The Twin Snakes

[Uther Weiss]

Location: Shady corner of the Republic...
Time: 833 ABY

In a particular rough neighborhood on a smelly outer rim planet, Uther had spent the better part of the day frequenting various shops, looking for a capable weapons smith for a custom fabrication job. He hadn't had any luck yet, but that was to be expected for someone in his situation. Having to basically start his mercenary career from square one, he didn't have the funds for legit master smiths, and he didn't have the rep to obtain a reasonable black market deal with any of the smiths affiliated with major criminal groups, so that meant hunting for competent small timers in the backwoods. That description almost seemed like an oxymoron eight planets later, when he hadn't found anything but a few a few robbery attempts. Something about his dashing Echani looks just seemed to scream easy target, even when he was walking around with enough hardware to make a Mandalorian Quartermaster blush.

Pushing through the dirty crowd on the dusty street (and swatting away would be pickpockets along the way), Uther came across another weapon shop, "Grog's Weaponized Emporium". It was hard to miss with the giant flickering neon sign. He strolled into the shop towards the counter, and examined all the weapons on display. Several custom jobs, and a few he figured to be completely original. He saw nothing particularly amazing, but at least all the weapons looked usable. He had come across many other shops trying to sell literal junk, like one bright Toydarian who thought he could get away trying to sell cheap ass blasters converted from slugthrowers. Crap like that had a better chance killing their owner than the target.

 

[Poet]

A grunt of some sort of welcoming nature would be all the acknowledgement the young Enchani would initially get, the type that would dissuade any sticky fingers, especially in these parts. The hulking figure of a fully-suited Draag sat hunched over a workbench, working at dismantling a rather curious-looking rifle. As it was an original creation, it was nearly unrecognizable as anything currently on the market, but though it was rather ugly with some of the strangest proportions, the craftsmanship was easily sound. This Draag, presumably 'Grog' himself, didn't cater to frivolous tastes to be sure, which was perhaps why his shop was tucked into the middle of such a dusty street with a rather dismal crowd, sporting a tacky neon sign.

 

[Uther Weiss]

Uther approached the Draag from the side, remaining silent as he observed the smith work. The gun he was working on looked pretty nasty, but he couldn't recognize his function. That meant either an extreme mod or an original piece all together. However, what he was most interested in was how the Draag worked. He seemed to handle his tools and creation with deft hands - Draags had a reputation with being skilled with small arms, so it didn't surprise him that talents extended to fabrication. So far so good.

"So what is it you got there?"

 

[Poet]

"Not for sale, this," he grunted, placing it on the table on the opposite side from Uther, shoving it with outstretched arm further away, into a blanketed pile with various metallic odds and ends sticking out from beneath the crude and thread-worn edges (the glint of a barely visible barrel hinted that perhaps more custom weapons were hidden beneath). Keeping one forearm rested on his table, Grog turned to face the potential customer with narrow, reptilian eyes visible even under his yellow-tinted visor in the dimly-lit shop. His heavy brow and thick-set shoulders went characteristically well with his seemingly no-nonsense attitude.

"Looking for something?"
[member="Uther Weiss"]

 

[Uther Weiss]

"Yeah," Uther answered curtly, opening his crimson coat to reveal a bevy of small arms, blades, and explosives.

"These days, you got to have something for everyone. Shaped charges for those damn turtle Mandalorians, boomers (concussion weapons) for Sith and Jedi, ion blasters for wardroids, disruptors for those creepy ass Vong. I'm trying to cut down my growing pile of armaments into single modular system based around easily swappable receivers. I want the base to be a pistole that can be converted into a carbine with a kit."

"Judging by your wares, you seem to know your stuff. Think you can handle my request?"

 

[Poet]

Though it didn't quite register on the mug of the Draag, Grog was faintly impressed. It took a lot of guts to carry that sort of load out, considering it was a lot of tech to keep an eye on in a fight. Considering the frailty of near-humans, any one of his species-optimized weapons would be deadly when used against him. He had to either be skilled, or just plain stupid. Since his was still alive, Grog's opinion grudgingly leaned toward the former.

"It won't be cheap. Will take time, too," he grunted, pushing himself off the chair to lumber toward a curtained-off back room. With one last look at the stranger's loadout, Grog accepted that it would be very likely that the Echani could pay. "Come back tomorrow. I will have sketches for you to look over. When you are happy with that, you pay me half to get materials. Half when complete."

With a dismissive wave, he ducked behind the curtain, disappearing, presumably, to begin his work.

 

[Uther Weiss]

Uther didn't linger, making a B line right for his ship for the night, where he slept fitfully as he tried to keep the psychotic Sith specter from shredding his mind. That meant another injection of a stim pack to keep him alert while he was out. It was his sixth one in eight days...the insomnia was killing him. When he stepped into Grog's shop the next morning, he looked pale even for a an Echani, and his eyes had dark bags under them.

"Morning...what do you got for me?"