Running Amok! Somewhere, in a bar!

[Allan]

The Standard Hooting and Hollering in the Cantina seemed to only be drowned out by the Wind Outside. As the sharp grating Tatooinian gusts battered at the walls of the watering hole, somebody battered at somebody else in a fighting ring centered in the building. Fortunes were won, lost, and dreamed about in the dark musky halls of this ancient sandstone safe-house.

And pain, above all else, was shared among many. Blood stained the sand of the center of the ring, pooling just a hair in the middle. Men battered men; slaying one-another without abandon as they fought for masters, coin, or glory. Their lovers wailed, from corners unknown, as their lives were altered in the span of a heartbeat. The soft of flesh being seared, cut open, or battered filled the air. And the coppery of taste followed. The crowd fell silent as another fell into the sands, squirming and bleeding. Bookies were available, almost every ten feet, for bets. And men loaning creds were available every five.

If anything, it was a chance for his freedom. Freedom, not of the flesh or the soul, but of the mind. The echoing screams of his brothers filled his head, for the fourth time today. He'd failed them, on that job. And they'd died for it. Died for some Outsiders' treasure, which wasn't even recovered. Not as far as he knew, at least. He'd taken his pay and left, for whatever hole he could find himself in. He hadn't hunted, or practiced his trade. Not until recently, when the mining jobs had run out.

Or maybe he'd given up on them? He didn't know anymore, as the tedium of living alone and broken caught up to him again. Alcohol inhibited his thinking process, and aided his body through the hard work. As he stood in this hell-hole staring at the fenced in fighting cage, he almost missed his name.

"A. Barrette! C. Chillster," he'd shake his head, downing the pint of what he'd ordered. It mingled in the facial hair he'd shaved recently, to fit better under the masks. As he finished, he grunted and wrapped his fingers tightly around the cudgel he drug around like an animal. As his feet fell still inside the ring, he'd look at his opponent. Some other local, seemingly had his own following. Oddly enough, he'd carved lines in his skin to represent something.

Tribal, none-the-less. Another sandbag, to fill a long wall of failures. As he stepped in, he could hear the bookie who managed his money ticking off figures in his quiet corner.

"Look big guy, you sure you want to bet everything? What if you need a doctor afterwards?"

"I'll be dead," he offered, "If I fail. No need to keep anything in pocket. Somebody else sees fortune," he could hear the woman click her tongue, as she wheeled around on her exo-rig. He'd stare emptily at the man who was posturing across from him, waiting for the announcer to finish his job. Occasionally, he'd swing his cudgel lightly, marking a line in the sand next to him with the crude weapon.

 

[Dodo43885]

"You know, you'd be good at that" Beatal's master commented, leaning his back casually against the bar, looking out onto the caged arena. Drink in hand, slurred speech and lazy movements had hinted to the warrior that he was drunk. Toony had always been a lightweight, at least from what she'd seen. They just got here and he was already sending suggestive glances to a lean Togruta across the bar. There wasn't anything Beatal intended to do about it either, she was here for his safety, not to watch over him like a babysitter. She'd put up with this and probably track him down in the morning, dizzy and anxious from his hangover.

"What?" The warrior asked, her speech transferring to a choppy version of Bocee as she too allowed herself to lean against the bar, following her master's gaze. Ah. He didn't have to answer, it was clear as to how he watched with such intent and curiosity, quite insensitive to the death occurring in scores nearby.

"Fighting! You do that chit all the time..." The hybrid slurred once more, gesturing with his hand to the area, drink sloshing slightly in his grip. There was a moments hesitation before he slyly added "...plus I'd get a buttload of credits if you win. No one will expect you swooping in, put their bets on the other guy" Credits. Of course. Toony was never one for subtlety, or for missing out on any opportunity for more intergalactc-dough. With this it seemed to be decided, and without waiting for her response he demanded "Lets do it! Get in there, beastie!" He cheered, pushing off excitedly before swaying towards the announcer's booth, successfully signing his slave up to fight.

