Topic: Grindhouse Rpg (by Audition Only)

Kin scooped up the bolts from the table, slowly popping each one in carefully. He'd only used about 30 of them anyway. As if he'd actually drop all 4 hundred  of them onto the table, he wasn't that crazy. Staring bluntly at Dresden in extreme distaste. Beginning to stand up without paying too much attention. Two brawling figures just missing him, kicking the mass outright in disgust.
"Pardon me for a moment Ace, Orsusk...Firlov..."
Kin couldn't believe how badly he wanted to hurt the man Dresden, sliding the clip back into the repeater with an aggrivated clink. Picking the forlorn chair up and on its legs. Catching the two who'd beat into the table, slamming the butt of the repeater into the side of a head. Tapping the other chap right between the eyes playfully. He might not wake up for a while.
Sliding the two limp forms off and sitting back down.
"Hopefully someone'll pick them up eventually. If not I can always hit a little harder, bone coffee table'll look good in the cell. So, we were talking about the wide brimmed hat..." Kin
If you've ever had that feelng where you know something isn't right about someone, Kin might have been experiencing it. Although, he didn't and wasn't. Watching studiously at the imposing cloaked entity.

Dracmus Kleysik sat at the Blue Sun’s main bar, scant meters from the fighter’s cage entrance. He dipped his muzzle into the wide-brimmed glass of water in front of him, ignoring the snickers thrown his way by the nearby bar patrons – those cradling hard liquor between their dirty palms. Drac ignored them, feeling the reassuring weight of his discblades resting on the harness he wore beneath his cloak. Drac tightened that cloak closer around his body, and pulled the hood down further past his furred snout.

    Without warning, a human who’d been too confident in his own fighting abilities came sailing out of the fighters’ area with such force that his airborne body resisted the effects of gravity for a full two meters and came to a violent stop on the bar in front of Drac’s seat. Glass shattered, nearby bottles of various alcoholic drinks came up in a spray of rainbow colors, and the human’s well-muscled body dropped down onto the bar stool, then to the floor, bleeding heavily.

    Drac was not there.

    The Selonian stood off to the side, well out of range as the spray of liquids fell back down on the open-mouthed patrons. He sighed beneath his hood, now observing the awestruck look that each of the spectating bar flies wore upon their dumb faces. In the time it took for the man to fly less than seven feet, after catching him completely unaware, Drac had spun on his stool, stood, and stepped to a reasonable distance with such speed that the half-drunk alcoholics couldn’t follow it with their glazed eyes.

    Quite an accomplishment. He thought sarcastically to himself, taking another sip from the glass of water he still held in his black paw. And now I’ve made a scene.

    But he was wrong. The men went back to their drinks after a few moments’ pause, and life in the bar returned to normal. Too drunk to dwell on the abnormal speed or just plain give a frack – lucky him. Forcing his spiked heart rate to drop back to normal, Drac turned his head slowly to survey the chaos of the arena. Fighting for money and attention, something he’d never do if his very life required it. Vanity and greed were not the way of the Zeison Sha.

    Live to fight, fight to live. 

    The old, powerful words came to him clearly, for it had been not two years since he still lived and learned with his kin on Yanibar. That was done now, though. Now it was him, just him and his; all else was stripped of him. The Selonian slowly shook his head and willed the depressing events to flee his mind. His quavering head, and the eyes within it, came to rest on the fighters’ cage again as he shook his past away. With quick eyes he surmised that two men (well, one man, he corrected himself, the other is....something else) dominated the ring, each dropping men with casual and confident simplicity in their quasi-tag-team. Honorable warriors all said, if not more than mildly insane, this he could tell.

    As he moved to a different seat, intending to finish his water and perhaps seeing if they offered something edible to eat, Drac noticed one of the two drop a Nikto with a single heavy punch to the skull, staring in wonder at his bleeding knuckles after the feat was done. As he stood there, perplexed by something even Drac’s magic couldn’t unveil, an enormous Whiphid bore down on him, meaning to kill the pale fighter while his guard was down and his attention elsewhere. The beast creature grasped a massive, studded steel cudgel in one gigantic hand, and it swung the ponderous weapon with vicious strength into the orange-haired humanoid’s floating ribcage. The effect was extremely predictable.

    The albino brawler was hurled against the arena cage with such force that the wire mesh of the makeshift cage quivered along its entire length, causing a caterwaul offensive enough to make the nearby barflies flinch at its reverberating clap. It was at this point that Drac began to move. His powerful, Force-amplified legs sprang off the beer-sticky floor without a single command from the calm and convictive mind between his keen ears. His clawed toes dug divots out of the floor tiles, and the black hood fell back from his visage, revealing a long, black-hued, majestic and noble Selonian face. The eyes buried in that skull possessed the same bleak ebony as both his cloak and his fur, and shone with the quiet image of purpose that mirrored the same feeling in his heart. One hand loosened the Shyarn in its sheath.

    A creature such as this would not take the pale one’s life by mere chance. No, if he wished to show his own prowess, he would do it by fighting the orange-haired man at his best. Acting violently and unreasonably was against his policy, but tendencies and habits are but a shack in the storm when conflicting with principles so ingrained into one’s mind that they have become his very nature. The ways of the Zeison Sha are not so easily forgotten.

    The Zeltron was on his knees now, gazing with glazed eyes at the titanic creature raising its war club for another blow. He had no breath in his lungs, and there was little he could do but watch. Little he could do. The pale alien fought well, incredible for a man against so many his superior in both size and armaments. For such a warrior to be sent to the clearing at the end of the path on his knees, blind-sided in a moment of unexplained awe by a surprisingly but assuredly lesser opponent, rivaled on sin. Drac believed he was many things, but sinner was a title he hoped to fend off for a good time more.

    The Whiphid’s cudgel, now at its peak, began to fall, propelled by the durasteel bands of muscle beneath the titan’s rippling fur. The pale Zeltron just stared breathlessly, mayhap wondering if the fun could possibly end here so abruptly, so boringly.

    It couldn’t.

    A resounding clash of metal on metal shattered the air. Drac stood between the Whiphid and its might-be prey (he was unsure that he even had to be doing this at all, from what he’d seen of the Zeltron thus far), his Shyarn looking ridiculous as it parried a weapon dozens of times its own weight. The metal in that blade was a smithing secret of the Cereans, and they alone – he hadn’t yet found a material to match it. Backed by the incredible muscles of a Force-sensitive creature, that emaciated dueling sword stopped the Whiphid’s power-bomb of momentum, weight, and strength as it descended upon the kneeling figure of the orange-haired fighter.

    “Yield.” He growled in a quiet, but deeply powerful tone, “Ye’ll not slay this one on his knees.”

    The Whiphid’s responsorial roar drew shudders from passersby walking the street outside the cantina; Drac’s fur rippled with the bellow’s intensity; he moved not a single muscle. The massive alien drew the club back again, raising it for another strike against the being who dared interrupt his fight.

     Don’t use the gift. This is drawing enough attention as it is.

    The Selonian, unable to dodge lest the blow land on the Zeltron’s skull and render his entire involvement pointless, turned it aside with a heavy swipe from his scimitar. Before the Whiphid could so much as begin to move his burdensome weapon, Drac’s Shyarn had drawn a long gash across its shaggy chest, summoning forth another deep roar of fury. His idle offhand followed with an uppercut, striking his opponent under the long snout that might be like his own were it smaller and without tusks. His performance until now had been fast, efficient, deft.

    It became abnormal when the Whiphid was lifted off its feet and driven backwards by the blow. It looked up at Drac with a very confused expression on its face, obviously unaccustomed to staring up at an enemy.

    Dracmus resumed his fighting stance, and patiently waited for the Whiphid to regain its feet. He glanced over his shoulder, feeling uncomfortable protecting a person he very well knew didn’t need it. The voice he used was neither soft nor hard, and smooth as flowing water.

    “Perhaps you’d prefer to take over, if your moment of weakness has passed.”

He's good.  He's very good. 

A moment's peace, monk. HUN replied, eyeing the Selonian dueling in the center ring as he slowly moved out of the dueling ring, donning his black hood once more and avoiding the gaping stares of inebriated observers. 

Pardon my intrusion then....I'll return to my meditations, though please to inform me of any developments.

HUN nodded solemnly to himself, saying nothing.   

By now, he had gathered some attention of his own...he could see the Trandoshan and other pazaak players glancing in his direction, thrown off by the lack of a face beneath the wide-brimmed hat. 
Trenchcoat billowing around him, HUN approached the pazaak table, slowly taking a seat across from the Chiss. 

"Another player eh?"  The Chiss pretended to act indifferent, but the unease around the table was palpable.  Orsusk straightened in his chair, his arm straying closer to the blaster holstered at his side. 

HUN reached carefully into the expanses of his trenchcoat, pulling out a small grey box and affixing it to the side of his neck.  With a brief squeal of static, the device came to life.

"Been a long time---since I've seen a pazaak table." 

Orsusk grinned out of the corner of his mouth.  "We like the classics here.  Got any cards to play with, stranger?"

HUNs gloved hand reached into the trenchcoat once more.  With a wet "thunk!", he slapped an ancient pazaak deck onto the table. 

