Hyperspace Hood Ornaments

[Aver Brand]

Airon sector :: Stenness Nodehttp://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Stenness_Node :: Stenness Hyperspace Terminal

The spaceport wasn’t what it used to be.

Of course, its halcyon days had passed well before the Four-hundred year darkness and the terror of the Gulag plague – about the time navicomputers had hit the commercial market and hyperspace beacons fell out of fashion. In other words, just ripe for a takeover. (Not his business, though. Others were coming for that, toting guns and offers nobody could refuse. Not around here. Not to them.)

Aesorhttp://starwarsrp.net/topic/118782-aesor-rodarch/ sniffled. The delicious smell of a fresh Stenness lizard pie wafted to his nostrils, and the Mandalorian turned to follow the aroma. Just got off a long-ass jump and shab if he wasn’t starving for a bite of something hot.

Five minutes later found him comfortably nestled in a nook just off the main wharf, picking the crumbs off his armor. No rest for the wicked, though – he shook the last of the hyperspace from his creaking bones and headed for the Bounty Hunters’ office down in the Red Light levels.

Bosses wanted some competent hands for a space hunt. Feth if he knew what good a dead Colossus wasphttp://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Colossus_wasp would be. Or a live one, for that matter, but— they didn’t pay him to ask questions.

The Mando shoved past a pair of arguing Bothans and slipped into the run-down establishment. The mold-stained ceiling had seen better days, and Aesor could swear there was a faint smell of lizard ‘n’ chips in the air. His pale eyes shifted behind the T-visor to assess the Besalisk behind the counter.

Narrowed – oil stains on his shirt. Knowing the culprit, he quickly moved the next file over, even if he had to wait behind those Bothans (still arguing). You could tell a lot about someone’s habits by the way they ate. And cleaned up.

Shudder.

“Awrite, whath ye want?” Toydarian. Beady black eyes. Missing one of his front teeth, too – and not like he had that many to miss. Explained the weird lisp though.

“I’d like a contact list for your registered hunters, please,” Aesor spoke. “Only the top ten earners, though. None of that bootsole rabble.”

“Yeh goth the credith for ith, Mando?”

Wordlessly, Rodarch placed a chit on the grimy plasteel surface. The clerk’s face brightened with a million-watt smile. Aesor nearly recoiled at the sight.

“Thath will sserthainly do, Mr. Mando. If you couldh waith for a momenth…” The Toydarian was already picking up his comm.

And they say money doesn’t run the galaxy.

 

[Mav Halo]

[member="Aver Brand"]

Stannis Karking Station.

How many years had it been since Kalad last set foot on this galactic scrap heap? Too many, it seemed. It had lost the wild charm it had once possessed. Now not even the bitter smoke from his dog-eared cigarra could hide the stench of civilisation that had crept in during his absence. No, the Inner Rim was practically being swallowed by the core these days. One planet at a time, one sector at a time. A couple more years, and a stone throw's closer, he'd be liable to turn liable to turn from hunter to the hunted, provided the contracts out in his name were still valid. They seemed to suffer from awfully short memories as you moved towards the core. Shorter memories, yet deeper pockets. The latter reason alone enough to chance it.

The end of his cigarra flared as the Mandalorian took a long, slow drag. Content to ignore the offended and outraged glances the action drew his way, instead finding his attention lingering on the ugly, snout-nosed glowing face that sprung from his wrist-mounted holo projector.

For once, Kalad was glad he’d cheaped out and purchased a smaller focusing lens for the unit. Metta’s characterful continence was considerably more bearable in unfocused miniature. It was a shame his voice still carried through strong and clear. Man just loved to hear himself talk.

“Thytha! Jutht tha Mando I wanthed to theak to.” The Toydarian boomed, his tone full of the false sense of comradery that all the sleeze-ball middlemen invariably adopted when trying to make a fast cred. Usually at your expense. Still, you’d think with a speech impediment that pronounced, you’d attempt to avoid words with an abundance of sibilants. Not Metta. If anything, that Toydarian doubled down. “I goth a job wihth your name on ith. Eathy crediths for a thpecialitht like you. Thuper eathy, thuper thweeth, premo job, eh? I’m practhicaly cuthing my own thtroath giving thith to ya.”

“Aye? Just like the last job you gave me, Metta?” Kalad replied flatly, ruthlessly twisting the cigarra between forefinger and thumb before casting it aside with a negligent flick of his wrist. “Tell me, how much did you make off my back again? Fifteen percent? Twenty? At least your brother lays on a meal before trying to feth me over.”

