Forging a Link | Arbit Elre

[Haastal Haran]

Location: Malastare {Hawkbat Cantina}​

Wearing: Haastal Verd's Beskar'gam​

Objective: Find [member="Arbit Elre"]​

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His name was Achilles.

No, it was Haastal Verd. If a year ago you told Achilles he would take on a whole new identity, just for a life debt, he would have told you that you were nuts and he may have even broken your noise for the waste of time. Still, somehow the man had been taken into Clan Verd. He didn't actually know much about Haastal Verd. He was a grizzled old man who had good aim with a long rifle and he had saved Achilles life. In return, Achilles took his place in the clan. Swearing to honor the Mandalorian way of life and becoming a new man. It was a slow process.

When the fist slammed into his jaw, blood flew from his lips, slapping onto the wall of the cantina in a thick slob of crimson liquid. The man Achilles had been fighting had a damn good right hook, but his flaw was leaving his knees open. When Achilles reeled from the blow, his leg flew, slapping into his opponents leg.

The haze from the fist that slammed into his face began to clear, giving him a clear line of sight to his opponent. He was a Zabrack with pale, yellow skin. Honestly Achilles can't remember why they were fighting, but he knew he was whipping his ass. The fist slammed down into the reeling Zabrack's face, causing him to fall onto the floor, unconscious. The patrons of the cantina had not tried to break up the fight, no. They'd been placing bets on who would win. The armor that Achilles won, the Beskar'gam had been a big ticket to bet on him and many took it. Those who did win, let out a loud cheer and turned to the bar, rounds were flowing in seconds and more than one ended up in Achilles hands.

He shook the men away, especially those without drinks. He pressed a leather glove to his lips, cursing a bit before making his way to the bar. The Cantina droid seemed busy, but he approached Achilles when the man let out a sharp whistle to the metallic barkeep.

"Whiskey again, sir?"

"Nah, info." Achilles muttered, slapping a credit chit on the bartop. The Droid did not hesitate to take the chit, before taking up a glass in his hands, feigning cleaning. "A person, i assume?"

"Yea, an Iktotchi, supposed to be a pretty good shot who comes around Malastare every few weeks to check the boards." The droid glanced around before nodding. "Arbit Elre...But he's a professional sir. Not on any bounty boards in this sector." Achilles nodded, all he needed to know was that the Iktotchi frequented the cantina. "I'll have that whiskey now."

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[Arbit Elre]

The Shrike dropped out of hyperspace in its usual fashion above the planet of Malestare. The pilot and designer of it, Arbit Elre, fell into his usual landing procedures, deciding he'd hit up one or two of his usual spots for some booze and information. It had been a while since he had ended up in this part of space. As his talents became more infamous, his jobs were becoming more difficult and time consuming, but much more profitable. The Iktotchi never wanted to be well-known, preferring privacy and relative obscurity, but that's the life of a mercenary that finishes his jobs as efficiently as he tended to.

The large being tended to fly without the assistance of autopilot, preferring his own reaction time in case something unexpected happened. As he brought the starfighter down onto his typical landing pad, a vision struck him, as it did many times in the past. Violence, camaraderie, opportunity, and most of all, wealth all flashed through his mind. As the premonition ended, Arbit smiled broadly, his sharp teeth seeming to crack his mouth apart. He was in the right place, and seemingly at the right time.

Elre strolled to the first bar along his usual route, one that typically didn't disappoint for jobs. There was a reason he landed in the same port nearly every time he came to Malestare. As he walked, his greedy smile faded to nothing more than a smirk, but remained nonetheless. After his relatively brief travel, he stood looking up at sign of the establishment. As he did so, another premonition came to his mind, forcing a wide smile to interrupt his pink-tan face once again. This was the place.