She had no means to oppose, but whatever the master wanted he got. Besides, she loved the thrill of a good fight...and she didn't necessarily feel like arguing. Or just talking in general right now. It had been a long day, she was tired. Trailing after him as he signed her up, the announcer gave her a quick once over before allowing her access to the cage. There wasn't a big line, just a single sap stuck in the ring right now with the previous victor, so until it was her turn she watched curiously, hearing the bar go quiet as the match finally began, lots of the occupants excited for another fight. Her build filled the doorway off the small room granted to fighters before it was their chance to prove themselves in combat and credits.

 

[Dodo43885]

[member="Allan"]

 

[Drax-57]

Drax sat at the bar ignoring the fighting behind him. Young fools, if they were gonna die why do it at a bar? He was quiet and drank his fill of the stuff they called alcohol. He turned to see that the fighters were starting a new round. He saw someone he hadn't seen before, a woman. She didn't look all that tough, but he had learned that those were that hardest. They always catch you by surprise. "Hey! If your gonna drink and watch the fighting, why not earn a few credits and join in?" the bartender asked him. "I haven't had a good fist fight in years, and I plan to keep it that way." He finished his cup and watched the fight. He wanted to see how the younger mercs fight. They certainly would have less class than the Imperials. On a hunch, he put some credits on the woman.

[member="Allan"] | [member="Beatal Sarric"]

 

[Allan]

"He's fast, he's bad, he's billy beserk! You're dead-in-the-sand big man!" The crowd next to him roared almost deafeningly. The buzzing throb running through his head from the empty mug on the bar seemed to simply drown it out. An empty, hollow, and almost robotic gaze seemed to meet his opponent; a gentle cant of the head as the other large man stomped and shouted.

"Blood tonight my shifters! Outsider who's been mining our rocks is in town to play! He made us look bad on the papers, took away your meal ticket," There was booing, and even shaking of the cages. He could hear the wired fence rattling in its rails as people struck or grabbed at it. They were overpowering the buzz, their cacophony of distaste disturbing his dreadful disruption of life's dreary distraughtness. Blood pounded in ears where once it had been silent. Yet still his opponent continued on, waxing poetic like a member of High Society. "He took the water from your mouths and the food from your stomach! Like a plague, tonight he represents every outsider that stands in our jobs! A pox upon the true sons of the Twin Suns! So I ask you; Shall we feast on his corpse and drink of it tonight? Will we destroy the foreign hordes who defile our home?" The jeers turned to cheers, rattling his ears. People hit the cages with iron rods and mining tools, whatever they could find. His bookie had come back, before saying quietly to him the following.

"I want you to know it is my utmost pleasure to handle your finances. You are by far the least unpleasant customer in this port,"

But still the man roared, inhibiting the conversation. "The ground will quake with MY strikes against you, Outlander! The air will burn with our righteous fury. Beneath my blades you will see your gods and you will weep for mercy! I hope you are ready to die, for soon you shall!" And then, the particle screens went up. The cage was electrified, those foolish enough to hold onto it would swiftly be educated in the cost of such. And on came the announcer, once more.

"And what does our contender pretender have to say in his defense? We're a fair and just people, we can lend a moment to his pleas!"

And there was utter silence. Not the casual silence, but that of an awkward uncomfortable one. Allan's eyes scanned the crowd, looking to see who met his gaze. Very few did.

Nobody wants to look at their Devil.

 

[Allan]

[member="Beatal Sarric"] [member="Drax-57"]

 

[Dodo43885]

The madness that ensued was rather entertaining, she'd give them that. The warrior had often never been one for cage fighting, but to see the audience go clinically insane at the sight and sound of this 'outsider' put a small grin on Beatal's face. She wondered if she would have the same effect...or if people would just ignore her. At first glance she didn't look like much - true, but they'd find out soon enough.

