Neskar A'toll
Hail to the King, baby
The cantina was crowded. Full of hapless miscreants, waging their sorrowful lifestyles over a game of dice and a shot of whisky. Neskar despised them, but he had to mingle with the bastards. The job called for it. And he hated the job as well. He was a proud Mandalorian, not a dogsbody, not one to do rat work. It was a way of life for him; offering his trigger hand for the highest bidder. The highest bidder usually turned out to be the most unscrupulous being, a rule that had persisted throughout his twenty three years. The rule was present here. The boss was a scrawny looking Rodian, and at first, Neskar wondered how the alien kept company with the vile mannered beings he employed. He did it through harsh measures, forging a reputation as a crime Lord of the old way. The Rodian, Neskar never deigned to learn his name, pronouns did wonders in this line of work, was a plotting, scheming bastard who used underhanded tactics to forge his ways. Beatings, intimidation, killings were his ways, but Neskar only did the latter, as a Mandalorian, his services in the field of killing were valued. It made a change, at least. Neskar despised the alien. The Rodian had never been in a proper fight, and was a coward.
Neskar walked slowly into the cantina, clad in his purple and burgundy beskar'gam, and towered over the lesser mortals in there. The crowded room parted at the sight of him, and conversation became stilted and artificial. It was not the first time his stature intimidated people and it would not be the last. The Rodian was on the other side of the cantina, and so Neskar forged a path to his table, the largest, most circular table in the entire establishment. The table was in a corner, and in the corner space, sat the Rodian. At his sides were two burly bounty hunters, without a shred of honour between them. Neskar despised them as well. Treading almost silently to the table, Neskar stared intently through his buy'ce, the classic T-shaped helmet of the Mandalorians, directly into the black eyes of the alien, the dark visor obscuring Neskar's eyes. The table became aware of him finally, but the Rodian had seen him coming from a mile off. Neskar spoke first.
"The job is done." Neskar intoned solemnly. His voice, aided by the external speaker in his buy'ce, drowned out the menial voices of those at the table. The Rodian gave no sign of appreciation, and spoke back. He did not speak the language of his people, but Galactic Basic, the one language they shared. It shamed him to even share the same vernacular as this vilified lowlife, but the job must be done.
"Last job." the Rodian replied, guttural and raw. "Non payers. Refuse business of mine. Try to take customers. Kill them. Three of them. Apartment 226. East Quarter. Pay, fifty thousand credits.
"Seventy five. No less."
"Sixty."
"Seventy five." Neskar replied, almost lazily planting an armoured hand on the handle of his ripper. The threat was bare.
"Eighty."
"Better." Neskar replied. He smiled under the buy'ce and sharply turned, striding out of the cantina.
Neskar walked slowly into the cantina, clad in his purple and burgundy beskar'gam, and towered over the lesser mortals in there. The crowded room parted at the sight of him, and conversation became stilted and artificial. It was not the first time his stature intimidated people and it would not be the last. The Rodian was on the other side of the cantina, and so Neskar forged a path to his table, the largest, most circular table in the entire establishment. The table was in a corner, and in the corner space, sat the Rodian. At his sides were two burly bounty hunters, without a shred of honour between them. Neskar despised them as well. Treading almost silently to the table, Neskar stared intently through his buy'ce, the classic T-shaped helmet of the Mandalorians, directly into the black eyes of the alien, the dark visor obscuring Neskar's eyes. The table became aware of him finally, but the Rodian had seen him coming from a mile off. Neskar spoke first.
"The job is done." Neskar intoned solemnly. His voice, aided by the external speaker in his buy'ce, drowned out the menial voices of those at the table. The Rodian gave no sign of appreciation, and spoke back. He did not speak the language of his people, but Galactic Basic, the one language they shared. It shamed him to even share the same vernacular as this vilified lowlife, but the job must be done.
"Last job." the Rodian replied, guttural and raw. "Non payers. Refuse business of mine. Try to take customers. Kill them. Three of them. Apartment 226. East Quarter. Pay, fifty thousand credits.
"Seventy five. No less."
"Sixty."
"Seventy five." Neskar replied, almost lazily planting an armoured hand on the handle of his ripper. The threat was bare.
"Eighty."
"Better." Neskar replied. He smiled under the buy'ce and sharply turned, striding out of the cantina.