You've Got to Irn It

[Kiber Dorn]

The Lumber Hole, Irnfall, Irn

Well this was a change of pace.

Used to the hustle and bustle of city-sprawl planets like Nar Shaddaa and Coruscant, Irn was certainly a different cup of tea for Kiber. It was backwater by definition, a land of agriculture and hard work rather than a den of insidious sin.

The men here worked hard. They had calloused hands that cut down trees, herded beasts and braved the Northern Ocean to catch fish. Type of men that were made of steel and that believed that hard work would bring them salvation. Noble, respectable even.

Then we had Kiber Dorn, creature of sin and sloth, who lived by a motto of, 'why work when you can have fun?' Oh yeah, he'd fit in here. Snerk snerk.

He already stood out in the bar. All these men (and a few women) who had grafted the day away, some still bearing the sheen of sweat across their foreheads and then the pasty, spindly-legged Kiber, who often got gassed if he had to run too far. They'd break him if they put him out to work on the Fairline.

What a thought! Hard work?!

Nah, I'll pass.

However, the Fates moved in strange way, and it was their guidance of his feet that he would end up sat at the bar of the Lumber Hole, drinking a stiff ale and chatting up the local ladies. As usual he had a cigarra hanging out of his mouth, the butt already stuck to his lip and no doubt ready to peel the skin off when he took it out.

“You ever heard of Zeltros?”

Truth be told, his current victim of seduction was none too impressed but out of small town politeness kept listening to Kiber's boasts.

“I can take you there, ya know? Take you right to the top. Penthouse parties, let you like, really live, babe.”

Or Kiber's blatant lies, rather.

---

[member="Daedalus"]

 

[thegreatbeyonder]

Some men pray when they sin. Others drink.

[Theme]

Sitting in the corner of the bar was a rather secluded individual,his face quietly hidden by the shadow of his hat. The only thing that kept his eyes lit were the faint embers of his death stick. He didn't belong on Irn but amongst the hardworking Patrons he wasn't that out of place. And besides sitting in his little corner he was rather out of the way.

Pathetic little twerp.

The last three days that pretty lass had been his own... The bit of sweet in his otherwise sour heart. The sound of the chair sliding across the hard floor was enough to make anyone glance towards the source of the noise. The sudden activity of the usually stagnate man sent a chill down the bartender's spine. His boots clicked and clapped as he walked, his two holstered blaster pistols jingled along the chain of his belt. Feet carrying him, he stopped slowly just behind him, dropping his death stick into the ale.

"Are you a gamblin' man?" His coarse tone wasn't specifically threatening, but the intimidating bark of an experienced soldier was hardly missed.

His arm maneuvered itself slowly to where his hand rested over the left holster, revealing the weapon in plain sight.

[member="Kiber Dorn"]

 

[Kiber Dorn]

Of course, the grinding of the chair across the home-grown lumber wooden floor didn't go amiss, with Kiber's greedy green eyes flickering away from the face of his target towards the source of the noise.

Cowboy.

Probably a hick from this land so devoid of class and proper civilisation. There was a mild curl of the lip, a half-sneer at the man's display and then his focus went back to the target of his supposed seduction. Well, for about a few seconds. He had opened his mouth to continue his empty promises of a better world and then found it promptly shut again.

Hiss.

Death stick in the drink. Make mine a cocktail, cheers.

When faced with a prospect of an armed man squaring up to him Kiber's first instinct was to run, but then, there were motives there worth staying for. Removing the cigarra (which miraculously remained in his mouth), it took the promised skin from his lip and he winced at the slight nip of pain.

If he managed to show-up this cowboy right here and now it would get this schutta into bed a damn sight faster. Save all this bantha crap about Zeltros and penthouse promises.

“Well, actually...”

Kiber lifted his pint of ale, complete with soggy death stick and tipped the glass to his smug snake lips, talking a hearty few gulps before resting it back down upon the bar.

“...I'm a dab hand at pazaak, mate.”

---

[member="Daedalus"]

 

[thegreatbeyonder]

This guy was either ballsy or stupid... Probably both.

Daedalus couldn't help but admit to himself that this guy was in his own special way a crazy son of a queen. He could deal with that; he didn't admire it.

The witch hunter let out what could only be described as a mix between a scoff and a chuckle that ended in a rough croak. It was clear he had plenty to drink but not enough where he was unable to gather what was going on. The cretin wanted his girl! Sure, Daedalus didn't love her and would only move on once his time on Irn was done but still. A lesson to be taught to men who should know better.

Of course it wouldn't be too long after the first swing that the entire bar would be in uproar. It would be likely that the other patrons would join in, tossing chairs and punching the kark out of each other as drunk men sometimes do. Those smart enough were already home with their families or off doing something more meaningful with their time.

"Well aren't you a karking wise one." The sarcasm was real with that line.

Deadalus had other bets in mind rather than Pazaak, besides it was clear this guy would probably cheat anyway.

Taking his hat off and placing it down on the counter revealed the man's thick dark locks and worn amber eyes. "I'll bet you this wench that I'm going to kick your karking ass."

