Triter Zone
The Littlest Space Pirate
Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away...
Triter Zone sat at the bar in a local cantina, pouring from a bottle nearly as tall as he was into a chipped brandy snifter. Outside, rain and wind lashed at the street and buildings, lightning every so often causing the lights in the establishment to flicker and dim.
The Amaran sighed, forcing himself to take another sip of the foul beverage that the bartender claimed was syrspirit, but which Triter was certain had been siphoned from one of the starships at the nearby fusion-formed pad that served as a star-port. It hadn't cost him much of his meager funds, but every decicredit he spent hurt these days. Hopefully, however, the contents of the bottle would help Triter forget that, at least for awhile.
No matter how bad it got, though, the Amaran was resolved that he would not give in to the despair he had managed to keep at bay for so many years. He would find work soon, anyway, he always did; he had gone through more desperate times, or at least he supposed he had.
To tell the truth, he wasn't entirely sure of that.
The young vulpinoid really was getting desperate. In the years since the dissolution of the Ossein Pirates, Triter had done whatever he could to survive. Seeking out whatever would pay his expenses, he had hired on with a number of different pirate crews as an extra set of wings; piloting skills were what he was known for, and nobody hired a being just over a meter tall as "muscle." Depending on the situation, he had also hired on with shipping companies as an escort. He had also been a merchant, a smuggler, a mercenary, a bounty hunter, even a law-man once or twice...
About the only thing Triter had left that was consistent was his pride.
There certainly was a lot of that.
The Amaran had been with the Ossein Pirates for eight years, and in that time, they had become his family. He had not been born into the life of a pirate, his parents had not even been spacers, but you didn't need pirate blood to belong; Triter knew he did, knew that he had been born for the life he led. Whatever else he was, he was an Ossein Pirate, and he would be until he was nothing but bones.
Which, Triter mused to himself over another sip of syrspirit, probably wouldn't be long at this point. Outside, lightning flashed again and the wind howled.
Dellalt was a miserable place to be stuck waiting for an opportunity. He could only hope one presented itself before he ran out of credits...
Triter Zone sat at the bar in a local cantina, pouring from a bottle nearly as tall as he was into a chipped brandy snifter. Outside, rain and wind lashed at the street and buildings, lightning every so often causing the lights in the establishment to flicker and dim.
The Amaran sighed, forcing himself to take another sip of the foul beverage that the bartender claimed was syrspirit, but which Triter was certain had been siphoned from one of the starships at the nearby fusion-formed pad that served as a star-port. It hadn't cost him much of his meager funds, but every decicredit he spent hurt these days. Hopefully, however, the contents of the bottle would help Triter forget that, at least for awhile.
No matter how bad it got, though, the Amaran was resolved that he would not give in to the despair he had managed to keep at bay for so many years. He would find work soon, anyway, he always did; he had gone through more desperate times, or at least he supposed he had.
To tell the truth, he wasn't entirely sure of that.
The young vulpinoid really was getting desperate. In the years since the dissolution of the Ossein Pirates, Triter had done whatever he could to survive. Seeking out whatever would pay his expenses, he had hired on with a number of different pirate crews as an extra set of wings; piloting skills were what he was known for, and nobody hired a being just over a meter tall as "muscle." Depending on the situation, he had also hired on with shipping companies as an escort. He had also been a merchant, a smuggler, a mercenary, a bounty hunter, even a law-man once or twice...
About the only thing Triter had left that was consistent was his pride.
There certainly was a lot of that.
The Amaran had been with the Ossein Pirates for eight years, and in that time, they had become his family. He had not been born into the life of a pirate, his parents had not even been spacers, but you didn't need pirate blood to belong; Triter knew he did, knew that he had been born for the life he led. Whatever else he was, he was an Ossein Pirate, and he would be until he was nothing but bones.
Which, Triter mused to himself over another sip of syrspirit, probably wouldn't be long at this point. Outside, lightning flashed again and the wind howled.
Dellalt was a miserable place to be stuck waiting for an opportunity. He could only hope one presented itself before he ran out of credits...