"Just happen---to have some with me." 

The Chiss chuckled softly.  "Well, plenty of room for more.  Just hope you know what you're getting into."

A series of squeals emitted from the device that might have been interpreted as laughter.  "Pazaak....what do you know, Chiss?  In my day----I was king."

He reached into his coat one final time, slowly, deliberately uncovering a ceramic mask, molded in the faint visage of a humaniod, brilliantly white against the darkness of his face.  With careful precision, he aligned it over the black viod where his head should have been, fixing it in place, and staring at the other patrons of the table with a permanent expression of morbid amusement.

"Let's play, gentlebeings."

Zenth leaned forward and coughed once. Orange blood splattered onto the dirty and stained floor. The he looked up at the strange darkness of the Selonian standing over him, his head angling up at him limply.

He smiled, "I'd love to,"

The Zeltron couldn't stand at first, his body protesting from a dozen injuries he couldn't feel. He wasn't exactly sure if the broken ribs were from his speeder ride earlier. He gave a haggard cough between smiling teeth, and still idly clutching his chest he used his legs to stand up.

The sounds of the spreading Free-For-All flooded Zenth's limited senses as stepped forward, free of the normal physical constraints of pain. The raging Whipid roared in it's alien tongue and charged.The unusual Zeltron sprinted to meet him, and launched a powerful kick into the open gash across it's chest and redirected the huge force of the being to send him flying into the side cage mesh. The entire cage shook and the mesh hung limp and bent as the Whipid clawed himself upright, but before he turn around Zenth had balled his fists together and brought them crashing down on the back of the Whipid's head.

Then he brought his knee into the creature's side, twice. Feeling inspired, and avoiding the swelling mass of abundant brawlers, Zenth grabbed up the Whipid's own heavy weapon. He struggled with the weight of the thing only at first, until in a final blow he brought the steel cudgel full-forced into the side of the creature's head. Broken pieces of tusks went flying with flesh and fluid. Then the enormous fur-covered beast fell, limp.

The pale-orange skinned humanoid let go of the heavy club and turned, he flexed the stiff and swollen fingers of his right hand then gave yet another empty smile. he could almost feel the adrenaline surging like fire through his veins, almost.

Suddenly the sound of a high-pitched beep-beep-beep cut through the furious uproar. Dodging underneath a stray blow from a pair of quarreling Gotals the Zeltron quickly dug into the neck of his shirt and pulled out a small timer on a chain. Zenth turned it off then moved over toward the cloaked Selonian.

"Hey!" He called over the commotion, "I have to go eat now. Let me buy you something!"

((Well look who finally decided to show up. :P ))

While throwing an over-sized human into a pack of Rodians, Zek saw the Selonian run into the ring.

"You looking for a fight, ya' little fur ball rat?!" While walking over to the newest arrival, Zek spotted an over confident Wookiee beckoning him. With a mighty leap, Zek wrapped his arm around the furry beast's neck, puushed his body back and his legs forward, and landed on the ground, breaking his neck.

((With great pleasure, lady-sai.))
-----------------------------------------------------------

    Drac paused for a moment, his well-disciplined mind halting as it tried to process what exactly had just happened. The albino Zeltron had been fighting, injured, recovered, and crushed a Whiphid’s skull with a war club; now his clock was telling him it was time for dinner. The Selonian kicked his mind back into drive, reminded himself that this man was at best less-than-sane, and then slowly began to nod.

    “Very well, lead the way.”

    A very familiar sensation shrieked a warning into Drac’s mind, and the Selonian twirled gracefully to face the Herglic charging him from behind. He had no stomach for this, and he’d decided that his role in this fight had come to a close for now. Drac’s head dipped an instant before a hopeful punch swept through empty air, then side-stepped the follow-up strike with the same liquid alacrity. He ducked past the large creature’s defense with swift ease, and placed his open palm gently upon the Herglic’s solid chest. It paused, confused.

    A moment later it was soaring through the air.

    The Selonian stood, his pose unaltered, palm still held outward. The black paw hadn’t moved. Lowering his eyes and pulling his hood up once again, Drac turned and followed the orange-haired fighter cautiously, already unsure of his mental stability. He could always trust his freakish danger-sense for protection, but to rely on his gift too much would weaken his body and his conventional mind; and more horribly, it would mark him as
different.

    Just as they were about to leave the arena Drac heard a roar tear through the fighters’ cage. To his chagrin, it was undoubtedly directed at him; even more so, it was from the other fighter, the second one that the Selonian had marked as he observed the ring. The other top dog.

    Trouble. Drac thought, his paws wrapping themselves around a pair of discblades beneath his cloak. His mind linked with the weapons effortlessly, so familiar was the routine to any Zeison Sha worth his blades. To his relief a Wookie intercepted the mismatched monstrosity, diverting his attention for at least a few seconds. Drac took the opportunity, and bound after the Zeltron before he was challenged again and forced to draw attention to himself. He’d not fight for personal pride.

    Once outside the arena, the albino pulled out a chair at a random table, stretching his neck from side to side as he took a seat in it. The black-furred Selonian followed, moving his tail to the side of the chair and doing the same. The Zeltron quickly summoned a waitress (there was a serious lack of male wait-staff in the bar), ordered something Drac wouldn’t bother trying to pronounce, and a glass of straight whiskey to wash it down.

    Shaking away images of what the bar would look like if this being were drunk, Drac asked for what looked like some type of cooked meat (as long as it was cooked and clean, he could bear the taste), and another glass of water. The Twi’lek waitress eyed him strangely, too used to serving large amounts of alcohol, and then set off in a walk that purposely involved too much motion of the hips, as he would innocently describe it. Drac looked away in quiet disdain, bringing his attention to the exceedingly odd individual seated across from him.

    “Zenth.” He said simply, extending a blood-stained hand with an equally bloody smile. He ran his tongue over the orange-tinged teeth, and his eyes rose thoughtfully with the strange taste.

    “Drac.” The Selonian returned just as briefly, gripping Zenth’s hand unflinchingly and retaining his look of stoic thoughtfulness. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around just how strange this Zenth was. It defied all logic, all common sense, all sentient thought at all. Drac decided he was crazy.

    “So now, what brings you to the...Blue Sun is it?” Zenth asked, cracking his ravaged knuckles. Drac checked a shudder threatening to run down his spine.

    “Thirst, hunger, convenience.” He talked in his preferred fashion; short, direct, nondescript. “You?”

    “I fell off a speeder. Well, got thrown off a speeder. Well, the speeder crashed. Well, the speeder crashed and I got thrown off right around hereabouts.” Zenth replied, gesturing to the ruckus taking place in all sects of the cantina.

    “I see.” The Selonian lied, in actuality having little idea what the pale man was talking about. With this one however, he decided it would be better to say little and question less.

    “Taking a chance on that cage prize?” Zenth asked, probably wondering if he’d have to kill or cripple Drac in addition to everyone else.

    “No.”

    Zenth waited for him to elaborate, and when he saw that the beast man had no intention to, asked the question himself:

    “Why not? You look handy enough with that little sword there.”

    “I do alright when I have to.” Drac responded, keeping his eyes down.

    It was obvious that Zenth was becoming amused by the Selonian’s quiet and serious tone, and he quickly copied the voice with eerie accuracy.

    “I do too.” He murmured, lowering both his head and the pitch of his voice. In an instant the loud, insane demeanor was back again, along with a burst of self-amused laughter, “But I always believe you could do a lot better with a pocket full of prize money. Besides, it’s fun. Really fun.”

    “I’ll take your word for it.” Drac answered, seeing the result of Zenth’s ‘fun’ seeping from his knuckles and staining his teeth. He wondered just how much pain the Zeltron had to be in – he was sure the Whiphid must have broken some ribs – and yet he talked and acted so ridiculously normal. Curiosity got the better of him.

    Drac reached out with his gift, focusing on the Zeltron’s body and trying to tap into his feelings without alerting him of the mental intruder. He succeeded, or thought he did, but what he found posed more questions than it answered. The Selonian’s face suddenly contorted in pain, and his arms gripped his stomach tightly as if he were hurt. It took a good deal of his will to keep from doubling over and falling from his chair.

    “Alright there?” Zenth asked casually, not sounding as if he were particularly concerned.

    “Fine.” Drac said. He’d severed the connection as quickly as he could, and even so the pain lingered in his nerves. Gods how could he be conscious? Let alone sitting, talking, eating, drinking?

    What is this man? Drac thought, feeling the pads of his hands starting to sweat. He refused to let his curiosity guide him again though, and left the thought unanswered.

    Their food arrived, and the Selonian dug in wordlessly, suddenly aware of the hunger twisting his stomach. The meat wasn’t as bad as he’d expected, and he ate quickly, chasing each bite with a swallow of water. It was the best meal he’d had in a long time. His eyes flickered across the table as Zenth chomped on his own meal, knocking back mouthfuls of whiskey with not so much as a grimace.

Kalu sat quietly observing the chaos around her. She hoped that she wouldn't draw the attention of the walking corpse, though he seemed content smashing those around him. She also noticed the strange new comer who had sat down at the Sabbacc table. Although the gamblers were all experts at hiding their emotions, the tension was almost a tangible thing.