“My brotha ith a lying, cheathing thcoundrel and a whorethon! I thpit on hith name!”

Brothers to the core, then.

“Whoreth-- Whoreson or not, I hear he’s offering seven percent brokerage.”

“Theven?! Ha! I can do thix! No! Five! Any less and I really will be cuthin’ my thtroat!”
And wouldn't that be a sight?

“Five?” He echoed with a tilt of his head, scratching his unruly beard as if weighing up his options. A knock down that low, old geezer must really be on the clock to fill a request. To chance for four or to simply take the deal? Decisions, decisions… “Fine, five it is. Arrange the meet and send me what details you have.”

There was a solitary beat. An ephemeral second that saw Kalad's personable, downright reasonable smile shift to something a touch less civil and a whole lot more frigid. "Don't think about screwing me on this, Metta. Once, I can let pass. Twice? Twice and I take my fee out of your hide, tayli'bac? Rotund fella like you, I figure I could fetch myself some real nice leather gloves. Maybe even a belt or two."

 

[Aver Brand]

It was hard not to laugh listening to, as it turned out, Metta – and so Aesor didn’t even try. At least in the corner where he was waiting, the Toydarian was spared his stifled chuckling. The lisp grew more and more pronounced as the clerk desperately clawed at his contact on the other end of the line. Had to zoom in at some point to check, and yep, sure enough – there was spittle all over his datalogger.

A real charmer, this one.

“Mithter Mando!”

With a grunt, the old man pushed off the wall and elbowed his way to the front of the line. The Rodian behind him took one look at the hand resting next to the beskad, and snapped his jaw shut.

“Metta ith a good broker, yeth? I juth got the betht hunter thith thide of the galaxthy on the line for you. He’th willing to work, but…”

There was always a but. Aesor twirled his hand – get on with it.

“Well, he’th the betht, you thee. And the prithe he’th athking, well, your chit ith jutht not enough, my friend.”

“Eh, I don’t think so. I’m old, not deaf. Thytha didn’t ask for a price, so you can kark right off, shabuir.” Aesor leaned over the counter and jerked the datalogger off Metta’s wrist. Like taking candy from a baby.

Or a bristling, cheating contract broker.

“Give that back! Guardth! Guardth!”

Unconcerned, Rodarch copied the last set of contact info to his own HUD and chucked the device back over the counter. As he dialed the communicator of one [member="Kalad Shysa"] again, the man calmly drew his sidepiece.

The first shot nailed the Toydarian scrambling for his datalogger, improving his looks for the better with a hole between the eyes. The second one was for the filthy Besalisk who’d dropped his bag of fried lizard legs in a panicked attempt to raise his hands.

As he walked out the door, both of the Bothans and the Rodian cut Aesor a wide berth. Good thing, too – the moment he left the shop, a squad of Clan soldiershttp://starwarsrp.net/topic/115477-clan-soldiers/ moved in. He had his orders, they had theirs. Blood greased the wheels of this machine, and damned if it didn’t run smooth.

 

[Mav Halo]

[member="Aver Brand"]

There was a flickering spark as Kalad ignited another cigarra. Coronet Kings. Hardly his brand, but the recent string of conflicts arising in the wake of the nascent Mandalorian Empire had meant finding good Concordian tabac was a task beyond even a hunter of his calibre. No, he had to make do with the oddly bittersweet aroma and taste that the off-brand Corellian cancerous death sticks afforded. Even if they made him feel like a pimped-up dandy with each and every puff.

The meeting spot arranged with the new voice on the comms was a small, discrete tapcafe off the beaten station thoroughfare. With its stained wooden tables, dark hide-bound chairs and terracotta coloured walls, it held a decidedly rustic vibe that placed it at odds with the rest of the station. One that seemed to have risen from the simple, uncomplicated tastes of the owner rather than some overarching business plan. It wasn’t quite trendy enough to attract the mainstream crowds, nor kitsch enough for the alternatives. Instead it catered to a select and private clientele of individuals that simply preferred to drink their caf in relative anonymity.

If it bothered him that his (begrudgingly) chosen intermediary had been so efficiently removed from contention, it certainly didn’t show in the Mandalorian’s relaxed posture as he waited for his potential employer to make an appearance. Lounging almost lazily against one of the various wooden pillars that wove through the small café, his chipped and battered red armour almost blending in against the dark mahogany hues and whatever faded elegance the joint may have once possessed. Only his journeyman protector sash was pristine.

