Keepin Corellia Weird
Ijaat had heard of this place from a contact he wasn't always proud he had, from the days when he had truly been a named to be feared in the bounty hunting scene. It was a club, of sorts he supposed, though really it went beyond that to almost a brotherhood or the like. Ostensibly the cantina above ground was all there was to the business, and most would believe it. But a back entrance by the restrooms labeled 'EMPLOYEES ONLY' would be a set of rickety iron steps, honestly barely held together. And bottom of those was a sand floor, bare concrete walls and wooden pillar.
For what was under here was what Ijaat had been seeking: a fight club. His recent defeats had humbled him, and revealed a glaring hole in his training, so he had sought the place out in order to rectify it. All he had done thus far was watch from the edges and fringe, seeing those who fought and won, and those who lost, and why and how. After several hours, he stood up and approached one in particular, who had been devastating the others. Flatly put, if Ijaat had wielded a sword he wasn't sure he could beat the man. As he approached, he had two shotglasses at once, and a bottle of tihaar.
"Nice fighting... You move well, faster than the others... And you've been at this a few years I can tell... So tell me, what does one have to do to learn whatever style you are using? I can tell it's not just shock boxing or street fighting like the others..."
As he spoke, the bottle, a rare vintage of his own making, clinked the glasses as he poured first one then the other, and offered it to the man in a gesture of open handed equality. He also kept himself in as loose a stance as possible, though it was a stance more suited to his armor and blade-to-blade rather than the plain clothes of a smith that he wore now, and the simple crushgauntlets tucked into the back of his belt would indicate he wasn't all too terribly unfamiliar with hand-to-hand, but was certainly no master of the various disciplines of that art. Someone looking close enough could see the wear marks on the belt leather and deduce a sword usually hung there.
[member="Tracyn"]
For what was under here was what Ijaat had been seeking: a fight club. His recent defeats had humbled him, and revealed a glaring hole in his training, so he had sought the place out in order to rectify it. All he had done thus far was watch from the edges and fringe, seeing those who fought and won, and those who lost, and why and how. After several hours, he stood up and approached one in particular, who had been devastating the others. Flatly put, if Ijaat had wielded a sword he wasn't sure he could beat the man. As he approached, he had two shotglasses at once, and a bottle of tihaar.
"Nice fighting... You move well, faster than the others... And you've been at this a few years I can tell... So tell me, what does one have to do to learn whatever style you are using? I can tell it's not just shock boxing or street fighting like the others..."
As he spoke, the bottle, a rare vintage of his own making, clinked the glasses as he poured first one then the other, and offered it to the man in a gesture of open handed equality. He also kept himself in as loose a stance as possible, though it was a stance more suited to his armor and blade-to-blade rather than the plain clothes of a smith that he wore now, and the simple crushgauntlets tucked into the back of his belt would indicate he wasn't all too terribly unfamiliar with hand-to-hand, but was certainly no master of the various disciplines of that art. Someone looking close enough could see the wear marks on the belt leather and deduce a sword usually hung there.
[member="Tracyn"]