Kalu blinked as she looked at one of the Twi'leks with the Chiss, she looked familiar yet Kalu couldn't think who she was.

Her train of thought was broken as her brother sat down across from her at the table. "Hi Kalu." He grinned.

"So you did decide to turn up, Nathu." She replied, sliding back into her seat.

"I told you I'd be here." He said, looking around to see if anyone was paying them attention.

Kalu noticed that the Criss looked their way briefly then returned to his cards. "So what's so important?" Kalu asked.

"I've got a job for you, it's big, worth a fortune." Nathu said, greed seemed to excite him.

"Spill it," Kalu said as she took another sip of her drink.

Nathu leant forward and whispered, "The job's to assassinate Governor Telk."

Kalu almost choked on her drink. "You can't be serious."

"Dead serious," Nathu replied. "The pay is four hundred thousand credits."

Kalu shook her head. "They'd put a bounty on your head for 4 million just talking about the idea."

"Look someone else will do it if you don't." Nathu said, a touch of desperation in his voice.

"I don't care, they can live with a bounty on their head. I'm the best at what I do and that's because I know which jobs to take and which ones to leave alone." Kalu pointed out.

Nathu sat back, clearly disappointed. For the first time he noticed the Twi'leks with the Chiss. Then it dawned on Kalu who the familiar one was: Dreeda, Nathu's runaway girlfriend.

Kalu stood up as her brother did, "Don't do anything stupid." She said but it was too late.

Nathu grabbed Dreeda by the shoulders and pulled her off the Chiss' lap. "You lied to me. You said you were going for a few hours, not a few months."

Dreeda was clearly shocked, her mouth opened and closed as she tried to think of an explaination but nothing came out.

Kalu stepped back, she had a feeling a fight was about to begin.

Kin had packed up his cards a few minutes before, keeping the small amount of credits he'd earned to himself. Enough to buy a case of Orange Riots, enough to make a fellow happy. But this bit of drama only slightly bettered that. Kin stood up hastily. Walking behind the ex, getting his head right next to his left ear. Whispering.
"You should sit down, these fellows are playing a friendly card game. It's rude to interrupt."
The man's grip had loosened, surprised to have someone else caught so close to the action. An inch from face contact, Kin taking the advantage. Slamming a claw shaped fist into his chest(This does work depending on how much you've studied in a Martial Art that teaches it). Sending him spiraling to the floor. Annoyed but for the most part unhurt.
The man picked himself up ruefully, Kin turning to Ace. Watching the Twi'lek from a corner of his eye, just waiting to see if she'd run. See if she'd give him a chance to go hunting. Tracking her through Ord Mantell in the dark of night. Always a few steps behind, better never far away. Step by step as the game went on, a fever pitch of emotion, screaming...wait, where was he again? Right, the cantina, of course...
"You might as well keep playing. Somebody needs to simmer down before he has his talk."
Kin walked off to the bar, placing an order for a couple of Orange Riots. Dropping the extra into the new guy's hand. The bubbling liquid near a waterfall over the top. Kin sat down in his empty spot. Trying to catch up to the game. Tapping a couple of collar buttons, reseting the flow. His glass nearly empty already.
Governor Telk...Kin couldn't wait to get to work.

Nathu dusted himself off and tried not to flinch as his hand touched his chest. He would have charged after Kin, but his buddy, Helgon Juont had arrived just in time to hold him back. "The Twi'lek isn't worth it." Helgon stated as Dreeda wrapped herself back into the Chiss' embrace.

Nathu was tempted to spit on the Chiss, but he knew his sister would slap him for it. "Let the tramp have her sleasy card shark. He'll blow her off as soon as something better comes along."

Dreeda looked shocked but said nothing, instead she burried her head against the Chiss's shoulder. He merely smiled at them. "One man's trash, is another's treasure."

Nathu started towards him but Helgon held him back. At that moment Helgon recognised one of the men at the table. Firlov Dresden was no card shark, he was a slave trader. He knew, he'd been one of the few slaves to escape. He pulled the blaster from Nathu's holster and fired at the underlord.

"What the-" Firlov ducked down as Helgon pulled the blaster on him, the bolt missed by near inches. "Die." Firlov sat back up and gave the man a double-barrel blast from the gun previously sitting in his lap.

The bar went silent for a few seconds, then returned to It's normal hustle-and-bustle. The smoking body fell back and hit the ground with a thud.

"You want some?" Firlov looked at Nathu with a psycoticly evil stare. "No? Too bad."  He replaced the two spent shells with new ones, closed the breach, and set the gun down in front of him.

"Well, He shot first." Orsusk sighed. "I can't do nothin to ya."

Nathu raised his hands and stood back, Kalu grabbed him by the shirt and sat him down at a nearby table. It was occupied by a Zeltron and Selonian, neither seemed to be causing any trouble at the moment.

"Excuse me gentle beings, do you mind if we join you for a meal? We aren't looking for trouble." Kalu stated.

The Zeltron looked at her with wild eyes for a moment. "Sure, do as you wish."

Kalu looked over her shoulder at the smoking corpse that had been Helgon. "Will someone clean that up?"

Before the others could answer a group dented and tarnished droids came out with a stretcher and carried the body away.

Nathu was up and followed the droids away, leaving Kalu with the two aliens. She picked up the menu, "So what's good to eat around here?"

It's okay, I said he could.

((Already forgotten.))

((As soon as Fetter and Dravage get a post in I'll open up to the next plot point. Lookin' good so far everybody!))

So the honorable Governor Telk was going down after all. That suited Ace just fine. Even though the Nalu girl said she wouldn't take the job, he'd still keep tabs on her. Her and her hot-headed brother. Who knows? Nasty business had a tendency to turn in Ace's favor; as long as he was ready to snitch and rat out a few friends.

He glanced over at Nathu as security dragged off Halgor's lifeless body. For some reason his sweaty clenched fists were bringing him abundant happiness. There was something about having this kind of power over others that just exhilarated him. He made sure he had a firm hand groping Dreeda's thigh when the kid turned around again. Nathu tried to play it off and just turned back to the Zeltron and the hooded Selonian trembling with hatred. Ace grinned with satisfaction. It was almost too easy, the poor kid must've have suffered much in losing this voluptuous creature, who ironically enough was completely dispensable to him.

He turned back to the game at hand and sighed. That mask was really starting to annoy him. Not just for the fact that he couldn't read the entity's thoughts, but quite frankly it was unnerving.

"Valerno!" said Firlov sharply breaking into Ace's thoughts. "This game's over. We have business to attend to."

Ace sighed.

"Yeah sure, whatever boss," he said throwing down his hand.

He glared at HUN as he stood up. I was gonna win too. I know I was.

HUN stared back at the Chiss with its faceless expression and placed down a card. 20.

Or not... thought Ace genuinely impressed as he followed Dresden into the V.I.P. section.

((I've been asked to draw a scene of the pazaak game, but I can't do that until I get concept renderings of the characters there done.  So, whoever's character's at the pazaak game, please fill out a detailed outline of your character's appearance as you want it, in the BalanceArt thread of the Creative section.  Thanks!))

HUN-90

((Wow...nice work...Do you need Firlov's outline too?))

((You already did a great rendering of him.  :P  If you want someone drawn, just ask for it.))

This RPG seems to be shaping up very nicely.

Name: Arran Fyve
Occupation: Ex-bouncer
Species: Kiffar
Gender: Male
Age: 32
Appearance: Traditional dreds of his race, darkish skin, left half of his body covered on tribal tattoos.  Wears a dark brown travel poncho over a grey, sleeveless, semi-armored shirt, and brown travel-worn pants
Personality: Generally friendly and personanble, when things went his way
Skills: Very strong, knows how to brawl very well, an alright shot, pretty good with a knife, and can tell a mean Twi'lek joke
Equipment: A hand blaster that misfires more often than not, and a throwing knife
Brief History: Left his clan after his love was tragically injured in a training accident, and was fired from his job as a bouncer the day before this rpg

Sorry for starting so late, but can someone give me a quick recap of the preceding events?

((Yeah, nice to see your back. At this stage it's mainly been brawling and gambling, so you haven't missed much. There's a four hundred thousand credit bounty on Governor Telk that no one's particularly keen to take etc. Hope that helps))

The table was emptying faster than the glasses of nearby patrons. Jerricko's eyes focused on the shady character staring blankly back at him through that eerie mask. The game had ended in an abrupt and awkward way, unfortunately the "law" was on Firlov's side. The law was always on Firlov's side.

The shady being across the table kept playing as if nothing had happened. The trandoshan's mind wandered off the cards again, scanning the cantina for anything that would obviously turn into something ugly. Looking for suspicious behavior in Ord Mantell was like trying to find hay in a hay stack. But right now he just needed a reason to get up from his chair. His opponent was staring through his scales and he was no more informed than he was when the repeater was pressed to his jaw.

"It's your turn" scratched out of the strange being's box.
Orsusk stared blankly back at the cards and faintly remembered a time when he actually won a hand once in a while. But the game had lost all meaning, and he could only assess that the feeling was mutual. With nothing left to break the tension, and in dire need of a change of pace, Orsusk blurted out the first thought passing through his mind.

