MacTavish
The Fist of Nar Shaddaa
It was approaching dark on the planet made of durasteel skyscrapers and bad intentions. The golden hues of the sun setting were shattered and scattered against the smog and urban sprawl of Nar Shaddaa. The speeder-trails in the sky soaked up the colors, appearing as watercolor strokes in the heavens above the scummy lower levels of the planet. This would be a mute sunset compared to those on Tatooine, Dantooine, or even Korriban. MacTavish hadn’t seen the sunset on another planet for years however, so to him, the hushed auric tones were just as warm and rich as any you would find on the twin sun planet.
Standing over six feet tall and weighing over three hundred and fifty pounds, MacTavish was a mountain of a being. This caused many people to pick up on his presence rather easily. Not to mention he bore the various scars across his body from years of fighting people for a living. There were dual long barreled blasters strapped on either side of his back, they stood longer than a Kowakian monkey-lizard and were as thick as their gizzard. The traveling miscreant used them as a last resort usually. He preferred more intimate, close quarters combat. His equally as large fists were testaments of this, gnarled and calloused beyond recognition from years of bashing in faces.
It took him less than two steps into the door of The Gungan’s Tongue before the bartender called out his name. They had been friends once upon a time, however, over the last few months MacTavish hadn’t paid his tab like he was supposed to which left the bar unhappy.
“Ay, MacTavish!” He fluttered his arms to draw in the behemoth’s attention against the large uproar from the packed bar. “I got your whiskey right here!” He shouted, grabbing his crotch area with one hand while making primitive motions with the other. It was true, MacTavish hadn’t paid his tab in a while, but what else was true was you were to never make a man angry would could break you open in a single move.
The hulking mercenary took careful, loud steps toward the bartender. Deep brown eyes seemed to glass over, a small quiver could be seen in the corner of his lower lip, and those rock-like hands of his clenched into tight fists. It took a moment before the bartender realized what he had done. MacTavish took another couple steps toward him, he was now at the bar. The stools lining it came up to his kneecaps and the bar barely covered his raggedy pants. The bartender now had a look of bewilderment in his eye. “How about you just put this one on someone else’s tab then, Vinz?” A clenched fist slammed against the bar.
“Right, Mac, this one’s on the house.” He lowered his head slightly and started fumbling around for a glass and a bottle.
The bar seemed to silence itself a little bit after the interaction, conversations seemed to come to an end, and everyone smelled of unrest. There were several hands placed on blasters, no one yet dared to take the first shot. MacTavish looked around him, this was the kind of fear Nar Shaddaa hadn’t experienced in too long. Factions would rise and fall around the city planet. He had lived through several criminal empire himself, and even a few Force Using regimes springing to power. However recently there had been a vacuum. This was the time to take risks and seize his own claim on the planet.
“Well…” His voice was raspy like he smoked a pack of death sticks a day and chased them with fire. “Cheers, mates.” He raised his glass to the sky and watched as most of the bar followed suit. From there he slammed back the glass and drank it in one go before putting it back on the bar.
The golem of muscle stood up afterward, his eyes never leaving the bartender. Before you knew it, the back of Vinz’s head was in MacTavish’s palm, and his nose was meeting the bar’s rough durasteel surface. He repeatedly smashed his head into the bar for another few seconds before stopping and drying his bloody hand on the bar-rag. “That should settle my tab.” A bloody faced Vinz slumped to the floor. Likely dead.
He wasn’t sure if it was about to turn to all out chaos in the cantina, or if they would get the message. He didn’t quite care either way.
Standing over six feet tall and weighing over three hundred and fifty pounds, MacTavish was a mountain of a being. This caused many people to pick up on his presence rather easily. Not to mention he bore the various scars across his body from years of fighting people for a living. There were dual long barreled blasters strapped on either side of his back, they stood longer than a Kowakian monkey-lizard and were as thick as their gizzard. The traveling miscreant used them as a last resort usually. He preferred more intimate, close quarters combat. His equally as large fists were testaments of this, gnarled and calloused beyond recognition from years of bashing in faces.
It took him less than two steps into the door of The Gungan’s Tongue before the bartender called out his name. They had been friends once upon a time, however, over the last few months MacTavish hadn’t paid his tab like he was supposed to which left the bar unhappy.
“Ay, MacTavish!” He fluttered his arms to draw in the behemoth’s attention against the large uproar from the packed bar. “I got your whiskey right here!” He shouted, grabbing his crotch area with one hand while making primitive motions with the other. It was true, MacTavish hadn’t paid his tab in a while, but what else was true was you were to never make a man angry would could break you open in a single move.
The hulking mercenary took careful, loud steps toward the bartender. Deep brown eyes seemed to glass over, a small quiver could be seen in the corner of his lower lip, and those rock-like hands of his clenched into tight fists. It took a moment before the bartender realized what he had done. MacTavish took another couple steps toward him, he was now at the bar. The stools lining it came up to his kneecaps and the bar barely covered his raggedy pants. The bartender now had a look of bewilderment in his eye. “How about you just put this one on someone else’s tab then, Vinz?” A clenched fist slammed against the bar.
“Right, Mac, this one’s on the house.” He lowered his head slightly and started fumbling around for a glass and a bottle.
The bar seemed to silence itself a little bit after the interaction, conversations seemed to come to an end, and everyone smelled of unrest. There were several hands placed on blasters, no one yet dared to take the first shot. MacTavish looked around him, this was the kind of fear Nar Shaddaa hadn’t experienced in too long. Factions would rise and fall around the city planet. He had lived through several criminal empire himself, and even a few Force Using regimes springing to power. However recently there had been a vacuum. This was the time to take risks and seize his own claim on the planet.
“Well…” His voice was raspy like he smoked a pack of death sticks a day and chased them with fire. “Cheers, mates.” He raised his glass to the sky and watched as most of the bar followed suit. From there he slammed back the glass and drank it in one go before putting it back on the bar.
The golem of muscle stood up afterward, his eyes never leaving the bartender. Before you knew it, the back of Vinz’s head was in MacTavish’s palm, and his nose was meeting the bar’s rough durasteel surface. He repeatedly smashed his head into the bar for another few seconds before stopping and drying his bloody hand on the bar-rag. “That should settle my tab.” A bloody faced Vinz slumped to the floor. Likely dead.
He wasn’t sure if it was about to turn to all out chaos in the cantina, or if they would get the message. He didn’t quite care either way.
