Korn Kray'ac
Magnet
Music IC
It wasn’t his, he didn’t own it, he wished he did, felt suited to it, like a king or an emperor.
Unfortunately, someone else ran this world’s government; a governor or more of them.
Then again, truth be told, he’d probably kriff up leadership, and the world would burn.
Still… He took a sip of his drink: vodka, neat. It would be...fun.... Maybe he’d get his turn.
For now, the man settled for the burn of alcohol down his throat, turning at the counter.
Propping elbows on the bar, facing the interior of a cantina, one called The Rim Dancer.
Wasn’t a strip club but it sounded like one. Located in the city, it’s a cantina like any other.
Dimly lit, but not exactly dark, enough for the man to watch the floor from the bar, observe.
Tables beside tables, patrons sitting, eating, drinking, some standing, smoking and vaping.
No one was dancing, wasn’t really the place, although the music could keep one swaying.
He watches, he listens, not faces, not conversations, but an atmospheric rhythm’s curve.
Whatever the kriff that means. Words didn’t mean a thing to him, not really, while he drinks.
A number more of these and he would be drunk, but that wasn’t his attention, if his thing.
He was here for pleasure, also here for business and both were his. The rogue sat alone.
Rogue, merc, but one with his own code. Five syllables, or two. Settled for just 'Mando'.
Patrons on the left, servers on the right, vice versa, a drunkard in the corner, a soldier.
People of all kinds were here, all species, all cultures, all careers, though few in armor.
He was a Mandalorian, this man, his name Korn of Clan Kray’ac, but he wore no helmet.
He wasn't clad in beskar’gam but in black jeans, brown boots and in a blue denim jacket.
Mandalorians, one or more of them; might sooner show them the door as they showed him.
“What do you think of these?” Spoke a voice from a stool beside him; a blue-skinned chick.
No lekku, wasn’t a Twi’lek, no red eyes, wasn’t Chiss, maybe Pantoran, fingers to her chest.
“I…uh…” Korn looked down, looked up. Triplets. Not Pantoran. “They…” Caught his breath.
Alana Calloway