Neskar A'toll
Hail to the King, baby
Corellia. Three billion lifeforms. Humans. Selonian. Drall. Easy pickings. With self-assured confidence, Neskar strolled to the bay door of his ship, leaving deep inside a cooling shaft leading directly from one of the numerous large factories dotting the surface of the planet, steam roared past the ship at a rapidly cooling temperature, due to ventilating shafts relaying bellows of freezing air from elsewhere in the factory. That meant that the steam was survivable, especially in beskar'gam, and masked the presence of the ship, which he had managed to sneak through customs. He was a shadow, unknown, hallowed, empty. The light ship anchored itself to the inside of the cooling shaft, with magnetic feet that allowed it to grip the inner wall, and remain hidden, aided by a well-functioning stealth-driver, and signal blockers already installed. For all intents and purposes, it was hidden. Neskar doubted anyone could come to the top of the cooling shaft any-time soon, never-mind go inside of it to check or something. Doubted. That doesn't mean it will not happen. That was why he fitted the stealth-drive, to truly hide it from view. The bay door was open, and steam hit the roof of the inside of it, slowing it down dramatically and wafting it silently into the bay. Neskar had seen fit to add magnetic soles to his boots, which would help him vastly. He wouldn't have to walk on the walls of the ship, for one, and made his life a lot easier.
He was ready. Rifle. Slugger. Beskad. Numerous grenades and assorted weaponry. Groovy. Walking with slow intent, he reached the end of the bay door, where steam rose with startling pace for the untrained eye. Neskar was completely covered in his armour, head to toe, the "T"-shape visor dark and impenetrable. Purple and burgundy colourings sprawled across the armour in intricate fashion, though the symbol of the Mythosaur could be easily made out on his torso, a dark, dark tone for most, with bright, blood red for the detail. This armour had done him well. Many scuffs, scratches and near blows accompanied him, their scars visible, making Neskar seem a rather imposing figure, still standing at six foot three, though in the armour he was more six foot four. Assets. Underworld. Seize. Violence. He was in the mind for money, and this, his home, was the place for it. Not the man for Coruscant yet, Corellia was a perfect starting point. He knew the streets delicately from his youth, perhaps he would encounter old faces with joy. And perhaps old faces with barrels of a gun.
He was ready. Rifle. Slugger. Beskad. Numerous grenades and assorted weaponry. Groovy. Walking with slow intent, he reached the end of the bay door, where steam rose with startling pace for the untrained eye. Neskar was completely covered in his armour, head to toe, the "T"-shape visor dark and impenetrable. Purple and burgundy colourings sprawled across the armour in intricate fashion, though the symbol of the Mythosaur could be easily made out on his torso, a dark, dark tone for most, with bright, blood red for the detail. This armour had done him well. Many scuffs, scratches and near blows accompanied him, their scars visible, making Neskar seem a rather imposing figure, still standing at six foot three, though in the armour he was more six foot four. Assets. Underworld. Seize. Violence. He was in the mind for money, and this, his home, was the place for it. Not the man for Coruscant yet, Corellia was a perfect starting point. He knew the streets delicately from his youth, perhaps he would encounter old faces with joy. And perhaps old faces with barrels of a gun.
*
Leaping forth from the cargo-bay, Neskar immediately activated the jet-pack fastened to his back, starting up the rockets and lifting him through the steam, which he thought may have aided his speed somewhat, it wasn't every day he nearly got burnt to a crisp, and emitted from the cooling tower in the deep, cool night. The jet-pack was fairly quiet, and as he soared upwards to get a clearer view of the city itself, Neskar thought where he would start. Great Boss Ralla. Hutt. Rich. Plenty for the taking. Strayya Ma'lak. Zabrak. Violent. Army of deviants and miscreants guarding fine weapons. Plentiful. Rol'Waren. Illegitimate businessman. Factories and manufactorums aplenty. A start. Then Ralla. With the money. Then with the goods and the money, Ma'lak. Easy. A month, that's all it'll take. Unless the Protectorate slams me down. It'd be worth it to keep a silent demeanour, then, no starting fights, not yet, you've not the power yet. First of all, he needed information. A cantina then. Mando knows I've visited too many of them.*
The cantina was brimming with unfavourable types. Neskar towered above them, a great figure that many shied from. Of course, the average alley dweller was intimidated by even the meekest Mandalorian. The bounty hunter walked to the bar, gruffly ordering a netra gal, a black ale, his preferred drink. Then, he leant against the counter, and drew in the atmosphere, scanning every face with an emotionless visor and steely, inquisitive eyes.