"How can you see with that thing on... or at all for that matter?

Faintly amused, HUN lifted his head as if viewing the Trandoshan for the first time.

"Few have been---so bold as to ask."

He carefully laid his card hand face down, and removed his playing mask, revealing the dark expanse beneath.  A void where a face should have been.

"You assume, Orsusk---that I can see at all.  Rather, I feel....the reptilian blood that courses through your cold veins---the tension rising, the cresending opus of a bloodbath---here, in this very room."

Orsusk shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  "a bloodbath...well, thanks for the tip.  You a Force user, I take it?" A slow look of realization crossed his face.  "...you haven't been kriffing us with Jedi tricks, have you?"  He reached for his sidearm once again. 

HUN laughed...a cold, ancient sound, mirthless and echoing.  "I do not need---the Force to win a game I've played for centuries.   You are hard to read, Trandoshan.  But you stink of secrets...half truths....you ask me how I can see, I tell you I see not at all.  Tell me then;  Who are YOU?"

Edit: Orsusk Jerricko

Things were not going well.  That much, Arran Fyve, or just Fyve to most people that knew him, had figured out.

  He had just been fired from his job as a bouncer at a rival cantina the previous day for 'unnecessary' violence. 

My ass,  he thought.  That Trandoshan woulda killed that guy if I didn't hit him with a stool.  Granted, he probably did not have to hit him six times, but once that adrenaline gets flowing . . .

Fyve took another drink of his alcoholic beverage, and looked at the glass.  He didn't even know what was in it.  It was probably better that way. 

  He'd tried to get a job here before word got around, but he wasn't fast enough.  They turned him down too.  Now he had a tough time trying to think about what to do.  Drinking sounded good for now.  And after . . . Well, right know he didn't want an after.  Throwing his weight around was really the only thing he knew how to do well.

  Inexplicably, he found himself listening in on the conversations that were going on in the dark, musty place. 

There was a fun-looking card game going on to his left, someone said something about a political scandal, and he thought he heard murmuring about a bounty on The Governor.  That sounded interesting. 

  He'd heard stories about bounty hunters, but dismissed them as fantastical tall tales.  He knew they were real, but didn't think too much about it.  Someone paid someone else to grab who or what they wanted.  Pretty simple.  Now, he was seriously considering it.  This would be a great chance to grab a lot of money in one go.  How hard could it be?  With that kind of money he could easily find a profession.  Whatever he desired.

With a last swig of 'Correlian Brew', Arran Fyve set his cup down and stood up.  Now, with a serious sense of purpose, he strode over to the card table.

(Still here but slightly busy, if someone could please write me into a story in anyway possible. If not I'll just tune in when I get a break.)

Zenth gazed openly at the Human female with curious wonderment in his strange orange eyes.

"I have to try." He smiled and quickly stood up. The Human and Selonian looked on with each their individual forms of confusion as Zenth moved over to a seemingly random nearby table of three quarelling, knee-high creatures with wide fur-covered ears and shrill voices.

A very sudden and violent outburst later that involved the nearby table being thrown over and a series of bloodthirsty yells, shrieks, and the sounds of a solid beating ended quickly with Zenth coming back over to Kalu and Drac, holding his bleeding nose, and his left sleeve completely torn off.

"Oh, try the red vercupti of sgazza boleruue'e." Zenth spoke off-handedly, wiping away the blood with his good sleeve, taking another drink of his hard, blue-colored liquor, and pointing on the menu left on the side of the table with another empty smile.

        At that very moment, outside of the Blue Sun Cantina, a black, covered longspeeder with a huge crunched dent on the side pulled up in front of the crowded front entrance. The variety of alien species on the side-street watched a a tall, immense humanoid stepped out of the front passenger seat. He was an older mercenary, called "Smoke" in quieted tones wherever he went. The title had probably come from the black gas mask he wore attached to the elaborate rig of tanks strapped to his back. A toxic-smelling, white smoke hissed with his every exhale out of the vents on the sides of his mask as he made his way to the door at the rear of the speeder.

Instead of typical armor of most mercenaries of his experienced stature, the hardened figure wore a fine Corellian suit without a jacket and a gray double-knotted tie. When he opened the door, a set of long, elegant green legs in tall purple high heels stretched out one at a time, along with an equally beautiful taloned hand marred only by a slight scar where an index finger might have been.

Smoke held out his guantleted hand and lifted out the perfect vision.

Her name was Sheeka, and the tall Falleen female with thick black hair dripping down over half of her face revealed only a single scrutenizing purple eye and full lips. She radiated intoxicating beauty. The mercenary stood with cool impatience as she surveyed the surroundings, and hefted an Imperial Heavy Repeater in both hands. The seductive mercenary was packing heavy ordinance and a lavender miniskirt that matched her revealling top.

Almost content with her surrounding she stepped forward and allowed the human in the long speeder behind her to step out into the glare of flashing neon lights and passing traffic. Govenor Telk wasn't very tall for an Imperial Official, but he didn't need to be. He wore a sharp Imperial uniform to remind everyone who he worked for, and an array of jeweled rings to show how many worked for him. The Govenor sported an ominous black eye-patch with the slight traces of scarred white flesh stretching out from underneath it.

Then a rare red-colored, rutian Twi'lek slave wearing almost nothing at all slid next to Governor telk, and held flirtatiously onto his right arm. She giggled for no reason at all.

Smoke marched into the Blue Sun Cantina with the deadly authority of Mandalore himself, with Sheeka next to him, turning every head as she passed through the realm of mere mortals. The Govenor and his red-skinned plaything followed with frivilous indifference to the underworld around them as they made their way to the VIP room.

The lethal entourage passed by the gambling tables and the Governor took a seat at a table next to the wide viewscreen of the caged arena, and turned casually, "Reyl, darling, tell the bartender to send over the usual."

Governor Telk had arrived.

Sheeka and Smoke stood protectively in front of the table, creating his own private area to enjoy, and dared with aloof, lethal glares for someone to try something.

( Don't worry Maltese we'll take care of your character...mostly. :P )

Kalu went rigid as she spotted Governor Telk. She was thankful that her brother was currently preoccupied with his dead friend. There was no way she was taking that bounty, especially given the muscle protecting him. Kalu wouldn't have been surprise if even the Twi'lek knew how to defend the Governor.

Kalu decided it best not to stare. Instead she returned her attention back to her table mates. The Zenth was positively strange, yet intriguing. Kalu wondered how a being could be so badly beaten yet able to carry on as if nothing had happened. Deep bruising was starting to colour his skin, along with the thin trails of blood that were drying on his clothing.

"Well since you went to so much effort, I'll have the red vercupti of sgazza boleruue'e." Kalu said as she placed her menu upon the table and waited for the others to decide.

She noticed that the Catina had changed in feeling with the arrival of the Governor. The brawling had become less intense, though the walking mosaic of body parts was still enjoying crushing those around him. Even the gamblers seemed to be eyeing the Governor more than their strange new addition.

(Never mind, my plans got cancelled early...Lucky I suppose)
Kin stood up after the Governor had made his passing, striding out the door once more. Unclipping the comlink, actually catching the Admiral's signal the first time.
"He's here...sir."
"Good Kin, I left further instruction with your stormtrooper escort. Do not...absolutely do not fail this time."
"Of course."
Kin flipped the link off, tossing it inside a coat pocket thusly. The Stormtrooper already prepared, hand outstretched with a dented datapad in hand. Kin snatched it up, surprised to recieve concussion shells as well. The attachment had barely been used, maybe he'd get a chance tonight.
"Did you see it? Bloke had a repeater same as mine. Annoying is what it is."
"Y-yes sir, I agree."
Kin rolled his eyes.
"Then do me a favor soldier...requisition me a different fire-arm while you're waiting."
Kin stalked back into the cantina, stopping close to the entrance, propped against the inner wall.  Sliding the datapad out. Thumbing it slowly, scrolling down towards the primary objectives. Mildly surprised after he finished. Keeping the datapad handy, he strode towards the VIP section. Raising his hands sarcastically when he got close to prove he wasn't already armed. Lens to eye Kin glared at the Mercenary. Pulling in a chair from a nearby card table. Dropping it in the closest corner of the area to the entrance.
"The Admiral sends his regards governor Telk. I'm supposed to play bodyguard, but I'll gladly step back if you'd rather the hired help defend your 'valuable' life."
Still infuriated, Kin sat down. Propping his feet against the door frame, leaned back. Arms crossed. Dropped his hat onto his lap. The Imperial Heavy repeater tucked inside his coat, hanging weakly from what should have been a tool loop. Imagining how much fun it would be to assinate another being with a Kinrath, just leave it locked in an apartment for a couple of hours. It was the same thought that pervaded him when he needed to block out the rest of the galaxy. It was almost a dream sequence really, slowly winding its way out of realistic context.
That much was enough to ease his thoughts. He'd have a long night ahead, bloated egos would mean a lot of kinrath related death tonight. He just hated politics, made him want to carve skin.