He walked through the doors, heading straight for the bar and making it a point to keep a face that screamed a warning if any should approach him. He wasn't in a bad mood. Quite the contrary, in fact. But he had learned it was a good way to keep the rabble from bothering him during his visits to the more dangerous parts of town in search of work. As he approached the bar, the robot bartender approached with its usual metallic clicking on the hard floor. "Gimme something hard," the Iktotchi said to the droid. The droid gave a beep of recognition, then turned and poured a shot of whiskey, placing it in front of Arbit. The droid spoke in a low tone as it placed down the glass. "There was someone asking about you earlier, sir. He didn't give a name, but I have yet to see him leave." Arbit downed the shot quickly, then looked at the droid as it spoke. "Then let him come tuh me. I ain't in a rush. Plus, if he starts trouble, I have my ways of keepin' safe." He tapped his pistol under his jacket, giving a smile to the bartender. "I am obligated to tell you not to kill anyone within the building, sir." The Iktotchi waved off the statement with a calm wave of his hand, grinning a bit and taking another shot. The droid grabbed the glasses and began cleaning them as he tended to other patrons of the bar.

Arbit leaned back against the bar casually, looking around the cantina with a slight smirk, waiting for his payday to approach him.

[member="Haastal Verd"]

 

[Haastal Haran]

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[member="Arbit Elre"]​

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It actually didn't take long for the Iktotchi to arrive. When he entered the bar, the only indication Haastal had that this was the man he was looking for was the fact he was an Iktochi. Haastal muttered something incoherent under his breath, really hoping that there were not too many of the aliens that frequented Malastare. While the alien made his way to the other side of the bar, Haastal said nothing, did nothing. He downed the rest of the Corellian Ale that sat idle on his table, but other than that he did not make a move. He waited until the man had settled in, had his drink, it was only courtesy. Shame to ruin a man's first drink. Haastal stood, setting the glass in his hands down on the table.

His black and silver Beskar'gam had a certain glint to it as he caught one of the cantina lights. The Buy'ce that hid his face was equally shiny, brand new and showing a fair glint in the light.

He approached the bar, dipping his hand into the pouch on the side of his waist. As he grew closer he could see the bar droid's optics zero in on his form. The droid slid away from the Iktochi, in fear of a brawl or worse, a killing. However, Haastal never engaged the Iktotchi, instead he merely took the bar beside the man and pulled another credit chit from his pouch. He tossed it on the bartop and looked to the droid expectantly. "Let's get three more over here." He pointed to the glass of whiskey that Arbit was drinking from. Although droids did not have any emotions, Haastal felt as if this unit breathed a sigh of relief. He took Achilles credit piece before setting down three more glasses, filling each one with the brown liquid. "There you are sir." The droid responded, while Haastal pushed one of the glasses over to Arbit. The mercenary took his own glass in his hand and raised it to the alien in a salute. "To your health."

With his free hand, Haastal tapped a button resting on the side of his domed helmet. A subtle click erupted from the helmet and the man pulled it from his head. "Damn thing gets hot..." He muttered before downing the whiskey in his hand.

"So..." Haastal said, clearing his throat as the burn in the back of his throat subsided.

"If I was in the mid-rim and needed a pilot who can put a blaster bolt between the eyes of a fly, I'd come see you. That's the story I keep hearing anyway. So...I'm in the mid-rim and I need a pilot who can put a blaster bolt between the eyes of a fly. You lookin' for work?" Haastal was straight to the point, even before he joined the band of Mandalorians known as Clan Verd he hated to mix time with bullchit. He took the other glass of whiskey he ordered for himself and downed it just like he had the first. "Puttin' together a crew. No nonsense, good clients, damn good pay, exclusive contracts."

 

[Arbit Elre]

When a man took a seat next to him at the bar, Arbit eyed him suspiciously. However, his face seemed to soften, as if relieved, when the man slid a drink over to him and made a toast. "And yours," Arbit responded with a raise of his glass and a grin before downing the shot.

As the Mandalorian began speaking, his helmet off now, Arbit leaned against the bar once again, his hand resting over his mouth. When he had finished speaking, Arbit ordered another shot and downed it with a sigh. He then looked to the man before him with a bright grin. "Yea, you've got the right guy. Great pilot, even better on th' trigger. And ain't mercs always lookin' fer work anyways?" The Iktotchi sat up straighter with a smirk, staring into his eyes. "If'n you've got some jink tuh fatten mah pockets, I'll be more'n glad to join up, even if only for a few jobs here and there. Never was much on teamwork, but a place to get some easy work is always a welcomin' sight tuh me."

