Old Skool [Sarge Potteiger]

[Zef Halo]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]


Thick smoke. Strong stench of various alcoholic drinks. Sentients from all over the galaxy.

A classical cantina.

And Zef loved nothing more than that. Being back in the Mandalorian ranks, the scoundrel had less time to venture off in such establishments. It's not like the Mandalorians did not enjoy such establishments, they did and they had plenty of them. Problem was they liked their cantinas and taverns full of their own. Now Zef as a Mandalorian did not have anything against that but living most of his life as a smuggler, cantinas such as this one became a second home to him.

The scoundrel had remained with his scarce armor and helmet on while making his way towards the bar. He knew that people's eyes were following him but he knew that most would be intimidated and cause him no trouble. Additionally, just like most Mandalorians who cherishes drinks withou taking their helmets off, Zef's helmet came with a straw that would pop out of his helmet to aid him in consuming drinks without taking his helmet off.

"Corellian spiced ale." He gestured towards the bottle.


Nothing better than a good old skool drink.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He'd never been one to frequent cantinas - though he'd done it more often in his younger days. But now that he'd passed the forty mark, he realized how old he felt. Ten years? Was that how long it'd been since he'd started working with the Pyre? Seemed longer than that. Still, cantinas tended to have their uses. They were great for meeting new and old friends, as well as finding out information.

Coming in shortly after [member="Zef Halo"], Sarge adjusted the way his jacket hung about his shoulders. Spring was setting in, which meant temperatures would fluctuate from warm and mild to chilly and windy. A Mandalorian was already at the bar, it seemed, given the berth that most afforded the clansmen.

When your entire culture was 'lets beat the shit out of the strongest thing in sight,' well... people tended to stay away. It was just easier that way. Whether it was true or not, a cultural concept such as that imparted a mindsight that said 'they're uncultured savages.'

It wasn't true, but that was the problem with cultural relativism; most people didn't understand it.

Pulling up a chair next to the man, he reached a palm up to scratch at the undergrowth of beard clinging to his jawline. Deep brown in color, it matched the shaggy growth of hair sat atop his head. But while his boyish features said 'human,' his eyes were glimmering pools of black, and the veins visible running up his neck shared that coloration. Whatever human he may once have been, life had been tough.

It was further evidenced in the saber burn across his throat, and the chewed looking flesh on his right cheek - remnants of a shrapnel wound. "Whiskey." He didn't need to say 'Corellian,' as it was there in the tone of his voice; a smooth baritone, undercut with just the faintest of accents. The man was quiet because he didn't need to speak loud to be heard. Without looking at Zef, Sarge spoke again.

"Why's a Mandalorian drinking Corellian, anyway?"

 

[Zef Halo]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

​

"Why's a Mandalorian drinking Corellian, anyway?" ​

-Sarge Potteiger to Zef Halo regarding his choice of booze​

​

Living most of your life as a scoundrel, the times one could apply the saying "Out of the Frying Pan Into The Fire" were not countable. Living such a life gave you perks, if you lived long enough that is. One of these perks were analysing people well, if you can't analyse well enough the opponent you can't get a good cut out of a smuggling run nor can you prevent your doom. With the arrival of the scarred man in the cantina, who sat up next to Zef and asked him a quite interesting question.

Now, there were two types of scarred people. Those that used their scars to simply intimidate and ask for trouble in cantinas trying to show dominance, possibly due to being powerless their whole life and then there were those like the man beside him, real scars to the soul. And those two types weren't judged by the depth of their scars but by their look.

Eyes never lie, chico. ( I had to.)

Another thing was the man's accent - Corellian. Same as Zef's. That made the ex-smuggler smirk beneath his helmet. That explained the cheeky question. Corellians were quite the masters of words.

"Nothing better than Corellian." Zef turned towards the man next to him. His own Corellian accent in the words. "Just don't tell these guys." He tapped on his helmet.

What surprised Zef was that the more he looked at the man, the more familiar he seemed. Was this some trick to the mind ? Or maybe really old memories coming back to life. Only dialogue could find out.

"You don't look like the cantina guy, I won't lie. And I am pretty sure I don't have a bounty on this old head." Zef spoke honestly with a slight chuckle. He was intrigued to find out who the man was or if it was really some trick of the mind due to him going old.


Damn aging.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Chuckling as a double of whiskey was set before him, the man brought the small glass to his lips to take a casual sip. Wetting his lips, his chest rose as he drew in a deep breath and let the warmth of the liquor settle into his stomach. It began seeping out into his body, and he visibly relaxed as he turned his gaze back to the Corellian Mandalorian. Blinking the voids of his eyes, he cocked his head to one side.

"I'm not a cantina guy." A simple, straightforward response from a man who'd never been called 'verbose.' "But sometimes you just want a drink." Looking back to the counter, he hefted the glass for another sip.

Again, he wet his lips and exhaled in appreciation of the burn. "If you got a bounty, I wouldn't know. Not my line of work. I'm a mercenary, not a headhunter."

Which, admittedly, did nothing to explain who he was or why he was actually here - unless he was just here 'for a drink.' Realizing the Mandalorian seemed to be staring at him, he panned his gaze over the T-Visor once more. "Something you want to ask?" The question was there, in the faint forward lean of the shoulders, in the subtle tilt of the helmeted head. An expectation was visible; an expectation for an answer of some kind being just on the tip of the tongue.