Character Sheet

Name: Grrow'lun'gh'ung'hh (possibly Groww for short)

Occupation: Previously a tribal shaman, now captured as a slave for the arena pitfighting circuit

Species: Tusken Raider

Gender: Male

Age: 42

Appearance: Average Tusken Raider clothing: ragged, smelly bandages (thanks to slave living conditions), and goggles

Personality: Groww does not have much of a personality per se, as he is constantly bewildered by his circumstances. He is, however, far less belligerent than the Tusken Raiders are famed to be, no doubt due to his elevated status as tribe shaman. Due to this mysticism, he is thoughtful, and seeks to understand his surroundings. He will not hesitate, however, to defend his life with combat.

Skills: Groww is an anomaly among his people: he is a bona fide force-sensitive individual, and is able to harness this gift in limited ways that allowed him to become shaman. It generally manifests itself as an ability to see a muddled vision of the future, or to read the thoughts of others. It also grants him eerie clarity in battle, and a limited way of judging his opponent's moves before they execute them.

Equipment: He has his traditional Tusken garb always on his body, and his gaderffii is kept by the slaving company for him to use in matches.

Other: Despite having been in slavery for months, he has yet been unable to realize exactly what is going on, due to his limited frame of reference on Tattooine. His thoughts are generally severely muddled, and only when he is in combat or in meditation does he have a clear vision of events. Definitely a different point of view :)

Brief History:  Groww was appointed as shaman to his clan on Tattooine in his teens and served so until a slaving company specializing in exotic goods raided his village. He along with a dozen of his tribesmen and women were taken captive and made to fight. As the months progressed, the group dwindled until only Groww remained, thanks to his abilities. He is now still attempting to figure out just what has happened to him and how he can return to the life he led.

((Sorry about the late entry, didn't see this thread until...today, hehe. I tried to pm you, Gojan, with the application, but since the inbox was full I figured I'd go here before things went too far ahead. Hope it's not minded...))

------------------------------------------

Noise of the dream became the noise of awake. The arid, dazzling light of his desert gave way to a stark opposite in the dark, wet world he occupied in those miserable hours he wasn’t asleep. He hated awake; awake was nasty, it was noisy, and it smelled. Nothing ever smelled in his dreams.

He hated this new smell. He was happy when there was no smell, and he was happy in his dream. When the smell came, that was when he became unhappy. Was it the smell that made him unhappy? Or was the unhappy place simply a place of bad smells, of blood and bile and urine and decay? Impossible to tell. Unanswerable.

A mind approached his slumped form as he lay in the damp yuck, in the muddy, unpleasant straw that was made so by water. He was so much happier when there was no water, and he knew that. When everything was dry, he drank the water and it was good. When everything was wet, you drank the water and died. His people, his tribesmen that had followed him to the smelly place had done it, and they had died.

He reached out and touched the mind. His hands lay where they were, on the floor made of yuck, but he reached out anyway. He felt him leave himself lying there and enter the mind, swirling around and around as the biting sand when the wind blows. He felt the mind, but it was no different from the dozens of others he had touched in the smelly place: alien. He saw its alien words and felt its alien feelings, but none of them meant a thing to him as he swirled around inside the mind. Disappointed, the sands quieted and flowed back to his own mind.

The mind standing in the opening of his wet little world grunted twice and kicked his chain. The rattle noise came, and made the noisy world and the wet one become the same thing. Grrow lifted his hands to his ears, and grunted in protest. He felt the kick coming before the mind knew it was, but he did not want to move. He stayed in his lump in the wet yuck, and seconds later felt the blow from the kick. He stayed where he was, and the mind wrapped a meaty hand around his wraps and dragged him through the yuck. Grrow simply moaned a little as he was pulled.

He was up higher, pulled away from the wet to his feet. His wet hands suddenly held their old friend, the gaderffii. One more swift kick, he was forward and the mind was back behind a barrier. His world was light and even louder. He saw minds, too many to count, watching, looking down on his new light world. Red covered the ground, along with carcasses. They used to be minds, but now they were meat. He thought on it.

Then a fist came flying out of nowhere, but…not yet.

He backed up, a quick half-step, and the knife-wielding opponent lunged through the space he had inhabited just moments ago. Understandably bewildered, the once-mind, now-enemy looked at his intended target only to find the gaderffii lodged soundly up the nose and in the skull.

Then came a flying body but…not quite yet either. The body landed where Grrow had been, and turned a foot for a blow. Well, he hadn’t turned it yet, but he would, and Grrow was already moving into it…

He blocked the blow as best he could and managed not to go sprawling, but was still brought to his knees by the kick. A foot came up to stomp his waiting skull into the floor, but it was all too easy to avoid even before it was raised. The gaderffii flew again, this time covered in blood and snot and brain, and hit with the blunt end the opposing creature (had he any knowledge of creatures, he might have identified the Barabel). Even that blunt end, however, had an edge to it, and by drawing it across the winded alien’s stomach he let spill all the guts it had gone through so much trouble to preserve.

The combat high of awareness, of lucidity was already beginning to fade. The other combatants in the ring apparently had no interest in this relic from far away; they were far more concerned with the preservation of their own lives and the earning of a significant prize. People…minds…lined the arena…light-place…he saw them all, saw their alien eyes, but felt nothing from them.

Electricity sizzled through him. His goggled eyes backtracked, through the crowd and toward a table in the bar. Even as he felt himself slipping back into the muddy indifference of his confused life, as he felt the clarity of combat dropping from him with his adrenaline, still he knew this was important, this was special. The brown creature at the seat with the white one, if only he would look…his mind was like none Grrow had met so far.

By chance, perhaps, or perhaps a twist of fate, or maybe the fact that both creatures were highly intuitive, the Selonian met the Tusken Raider’s gaze.

The muddiness cleared at once. With that instant of connection between them, Grrow understood. There was a language there he understood, completely unlike the alien minds that lived around him. Here was a mind he could understand, and that could understand him. Now he understood everything.

The world of wet and yuck and smell and sounds dissipated with that furtive moment of connection. Now, he was on Ord Mantell.

((Figured I should say what happened exactly, since stream-of-consciousness isn't exactly best for clarity. The Tusken Raider is owned by slavers and used as a gladiator. He was sent into the ring in the bar, where he was attacked by some brawlers but was a ble to kill them. Still confused by his surroundings, he glanced around the crowd and saw Drac. Since both of them are force-sensitive, he was finally able to make some sense of his thoughts, and realized exactly what was going on. Now he's standing in the cagefighting area, lost in the moment. Now that he's a little saner, my posts should be clearer from now on...))

(( Oh wow. Oh wow. *breathes into a paper bag* This is amazing. Everyone (practically) is here. I never expected such a huge turnout with so many veterans. I don't knowhow much more of this I can take. Sorry everybody, but AUDITIONS ARE NOW CLOSED.

NO MORE APPLICANTS PLEASE.

I'm gonna have to find someway to deal with the awesomeness level already. Wow. ))

If you are not taking any more applications because you can't handle them, I'm willing to do it.

(( Oh no, Draco, it's not that I don't want to accept more applications, I'd have trouble saying no anyways, but you have to balance an RPG. Too many players can create too much chaos. I think we have a perfect amount, so don't worry about it. Thanks for the offer though! ))

Drac was lost. The moment that heavily wrapped face had locked its goggled eyes on his, the Selonian had fallen into a trance; years of suffering were shown to him in mere seconds, a small glean of a past on some desert backwater planet was granted him, the robed being’s very life was projected into his mind as Drac’s own understanding was similarly shared by the Tusken. The desert-born nomad was for the first time introduced into the galaxy he was a part of, and the Selonian was shown what horrors the sentient beings of that galaxy were capable of, far different from the honorable and true society he’d known on Yanibar.

On the heels of understanding: horror.

Drac glimpsed murder, slavery, rape, pillaging, burning, destruction, hate, greed, and disregard for all of it like he’d never imagined. It made him sick, and he hardly managed to keep his dinner in his stomach where it belonged, so strongly was he revolted by this revelation. Surely, it couldn’t be possible that such atrocities were committed on thinking, moving, breathing, living creatures? Could it? It could, and now he knew it.

On the heels of horror: pity.

This man, or woman, or thing, whatever was beneath those robes that cloaked it so completely as Drac’s own did, had been through hell in every definition of the word. His family, or tribe may it suit him, was killed off completely; some quickly, some much more painfully. He’d been dragged from his home, put in chains, beaten, imprisoned, forced to fight enemies he didn’t know or choose for no other reason than to survive. This was allowed to happen. Again. And again. And again.

On the heels of pity: fury.

Men had done these things. Men had sinned. Men would pay. The calm, level-headed mentality that the Selonian preferred to keep was shattered in an instant, once again showing that no matter how one tries, he cannot rid himself of what he believes is right. How hard he tries over how many years is meaningless – he cannot deny his heart.

Drac stumbled drunkenly out of his chair, knocking it backwards as he headed in the direction of the arena, all at once not caring about Zenth or the woman who’d joined their table, nor the confused calls they gave him as he stood without explanation. This link, this connection that he felt could not be ignored, and the same went for the robed warrior in the pit. Whatever he was, there were questions to be asked, and justice to be dealt. Gone was the quiet beast-man who longed to be invisible. In its place grew a warrior of fearsome intensity, driven by rage and a powerful sense of justice any Sith would scoff at as Jedi “logic”.

