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<Posting this response on behalf of a good friend of mine who has enjoyed our rp story-line. Enjoy>
Somewhere off in the cantina’s side room, a worn-out middle aged man collapsed in a corner where wall met floor, his palms rose in a near-pleading gesture at blaster-point. It was clear he so desperately wanted to continue living, but truly didn’t believe he would be so lucky.
His attacker? A larger, swarthy, more sinister man loomed above him, observing his fear with the awe of a sith--the characteristic revelment of fear mixed with power. A learned behavior spanning a decade and a half of humiliation, torture, and pent up rage--that much shown across his scarred and tattooed visage. For now, the grimey man’s sniveling faded to the recesses of his attention while he stared. The thoughts of his ancestors screaming down woefully from Manda in shame and horror at what time did to him, he was a mere shell of his former self; mechanical, selfish, and cruel.
His armor spoke volumes of the type of man he was-- it was a long time since the Mandalorian shell of beskar saw repairs, or even a new paint touch-up. Shamefully, whatever Mandalorian insignia once painted on his armor had been scratched away by aggressive scrapings of a knife from an angry hand, exposing the silvery metal underneath. Blaster burns and dented dings remained where they struck, for whoever knew how long. It dishonored his ancestors by the abuse of such an heirloom, beskar’gam passed through generations, and remolded, now left in this state and strapped to a wearer who just didn’t care.
“Seaamros, hold on! Listen!” Begged the haggard man, restoring the armored man’s attention out of the daydream, and unfortunately to the present once again. Seaamros squatted in front of the man for something close to direct eye contact, and the toothpick wedged between his lips pensively shifted from one corner to the other.
“Shhh.” Seaamros said, yet peering upon his tattooed face, where black ink traced across numerous scars and covered the majority with a design of a skull, a classless design resembling status markings made with razorblades in imperial prisons. The design made his eyes appear deeper in their sockets; it was little in the way for comfort despite his cooing.
The middle aged man attempted to squeeze in another plea, “I’ll keep selling. By the end of--”
“Stitch your lipsꜛ,” Seaamros replied and raised his blaster toward the man again, just to shut him up, “You’re walking a hard mileꜜ, I kriffin’ swear. Do yourself a solid and stop bleedin¹.”
He leaned forward with the blaster and lightly slapped the worn-out man’s cheek with the barrel, “You’re a regular padawan of the cross trade².”
The man on the floor in front of Seaamros looked upward in worried confusion. The slang Seaamros used was a blend of terrible basic and poor Nar Shaddaa slang spoken mostly by near-humans. They tended to butcher words when they could--he didn’t really know what Seaamros was saying.
“Wh..what..?” He said, sweating bullets,“I don’t kno--.”
… Just like that, Seaamros shoved the barrel in the middle-aged man’s mouth, jamming the barrel roughly past his teeth and chipping a few along the way.
“WHERE’S MY DAMN SPICE!?” Seaamros snarled…and if he realized the question would be impossible to answer with a blaster in someone’s mouth, he didn’t show it. Perhaps he was unwell, and the connection was slow to take, “HUH!?”
A young twi’lek coasted into the room with a tray of drinks, barely stumbling in her step because she did not expect to view such an episode upon entry. She knew Seaamros, she knew not to interfere and how indiscriminate he was with his temper. What he did to this man, he would easily do to her, and would think very little of it.
“S..Seaamros,” She said, and approached his side so she could lean over and whisper softly in his ear.
“Those..soldiers are back. A lot of them.” She whispered worriedly. She wasn’t exactly pleased with warning Seaamros, but she did like the credits he paid her with. It didn’t impress Seaamros. He’d seen lots of soldiers in his time, he was one… and they all died the same. A subtle shake of his head was enough to convey his lack of concern.
“I think it’s that… Alpha.. Company?” She whispered again.
Oh hell. He thought. This was different. They were sharper, better trained, and trouble was bad for business.
Reluctantly, he pulled the blaster out of his minion’s mouth. The last thing he wanted was the sound of a blaster luring them here to inspect the room, that’s how stupid people get caught--he couldn’t shoot his minion here, no. That was too messy.
“One more week.” He said while rising and straightening out, lowering his blaster to his side and allowing an electromagnetic pull to jerk the weapon out of his hand and fasten it to his thigh, “Just one more week.”
He told the man to get out with a commanding jerk of his head, to which the middle-aged man had no hesitation for getting up and quite literally sprinting out of the room. Beyond the doorway, Seaamros heard the clattering of glasses as the relieved man likely knocked some drinks off a table, bumping them, on his way to exit the cantina.
“What if he… runs for the spaceport?” The twi’lek asked, nervous about getting in to Seaamros’s business, but he wasn’t the only one paying her for information, and huttese currency was the best to have in these parts.
“He’ll go home and pack first.” Seaamros said, implying that he intended to kill him anyway, and this was not the man’s lucky day.
With that he stepped out of the room, simply walking through the mess of glass and alcohol just past the doorway, and pausing to gaze toward the bar where the soldiers sat.
One of them, he recognized with mild surprise, he was good at concealing it from his expressions, but it resulted in a little more lengthy of a stare than he intended.
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Translator Droid:
ꜛ “Close your mouth and never use it again.”
ꜜ “You’re going to your death.”
¹ Bleedin: talking shit, rambling, whining, and only filth is coming out
² Someone who is not as good of a sneaky liar as they think they are; a double crosser and everyone knows it.