Even after all these years, and after all that had happened along the way, there were some facets of his life he wasn’t quite ready to leave entirely behind. Too much of the Shysa romanticism in his veins, perhaps.

He exhaled a slow, blue cloud of bittersweet smoke and tapped his cigarra on the edge of the plate-turned ashtray that sat before him. “You’re late.” He stated bluntly as a set of equally armoured footsteps approached, sparing only the barest of curt nods by way of a civilised greeting as an younger-yet-older figure took the seat opposite. “If that's to be a reoccurring thing, you should know that I charge by the hour.”

 

[Aver Brand]

“Don’ care—” Rodarch paused in his step, giving [member="Kalad Shysa"] a once-over, “vod.” He shrugged, pulling out the chair. “Ain’t me footin’ your bill.”

His employers had enough blooded credits under their thumbs to buy an army of Shysa and still have cash left over for some small Outer rim planet. Wrapping his head ‘round that kinda money wasn’t meant for Aesor anyhow.

Different callin’. A touch more raw. A touch more… hands-on.

“Still – consider this my apology,” he said with a pale grin, offering a Black Labelhttp://starwarsrp.net/topic/115437-nadir-black-label/ to the other Mandalorian. “If ya wanna smoke yer lungs black, ‘least you can do it in style, yeah?”

“So, Mr. Shysa. How are ya with big game hunting?”

 

[Mav Halo]

[member="Aver Brand"]

"The name is Kalad." He corrected absently, sparing the man a second nod in as many minutes as he accepted the offered cigarra. A touch more respectful this time around. A silent gesture that any debts, real or imaginary, were now settled between them. For the late arrival and the waxing of his broker. "If it walks, crawls, swims or flies, fair chance I've hunted it at one time or another."

And more besides. With more than a century plying the ignoble trade, exchanging coin for blood, it might have still been an exaggeration to say he'd hunted it all, but it wasn't much of one. Some people painted, some people sculpted...

Kalad Shysa found his art in that of the hunt.

"But I imagine you're after much bigger game than the standard fare, elek?" An elementary deduction, really. Men like Rodach didn't come cheap. You didn't bring them on-board to subcontract unless there was something much larger scope in play."I figure there's only a handful of reasons you'd find yourself on Stenness -- and it sure as osik it ain't the local cuisine."

Tap, tap, tap. The ash from his cigarra piled up on the plate.

"Ain't cheap work, either. The Nessies don't take too kindly to poachers."

 

[Aver Brand]

[member="Kalad Shysa"]

“Kalad, then,” Aesor relented with open hands.

“And don’t ye worry ‘bout the Nessies.” The Mandalorian chuckled. “Not takin’ kindly to poachers is gonna be the least of their concerns in a few.”

Though he’d only ever dipped his tongue in the cup of power that his bosses partook from, Aesor’d taken a liking to the taste. It painted a self-satisfied smirk on his lips, to know that at least he was part of something successful for once.

“But back ta ye – we’d be trackin’ and takin’ down one of them Colossus wasps.”

Don’t mind that it took him over half a century to get there – the present’s all that matters. (And presently, lackeys further along the food chain were leaking into every nook and cranny of the station, removing anything that so much as batted an eye in protest.)

“Think ye’d be up to that, ori’jag?”

 

[Nicair Claden]

Nicair didn't value money. It was in the end a worthless thing. Which is probably one of the reasons he and the local broker worked so well together. What he much didn't like was that someone deemed him worth dying before Nicair had gotten the chance. The Mandalorian wasn't exactly busy of late, the clans would rise and they would eventually fall. He learned quickly just to stay out of it. That's when he found the object of his most recent hunt, a hunt that had been going nowhere. Truth be told he was bored because he knew for a fact his prey wasn't on the planet anymore, and Nicair.. Nicair needed a way off. He needed money. The bar that stationed his broker, gods above what was his name? He could never remember, didn't care enough to, in any case the bar was filled with dead bodies. Something that wouldn't usually bother the man, but these were people that had at one time paid him to break up a fight or to start one. To kill a man or hunt something larger than what could usually be handled. That's what Nicair prized. He loved the hunt, worthy prey. The worthiest of prey for him was long gone.