He turned his shot glasses over and pushed them to the side absentmindedly before speaking again, not looking at the other anymore. "Now, I doubt yer gonna just take some rumors' word for it 'bout my skill with anything, so you planning on testin' me or you just gonna take -my- word for it that I'm one o' the best shots and pilots in the mid rim? Though, if word's spreadin' this quick 'bout me, there's gotta be some grounds to it, right?" He glanced at the Mandalorion with a grin, not showing a single hint of a lack of confidence.

[member="Haastal Verd"]

 

[Haastal Haran]

[member="Arbit Elre"]

Haastal was sure to keep his eye on the Merc, watching for any signs of a dumb ass move. Mercenaries we're often targeted by enemy organizations for anything as simple as them being too good to a misunderstanding about a rejected contract. Haastal had seen it before, a few times. A shaky gun leads to a lost life, but Arbit was calm, alert but calm. Haastal pulled a pack of cigarras from his pocket, pulling one of them from the pack and setting it in between his lips.

“Man I'm glad you aren't some fidgety motherkriffer.” He muttered, lighting the tip of the cigarra and taking a shallow drag from it. When the man asked if mercs were always looking for work, Haastal couldn't help but shrug. “Good ones are.” He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke into the air above him before using his index finger to scratch just below his cheek. As the Iktochi spoke, Haastal nodded at what he said.

“Been contracted to put together a little group. Seems The Confederacy's top players thinks they need some more attack dogs. They must be gettin’ desperate because they contracting an ass load of mercs. Mercs like you.” He gestured to the man with his cigarra before clearing his throat of the smoke, downing a bit more of the whiskey. “So here's the deal.”

“You join up and you get access to exclusive contracts with some damn good pay. We also get all the government's bounties first, for a tie before they go public at least.”

When the pilot spoke again, Haastal knew he was talking to a man who knew his chit. Downing the rest of the first glass of whiskey, Haastal turned the glass over and pushed it towards the bar droid. “oh I got a test for ya. On a little rock called Socorro.” No Merc worth his salt hadn't heard of Socorro, it was practically an underworld hub. “Simple job, tag em and bag em.”

“Do good and you stay on. Don't and you'll either get yourself killed or we'll cut you loose.” Haastal pinched his cigarra in between his lips before leaning over and extending his hand to the pilot. “You in?” He asked, arching a brow curiously.

 

[Arbit Elre]

Arbit looked at the man's hand for a moment, deep in thought. Then, making a decision, he reached out his own large hand, gripping with a stength uncommon for one that spent more time using guns than melee. Clearly the Iktotchi was naturally strong. In the dim lighting of the cantina, it was difficult to decypher specifics about Arbit's looks, but a bar patron leaving the cantina in a drunken hurry flung the door wide and illuminated the man's features enough to notice the markings of combat.

Arbit's face wasn't filthy, but his clothes had a thin coating of red dust, and they were covered in various patches, making it obvious that the Iktotchi had been wearing this coat for a while. His thick horns that hung down either side were covered in burns and scorch marks. He had had some close calls, too many for him to be some chump that claimed to be able to shoot. He had clearly been in many fights in the past, and escaped all of them with his life. It was impressive considering how relatively young the Iktotchi was.

His sharp teeth shone in the light as he smiled brightly. "I believe this will be a profitable endeavor, my good man." Arbit spoke with a mocking tone, paying special attention to pronouncing each word as a common businessman would. "You tell me where tuh go, I'll meet ya there. You tell me who tuh shoot, I'll pop their heads off before they can even blink. Long as you keep the credits flowin', I'll do just about anythin' short of cleanin' your backside."

At that, he released the Mandalorian's hand and flicked another credit chip on the bar counter. "My turn to buy the rounds, I s'pose." He smiles, sliding a shot to the other man and lifting his own. "To the Confederacy, and their endorsement of our lawlessness." He lets out a laugh, smiling viciously before downing the shot with a sigh.

[member="Haastal Verd"]