Daak Dakaara
The Not-Quite-Captain of the Smoked Opal
[SIZE=10.5pt]"You think he's gone and soiled 'imself?" A small mouse of a voice peeped above him, sending daggers of pain lancing through his ears and down the knotted muscles of his neck.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]"He don't smell spoiled. He smells rotten," the claws of another voice, equally as small and equally as torturous raked through his mind. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]"Think he's dead?" The first voice asked, followed closely by the sharp end of a stick getting shoved between his ribs. Daak Dakaara had been on the receiving end of too many daggers to ignore it. His hand whipped through the air with more speed than a mostly dead bothan should have been capable of mustering to wrap its fingers around the knobby length of a dead stick.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]The two voices squealed in the mixture of glee and terror that only children can accomplish, and the sounds of their bare feet padding across stone were the last sounds to leave the pirate alone in the alleyway. Daak decided to assess his surroundings as much as he could without actually opening his eyes. His right cheek lay on the dry stone of an alley’s pavers, while his left hand pawed through a pile of cold, wet refuse, which according to the smell, was likely 3/4ths rotten food, and 1/4th possible small creature remains. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]A groan pushed through the desert dryness of Daak’s throat as he pulled his hand out of the pile and pushed his body from the ground. His left eye opened, but something dry and crusted plastered the right side of his face, keeping that eye from opening. The world spun, and as he found his feet he quickly made the choice to reach out for the refuse pile once more. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]After he relieved himself of what seemed like a quarter of his body weight in bile, Daak was beginning to feel much more bothan, and less pile of hot vomit and sorrow. With staggered steps he made his way to the mouth of the alley. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]“What the…” he murmured under his breath. Citizens of every species traversed the street before him, along with the steady hum of speeders lazying through the thoroughfare. Daak’s fur ruffled in annoyance and his ears twitched. A beast unknown to Daak stood at a trough further down the street, guzzling at the foul looking water. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “I have no memory of this place.” [/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]He scratched at the right side of his face only to see his hand come away covered in flaked, dry blood. The pirate flinched, and stared at his open palm. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]“What… the…” He looked up once more, looking around for any signs, any clues. A tavern stood down the way with a sign unlit above it reading “The Tilted Stool.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]“Where,” he groaned, suddenly very unsure of himself, “in a Sith’s armpit, am I?”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]"He don't smell spoiled. He smells rotten," the claws of another voice, equally as small and equally as torturous raked through his mind. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]"Think he's dead?" The first voice asked, followed closely by the sharp end of a stick getting shoved between his ribs. Daak Dakaara had been on the receiving end of too many daggers to ignore it. His hand whipped through the air with more speed than a mostly dead bothan should have been capable of mustering to wrap its fingers around the knobby length of a dead stick.[/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]The two voices squealed in the mixture of glee and terror that only children can accomplish, and the sounds of their bare feet padding across stone were the last sounds to leave the pirate alone in the alleyway. Daak decided to assess his surroundings as much as he could without actually opening his eyes. His right cheek lay on the dry stone of an alley’s pavers, while his left hand pawed through a pile of cold, wet refuse, which according to the smell, was likely 3/4ths rotten food, and 1/4th possible small creature remains. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]A groan pushed through the desert dryness of Daak’s throat as he pulled his hand out of the pile and pushed his body from the ground. His left eye opened, but something dry and crusted plastered the right side of his face, keeping that eye from opening. The world spun, and as he found his feet he quickly made the choice to reach out for the refuse pile once more. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]After he relieved himself of what seemed like a quarter of his body weight in bile, Daak was beginning to feel much more bothan, and less pile of hot vomit and sorrow. With staggered steps he made his way to the mouth of the alley. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]“What the…” he murmured under his breath. Citizens of every species traversed the street before him, along with the steady hum of speeders lazying through the thoroughfare. Daak’s fur ruffled in annoyance and his ears twitched. A beast unknown to Daak stood at a trough further down the street, guzzling at the foul looking water. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “I have no memory of this place.” [/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]He scratched at the right side of his face only to see his hand come away covered in flaked, dry blood. The pirate flinched, and stared at his open palm. [/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]“What… the…” He looked up once more, looking around for any signs, any clues. A tavern stood down the way with a sign unlit above it reading “The Tilted Stool.”[/SIZE]
[SIZE=10.5pt]“Where,” he groaned, suddenly very unsure of himself, “in a Sith’s armpit, am I?”[/SIZE]