He stepped over bodies, at one point accidentally stepping on the hand of a dead Rodian, whoops. Vaulting himself up and over the counter he almost landed on his broker's body. A blaster bolt between the eyes is what felled this oaf, but his datacom on his wrist was still on. Clues. He logged the most recent contact, one [member="Kalad Shysa"]. Yes.. he'd heard of the man before, they might even share interests. Meeting place.. meeting place.. Nothing. Somebody must not have liked what the Toydarian had to say. Nicair didn't blame them, the lisp was awful.

The easiest way to find someone, is walk out the door.

[member="Aver Brand"]

 

[Mav Halo]

[member="Aver Brand"] | [member="Nicair Claden"]​

Colossal Wasps. The cigarra shone a baleful orange as he took another drag, features cast in varying hues of thoughtful ocherous. Kark, the century still had that factory fresh scent of optimism the last time he'd ventured after prey that large. Dangerous work. And not just for the prospect of kicking a literal wasp nest, that asteroid belt was no joke. To say nothing of the constant, looming threat of decompression that always arose when working EVA jobs. He stabbed the end of his cancerous little stick of death ruthlessly into his plate as he spoke, exhaling a thin trail of blue smoke to the side.

"If the line of your boss' credit is as good as I think it is, I could see my way to being persuaded." A job like this could give him a bit of breathing room to return to the wilder, uncivilized regions of space once more. Back where life was both simple and cheap. His Clan could use the tithe, too. Times were hard for Shysa, their strength all but sapped by the endless wars and tragedies that all too commonly marred his people in recent years. That lack of brokerage fee would come in handy. "I don't work without knowing who's holding the reins, though. Seen too many jobs go sideways because no one thought to check behind the curtain, suvarir?"

He shrugged.

"But beyond that, as I said, as long as the pay is good and on the level... You got a ship and crew or will we be hiring out? Takes some pretty specialized gear to bring one of these down. Kind that don't rightfully come cheap. Nothing in this region of space does."

 

[Aver Brand]

He waved a bored Nautolan waiter away from their table and tapped the side of his helmet.

“I gotcha, burc’ya. But my bosses might not, elek?” After so many years out of touch, the Mando’a felt rusty on his tongue, the words foreign and slow.

Still.

He rolled his shoulders and opened a commline to one of his many superiors. Truth be told, even Aesor didn’t know who held the reins most days. Preferred it that way, though. ‘Knowledge is power’ was a load of bullshet – in his world, it got you killed faster than any bullet could.

The conversation was short, isolated even from [member="Kalad Shysa"] thanks to the systems in his buy’ce. “Alright. You check out, seems like,” Aesor leaned forward with a grin. “Been to Point Nadir lately, Kalad? Them’s the bosses, you see.”

Of course, the shadowport was rife with factions both great and small – from scattered gutter rats to organized criminal syndicates, you could find anything in that labyrinth of metal and smog. Suppose there was a charm to the place, if you had the right kinda money to enjoy it.

“Aye. This ain’t amateur hour, vod. Got the best space huntin’ ship out there. Most of the crew’s already in, just waiting for the pilot.”

He drummed his fingers on the dirty plasteel. “So, how much you want?”

[member="Nicair Claden"]​

 

[Nicair Claden]

When one tracks people as often as animals you pick up a few tricks. Mandalorian armor? The specially designed helmets usually give off a different kind of feedback. His "people" liked to be different, weren't always too worried about hiding themselves. Just for a few seconds a helmet pinged. In and out like a lightswitch. Mandalorian in design to an unknown and highly encrypted recipient. No matter, he wasn't worried about who the person was talking to.

Weaving his way through the streets wasn't much of a challenge. His own beskar'gam was savage in design, terentatek pelts and dark colors put him at an intimidating figure to most. Another thing that didn't really matter, it was handmade for utility instead of appearance. He was making good time, had to. A feed that short was confirmatory in nature, he'd be on the move soon. There, just around the corner is where the feed pinged. Dangerous to turn the corner without knowing what he was walking into. He had grown rather impatient of late, didn't really matter. He sighed to himself as he turned.

"Excuse me, which one of you killed my broker?"

[member="Aver Brand"]
[member="Kalad Shysa"]

 

[Mav Halo]

[member="Aver Brand"] | [member="Nicair Claden"]​

Point Nadir?

