Bastard Prince
(Fabled phone post) Miri Nimdok
Lord Bosnak had accrued quite a fortune for himself over the many years of his career. Spice was an extremely lucrative business, though the risks associated with it had often given the old lord sleepless nights. Dangers aside, the shipments flowed smoothly, and so too did the credits. The exquisite position of his trade station along the main corridor leading from Coruscant to old Sith space had made the venture surprisingly easy. Other spice lords dealt with rival gangs and terrorize wars, Bosnak just had to deal with unions protesting for better wages.
It was for such reasons that the security at his auction was not particularly good. He'd hired a few local thugs and a handful of proper mercenaries, but the general thought was that they would stand about looking intimidating while the proper folk behaved themselves. The bar was open, the band was playing, folk were dancing, and four fights had already broken out. Twice Bosnak's wife had suggested hiring emergency help, and twice had Bosnak told the woman to shut her trap. Half of his people might well have been spice fiends, but they could control themselves damnit!
The festivities had begun just an hour ago and the open bar was seeing plenty of traffic. Soon the auctions would begin, and all that drinking would turn into profits for old Bosnak if things went accordingly.
For his part, Lothaire was busy watching the gentry of the station twirl about in the dance floor. It was an attempt at a proper gala but the band was clearly amateur and the people dancing were either drunk or spun out on spice. The price partook in neither and contented himself with people watching, sipping at the glass of water in his hand as his gaze jumped from one side of the room to the next.
Bosnak was here to sell an artifact sanctioned by the judges. He wasn't entirely certain as to its nature, other than that it was contained in a golden box emblazoned with the insignia of the Sith and supposedly bore some kind of disease. The details were not wholly important, only that he secured it. When the time came he'd either buy it outright or secure it by other means. Whatever was required.
Lothaire finished the last of his drink and crossed the dance floor, emerald gaze darting from one face to the next as he searched for opportunity.
Lord Bosnak had accrued quite a fortune for himself over the many years of his career. Spice was an extremely lucrative business, though the risks associated with it had often given the old lord sleepless nights. Dangers aside, the shipments flowed smoothly, and so too did the credits. The exquisite position of his trade station along the main corridor leading from Coruscant to old Sith space had made the venture surprisingly easy. Other spice lords dealt with rival gangs and terrorize wars, Bosnak just had to deal with unions protesting for better wages.
It was for such reasons that the security at his auction was not particularly good. He'd hired a few local thugs and a handful of proper mercenaries, but the general thought was that they would stand about looking intimidating while the proper folk behaved themselves. The bar was open, the band was playing, folk were dancing, and four fights had already broken out. Twice Bosnak's wife had suggested hiring emergency help, and twice had Bosnak told the woman to shut her trap. Half of his people might well have been spice fiends, but they could control themselves damnit!
The festivities had begun just an hour ago and the open bar was seeing plenty of traffic. Soon the auctions would begin, and all that drinking would turn into profits for old Bosnak if things went accordingly.
For his part, Lothaire was busy watching the gentry of the station twirl about in the dance floor. It was an attempt at a proper gala but the band was clearly amateur and the people dancing were either drunk or spun out on spice. The price partook in neither and contented himself with people watching, sipping at the glass of water in his hand as his gaze jumped from one side of the room to the next.
Bosnak was here to sell an artifact sanctioned by the judges. He wasn't entirely certain as to its nature, other than that it was contained in a golden box emblazoned with the insignia of the Sith and supposedly bore some kind of disease. The details were not wholly important, only that he secured it. When the time came he'd either buy it outright or secure it by other means. Whatever was required.
Lothaire finished the last of his drink and crossed the dance floor, emerald gaze darting from one face to the next as he searched for opportunity.