Public Galactic Bar Hopping

[Ata Jairt]

Ata has been down on her luck recently, not getting any jobs and if she does, they pay next to nothing. In response to this predicament, she is currently using what little credits that she has and is drinking her woes away at a cantina in Nar Shaddaa. Her mando style helmet set on a counter infront of her as she takes shot after shot, accumulating quite a substantial tab already.

 

[Korn Kray'ac]

Music IC

Spoiler

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At a bar in Nar Shaddaa. There were better moons, better tunes, better places to drink one’s woes away, but such was the fate of those that game. That game? Wasn’t a name for it, but the players knew it. True, false, that feeling deep inside of being homeward bound, even amid those homeless vagabonds ambling on and on and around…

Words. Words were wind. They mangled the mind of a Mandalorian, a man, a Human warrior who fancied himself as one as much as he might get called a coward with no words. A warrior, a fighter, a player, a gamer, playing the short game and the long game, words were meaningless anyway.

In a cantina, on a desert road, in a desert plain, at a bar in Nar Shaddaa, a moon that was no desert except for the fact that its sand was in the way its roads were paved with blood and caked with the mud of crime, dust and dirt caught in a rhyme of death’s cry. It bled spice, cried cruelty and yet catered to the foolish beings who lapped at its tits—

“What the kark you going about, sir?”
Came the voice of the bartender.
“Oh. Druk. Was that out loud?”
The speaker-thinker downed.

Drowned himself in drink, in alcohol, in the booze of whiskey, trying hard not to think, though his thoughts speak for themselves as he empties them across the counter to the bartender who didn’t give two less karks than a Codru-Ji’s four arms, whatever the kark that meant.

“Sorry. Bad habit. I’m more of a drinker than a thinker or a speaker.”
Korn assured, or reassured, or whatever on earth or moon, whatever.
On Nar Shaddaa, the Mandalorian had to fend for himself, he’d learned.
To be fair, he’d learned that long ago and everywhere, like whiskey’s burn.

“Yep, yes, yeah,” nodded the barkeep with his birdlike beak. “I don’t care.”
He shrugged, tapped the counter, specifically at the tab and fair and square.
“Just be sure to pay up when you’re done, bucketdruk, just like that other one.”
At that, he nodded at the patron sitting to Korn’s left, a female Human patron.

Messaged delivered, message received, pay the tab or be made into dog feed.
At a bar in Nar Shaddaa, even a Mandalorian could appreciate enemies, especially.
Looking away from the bartender, Korn looks leftward, at the woman bereft of helmet.
Her Mandalorian helmet sat before her, in front of his own; he might have noticed earlier.

“You look just like I feel,” the man smiled at the woman, hiccuped, glancing at her glass.
It was a shot glass, reminiscent of a scatterblaster in the sense of -pow!-pow!-pow!-pow!-
Knock ‘em back like ya don’t know anyhow, thought a man named Korn Kray’ac, and a Man.
At least, he was born to believe, growing up in a fighting ring, a Mandalorian, er, somehow.

“Here ya go, vod,” Korn curled his fingers for the bartender. “I’ll buy us the next shot.”
Evidently his fingers were beckoning a wall full of bottles as the bartender moved along.
After some awkward moments, he came back, shots in hand, one to him and one to her.
“A toast, sister!” Korn raised his glass of whozitwotzit something other. “Time for the burn!”

Looking left, looking right, the Mandalorian pursed his lips for the blight’s bright burning bite.
Was it whiskey? Was it vodka? Or was it wodka or viskey? “To the Manticorians far and wide!”
With that, he knocked back the wotzitwhozit and he hiccuped and burped at the same time.
To lyrics. He could hear it, the man’s voice over speaker, and it made Mando feel quite proud.

This big ol' world sure got me running 'round. I heard a voice that said "Just settle down" and with the moonlight as my guide and with this feeling deep inside I know now that I am homeward bound.

Ata Jairt

 

[The Ghost of the Sith]

Appearing in the bar, Ghost proudly stands upright for a moment before collapsing onto the floor, the overexertion of teleporting his form through the Force consuming his being.

Breathing heavily, blood pours from his mouth, soon leaking out of his helmet. Spitting the last of it out, Ghost forces himself to rise, wearily resting on his knees. Controlling his breathing, the warrior of the Dark Side inspected the surrounding view. A bar. A meager bar. Nothing more.

Drunkards could care less about who stood before them. For Ghost, this was to his advantage.

Leaning on his lightsaber pike as if it were a walking stick, Ghost stands up and limps forward to the nearest stool.

 

[Kera]

Let’s stepped over a pool of blood as he entered. It was pretty standard fair for a bar like this for there to be blood on the floor. The Chiss didn’t really care. As long they accepted his credits and poured him drinks.

Kera sauntered I over to the bar and placed a pile of credits on the counter top. He pointed at a bottle of amber spirits and the bar tender began to pour a glass of it. “Leave the bottle, friend.” The Chiss said placing another slightly larger stack of credits next to his first one. The bartender seemed content with that, and left the bottle and glass in front of Kera, who poured himself a generous double.