[member="Zef Halo"]

 

[Zef Halo]

Zef observed the scarred man as he took a sip from the whiskey that had just been served. He knew well how the burn of Corellian whiskey could wash down even the greatest pains, although not a fan of heavier drinks himself, Zef had been in times appreciating the feeling of the strong Corellian whiskey going down his throat. Along with cigarettes, this type of alcohol was a good relief bringer in times of stress. Was that the case in the patron next to him ? Probably not, the man seemed completely composed even before taking the drink but Zef could not be sure. Some men were excellent and masking their emotions. A very good ability for those working in the line of danger as it made one look as having no weaknesses.

As the man confirmed Zef's initial thoughts - he was not a cantina guy and neither was he a bounty hunter although he had the directness and straightfoward attitude demonstrated by most bounty hunters. It turned out the scarred man had been a mercenary. Rarely had Zef seen mercenaries who did not enjoy cantinas, probably this man was actually the first of that profession not enjoying cantinas as much as typical mercenaries did.

"Something you want to ask?"

Zef remained silent to that question for a moment, contemplating with a smirk on his face. The scarred man's perception was top notch. He could definitely read between the lines. One hell of a sharp mercenary this man was.
Silence lingered between the two patrons of the cantina as Zef formulated what to say next. Considering the whiskey drinking man was direct, Zef decided it would be best if he was a little more straightforward than before. Concealing meanings into sentences against the scarred man would immediately be detected so that made them redundant. So the ex-smuggler decided to shoot straight at the man who seemed very familiar to a certain extent, mainly due to the man's attitude.

"You caught me there alright." Zef spread his arms in a surrendering expression and brought them back to take a sip through the straw from the Corellian ale before him. "Ten, twenty years ago. The big mess of galactic politics. You been part of that?"
Zef had no idea how to ask such a question but this seemed his best bet. The scoundrel, back then, was unfortunately for him part of the Mandalorian forces that aimed to stamp their insignia on every possible planet. The man infront of him looked as one of those old dogs, to which Zef classified to now, that saw too much during those times and lived to tell the tale.


[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

The question was a curious one - had he participated in the mess of politics immediately after the plague? Assuredly, but he wouldn't admit to that. "I worked for OmegaPyre. I was a bodyguard for Lady Protector [member="Cira"] at the time. That's the extent of my involvement, although I was friends with then Empress Varanin." He shrugs faintly, downing the last of his glass and ordering up a refill.

The years hadn't been kind to anyone, least of all the Pyre, but they'd still fared better than most. A slow withdrawal into the night instead of kicking and screaming like the Republic, who would likely survive as a dwarf state before long.

[member="Zef Halo"]

 

[Zef Halo]

OmegaPyre... OmegaPyre...

Zef dug further into his memories, the name surely rang a bell, he hated the fact that the older he became the harder it became to recall the past. Not that he wanted to much but sometimes even the hardship of the past felt nostalgic. Perhaps that was because Zef had always been afraid of growing old, he'd never thought of it happening. Not because the Mandalorian had believed he'd die young or anything. No. It was because he could never comprehend it, the point you reach in life where you realize - whatever you've done has been done, that's it. A point where you were simply counting the days till your final departure from this galaxy into... nowhere.

Silence lingered between them for a bit as his mind shuffled through memories and as he observed that man was really, really liking to drink. He'd seen numerous heavy drinkers in his life, most were pathetic, simply alcoholics. This man was the other type of heavy drinkers, according to Zef - either a lover of the drink or a man who had been through too much and was numbing the pain. The Mandalorian would go with the latter, his justification being the scarred man's appearance.

"Friends with an Empress huh ?" Zef sarcastically asked his comrade in drinking. "The OmegaPyre does ring a bell, sounds like a victim of Mandalorian conquests." He scoffed at his latest statement.

"I will be honest, pal, you don't strike me for just a bodyguard." Zef said trying to inquire more about the man. He took his last gulp of the ale and ordered another one. The Mandalorian was definitely losing the drinking race with the Empress' friend. "Who knows? We might have been shooting at each other at one point of our lives, heh."


[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge snorted at [member="Zef Halo"], running a thumb around the rim of his refilled glass as it was set before him. "Yeah, though it was more mutual respect than anything else. Then again, that was before she went to the Fringe and married Spencer. I think she died here recently, come to think of it. Don't recall there being a funeral either - wasn't really her style." He frowned, looking away in a pensive manner.

Lips pursed, he 'hrmmm'd' and took a sip of his drink. Wetting his lips, he closed his eyes, savoring the renewed warmth of the whiskey as it settled heavy in his stomach. "I wasn't just a bodyguard, no. But that's all I need to say on the matter." Coughing for a moment, he began to laugh. "Ain't never fought a Mandalorian, mate."

And that was the truth. "But I did have to talk one of you down from bombarding Coruscant from orbit for... running a planet near a planet you were running. I wish I was kidding, but that was the dispute.

And no, the Pyre wasn't a Mandalorian conquest. We ran our own territory down the Corellian run out towards both Hoth and Naboo."