She scanned the audience for Toony, festive eyes finally locking onto him as he sauntered off - towards the Togruta. Men. Typical. Now that she thought on it, he was probably just trying to get Beatal out of his hair. Trap her in a cage, get her fighting with a worthy opponent and she may as well be here all night. Just enough time for him to do what he pleased with his new lady friend. There was a childish annoyance that came along with watching him leave her, the slave always trying to execute her master's commands. But...if he wasn't here to really watch her succeed, it just didn't seem as rewarding. Almost like a father missing their daughter's dance recital.

She chuckled lightly as the cage lit up, some of the audience members jolting violently or shooting back with the voltage. Heh. Welp, now the fight was really on. There was only a thin film preventing her from entering, one thin enough that it was almost unnoticeable. She couldn't enter, and then couldn't exit. Alas, she still made eye contact with this 'outsider'. Cold and hardened, she approved. Her grin only grew with this. The cage now surging and the audience hyped, a small bell indicated the beginning of the actual fight, the duo inside shifting uncomfortably as if testing to see who would make the first move.

[member="Allan"] | [member="Drax-57"]

 

[Drax-57]

The cage charged and the fighting was about to begin. Drax set his drink down and for a moment watched the crowd. Bloodthirsty, crazy, and most importantly, dangerous. He saw some of the crowd fly back from the cage and had a hard time not laughing. Idiots. No sane person would have a cage fight without some real way of keeping them in. He leaned his back against the bar and watched as the crowd yelled and cheered for the fight. t reminded him of why he served in the first place. Lawless chaos was no way to run a bar or a planet.

He thought for a second of joining the crowd but was discouraged when he saw a man throw up from alcohol poison. He would watch from the bar. Might as well get a few more drinks.

[member="Allan"] | [member="Beatal Sarric"]

 

[RC-1047]

The sound of yelling and such would be echoed around RC-1047, it honestly was too loud in the bar for the Clone, but he had seen worst. The clone waltzed over to the bar taking off his helmet with a sigh, his mind flashed back to his ARC-170 resting at the spaceport, hopefully no one would mess with it, The clone hated dealing with thief's.

RC-1047 slowly sat next to a man ( [member="Drax-57"] ) he didn't notice anything about the man other then his armor, Casper slowly craned his neck revealing a line of pops, the bartender slowly sauntered up to the Clone looking at him, "Whatca want?" The bartender asked.

"Tihaar" The clone said with a tired sigh, "Alright- just don't make have to carry you out." The bartender said with a grunt as he walked around looking at his cabinet to find the Tihaar.

The clone looked over the bar seeing almost a fight going on, "Childs play" RC-1047 would reply with a grunt as the bartender came back with a glass of clear liquid.

"Here ya' go" The bartender said setting the glass down infront of Casper, the clone took the drink swirling the glass in his hand a bit before bringing it up to his lips and taking a sip.

It reminded Casper of the Clone wars, Being with his former squad and the trips they'd take to exotic bars across the galaxy- if only he could do that once more.

Casper continued to huddle of his drink sipping at it.

[member="Beatal Sarric"]
[member="Allan"]

 

[Allan]

Patience is a virtue. No skilled predator survives without it. Should you wait, patiently, many things will fall into your lap. Wars have been lost and won on this virtue, and will continue to do so.

Yet, he noted there was another waiting outside the cave. How odd, to find another built similar to himself. A body-type of a mesomorph, the man was cut to fill his frame. Large muscles gave way to not subtle curves, similar to her own. As he looked into her eyes, his own seemed to know. Deeper in his head, burning bright with the fire of an angry man. They seemed to roar, for a brief moment, as the fire flared to an inferno in the subtle lighting of the bar; the bright fence behind him occasionally casting deep shadows across his bone structure.

