Dyllaefi Cridu
Fugitive Flyboy
Dyll had been spending a lot of time on Nar Shaddaa lately. Like much of the population, it wasn't by choice.
Different reason, though; he wasn't one of the penniless transients stuck deep below the glitzy lights of the upper sectors. To them he would've seemed positively rich. He had a starship of his own, a blaster at his side, enough to eat on most days; technically, he could go anywhere in the galaxy he chose. Technically. The reality was that the starship was always breaking down, the blaster was secondhand, and if he wanted to keep flying he had to follow the jobs. And it seemed like all smuggling flowed through the Vertical City at some point.
Spice, guns, slaves; the Hutts had their thick, grubby fingers in many pies, and Dyll didn't have much choice but to follow the pulse of their criminal empire if he wanted to keep paying his bills. So here he was once again on the Smuggler's Moon, waiting for his contact to drop off the datapad that would have details on his next cargo. But he knew he might be waiting on the guy a long time; Klaad was a shifty, fidgety Quarren who made his schedule up as he went along, and punctual simply wasn't in his vocabulary. There was no telling when he'd show.
If he even did; Dyll had gotten himself in trouble the last time he was on Nar Shaddaa, and the lasting consequences were starting to show. He'd tried to rescue a teenage slave girl and, in so doing, both pissed off the slaver cartel holding her and gained a reputation for having a conscience. In his business, that was a bad thing. People with consciences weren't considered reliable; most things that had to be moved illegally were things that would hurt people at some point, and no one wanted to get their cargo dumped or impounded by a captain with a heart of gold.
He would just have to hope that not everyone had given up on him just yet. He'd smuggled for three years now; surely one well-intentioned error wouldn't wipe out all the street cred he'd built up in that time. So he sat in the seedy little cantina known as the Hair Trigger, trying not to choke on the thick, overly-sweet Rekka smoke that suffused the place and pissing off the bartender by not ordering anything. He wasn't dumb enough to wish for excitement no matter how bored he got, not in a place like Nar Shaddaa, but he had a feeling it just might find him anyway.
@[member=Eliza Steele]
Different reason, though; he wasn't one of the penniless transients stuck deep below the glitzy lights of the upper sectors. To them he would've seemed positively rich. He had a starship of his own, a blaster at his side, enough to eat on most days; technically, he could go anywhere in the galaxy he chose. Technically. The reality was that the starship was always breaking down, the blaster was secondhand, and if he wanted to keep flying he had to follow the jobs. And it seemed like all smuggling flowed through the Vertical City at some point.
Spice, guns, slaves; the Hutts had their thick, grubby fingers in many pies, and Dyll didn't have much choice but to follow the pulse of their criminal empire if he wanted to keep paying his bills. So here he was once again on the Smuggler's Moon, waiting for his contact to drop off the datapad that would have details on his next cargo. But he knew he might be waiting on the guy a long time; Klaad was a shifty, fidgety Quarren who made his schedule up as he went along, and punctual simply wasn't in his vocabulary. There was no telling when he'd show.
If he even did; Dyll had gotten himself in trouble the last time he was on Nar Shaddaa, and the lasting consequences were starting to show. He'd tried to rescue a teenage slave girl and, in so doing, both pissed off the slaver cartel holding her and gained a reputation for having a conscience. In his business, that was a bad thing. People with consciences weren't considered reliable; most things that had to be moved illegally were things that would hurt people at some point, and no one wanted to get their cargo dumped or impounded by a captain with a heart of gold.
He would just have to hope that not everyone had given up on him just yet. He'd smuggled for three years now; surely one well-intentioned error wouldn't wipe out all the street cred he'd built up in that time. So he sat in the seedy little cantina known as the Hair Trigger, trying not to choke on the thick, overly-sweet Rekka smoke that suffused the place and pissing off the bartender by not ordering anything. He wasn't dumb enough to wish for excitement no matter how bored he got, not in a place like Nar Shaddaa, but he had a feeling it just might find him anyway.
@[member=Eliza Steele]