A soft, half-chuckle escaped him before he knew it. It had been a few decades since he'd seen fit to venture out there, but the mercenary and bounty hunter community was surprisingly loose lipped when it came to gossip. Like a gaggle of school girls, really. Point Nadir. Kark, that explained the osik-eating grin and shear audacity it required to ice a veritable pillar of the station's community and stick afterwards. Also hinted at some mighty deep coffers.

He traced the edge of his bearded jawline with his thumb, gaze turning calculative as he estimated the price of this little venture. "Twenty five thousand as a retainer, up front and in full within the hour." He shrugged, "After that, it comes down to how many of these Ori'shabuir you're fixing to bring in. Say forty thousand per successful haul. Fair price considering the profit you'd make with the Ithullian miners if you're inclined t---"

It wasn't so much a visible shift in the Concordian's body language as a horned buy'ce eclipsed the corner of the tapcaf, yet there was a sudden tenseness that wasn't there before. Hackles naturally raising at the interruption and possible challenge. Even in the cold shallow grave, Metta was still finding a way to give him a headache.

"This is a private conversation, burc'ya," Kalad replied bluntly, placing that particular kind of stress on the last word to let the interloper know he thought of him as anything but a friend in that particular moment. There were no clan markings to identify the stranger. No familiarity in the design of the beskar'gam. Nothing to earn him a measure of civility beyond what it took to keep Kalad's hand straying from his sidearm.

He jerked his head towards one of the empty tables further near the door. "Take a seat and let the grown ups talk for a spell, tayli'bac? We've still got business to conclude 'fore we get yours."

 

[Aver Brand]

Aesor’s gaze dipped to the curl of Shysa’s smile; to the quiver of his Adam’s apple as he laughed.

He blinked. Rolled his shoulders. Had it really been that long? Focus.

“You don’t come cheap, do you, Kalad?” The Rodarch straightened in his chair, letting his sentence sit in the stale air of the pub. Slowly he tracked pale eyes along the approach of a third Mandalorian.

Suppose it was their day.

The Begeren merc said nothing, content with the sharp rebuff spat out by the bounty hunter. His hand shifted on the beskad hanging freely from his belt – less a threat and more a statement of fact.

Aesor didn’t look away from [member="Nicair Claden"] as he picked up the thread of their conversation again. “But credits are so boring, aren’t they? How do ya feel about a selection of exclusive items from my, eh…” he trailed off, twirling a hand through the air, “bosses?”

Didn’t care to name-drop in earshot of the new guy – not until his intentions were all cleared up and laid out on the table.

After half a century in the business, caution was a thing.

[member="Kalad Shysa"]​

 

[Nicair Claden]

Nicair snorted in his helmet, somewhat at himself and somewhat at the response. He berated himself for barging in half cocked and frustrated. It clouded his judgement, Mandalorians were dangerous, he knew that as much as any. His brazen attitude had never been a problem before simply because he had never had it before. Before Coruscant that is. Time spent away from the chase made him antsy, reckless. On top of it all it was just plain rude. Someone at some point in history, perhaps far away, would probably make it their principle to eat the rude. Had he become such a savage since the bloodbath in the streets? He scowled to himself underneath his helmet.

He wasn't so blind that he didn't notice hands caressing weapons, however. His own went to the tomahawk at his hip and rested there. The blunt matter of the deal was that he had made an error of a.. social kind. The privacy of business was something he knew well. He didn't like having wronged. With a groan he met the eyes gazing at him and gave a terse nod. He could be civil if he needed to be. Life wasn't all gunfights and knife wounds.

"Finish your business, I would have words with Kalad Shysa."

[member="Aver Brand"] | [member="Kalad Shysa"]

 

[Mav Halo]

[member="Aver Brand"] | [member="Nicair Claden"]​

​

"What can I say? You get what you're pay for. Quality ain't cheap." Kalad replied without any attempt to even feign a modicum of modesty. It was an admirable quality in theory, but terrible for a mercenary looking to sell his services. It implied you weren't confident in your skills. After what a life time (several for some species) plying his trade, that wasn't really a concern for him any more. "Barter, hm?"

He chewed the inside of his cheek. It was a tempting offer. Point Nadir had a established a fairly solid reputation in the arms trade. If you were looking to main, kill or just generally cause someone to have a monumentally bad day, you didn’t need to look much further.

“Retainer up front. Hard creds have a way of setting a mind to a purpose like none other, elek?” He offered his arm out across the table to seal the deal, “As for the rest, we can discuss that when it comes time to settle up.”