So patiently, he waited. The man across from him seemed to stomp his feet, preparing himself mentally for what lay ahead. Allan's wrist remained limp, rotating back and forth with the weight of the club he carried between his fingers. It moved faster now, seemingly the only underlying tick that his blood pressure was elevating and preparing for a fight. Sand came up near his foot faster, his lips chewing something between his teeth. The man's dark skin seemed to be highlighted by the occasional spark from the fence, his form-fitting shirt giving illusion to what lay beneath. Muscles not of a miner, but of a warrior. Perhaps hardened in a dark recess somewhere, having been drug through somebody else's war. For somebody else's pay.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Grunts, shouts, snorts. The man across wasn't sure, it gave proof of insecurity. There was another awkward silence, as the crowd tried to find the point of sitting here. Allan's feet hadn't moved since he entered, firmly shoulder with apart without knees being locked. A sword banged on a shield, before feet started moving forward. The other man was losing his patience, his virtue, but not his caution. Slowly he advanced, with his protective covering raised above to cover his head. The crowd started revving back up, hooting and hollering.

"Gut the Outsider! Hang him from the fence!"

His armored boots lay there, still, in the almost ankle deep sand. The quick shuffles of his opponent towards him filled his senses, all else drowning out. Until he stopped, just out of arms reach, and lunged forward. Allan did not move, having watched him for the last few rounds. The blade was short, and he seemed to rely upon the fear of his opponents to have any modicum of success. As the weapon withdraw from coming within centimeters of his face, the man shuffled back. And yet, when he lowered his shield a hair after the anticipated blow never came, he saw the same looming statue of a man having refused to move. His head canted, an almost disappointed look touched it. And the result of his disdain and calculated body language insult was exactly what he wanted.

"Hnng! I'll wipe that look off your face, Outlander!"

And now, a lunge backed by feet. Allan waited until momentum was assuredly committed before simply moving to the side, sweeping his inside foot against his outside. There was a wide display or sparks, as he impacted the cage. Adjusting himself, the swinging had ceased. Between the force of the impact, and the shock followed afterwards, his opponent moved back, grumbling as he tried to shake himself loose again. Barrett canted his head, waited to see if he heard anything.

What a beautiful silence, to be the entrance to an Epitaph.

A feral swipe went towards him, resulting in him leaning back just a hair, as he mapped the mans outwards movements. His cruel eyes watched him as he did so, feet shifting in the sand. Like a cat, playing with it's meal, he waited for the lines to align as they always did. The telltale moment of when to strike, and lay still a beating heart. His blade missed, impacting the sand, and instinctively he brought his shield up and braced it to protect himself. A loose wrist tightened, an entire form shifting from passivity to savagery in what seemed like the flipping of a switch. A loud grunt exited his lips as he turned on his hips, putting himself behind the shield towards the man's shoulder blades. He also seemed to lock his foot in the mans ankle, pulling it out to hyper-extend it before bringing that large blunt weapon he carried to bear.

Metal sang. Air exited lungs in a gasp. His opponent seemed to clatter to the ground, bones and joints popping and crackling like a warm hearth. The shield itself lay split in twain, around the arm that had been carrying it.

And then the screaming came. It filled the air with it's blood curdling cacophony, the man subjected to the torturing blow trying to drag the one thing he knew would protect him back over his battered body. The broken arm, dislocated shoulder, and dislocated leg refused to move to their commands, causing extreme pain throughout.

And yet Allan waited, just far enough away that the many couldn't escape his shadow in the shifting sands. Blood began to pour, he could see it pooling below the man again. His head tilted, he could hear nothing else save the man in front of him. One of the center posts lay in front of him, and he watched this previously loud and braggadocios man drag himself towards it. His sword was left in the sand, simply dead weight for a fleeing person. As he pulled himself up the pole, Allan watched him struggle with that leg. He succeeded in getting waist height, on the insulated piece without a charge.

"Ph. Phlese," he could hear his lips try to form words, like a sniveling child who couldn't accept his fate. It riled him even more, that such a man did not have the honor to die like one. He could see the snot, and the blood, and all the muck from his face as he drug himself up the main post. And with footsteps that almost felt like the ground quaking, Allan clinched the distance between the two before kneeling behind the man who winced and almost sobbed before him.