“You alright?” The woman asked, understandably confused. Drac hadn’t said so much as a word to her, and now he was stumbling away like a drunkard towards the pit.

Zenth raised an eyebrow, but stayed silent, finally shrugging and returning to his drink silently. He more than anyone else would understand the concept of following sheer impulse.

“So wrong...” Drac mumbled quietly. “How...?”

He stepped past the wire mesh threshold, still focused on the Tusken Raider fending off opponents with liquid skill at the other end, parrying or dodging nearly every attack flawlessly. His abilities were amazing, and even so Drac felt the need to protect him, preserve him, do whatever he could to balance out the weight of evil that had tipped the scales of life in its favor.

The thought that others would try to stop him hadn’t entered his mind.

Not three strides into the arena, a human brawler took a swing at him with a vibroblade, screaming with his own furious intent to win. Drac denied him that. He drew and lashed out with his Shyarn in a single, deft movement, deflecting the sloppy stroke and following up with a powerful left hook. The man’s cheekbone broke from the force of the blow, and he was sent sprawling on the floor. He might as well have never existed as the Selonian kept walking.

A Spiner was next, one of a species of overgrown porcupines who’d no doubt relied on his unique quill-launching abilities to give him the upper-hand thus far; a deadly trick, if one wasn’t expecting it.

It opened with single, 6 inch spine aimed for Drac’s head, no doubt hoping for a quick finish. Drac dashed his hopes with an almost imperceptible twitch of his neck. The quill went wide. Aggravated, the Spiner launched a burst of three, aiming for his chest now. What happened next would surprise no Jedi, but to a half-wit fighter in a no-name bar’s cage fight, it was impossible.

Not thinking at all, Drac’s Shyarn flew in silver arcs, deflecting all three quills out of pure, unbridled, Force-amplified reflex. The Selonian took advantage of the Spiner’s awed paralysis to bury the cold Cerean metal of his scimitar in the man’s heart. It was the first creature he’d killed tonight.

Drac sheathed his Shyarn as he proceeded, more hastily now as he grew closer to the subject of his undivided interest. He hurled a Duro out of his path with “the gift”, and disposed of the Chev that followed with an uppercut that drove the man’s nose up into his braincase. He hurried onward, somewhere in the back of his mind knowing that his insane strength was starting to gain attention.

The familiar warning screeched into his mind’s ear as he dropped low to avoid the piston-like jabs thrown his way by the Trandoshan now towering over him (he vaguely recalled seeing a being of the same species at a nearby card table). Conservative fighting was a virtue not known to him at the moment, and his “gift” became an instant offensive option.

Drac’s legs drove him back up again, bringing him face to face with his newest attacker as he formed his left hand into a rigid cage, as it might be shaped were he holding a large ball with it. Within that claw, electricity began to spark. The Trando tried again, this time grasping for the Selonian’s throat with its meaty, thrice-clawed hands. They stopped inches from his fur, and though the muscles beneath his green scales bulged with effort, they refused to give an inch of leeway.

Drac’s paw had become a blue star too bright to perceive directly; the electrified Force energy used with such terrible effectiveness by countless Sith lords and dark Jedi had been coalesced into a tightly-contained ball, which he’d then focused into the palm of his paw. It was one of his more lethal techniques in hand-to-hand combat, and it proved extremely useful against a larger and well-muscled opponent.

Grim and hasty as he’d been when he entered the cage, Drac drove his left arm forward, forcing the orb of energy into the Trandoshan’s abdomen. Sparks flew, screams of agony rang out, and blood sprayed from the charred remains of the reptilian’s midsection. The Selonian let him crumple to the ground, then stepped over him and leaped the final few meters between himself and the Tusken, who’d been fending off attackers all the while with the omniscient foresight and dexterity Drac had observed before.

He was both confused and scared by the realization that now that he was here, before the individual who doubtlessly shared his “gift”, he didn’t know what to do, or if the robed figure wouldn’t just try to smote him dead here and now.

The Selonian whirled on his heel, drew two of his precious discblades, and hurled them with supernatural speed and accuracy. No one watching had seen him draw, but they could see the results, see them very well may it do ya fine. A charging Togorian tag-team was decapitated simultaneously, their massive bodies flopping lifelessly to the floor in eerie tandem. Drac felt a twinge of respite for the part he played in all this loss of life, but lost it in an instant as he turned once again to face the Tusken through the momentary lull in the chaos of this un-glorified battle for entertainment and coin. He caught the returning discblades behind his back and returned them to their harness, his eyes never leaving the desert shaman.  Stretching out with his “gift” again, Drac focused his mind on a single word:

Friend.

((Sorry if this inconveniences anyone, but I'm having kind of a difficult time finding out where to put my char in all this.  If someone wants to approach him first, go right ahead.  Or at least give me a suggestion.))

((Yautja, you could put your lot in with my character's brother, Nathu. His Twi'lek girlfriend's ditched him, you could come in with one of your many Twi'lek jokes to sooth his anger)).

Good idea, thanks.  I'll start writing it now.

The Force, according to most Jedi, is something generated by all living oganisms, something that surrounds us, penetrates us, and binds the galaxy together. While this is true, one thing they left out is that it works fairly well as a universal translator.

The word “friend” formed in Drac’s mind.

The Force does not know words. It knows what things are. It knows what friendship is, what camaraderie is. It ignores Drac’s word and carries this concept as though on a wave.

The Tusken Raiders have no word for friend. Every other Raider is a clansman, and each is the same to every other. There are no enemies inside a clan, so naturally there are no friends. Other tribes can be enemies, but the opposite of enemy, in that case, is clansman.

So imagine Grrow’s surprise when a word materialized in his mind. He had never known this word before; he knew for certain it was not an actual Tusken term. Nevertheless, he knew what it meant. He saw the word, but it was more than that. He experienced it. He felt that emotion that the Selonian had sent him.

Tusken raiders do not know love. They do not know kindness, as it is for the weak; they do not know familiarity, because they have no need of it. So imagine, if you can, exactly how it felt for him to experience just a taste of this raw essence of friendship. He was nearly crippled by the alien rush of benevolence that the new word encompassed.

Dea’korrn’ya…a friend. He gave an involuntary shudder.

He forgot that he was in the center of an arena filled with deadly brawlers who had it out for anyone they could see. All that mattered now was that the creature standing next to him was a dea’korrn’ya. Feelings of fraternity overwhelmed him.

…Until a Gamorrean contender, wielding a hefty piece of lumber with a metal spike protruding from the side, swung his weapon and smashed Grrow’s head into bandage-covered pulp.

Only…not yet.

Grrow ducked, and the swing cleared the top of his skull by mere millimeters. His balance ruined by the unopposed club, the Gamorrean grunted and picked up a foot to shift his weight. Before it could bring it down again, Grrow’s elbow jutted out into its side, and it toppled to the ground, its jaw shattering with the impact.

Other potential attackers rushed in, but jumped back a step when Grrow swung his gaffi in a wide arc. His personal space thus defined, he cautiously waited for whomever dared to make the next move. Without looking, he could tell that his dea’korrn’ya was stepping behind him to cover what he could not see. Their stand attracted a bit too much attention from the other fighters, and in moments a solid ring of vehement combatants had formed just outside their threatened area. Back to back the two creatures stood, ready to defend each other’s life, and neither knowing exactly why.

The tension of the situation was broken at last when a massively fat man clad in tattered coveralls muscled his way through the crowd. He focused beady black eyes on the duo, and let loose a grunt of annoyance.

“Arright, you,” he growled, approaching Grrow with a complete lack of fear, “you’ve had enough fun fer one day. Back in the crate with yeh.”

It was fear that had kept Grrow under his slaver’s control for so long; soon after capture, the fat man had fitted him with a collar and delivered a series of agonizing electrical shocks. The collar remained on for weeks, but after then it was thought that it was no longer needed. They would never attack the man again, not knowing that it was he that made the pain come. They had no knowledge of technology; to them, he was simply God.

The raider stood solidly in his place, gaderffii still raised. The fat man’s eyes flickered slightly- something wasn’t right here- but tried again.
“I told yeh once, yeh stupid git. Git over here or ye’re done for.”

Grrow, his mind no longer clouded by the fearful confusion of primitive ignorance, jammed the pointed end of his gaffi between the man’s eyes without hesitation.

The fat man fell to the ground with an unceremonious splat. Silence reigned for a moment, until Grrow slowly raised his gaffi above his head in both hands and emitted an inhuman bellow of triumph. All heads in the bar turned for an instant, then returned to their drinks. This was nothing extraordinary to them. To Grrow, however, it was everything: his personal demon, the monster that had killed off his clanmates, was dead by his hand. He hooted for what seemed to him like an exultant eternity, during which time the creatures circling the Selonian and himself dissipated, presumably to find prey that was less terrifying. When he was done, Grrow lowered his arms and stared at the ground.