Somewhere off in the cantina’s side room, a worn-out middle aged man collapsed in a corner where wall met floor, his palms rose in a near-pleading gesture at blaster-point. It was clear he so desperately wanted to continue living, but truly didn’t believe he would be so lucky.
His attacker? A larger, swarthy, more sinister man loomed above him, observing his fear with the awe of a sith--the characteristic revelment of fear mixed with power. A learned behavior spanning a decade and a half of humiliation, torture, and pent up rage--that much shown across his scarred and tattooed visage. For now, the grimey man’s sniveling faded to the recesses of his attention while he stared. The thoughts of his ancestors screaming down woefully from Manda in shame and horror at what time did to him, he was a mere shell of his former self; mechanical, selfish, and cruel.
His armor spoke volumes of the type of man he was-- it was a long time since the Mandalorian shell of beskar saw repairs, or even a new paint touch-up. Shamefully, whatever Mandalorian insignia once painted on his armor had been scratched away by aggressive scrapings of a knife from an angry hand, exposing the silvery metal underneath. Blaster burns and dented dings remained where they struck, for whoever knew how long. It dishonored his ancestors by the abuse of such an heirloom, beskar’gam passed through generations, and remolded, now left in this state and strapped to a wearer who just didn’t care.
“Seaamros, hold on! Listen!” Begged the haggard man, restoring the armored man’s attention out of the daydream, and unfortunately to the present once again. Seaamros squatted in front of the man for something close to direct eye contact, and the toothpick wedged between his lips pensively shifted from one corner to the other.
“Shhh.” Seaamros said, yet peering upon his tattooed face, where black ink traced across numerous scars and covered the majority with a design of a skull, a classless design resembling status markings made with razorblades in imperial prisons. The design made his eyes appear deeper in their sockets; it was little in the way for comfort despite his cooing.
The middle aged man attempted to squeeze in another plea, “I’ll keep selling. By the end of--”
“Stitch your lipsꜛ,” Seaamros replied and raised his blaster toward the man again, just to shut him up, “You’re walking a hard mileꜜ, I kriffin’ swear. Do yourself a solid and stop bleedin¹.”
He leaned forward with the blaster and lightly slapped the worn-out man’s cheek with the barrel, “You’re a regular padawan of the cross trade².”
The man on the floor in front of Seaamros looked upward in worried confusion. The slang Seaamros used was a blend of terrible basic and poor Nar Shaddaa slang spoken mostly by near-humans. They tended to butcher words when they could--he didn’t really know what Seaamros was saying.
“Wh..what..?” He said, sweating bullets,“I don’t kno--.”
… Just like that, Seaamros shoved the barrel in the middle-aged man’s mouth, jamming the barrel roughly past his teeth and chipping a few along the way.
“WHERE’S MY DAMN SPICE!?” Seaamros snarled…and if he realized the question would be impossible to answer with a blaster in someone’s mouth, he didn’t show it. Perhaps he was unwell, and the connection was slow to take, “HUH!?”
A young twi’lek coasted into the room with a tray of drinks, barely stumbling in her step because she did not expect to view such an episode upon entry. She knew Seaamros, she knew not to interfere and how indiscriminate he was with his temper. What he did to this man, he would easily do to her, and would think very little of it.
“S..Seaamros,” She said, and approached his side so she could lean over and whisper softly in his ear.
“Those..soldiers are back. A lot of them.” She whispered worriedly. She wasn’t exactly pleased with warning Seaamros, but she did like the credits he paid her with. It didn’t impress Seaamros. He’d seen lots of soldiers in his time, he was one… and they all died the same. A subtle shake of his head was enough to convey his lack of concern.
“I think it’s that… Alpha.. Company?” She whispered again.
Oh hell. He thought. This was different. They were sharper, better trained, and trouble was bad for business.
Reluctantly, he pulled the blaster out of his minion’s mouth. The last thing he wanted was the sound of a blaster luring them here to inspect the room, that’s how stupid people get caught--he couldn’t shoot his minion here, no. That was too messy.
“One more week.” He said while rising and straightening out, lowering his blaster to his side and allowing an electromagnetic pull to jerk the weapon out of his hand and fasten it to his thigh, “Just one more week.”
He told the man to get out with a commanding jerk of his head, to which the middle-aged man had no hesitation for getting up and quite literally sprinting out of the room. Beyond the doorway, Seaamros heard the clattering of glasses as the relieved man likely knocked some drinks off a table, bumping them, on his way to exit the cantina.
“What if he… runs for the spaceport?” The twi’lek asked, nervous about getting in to Seaamros’s business, but he wasn’t the only one paying her for information, and huttese currency was the best to have in these parts.
“He’ll go home and pack first.” Seaamros said, implying that he intended to kill him anyway, and this was not the man’s lucky day.
With that he stepped out of the room, simply walking through the mess of glass and alcohol just past the doorway, and pausing to gaze toward the bar where the soldiers sat.
One of them, he recognized with mild surprise, he was good at concealing it from his expressions, but it resulted in a little more lengthy of a stare than he intended.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Translator Droid:
ꜛ “Close your mouth and never use it again.”
ꜜ “You’re going to your death.”
¹ Bleedin: talking shit, rambling, whining, and only filth is coming out
² Someone who is not as good of a sneaky liar as they think they are; a double crosser and everyone knows it.
late as always lol))
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