"No Mercy for those who do not show honor before the face of the gods, for they are the wicked sinners you are to expunge and purge from the galaxy. These are the decrees of Kad'Harangir's chosen children, and the only order they must follow in the face of war,"

Panicked shouting was heard as Allan stood up, the man choosing to plead with the announcer. The fences after a moment were shut off, and Barrett mused the idea of letting him think he would soon be free of this nightmare he was living. A boot came up, delivering the sole of his foot with fatal speed to the back of the mans head. Teeth were split down the metal, as a skull was cracked and broken. Reaching down, he'd chuck the man off the post by his collar, looking at the woman on the other side of it who's face was in utter shock and horror. His opponent behind him, gurgling on his own blood, Allan did the only thing that seemed appropriate. He embedded the man's own blade in his stomach, and left him to drown in his own fluids with his face destroyed and his people in shock.

There was no cheering, no applause, and no happiness.

For he had slung their greatest into the sands of the pit, and left him to die.

And as he made his way back to the corner where they made you wait between matches, to wash the blood off of his face, he looked around.

And the crowd, save for the select few, dare not meet his gaze.

For their Devil was made manifest before them.

[member="Beatal Sarric"]
[member="Drax-57"]
[member="RC-1047"]

 

[Dodo43885]

Patience had never been a strong suit. She was always eager to please, her jobs had always been quick ones. Master didn't like waiting, punishment would await her arrival home if it took suspiciously long amounts of time to finish of an order or bounty. Toony wasn't as strict and unforgiving as most slave owners, but that only drove the warrior to do better. He could always sell her off to someone who would torture her mercilessly if she accidentally gave an odd look or unacceptable response. She had it good, needless to say.

With this in mind, one could tell how antsy she was growing. It had started with the look the outsider had given her, realizing he might very well be her next opponent. Better start studying. That was an acquired quirk she had, hunting down weaknesses came easier to her than most. He was different than the man he fought, a miner they had said...right? Not only that though, he was angry. Those people, she had found were the most reckless. The most dangerous and lethal. Part of her hoped that he did indeed survive, despite the audience's clear distaste for him. It had been so hyped up but now...they just...stood there. Shifting, stomping, swinging or rotating their practiced ease, it got boring her real quick. She was fast - everything had to be fast and immediate or her interest was lost. Nevertheless, she was kinda stuck here. Might as well analyze them while she still could.

One - instilled with fake confidence via the pounding voices outside the cage, seemingly urged to act on luck and anticipation from past experiences, nervous and made even a little jittery. His movements were easily dodged or blocked by man number two - the outsider. Strong for sure, patient, coordinated, focus was apparent here. He knew what he was doing...but so did she. She smiled momentarily as number one fell, the popping and snapping of bones tensed her up - as if she was in the ring with them right now. One hit. One hit and it all seemed to be over. Murmuring from the crowd could reach Beatal's ears, watching horrifically as he was beat right then and there trying to climb up the center pole while Beatal's anticipated opponent stood nearby, watching.

She saw it now. Honor. He played by the rules of the game, and nothing more. Despite the worthy realization, her features soon twisted into shock as the man was killed with a shoe, slamming down into the new remnants of his skull. Well, at least he knew what he was doing. It haunted her as he looked up to her after the fatal blow, as if proving is worth or skill to her, the horror soon turning to a scowl as he finished it off rather cleverly. No one wished to be impaled with their own weapon, no matter if you were already dead or not. Dramatics and theatrics were never her style. Get the job over with. If he was drowning in his own insides, consider him gone. No reason to torture him further. Eh, unless you really wanted to milk it. Some people deserved it.

Shooting a few more glances up to her master as Allan retreated to the opposite cave - the same film going down as he entered. Toony had been intrigued, along with his lady friend. That was good. She always preformed better when she felt like she was being analyzed for faults. At least now the fight had everyone's attention. There was obvious whispering as outsiders so intently waited for the next duo to come out, eventually the film vaporizing.

Beatal took her place lazily, shuffling through the sand while drawing out two of the larger blades she held once concealed on her figure. One in each hand