The fat man was dead…but he was alone now. His clan was gone, and his planet gone from him. He had absolutely no way of returning on his own, and no idea what he would do if he were to return. His life had lost all meaning.

In his mind flickered a single word: dea’korrn’ya. He still had his friend. Facing the Selonian, who had been observing the display in silence this entire time, he stared at the muzzled, stolid face of the creature who had, for no particularly good reason, just freed him from slavery and saved his life. This creature was now the focus of his world.

Grrow fell to his knees before the Selonian and dropped his gaze to the blood-stained durasteel plating. His gaderffii he lay down between them, and he began howling in his native tongue. Everyone in the bar heard the hooting, but only a very select few could understand what was being said. The Selonian was one of them; he felt the impact of the words through his Gift.

It was, and remains, the only time in history that a Son of Tattooine has pledged a life-debt to an outsider.

Kalu had watched in wonder as one of her table mates had gone into the melee with no apparent reason. As the fighting started the Zenth stood to join them, Kalu grabbed his arm and forced him to sit down. "You don't need any more action. Just wait. I think our friend can handle himself."

The Zenth seemed disappointed but obeyed her request. Kalu was about to remove her hand from his arm when she decided to try something. For years Kalu had found that she had the ability to heal herself if she concentrated. She wondered if she could also heal others if she tried. The Zenth was a mess, however she closed her eyes for a moment and let herself go with her feelings. Only a short amount of time had passed when her train of thought was interupted by her brother's return.

Kalu blinked and let go of the Zenth but she noticed that his bruising didn't seem quite so bad. Nathu sat down and glared at her for a moment. "What are you doing?"

Kalu shot back an equally threatening glare. I was making sure our friend here didn't get any further injuries."

Nathu snorted. "Why bother, he seems to enjoy pain."

The Zenth looked up and the humans awaited his response.

Arran Fyve dismissed the arrival of the Governor for now. 

I'm sure I'll have plenty of chances to meet him.  And kill him if I have to.

  Right now, he had to find anyone who knew about the assassination, if indeed there was one.

  Two figures crouched over a third caught his eye.  He recognized the human male as one of the participants in an earlier fight.  From what Fyve had observed, he wasn't too shabby.

  The other beings were a human female who bore a close resemblance to the other human, and a male Zenth, who appeared to be injured.

  Fyve also realized that the human male had been complaining about a Twi'lek girl to his sister.  At least, Fyve guessed she was his sister.  He could be wrong, but he usually wasn't. 

  That was one thing most people didn't know about Arran.  He was extremely observant, and a master eavesdropper.  He could zero in on a conversation that was taking place across a large room, with at least fifty side conversations.  Which is exactly what he had done earlier that night.

  He stopped several feet behind them.  The pair of humans turned and looked him over. 

Fyve knew just how to break the ice.

"I couldn't help but hear you were having some trouble with a Twi'lek girl.  Well, you know what they say about Twi'lek girls.  They have-"

"Who the hell are you?"  The woman interrupted. 

Fyve was not perturbed.  He got that response a lot. 

she's not one to mess with, though.  He  added mentally. 

"The name's Arran Fyve, but you can just call me Fyve.  I'm an ex-bouncer here and-"

"Leave us alone."  She turned away.

"Uh, wait.  do you know anything about the Governor here?  Say, oh, I dunno, a bounty?  I coulda sworn I heard you guys talking about something like that."  It was a little too direct for his liking, but the Kiffar had to do something to grab their attention.

He gave them a one-sided grin and waited.

Kalu glared at her brother, obviously their conversation hadn't been quiet enough. She looked at Fyve, "Speak to him, he's the one crazy enough to want to pursue such a fool hardy idea."

Nathu flinched at his sister's tone. "What do you want to know?" He asked.

"Oh I'm intrigued to know a little more about the deal and who's paying." Fyve told as he sat himself down in an empty chair at the table.

Kalu shook her head. "Believe me, four hundred thousand credits isn't enough to take on such a task."

Fyve shrugged. "For you maybe."

Kalu narrowed her eyes in annoyance and turned back to her meal and engaged the Zenth in conversation.

Nathu's attention was firmly on Fyve. "I'll give you more info once I get to know you better. I believe it's your shout for drinks."

"Alright Dresden," Ace started his attitude getting the better of him. "Tell me again why I'm sitting here talking to you instead of winning a bundle at the tables."

Firlov's fierce eyes sharpened as he turned his gaze from the cages to Ace's seat. The VIP section was elevated slightly overlooking the entire cantina; Firlov's domain. Ace was starting to reconsider his bluntness. Nevertheless the Chiss stared defiantly into the crimelord's eyes as their fellow patrons dined in blissful security, among them Governor Telk.

"I'd advise you to show some respect Valerno," reprimended Dresden. "I own you until our little financial dispute at the tables is all taken care of. Use that sharp tounge again, and I'll serve it as Telk's main course."

A gulp from Ace.

"Anyway," said Firlov changing course, all business. "The matter we're discussing concerns Governor Telk's security."

Ace glanced at the Governor's table a few feet away unphased. There were so many lights winking off the bodyguard's weapons it was almost dazzling.

"I'm not too worried," Ace replied shrugging. "And good luck to the poor assassin who tries to get through that wall of muscle."

Dresden leaned forward in his chair and grinned at the Chiss. This was undoubtedly the most frightening thing that Ace had ever seen from the crimeboss. He could see Firlov's wrinkled eyes twitch as he forced his face to assume the foreign expression.

"But I am worried Valerno," said Firlov still smiling painfully. "And if Governer Telk dies than it would be very bad for business. And you know what an important night this is. I had the damn Tusken shipped halfway across the galaxy for the Governer. There is going to be a hit on Telk tonight. And you are going to stop it. Understand?"

"Well, that'd all be very well," answered Ace absently rolling his chance cube between his palm and the table. "Except that I'm the wrong barve to stop a hit. C'mon, if all the tough guys over there can't stop them, then what could I possibly do."

"Don't play dumb with me Valerno," sighed Firlov. "I know perfectly well what you're capable of. Just remember, fail me, and you'll owe a lot more than a few credits."

Dresden pushed his chair back and stood up satisfied. Without another word the imposing man walked away from the VIP area leaving Ace to ponder his next move. And this time, Ace Valerno wasn't so sure he had all the cards.

Due to AP testing and work scheduling, Kathy hasn't been able to access the interweb. This is her friend writing this for her, and she asks that you all stick around. She will be back soon.

Zenth was confused. Quite confused, or at the very least, unable to focus on anything at all. The orange-haired Zeltron had eagerly stood to follow after the furred and cloaked Selonian to take part in the fun, only to be pulled back into his seat by the pretty and strangely strong human girl. (Actually, she was sort of ugly when held next to Zeltron standards...Which wasn't exactly saying a whole lot.) But pretty girls never talked to Zenth, they usually just reached in their purse for a spray-can of macenol. (Not entirely an unpleasant experience when you got over the tears and the burning flesh.)

          The Zeltron was still pondering his next course of action when suddenly...

          Wow.

          Zenth could feel the stiff and knotted pressure in his arms, shoulder, and chest suddenly loosen with the faintest tingle of something he almost couldn't recognize...feeling. The pale-orange skinned Zeltron was completely stunned, and his orange eyes widened for a second. Only as quickly as that strange sensation had suddenly appeared...it was gone, and he couldn't be sure he had even felt it all.

         "Why bother? He seems to enjoy pain."

         The Zeltron looked up to see that he was being talked about, and began to form a sentence and a smile when HE showed up. Arran Fyve. The ex-bouncer. The bouncer with a definite knack for cracking skulls together and kicking sentients to the curb. Zenth knew this because remembered going through elaborate schemes to get past said bouncer only to fail just as elaborately. He was about to put one of the many pre-prepared plans into motion when he suddenly realized he was already inside the cantina, and the Zeltron couldn't figure out quite what he was supposed to do from there.

         "I believe it's your shout for drinks," The pretty human's brother was moving his mouth again.

         "Hey," The Zeltron pointed firmly, and then explained sternly, "You're kind of annoying."

         Meanwhile, Govenor Telk was still holding on to the delicate forearm of the lovely red Twi'lek he kept at his side when he heard himself being addressed.

         "The Admiral sends his regards, Govenor Telk. I'm supposed to play bodyguard, but I'll gladly step back if you'd rather the hired help defend your 'valuable' life," And with that the agitated being sat down leaning against the doorway.

         The Imperial Govenor blinked his one eye with careful scrutiny on just barely turning to see where Kin had made himself relatively comfortable considering the situation. A slow smile curled on the aged and weathered officer's scarred lip, "This must be the Admiral's way of taunting me."

         "Reyl, do be a dear and call that creature there against the door over here. I do believe he's from that infamous neural project no one's been able to learn a damn thing about." The Govenor spoke as though Kin couldn't hear him, or perhaps even understand what he was saying. The Imperial Official watched with pleasure as the Twi'lek walked slowly away in her super-holo-model strides. The Twi'lek stopped a few steps away from Kin and posed, seemingly out of natural habit of being perfectly beautiful in every way, and waited for the Imperial experiment wearing a neural collar to notice her.

