Quinn Silk
A mess
Location: Somewhere on Denon
A pungent cocktail of aromas was nestled in the lukewarm air of the ramshackle diner, the scent of sweet meats and tobacco quenching whatever freshness slipped through the establishment's ovular windows. Garish was the interior, artificially dyed yellow tables and stained plasticast seats forming a kitschy altar to a grease splattered troop of stoves. Crudely cut slabs of meat sizzled next to a mountain of simmering acid-beets, the fragrant concoction of ingredients routinely tossed and flipped by the lone Besalisk who toiled away in the kitchen. Lumbering, was the grimacing chef's form, an oil stained apron draping the ash coloured skin that hung loose against rippling muscles. A barely eligible name tag was pinned to his breast, the smudged remnants of the name 'Ghoruk' visible to anyone who thought it fitting to stare at a Besalisk's tit.
He was the king of his little palace, a four armed connoisseur of all things grilled and deep fried. None would come in to question his skill in the diner and rarely would there be altercations among his hungry patrons. People came to eat, not to start drama. Alas, that evening, cooped up betwixt his steaks and his salads, was the four armed chef met with a particularly bothersome pest.
"You don't understand Ghoruk, all I need is twenty credits to take a shuttle to the next city!" A voice chimed over the cacophony of sizzling meat, tinkling cutlery and mechanical jazz.
Propped up on a stool, with arms gripping the beer stained counter, was a pale young woman garbed in an indigo robe and heels that were much too fancy for such a humble setting. Painted lips were curled into a sheepish grin, the sort that could only mean trouble to anyone with a shred of discernment. Mousy brown hair tumbled in a incoherent mess down the woman's neck, the stray hints of her perfume intermingling with the aroma of the diner.
"I said no so I mean no!" The creature grumbled, jabbing the flattened side of his spatula in the lady's direction before tossing several yams on to the humming stove.
"How could you say that? We go way back." She gasped, feigned pain flourishing upon her alabaster features as she offered the chef a pout.
"I've only known you for two weeks and you haven't even bought any food yet!" The Besalisk barked back, exasperated with the slender swindler perched on his counter.
"Our relationship can't be held back by time or monetary exchange," The wide eyed woman sighed, clutching her left heart as she deliberately shook her head, "There's magic between us. You and I, two hard working battlers against the rest of the galaxy!" She grinned, fingers flourishing outwards as she leaned in closer to the less than impressed chef.
"You vomited all over my nice seats the first night you came stumbling in here and-"
"Okay, okay! No need to bring up the sins of the past, I have atoned for my misgivings by sharing my joy with the local children. I have paid my penance and have been humbled by my mistakes." She whispered, clasping her hands together and staring into the distance of where she assumed the local orphanage was. Children were always the soft spot for folks like this, or so she believed anyway.
"You speak too much poodoo." Ghoruk uttered, swatting her hands off of his counter with a damp towel and clicking a finger at the woman before she could slip a half cooked beet into her mouth.
"Oh c'com! What's twenty credits to a successful thing like you?!" She groaned, tossing the beet back onto the stove and wrinkling her nose.
"Enough to know it'll go wasted on a drunken harlot." The Besalisk muttered, shaking his head before relinquishing a heavy sigh. "No more words, get out. You'll scare the customers and tonight is Yams with Meat night." He snarled, glaring at the seemingly unflappable woman with his beady eyes.
"How about an excha-"
"OUT!" Ghoruk roared, flinging spittle and half cooked shrapnel of beets in the direction of his unwanted visitor. The level of his voice suited the girth of his frame and with an added huff and clearing of his bulbous throat, the four armed chef pointed at the door through which his little pest should exit. "Never come back here unless you have credits, Quinn!" He snarled, stabbing a sizzling steak with a pronged blade and angrily flipping it over.
Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, the creature known as Quinn granted a stream of air to filter through her teeth before she slowly recoiled off of the counter. Reaching downwards, the seemingly unfazed lady procured a large purse that lay dormant by the stool and clutched it against her bosom. The contents in the bag jingled a happy jingle, a sound that summoned the hint of a grin to pass over her alabaster visage. Pursing her lips, the heeled figure offered the tacky diner one final gaze before strolling into the wet streets that awaited her outside.
"Well that was a karkin mess." Quinn grimaced, knowing full well the night could very well get slightly more troublesome.
