Keepin Corellia Weird
Well, here goes nothing...
Setting aside the oily rag, Ijaat limped over to the bar and gazed out over the place he had lovingly worked and invested into over the last few months. Though you could never tell, the place had been restored lovingly by almost solely just himself. Looking over the bar, perhaps the most expensive thing in the place, he got a pensive look in his eyes... It was true veshok wood he had managed to carve himself, and though his inexperience would show to a trained carpenter, he thought it rather fetching, as he had manage to snag quite a pretty piece of it. It said something of a man when you saw he thought of the little things, and touches like veshok wood bar showed he was a bit of a traditionalist, if only subtly so.
The place was decked out, the steel walls painted a soft sand-gold with bold black lettering in mando'a script tracing out the glyphs to Ijaat's favorite sayings and proverbs from his life, the content indicating that perhaps though he appeared a slightly overweight business man, perhaps he was not always so. Space erratically were thick red cloth banners bearing old Mandalorian clan crests, all done in red and gold, with the one behind the bar being a simple banner bearing a strill howling at the moon, the logo of the bar he had decided to open.
Along one wall was an inset case with various pieces of chewed up and damaged armor, bearing a mythosaur crest above the case, etched under the tusks the simple words 'Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la'. To all intents, given the variance in style, type, size, and the remaining paint on the pieces, this was a wall of remembrance for fallen mando'ade, perhaps personal friends of Ijaat, or others. In the center hung a nearly pristine helmet of a rather exotic design, painted white, copper and black, that bore the words under it 'Buir'.
Shaking from his revere, Ijaat began to place napkins and empty glasses on the bar, humming a slight tune as he whistled, high pitched and keen. From the back came trotting, and a massive brendel furred strill, so old its' teeth had yellowed and its' muzzle and even paws had gone mostly grey, came trotting from the back to look at Ijaat, cock it's head, and promptly lay down next to a table meant for someone to play dice or card games at, given the green felt topping and layout of the topping of it. Nodding as if as expected, Ijaat placed the last glass on the bar and prepared himself mentally, and then reached out under the bar.
Pressing a button under the bar, the door lock cycled, the thick plasteel plates retracting in an iris portal like pattern, opening almost like a flower in reverse, small bands of precious beskar for bracing and reinforcing retracting into the frame. Whoever or whatever had built this certainly was cautious. As the door opened, he began absentmindedly checking things like the caf press and the other drinks, netra'gal, and the like, and the precious few bottles of matured tihaar he had. There was also some kri'gree, for anyone who could stomach it,
On the air were also various smells that would begin to drift out from the kitchen... Uj cake, gi dumpling soup, and a few non traditional meals the cook he had hired, a quiet rodian chap, knew how to make, though the wafting aroma of Tiingilar was a receipe all of Ijaat's make, and like to burn your lips off it not careful. It wasn't much, but the aromas reminded him of his youth, of good times before the hard times, and of his parents. This was going to be his life now, working here at this bar, he had given up war..
He was glad... This place wouldn't earn him much but a place to sleep and eat, but it was better than being a solider, even if the irony of the DE-10 on his hip didn't escape him.. What mando'ade didn't have some sort of weapon on them? Even retired ones too busted up to fight anymore? Even if it did clash slightly with the well-worn but cared for forest green tunic, dark yellow almost gold like trim and piping making it resemble an officers uniform of some military, even if it was covered with a crisp white apron and had the rag from earlier hanging out of the belt at the small of his back. His boots, perhaps, gave a true hint of what he once was, good spacers leather with sturdy soles and a slight bulge on one that spoke of once hiding a large boot knife or small holdout blaster.
Well, time to wait for the first customer I suppose.
Setting aside the oily rag, Ijaat limped over to the bar and gazed out over the place he had lovingly worked and invested into over the last few months. Though you could never tell, the place had been restored lovingly by almost solely just himself. Looking over the bar, perhaps the most expensive thing in the place, he got a pensive look in his eyes... It was true veshok wood he had managed to carve himself, and though his inexperience would show to a trained carpenter, he thought it rather fetching, as he had manage to snag quite a pretty piece of it. It said something of a man when you saw he thought of the little things, and touches like veshok wood bar showed he was a bit of a traditionalist, if only subtly so.
The place was decked out, the steel walls painted a soft sand-gold with bold black lettering in mando'a script tracing out the glyphs to Ijaat's favorite sayings and proverbs from his life, the content indicating that perhaps though he appeared a slightly overweight business man, perhaps he was not always so. Space erratically were thick red cloth banners bearing old Mandalorian clan crests, all done in red and gold, with the one behind the bar being a simple banner bearing a strill howling at the moon, the logo of the bar he had decided to open.
Along one wall was an inset case with various pieces of chewed up and damaged armor, bearing a mythosaur crest above the case, etched under the tusks the simple words 'Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la'. To all intents, given the variance in style, type, size, and the remaining paint on the pieces, this was a wall of remembrance for fallen mando'ade, perhaps personal friends of Ijaat, or others. In the center hung a nearly pristine helmet of a rather exotic design, painted white, copper and black, that bore the words under it 'Buir'.
Shaking from his revere, Ijaat began to place napkins and empty glasses on the bar, humming a slight tune as he whistled, high pitched and keen. From the back came trotting, and a massive brendel furred strill, so old its' teeth had yellowed and its' muzzle and even paws had gone mostly grey, came trotting from the back to look at Ijaat, cock it's head, and promptly lay down next to a table meant for someone to play dice or card games at, given the green felt topping and layout of the topping of it. Nodding as if as expected, Ijaat placed the last glass on the bar and prepared himself mentally, and then reached out under the bar.
Pressing a button under the bar, the door lock cycled, the thick plasteel plates retracting in an iris portal like pattern, opening almost like a flower in reverse, small bands of precious beskar for bracing and reinforcing retracting into the frame. Whoever or whatever had built this certainly was cautious. As the door opened, he began absentmindedly checking things like the caf press and the other drinks, netra'gal, and the like, and the precious few bottles of matured tihaar he had. There was also some kri'gree, for anyone who could stomach it,
On the air were also various smells that would begin to drift out from the kitchen... Uj cake, gi dumpling soup, and a few non traditional meals the cook he had hired, a quiet rodian chap, knew how to make, though the wafting aroma of Tiingilar was a receipe all of Ijaat's make, and like to burn your lips off it not careful. It wasn't much, but the aromas reminded him of his youth, of good times before the hard times, and of his parents. This was going to be his life now, working here at this bar, he had given up war..
He was glad... This place wouldn't earn him much but a place to sleep and eat, but it was better than being a solider, even if the irony of the DE-10 on his hip didn't escape him.. What mando'ade didn't have some sort of weapon on them? Even retired ones too busted up to fight anymore? Even if it did clash slightly with the well-worn but cared for forest green tunic, dark yellow almost gold like trim and piping making it resemble an officers uniform of some military, even if it was covered with a crisp white apron and had the rag from earlier hanging out of the belt at the small of his back. His boots, perhaps, gave a true hint of what he once was, good spacers leather with sturdy soles and a slight bulge on one that spoke of once hiding a large boot knife or small holdout blaster.
Well, time to wait for the first customer I suppose.