          The masked mercenary called Smoke still stood next to the Govenor's table with toxic white gas hissing from the vents over his mouth. He took everything going on around him in lethal silence. The tall humanoid hired killer turned to the green-skinned Faleen next to him, and spoke in his deap metallic grinding monotone, "Hsffss...How many Twi'leks...Hsffss...Does it...Hsffss...take to screw..."

          "That's what he said." The Faleen named Sheeka interupted quickly, idly checking her weapon for imperfections that she knew weren't there.

          The mercenary glared at her, then began with slow frustration, "Hsffss...Sheeka..."

          "That's what he said." The Faleen retorted without missing a beat.
         
           Smoke gave a loud exasperated sigh, but was drowned out by the sound coming from the arena...a sound that echoed from the hot and lethal dune seas of Tatooine and the blood that had been spilled under those hot twin suns looking down from the cruel sky. The enslaved creature from the sand had killed his master.

As Kalu finished off her meal she began listening to Nathu's quiet discussion with Fyve, when a thought occurred to her. They could always poison Telk. Though somehow she imaged he'd be imune to such things. He probably drank poison with his breakfast. Still it was an interesting idea to ponder. Although poisoning did tend to be seen as a "female's killing method".

Kalu had always been much more up front about such matters. Her sniper rifle was evidence of that. Her "long arm" was currently holstered across her back. She always kept it close. She pulled off the scope and took a closer view of the Governor. He looked up as if sensing her, she lowered the scope, smiled and waved.

Governor Telk's lip curled in disgust and he ignored her. Just as Kalu had hoped. She didn't want any trouble. The smoking body guard had noticed her as well. Kalu blew him a kiss and it seemed she was once again dismissed as harmless. She smiled and took a swig of her drink.

It was then that a rather drunk bunch of male Twi'leks entered the bar. It seemed they were a Buck's Party of some variety. The Groom was barely able to walk, as the other dragged him inside. One of them spotted the red Twi'lek and leered. Kalu tensed, she could sense another fight about to happen, this time there would likely be more than blood spilt.

Firlov closed the hidden office door behind him and walked up the flight of stairs to his office, and sat down in his high-back chair. He disliked the public bar and arena...So bloody, musty, and everything out of place...Exept the VIP Area of course.

"Hmm." Firlov smiled, looking down at a confused Ace Valereno. "Let's hope things go according to plan."

An hour had gone by. Ace had gone back to the tables and Firlov did nothing but ponder the different benefits of Telk living, or dying. But he had already decided that before the Governor even arrived.

"But how to kill him? It won't be easy." "There are others here that are planning to terminate him...I'll bet you a million credits." Firlov said to himself. "I wouldn't doubt it, but I wanted the pleasure of doing it personally." He replied. "We could kill him now." "No! We must wait for the opportune moment." He shot back. "...Yes..."

Firlov concealed his "other personality" and turned around to see a minigun, along with several other firearms hanging on the wall above his chair.

"Just like my old office, but how I miss it's view."

[I'll try to post this weekend. I will certainly start posting again when the revenants are introduced.]

"Creature? I'm sure that felt clever before he actually said it."
Not that Kin cared if someone heard it, which they didn't. Standing up quietly, pushing the chair back towards the wall with a foot. Ignoring the Twi'lek as much as he could, left a couple of seconds to stare. Moving along the wall towards...Smoke...and if that's not a creative title...If everyone remained interested in the arena who's to say he couldn't...finish the mission. Tempting. Naw, too sneaky if not possibly redundant seeing as how he hadn't had time to understand said bodyguard. Snaking up beside the table. Rapping a knuckle on the surface.
(Not a lot of time to type out anything.)

As the rawdy Twi'lek party started towards the scarlet female Twi'lek, Kalu removed her "long arm" from it's sheath. She hooked the scope back into place, lifted her arm and leveled out her weapon and aimed. As a green Twi'lek from the party raised his hand, blaster pistol tucked neatly in his grip, Kalu fired and watched the pistol flick out of the male's hand.

Kalu was quick to re-holster her weapon and turned back to her drink as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Zenth looked at her curiously. "Why didn't you just bash him?"

Kalu smiled, "Sometimes it's more fun to do things with some style and finesse."

Zenth looked perplexed. "What is finesse?"

Kalu sighed slightly but smiled. "I guess it's something we'll have to teach you."

"You want to be my friend?" Zenth asked.

Kalu rubbed her chin. "Well I guess we could be friends."

The Zeltron jumped up and down happily, until Fyve glared at him.

Fyve glanced at the stunned Twi'lek and then back at Kalu.  He raised an eyebrow.

"Nice shot."  He said, only a little enviously.

"I've had better."  The human replied.  She wasn't bragging, it was just a simple fact.

Hmm, she's actually kinda pretty . . .   His male mind had begun to wander, as it usually did when it came to women.
No, can't go getting of track.  He thought to himself.

"She'd probably kill me anyways."

"What?"

Whoops, said that part out loud.

"Nothing.  Nevermind."

As Fyve tried to get get his brain back on track, he found himself staring at the hyperactive Zeltron.  His face seemed very familiar, but he couldn't quite pin it down.

"Hey, who are you eyeballin', bouncer?"

Arran suddenly imagined Zenth's face as a little more bruised and bloodied and it clicked.

"You're the Gundark-ass who kept trying to get past me aren't you?!"

"No, you must be thinking of...another...albino Zeltron." Zenth carefully explained and tipped the large bottle of Blue Sun whiskey into his mouth. He set the bottle down on the table and held it there. He went still while looking up at the ex-bouncer and asked simply, "Please don't kick me in the head."

The dim yet vibrant colored lights in the VIP room appeared strangely sinister despite the intended 'party atmosphere.' The Imperial Governor was still completely at ease.

       "Ah yes," Telk turned with open amusement to where Kin stood, "Please, take a seat, and have a drink on me. You have to see this."

The Imperial guestured over to the wide vid screen giving a clear view of the arena and its violent inhabitants, "I do believe that the tusken creature over in the arena is trying to communicate with that hooded fellow. Sheeka, dear, what ever is he trying to say?"

       "Pfft," The Faleen exhaled through her purple painted lips from she stood guard, "Me have stick."

Governor Telk burst into laughter. Next to him the Rutian Twi'lek smiled broadly with perfectly white teeth, but never said a word as she carefully put an expensive drink into the Imperial's hand and cuddled next to him. The Imperial Official half-heartedly wiped a tear from his left eye, and took a sip of his elegant drink, and turned his attention to Kin again, "Well now, you must tell me all about yourself, before I do my buisness with the owner of this establishment. Do you have a name or designation?"

(( Woo! I'm finally back with regular internet access! Fetter still doesn't seem to be posting, and I'd hate to move on without him, but we'll just keep him as happy and content drinking and playing cards as  we can. :P  I would also like to sincerely apoligize for the creep who got on under my username and posted junk threads. I would especially like to thank those who knew it wasn't me! ))

(Sry about that, time has been fleeting lately with tests, projects, golf and the such but I should be good now.)

Jerricko's mind finally snapped back to the card table. The question posed by the strange masked being had taken him aback. What kind of knowledge could this "thing" have gotten, and how? While there was the obvious explantion of underworld connections, the being seemed more intuitive than sneaky. But those days were past and the walls around those memories were always up. And yet this being was still staring directly through his scales.

A blaster bolt flew across the room and cleanly picked a pistol out of a drunk Twi'lek's grip. The stunned patron stumbled back into his seat as the rest of his group stood to find the attacker. "While I would love to stay and chat about my deepest, darkest secrets with you, I need to go stop a pool of blood from forming," With that Orsusk raised himself from his chair and quickly strode over to the Twi'lek mob. As he approached, one of his regular prison inhabitants stepped out of the group in front of the trandoshan.

"There aint no reason for you to get involved here." He said with a growl.

"Actually, as I see it you're the one who shouldn't be involved here. If I remember correctly you've been banned from every cantina from here to Nal Hutta." Jerricko remarked casually. The Twi'lek gritted his teeth and cursed under his breath as he turned his back to the sheriff. After two steps though he spun around and nearly took Jerricko's head off with a haymaker. The punch swept inches from his face as he reacted slower than he would have wished. "Now that was a mistake."

A few seconds of bone crushing hits to the head and chest later, the drunk fell to the floor bloodied and bruised. The Cantina froze for only a moment before once again roaring with laughter and arguments. The Twi'leks friends dragged him away as Jerricko realigned the badge on his jacket. He stepped closer to a table occupied by an albino zeltron and a few other patrons. "Hope I didn't get blood on anyone," he laughed as a smile returned to his face, "I would have used a little more finesse but he caught be at a bad time."

The Zeltron shook his head as he looked to the woman next to him. "Why am I the only one who doesn't know what that means?" Before she could answer Orsusk sat at the table uninvited and once again put his two cents in.

"It's the opposite of what you did outside with the speeder and the dumpster. But don't worry about it, if I worried about every little bit of property damage done, I would kill myself in a week. Oh and by the way, nice shot before ma'am, nice to get a small amount of help once and a while. Sorry if I start to ramble, its a habit I tend to have after a fight. Mind if I sit down?"