Almost before his 'opponent' could sink in those words, Daedalus' right fist went towards his face.

[member="Kiber Dorn"]

 

[Kiber Dorn]

“I'm a fethin' sage, pal,” he responded in kind, trying to display a certain amount of bravado that didn't actually exist within his bones. Still, coward or not, he wouldn't stand to be made a fool of by some cowboy, not in front of people!

Hat was off, ooh, the cowboy meant business now.

Mouth was prime once more, and once more it was interrupted. Before he could make a quip about that hat the stakes were made, evidently they were going to fi-
CRUNCH.

“...aaAAGH!”

Kiber Dorn instantly fell off of his bar stool, the cowboy's fist having made a fair dent into his poor abused nose. Eyes instinctively watered, that was definitely a break, the cocky man had so much experience with getting punched in the face that he could tell what was a break almost instantly. The blood trickled forth from his nostrils, teasing the top of his lip with the taste of crimson and was also complimented with a nice gash across the bridge of his persecuted pecker.

“Damn it! WHY DO YOU PEOPLE ALWAYS...” he protested loudly upon his arse down on the ground, hands clutching his face in what was a practised motion by now.

Slowly he returned to his feet, face a damn sight worse than it had been only moments before. Then Kiber decidedly threw his hands up, almost looking like a comical girly boxer from the antiquated times of Queensbury Rules (which didn't technically exist in this realm). It was hard to take him seriously, the lanky streak of piss that he was, even the girl of their affections actually had to stifle a laugh between her shock of the unfolding events.

Men in the background hooped and hollered, throwing insults in his direction at his hilarious stance and broken beak. Fethin' hicks.

Perhaps it might have disarmed the cowboy as Kiber's fine genuine leather booted right foot suddenly snapped out to kick the other man right in the knee.

---

[member="Daedalus"]

 

[thegreatbeyonder]

The hand connected perfectly against the crooked nose of his otherwise unseemly opponent. That feeling when bone and cartilage snapped and crackled along the edge of your knuckles was one the 'cowboy' felt many times before and will enjoy many times again. It was the kind of blow that suddenly drew the attention of the entire room. The usually quiet bar full of sweaty, hard-working men, became whimsical as they revealed their true animalian characteristics deep inside the humble mind of a man.

Cheers and shouts beckoned them to fight and prove their worth. Then laughter came when the yuppie put up his fists ready for a fight...

Even the timid girl who they were both chasing couldn't help but laugh, revealing the true unkindly nature of her inner self. Those laughs were cut short when a leather boot smashed straight into the cap of Daedalus' knee. The witch hunter did not expect a kick, after all this was a fist fight -- or at least he thought it was.

But if they're going to fight dirty then there's no use sitting around. A grimace drew along his face, his ivory teeth revealed a most unpleasant distaste with the current state of affairs, strands of muscle tore and stretched around his joint as adrenaline began pumping through his veins. Unable to contain his reaction the parsed lips produced a sharp grunt and the odor of liquor lingered in the air.

The silence remained as he stumbled back, knocking a few drinks off the counter and right into an unfortunately placed patron who was then knocked off his stool which Daedalus comically landed his ass on.

Somehow the silence got quieter. Is such a thing even possible? Yes, yes it is.

It took him a moment, just sitting there to soak in what the kark this shortsighted little twit was trying to prove. Then it began. The silence broke with an uproar as Patrons began exchanging punches, those who could leave left the bar whilst others were pulled back in and given a clean hit to the kidneys. The man he had knocked off the stool stood back up with the angriest look you could imagine a tall, heavy-weight, lumberjack could give.

"My apologies... Allow me to pick up the tab." A wicked grin curled up on the right side of his lip.

There was no patience to be given, the patron released a war chieftains battle cry before throwing a powerful punch. Daedalus sidestepped the obvious throw, grabbed the mans arm and proceeded to toss him across the counter in a finesse finish. Thus allowing him to turn back to the twerp.

Cracking his neck, "Where were we?" The coarse and virile voice was not mistaken amongst the ruckus around them.

[member="Kiber Dorn"]

 

[Kiber Dorn]

Everything went better than expected.

The man actively stumbled backwards, knocking drinks over and even a man. Impressive collateral damage, although a pity as Kiber had been contemplating stealing those drinks from the bar top later. Oh well, if he couldn't steal the drinks maybe he would just steal the credits and then buy the drinks.

The building tension finally erupted, bringing a sweet bar room brawl to the atmosphere.

His new best friend had other problems to deal with however, or, well actually no he didn't. Kiber stepped back, blood still drizzling down from his wounded schnozz as the cowboy wrangled the lumberjack and threw him across the bar in an impressive display of strength that was quite the cause for concern. A moment of silence for all spilt drinks on this eve.

Then attentions were focused back upon him, and Kiber's cowardly nature got his cocky nature in a vicious choke hold. He should have taken the girl and ran while he could. Ah, what was the point, she would have probably beaten him up too.

Still holding his flimsy arms up as if those matchsticks could defend him, he waggled his eyebrows slightly.

“Uh, you were...just sayin' that you were gonna buy me a drink, buddy.”

---

[member="Daedalus"]