Private Gorse-ing Around

[Sevrik Strane]

[Ambient Music]
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Gorse Sevrik's type of world. Close to anything, but just too far from everything. The type of place he could start again. That said... it was a bit drab compared to some of the places he'd been. Not exactly the Daystar, and defnitely not Canto Bight. But, he preferred smaller places anyway. Less people looking over you, people mingling, nobody judging you for who you were... It was refreshing.

Having found himself back in his natural habitat. A small cantina, loud and rowdy, filled with all sorts of low-lives and folks from across the galaxy.

Sevrik found himself at the tables, opting to try his hand at making some good money before trying anything too risky just yet. Besides, he was playing dirty anyway, and his competition seemed just a bit too tipsy to notice.
Though he was more accustomed to Pazaak or Sabacc, or well- weighting chance cubes, he'd opted to play Balaans.

Given his experience, he didn't need to cheat. But... playing fair was never really his thing to begin with.

When his Devaronian opponent would show signs of frustration or hesitation, Sevrik would make sure to 'give him' the next hand or two, betting just low enough to lose little, yet keep his opponent from gaining back his money.

Things were going swell, until Sevrik had somehow managed to get the Three Northern Stars... twice. Back to back. Seemingly not even bothering to try and cover up his blatant 'luck'.
Sevrik, maintaining the act, simply chuckled, collecting the pot (which had steadily rose higher and higher over time).

"It's been a real pleasure, friend. But I think it's best we spare your billfold from any further loss. Wouldn't you agree, sir?" A sly smirk on his face, he spoke like a showman.

The Devaronian growled, slamming his hand down on the table. He reached forwards, grabbing Sevrik by the collar of his shirt. Throwing him to the floor..
Some cards happened to manifest from his suit, and promptly found themselves on the floor, having spilt out from his sleeve.

"Now how'd those get there?" Sevrik grunted, recovering as he propped himself up on the counter behind him.

"You cheated me!" The Devaronian bellowed.

"I think the word you're looking for is: 'Outsmarted'." The Devaronian growled, reeling his fist back, only to suddenly pause, as did the band playing.

A blaster hole had now found itself where his heart used to be.

Sevrik stood and holstered his right blaster, which he'd kept stashed in his suit pocket... Just incase the drunk, easily angered hulk of an alien decided to pull something like this.

Retrieving a cigarette and lighter from his coat, Sevrik took to lighting it and slipping the stick into his mouth, then quickly stepping out of the way as the man came crashing down with a resounding THUD!

As satisfying as it was for him, this little scuffle had attracted some attention. "What? He had it coming." He shrugged casually, before collecting his pot money and approaching the counter.

"Round for the bar." He winked at the tender, and that was enough to clear the tension (and prevent anyone from reporting this). There was an initial cheer, some patrons raising their drinks, others shrugging.
Sevrik then ordered an Alderaan Twist, and found himself seated once again, this time at a booth. Tapping his fingers idly.
His little stunt (alongside his order) costed him roughly what he'd just spent the last few games winning, though, he'd still gotten a little out of it. Besides, he was planning to make far more later today anyhow.
But, for now, drinking was fine.

Cook

 

[Cook]

The Torn Cord was an interesting name for a cantina, even one with a reputation like this where someone could get shot over a game of pazaak or sabacc or take your pick. Without knowing the story behind the name, a particular patron might figure it referred to a frayed wire or a bad band onstage or even a scraped throat that probably felt like it was on fire.

Hell if I know. Well, one patron wondered, anyway, as he tried to tell himself to snap out of trying to find out how the cantina got its name and just ask the damn bartender if he was that interested. Eh. I guess I ain’t. Sat on a barstool at the bar counter, dressed in a red-black leather jacket and blue jeans, Cook was content to watch the viewscreen.

A game was playing. He had no winning or losing team because he wasn’t really interested in hover-skiing to begin with. These guys and gals slid downhill, not as individual contestants, but in groups scattered around the mountain. No red team or blue team like in Huttball but yellow and green. And kriff me if that contestant isn’t a kriffin’ Chevin.

Cook sipped his beer, turned to his fellow patron, gestured toward the television. “Reckon he’s too big to even be in this game to begin with?” The Ithorian looked his way…looked his way…looked his way…looking without saying anything. “O…kay…”

Cook cleared his throat, content to listen to the establishment's band that wasn’t half bad when the music suddenly faded away. Another instrument was introduced. It was a blaster. Cook turned to glimpse the shooter and his victim, turned back to the viewscreen, sipped his drink, wondered what that Chevin was doing in this picture.

The shooter approached. Cook took little and less interest though except when he spoke. “Round for the bar” later and Cook raised his new beer with a grin that said the thanks that his throat didn’t. The shooter moved to a booth, sat down, tapped his fingers, and was met with another figure sitting opposite with a grin instead of a frown.

Cook sipped his beer, looked at the guy who had shot another guy and had decided to buy a round on the house…looked at the guy…looked at the guy…said nothing. Probably wanted something though. Who knows?

Sevrik Strane