With that, their business was presumably concluded. Allowing Kalad to turn his attention to the other Mandalorian darkening this particular stretch of the station. Kalad Shysa. Never boded well when a stranger knew your name.

Jaw knotting, the Concordian abandoned his seemingly relaxed posture, a set of armoured elbows scratching the dark, thin veneer of the table top as he lent forward with a sudden interest. Mentally shuffling through the catalogue of debts, markers and grudges that he’d amassed over the years, trying to recall what manner of business the strangely clad arrival might have that concerned him in particular.

There was a price on his head, sure enough. Couldn’t do this line of work without eventually getting some sort of sum set aside for your untimely demise. It was nothing that would warrant the effort required to both bring him in and transport the remains hallway across the galaxy to collect., however. He clicked his tongue and gave a dismissive shake of his head, gesturing for the interloper to join the table.

“Fine, let’s be having it then. If its credits you’re after, you’ll have to accept an IOU until this contract is fulfilled. If it’s blood, well…” He gave the beskar'gam approximation of a shrug. “I guess I can entertain you for a little while.”

 

[Aver Brand]

A faint smile curled his scruffy face behind the buy’ce. “I can get behind that,” he said with a mild chuckle and clasped Shysa’s hand with a firm grip of his own.

Leaning back into his seat, Aesor planted both feet firmly on the filthy linoleum tiles. His left hand remained calm and ready on the pommel of his trusty beskad; his right, the dar’manda rested on the scratched table. Need be, he could be standing and have that blade buried in some bleedin’ soft bits at the drop of a hat.

Or the wrong word. Same difference to the Rodarch.

The fact that it was him who’d iced the broker didn’t seem to bother Aesor none. He stayed put and quiet, keeping one eye on [member="Nicair Claden"] and the other on the feed of his HUD. Never knew when nasties could show up to gank you from the back.

Occasional chatter still piped up in his ear – Nadir lieutenants reporting their gradual progress through the governing body of the station.

Good equipment and better pay worked wonders for mercenary morale.

[member="Kalad Shysa"]​

 

[Nicair Claden]

Nicair took a few seconds before responding. The odds weren't exactly weightened in his favor. He wasn't truly angry about the death of his no-name broker, it was an inconvenience. He disliked dealing with other sentients, it would be beneficial to be free of the garish lisp however. Nicair took the offer to sit down with the others, no reason he couldn't be civil about all this.

"Kalad Shysa I presume? Why did I find my broker dead and you his last contact?"

[member="Aver Brand"] | [member="Kalad Shysa"]

 

[Mav Halo]

[member="Aver Brand"] | [member="Nicair Claden"]​

​

There was a solitary beat of silence as the last word tumbled from the stranger's mouth, spoiled only by the almost audible appearance of a smirk across the Mandalorian's features. "What do I look like, ad'ika? A detective?" He snorted and shook his head, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Even fresh in the grave, Metta was still finding new and interesting ways to screw with him. This was why he preferred the brokers and middle-men in the wilder reaches of the galaxy. No one really minded when you waxed them. It was just standard business. "Barking up the wrong tree if you think I greased the little ge'hutuun. Even if I had, why would I have called him up first? Just plain sloppy."

He gave another expansive shrug.

"We clearly shared the same broker is all. Ain't nothing unusual. Did I wish him dead? Hard pressed to name someone who didn't around these parts. Just ask his brother."

 

[Aver Brand]

The other Mandalorian tipped his head to the side as he listened to the exchange. One of the Lieutenants was chuckling in his ear – a moment later he received a picture of his ugly mug sprawled in the chair of the Control room.

Yeah.

Aesor sniffled, straightening his posture again before he rose to his feet. The motion was unhurried. Unthreatening.

“You found your broker dead because I shot him, adiik. You have a problem with that, ya best pour your heart out fast. Me and Kalad have business to get on with.”

Said business involved hunting giant space-bugs through the vast void, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t excited. It was a damn sight better than dissolving another body.

Then again, depending on the lad’s temper, he just might have to break out the acid again.

[member="Nicair Claden"] | [member="Kalad Shysa"]​

 

[Nicair Claden]

"He called so there must be a job. A hunting job. I want in for recompense of a dead broker. Whether I would have killed him myself is irrelevant."

[member="Aver Brand"]
[member="Kalad Shysa"]