[member="Jorah"]
A pungent cocktail of aromas was nestled in the lukewarm air of the ramshackle diner, the scent of sweet meats and tobacco quenching whatever freshness slipped through the establishment's ovular windows. Garish was the interior, artificially dyed yellow tables and stained plasticast seats forming a kitschy altar to a grease splattered troop of stoves. Crudely cut slabs of meat sizzled next to a mountain of simmering acid-beets, the fragrant concoction of ingredients routinely tossed and flipped by the lone Besalisk who toiled away in the kitchen. Lumbering, was the grimacing chef's form, an oil stained apron draping the ash coloured skin that hung loose against rippling muscles. A barely eligible name tag was pinned to his breast, the smudged remnants of the name 'Ghoruk' visible to anyone who thought it fitting to stare at a Besalisk's tit.
He was the king of his little palace, a four armed connoisseur of all things grilled and deep fried. None would come in to question his skill in the diner and rarely would there be altercations among his hungry patrons. People came to eat, not to start drama. Alas, that evening, cooped up betwixt his steaks and his salads, was the four armed chef met with a particularly bothersome pest.
"You don't understand Ghoruk, all I need is twenty credits to take a shuttle to the next city!" A voice chimed over the cacophony of sizzling meat, tinkling cutlery and mechanical jazz.
Propped up on a stool, with arms gripping the beer stained counter, was a pale young woman garbed in an indigo robe and heels that were much too fancy for such a humble setting. Painted lips were curled into a sheepish grin, the sort that could only mean trouble to anyone with a shred of discernment. Mousy brown hair tumbled in a incoherent mess down the woman's neck, the stray hints of her perfume intermingling with the aroma of the diner.
"I said no so I mean no!" The creature grumbled, jabbing the flattened side of his spatula in the lady's direction before tossing several yams on to the humming stove.
"How could you say that? We go way back." She gasped, feigned pain flourishing upon her alabaster features as she offered the chef a pout.
"I've only known you for two weeks and you haven't even bought any food yet!" The Besalisk barked back, exasperated with the slender swindler perched on his counter.
"Our relationship can't be held back by time or monetary exchange," The wide eyed woman sighed, clutching her left heart as she deliberately shook her head, "There's magic between us. You and I, two hard working battlers against the rest of the galaxy!" She grinned, fingers flourishing outwards as she leaned in closer to the less than impressed chef.
"You vomited all over my nice seats the first night you came stumbling in here and-"
"Okay, okay! No need to bring up the sins of the past, I have atoned for my misgivings by sharing my joy with the local children. I have paid my penance and have been humbled by my mistakes." She whispered, clasping her hands together and staring into the distance of where she assumed the local orphanage was. Children were always the soft spot for folks like this, or so she believed anyway.
"You speak too much poodoo." Ghoruk uttered, swatting her hands off of his counter with a damp towel and clicking a finger at the woman before she could slip a half cooked beet into her mouth.
"Oh c'com! What's twenty credits to a successful thing like you?!" She groaned, tossing the beet back onto the stove and wrinkling her nose.
"Enough to know it'll go wasted on a drunken harlot." The Besalisk muttered, shaking his head before relinquishing a heavy sigh. "No more words, get out. You'll scare the customers and tonight is Yams with Meat night." He snarled, glaring at the seemingly unflappable woman with his beady eyes.
"How about an excha-"
"OUT!" Ghoruk roared, flinging spittle and half cooked shrapnel of beets in the direction of his unwanted visitor. The level of his voice suited the girth of his frame and with an added huff and clearing of his bulbous throat, the four armed chef pointed at the door through which his little pest should exit. "Never come back here unless you have credits, Quinn!" He snarled, stabbing a sizzling steak with a pronged blade and angrily flipping it over.
Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, the creature known as Quinn granted a stream of air to filter through her teeth before she slowly recoiled off of the counter. Reaching downwards, the seemingly unfazed lady procured a large purse that lay dormant by the stool and clutched it against her bosom. The contents in the bag jingled a happy jingle, a sound that summoned the hint of a grin to pass over her alabaster visage. Pursing her lips, the heeled figure offered the tacky diner one final gaze before strolling into the wet streets that awaited her outside.
"Well that was a karkin mess." Quinn grimaced, knowing full well the night could very well get slightly more troublesome.
[member="Jorah"]
