchy beat and infectious rhythm caused Ombo to sway a little as he finished off his drink. Rather than asking for a refill, he chose to survey the rest of the bar.
As he had noted earlier, the bar wasn't in the best of shape. Small bugs buzzed around the dangling lights, which looked like they were about to fall and kill someone at any notice. The door was an old-fashioned saloon style gate, except one of the sides was hanging on one hinge. The few tables around the room were filled by local ruffians and pilots, all choking down food and swigging from the flasks as fast as possible before they hit the space lanes again. Ombo stood out among the mostly human crowd. His short stature and blue-gray skin were enough to draw attention, however the fact that he resembled a giant catfish probably drew the most stares. Of course, the deadly weapons hanging from his sides and at his back really didn't help. The bar had a sign that read "No Weapons", but it was quite obvious nobody was following its guidance.
He gripped his fira a little harder as someone bumped into him, but it was only a drunken pilot trying to hit up a bar stool. Ombo watched in mild amusement as the man slurred his words and tried all manner of pick-up lines on the stool. The man gave up eventually, walking away with disappointment when "sugartits" didn't respond to his catcalling. He eyed his empty glass again, regretting putting the alcohol into his body. If he were to be attacked, it would be wise to be at full capabilities. However, he doubted anyone in the room could take him on, especially because they were as drunk, if not more drunk, than he was.
Already on high alert, his tendrils twitched as he detected the presence of a force user somewhere in the bar. Since his training with the Jedi over the last few weeks, his use of the force had improved greatly, as well as his sensitivity to anyone else who could use the force. Of course, a week of training does not a master make, and he still had potentially years ahead of him before he could even be remotely good at using the force. Of course, he never thought he'd actually need it, considering he'd lasted 15 years in some of the galaxy's worst places without ever having to use the force. Recently, however, he had had the desire to at least attempt training with the force, especially when he heard that he could use it in combat to increase his prowess. Maybe this force user that he had detected could help him on this journey. Either that or he could try to kill him.