Vile and dissolute creatures, the lot of them! [Brethren]

[Blackthorne]

Following the events of the Bloody Bones.

The Cove​

"Well done, mate," Captain Blackthorne smiled with cool approval at the armored man known to her and her crew only as Cinders. [member="Marcus Itera"] had somehow managed to get himself entangled with the Pirate and her dealings, and it occurred to the Captain that she may have helped in the corruption of an otherwise reputable man.

She had her doubts, but the thought amused her nevertheless. He and his men had successfully aided in the heist of a rather lovely ship from the Panathan fleet, and so it was to be that they should also share in the value of their bounty. Fair is fair, after all, and that was coming from a Pirate. The Harrowbane lead them across the stars and back to the cusp of the Stygian Caldera, on the tail of the small fleet Captained by her comrade [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"] and his crew of cutthroat kitties.

They arrived after a harrowing spin through an unplottable asteroid field and took up residence within the docks nearby Thengil's ships. Didn't take long to offload - Blackthorne left Itera's men with a welcome to the Cove and a warning to watch their backs.

"You'd make a fair Pirate yourself," she said while sparking up a sten and leading the way down the gangplank, "don't suppose you and your men would consider a change of career?"

 

[RC 212]

[member="Blackthorne"]

In the Cove

Boots thundered across the floor as his Reaver crew came in tow with him. It seemed a crew had just come back from a raid, and he was eager to meet them and hear their news. Business as of late had been well, but not as good as he hoped. They had fresh meat to eat, but not the meat that he desperately wanted to taste.

Jorus Merrill.

As the Black Clad crew spilled into the bay he crossed his arms, letting blue fog emanate from his ghastly Skull faceplate.

​

"Greetings Raiders. I congratulate you on your return. Tell me how was your raid?"​

 

[Marcus Itera]

He hardly considered himself a man of well repute. Maybe a decade and some change ago when the Galactic Republic was still in existence and home to his family. Nowadays, he did the dirty work for those of ill-repute. Marcus wasn't exactly the best at making career-changing decisions, so going from soldier to soldier-of-fortune seemed easy enough. The offer of yet another change in occupation was a bit daunting, to say the least. Going from waging wars on behalf of others to merely stealing things they wanted seemed even lower on the morality scale than what he did now.

But who cared about that?

"Thanks," the man carefully articulated the word between a pair of swigs of brandy. "Though I'm not too sure the plunderer's life is for me and my boys, I'll gladly tag along on any excursions you fine people embark upon."

The mercenary grinned, metallic eyes gleaming. "Invite me on a hunt for booty and I'm sure we'll find some."

[member="Drake Vulcan"], [member="Blackthorne"]

 

[TB-705]

Haggard felines spilled into the corridor, a flood of ragged fur and haunted looks. Pirates they might be, but only last week they'd stood slaves one and all. One among them strolled with graceful ease, but shorter than the rest and with the locks of his mane far too lush for a slave-turned-corsair. An eye familiar in the feline races might note him as a Cathar, while the rest looked Togorian.

He stepped out from the rest and cast a yellow-eyed glance in [member="Drake Vulcan"]'s direction as he passed.

"Bloody." The rumble came out in a tone neither here nor there. A matter of fact statement, such as the fact that this stranger in the blue mask wore the garb of the Sons, but did not speak with his hands... Ri'Shajirr's nostrils flared. The scent of the Dark Side hung on this man. Golden discs narrowed.

"You are no Ubese, nor are you a Son."

Sniffing one last time, the Cathar's ears twitched, then he turned away and prowled toward [member="Blackthorne"] and her human companion. Behind him, the Togorian crew descended upon the nearest brothels and bottles; drinking or karking away their nightmares; terrified they might wake up to find this all a dream.

Thengil padded alongside his fellow captains, butting on their conversation with little heed. "A worthy prize, Blackthorne, though not the one we sought."

If Blackthorne had taken note of the composition of Thengil's crew prior to the launching of the raid, she might wonder where all the Rodians and Thyrsians had gone. She might also notice that though the Togorian crew partook in liquor and sex, they did not seem overly famished...

[member="Marcus Itera"]

 

[Blackthorne]

"Of course," Blackthorne eyed the man and his brandy, her stride leaning towards him with a keening cheshire grin, "I'll be happy to have you along for any booty call."

"A worthy prize, Blackthorne, though not the one we sought."

Green eyes slanted to her right, taking in the soured sight of Thengil as he joined them. The woman peeled herself away from her Merc companion to offer the Cathar an indulgent look and nuzzle against his shoulder while they walked, "That's why we took two," her hands clasped lightly at his upper arm, "he must have moved it after the bounty went up. We'll track it down - he won't leave a ship like that in hiding forever."

And if he did? Well, what an awful waste of a good ship.

"The Brethren has more eyes in more places now," Blackthorne's gaze returned to [member="Marcus Itera"] and she reached with her other hand to take his nearest arm, a coy look to her as she walked at the elbow of two fine males, "we have something to celebrate and a bounty to divvy. Why don't you pick our poison, Captain Ri'Shajirr."

 

[Aela Talith]

[member="Blackthorne"] | [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"] | [member="Marcus Itera"] | [member="Drake Vulcan"]

Behind the mass of Togorians that Thengil had brought came another of their kind.

He stood taller than most of them, towering over Thengil. He seemed to loom there for a moment, only stepping into place after the Cathar had spoken. Aryn didn't say a word as he followed along, his expression practically blank but the twitch of his ears more telling than any smile or scowl. He moved with an odd sort of grace for a creature of his size, winding between the people in the crowd and leading them away from himself as though it were little more than an afterthought.

Once or twice people stared, but a single glance from his good eye was enough to make them turn away.

Piracy was not something that many Mandalorians thought of in a favorable way, but after their encounter on Point Nadir Thengil had shown Aryn the freedom of it. The profession was one not all together different from work as a mercenary, the only difference being the freedom that he held. Clan Spar moved with him, taking up residence within an ancient dreadnought unearthed on Concordia just a few years ago. The ship worked well enough for now, and though their raids had been small, he'd found great wealth in them.

His gaze traced over the other captains, studying them in stoic silence.

The Togorian knew only one so far, but if his Cathar brother associated with them then they couldn't be too bad.

 

[Marcus Itera]

The man was very much so inebriated.

Lacking motor skills and stumbling about wasn't his style, but the glossy eyes and loose lips gave it away to even the most unperceptive of beings. Inhaling sharply through his nostrils, Marcus careened alongside both the woman and the prowling cat-man. A few surveying glances saw him fairly similar to the other being he'd met back during their raid. [member="Piraiba"] was his name, he believed, and he seemed much more apt to a good drink and a laugh rather than melancholy monologues and pensiveness.

But company was company - and a ship was still a ship.

"Good 'nuff for me," the mercenary added dryly. "Though I could just have low standards; virgin to the piracy business and all."

Even saying the word felt odd, odd enough to wash away with another swig of alcohol.

The feeling of smooth fingers gliding across his forearm drew the man back into a pleasant reality. He flashed his lady-friend a dreamy, drunken grin before matching them in stride.

"I don't like him." Came the mental voice; Miranda chiming in as always.

He responded in turn. "Who? The cat-fella?" A mental shrug followed, "Seems alright to me."

"Not me."

[member="Aryn Spar"], [member="Blackthorne"], [member="Thengil Ri'Shajirr"], [member="Drake Vulcan"]