Star Wars: Warriors and Hunters

[Nomad-22]

Nar Shaddaa, Hutt Space, 2 BBY
​

How often has the lure of fortune claimed many souls here on this accursed moon? Vilkas wondered to his continued puzzlement while sitting at the booth in one of the miserable bars that were common on Nar Shaddaa. The Nelvaanian with blue fur was only dressed with his usual brown tribal cloak which hang over his left shoulder while his right side revealed a tattooed chest and arm. The rest of the attire consisted of tan pants and shoes. Then, was the blaster rifle was slung over his back and the two combat machetes sheathed around his hips.

He had been on the Smuggler's Moon just only once for a short time and this is his second visit to it. Now upon this return he remembered why he stayed away. The open greed and misery of the inhabitants on the moon had been so overwhelming for the first time and three fools tried to rob him, but only earn swift death for themselves. After that incident he left and wandered through the galaxy once more.

Yes Vilkas did not return here out of fondness but of need. As a freelance bounty hunter working for two years he didn't exactly have a perfect record yet neither was he a failure. Moreover, compared to the ones who the Hutts had in their employ, he was a pup in reputation and even in skill. Now in order to become better at his chosen profession Vilkas now had taken on the challenges of becoming a cartel member. In thinking about his situation the wolf-like being glanced at his small cup half-filled with ale.

Vilkas had learned to consume this type of drink over water when going to various worlds, not sure it the water was safe to drink.

I am at least aware of the familiar dangers of alcohol and can handle it within balance. Vilkas thought with a subtle smile surfacing on his face. For a second, the bounty hunter was about to chuckle at the irony until he remembered he was surrounded by strangers.

One of many things he had learned in his time among the aliens was that many of them would take advantage of anything they see as weakness. Personally Vilkas didn't see expressing merriment in that way but some of these...people would. After, all Nar Shaddaa was a den of thieves and forsaken souls, one must not careless or else suffer the consequences. Even with all that to consider, Vilkas wished he didn't have to be on his guard all the time.

Darting his dark colored eyes to see around him, the, Nelvaanian noted the other patrons spread out in the bar. Some were downright miserable, weeping openly due to intoxication of just simply sullenly quiet as if in mourning. Others were equally drunk but were more joyful and wild at their tables. Of course, a few more were gathered togehter gambling away for credits at the nearest table left of the bar.

Then there were a few scantily covered females of various species were dancing an stage nearby on the right of him with loud music playing the background on speakers all over. Apparently, the establishment didn't have actually have musicians to do it.

"There is no soul to this melody." The bounty hunter whispered to himself.

In his opinion songs and music done by artisans in person are more enjoyable than listening to the filth found on the Holonet and these radio speakers. Annoyed now Vilkas snip more of his drink, the only positive thing he had in this situation.

 

[Dipper]

Rhett Karyc
Nar Shadda, 1900​

Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur. Today is a good day for someone else to die.

On Nar Shadda, those words were more of a defense than a statement. A threat. Rhett was good at making them, and even better at carrying them out when things got tense. But what the moon lacked in propriety it made up for in drink, so what better place for him to end up than here? His credits were best spent on repairing his ship. For now, though, his rising stress levels demanded booze.

He slung his modified AXM-50 over his shoulder and settled at the bar, ears shut to all but the stains under his gloved hands.

Not once in Rhett Karyc's decade long career has he ever sought out work. The work always came to him, bearing a respectable sum of credits to catch his interest and a curt, to-the-point job description. Whether he replied to the request depended on the crew, but he always kept a backlog of jobs with more elastic time frames so he could pick and choose freely when two jobs overlapped. A new commission, twice as underhanded. The type Rhett expected twice the pay for.

"Heard a man died down by the hospital. 'Complications'." The bartender grunted and slid an unidentifiable drink his way. "How much do you think they were paid to say that?"

"Fifty."

Rhett chuckled. "A lord's son. Nasty little bastard, but the closest thing to an heir a man can get around here. Y'know what that means?"

The 'tender offered no reply, so Rhett continued.

"Work. The kriff is this?"

"Corellian. The same as always."

Rhett scoffed. "Right. Anyway, twenty, fifty thousand for anyone willing to track 'im down. I could use the credits."

The sum was good enough. Plenty to repair his ship, acquire a new gun, maybe enough to send back home so his old man could get his armor fixed. To have a partner, a crew, again. Hells, he'd take anything at this point. With a heavy sigh, Rhett removed his helmet and set it aside so he could bring the glass to his scarred lips. His wandering eyes scanned the bar and its inhabitants-- a pair of nautolan smugglers, a man sobbing into his emptied glass, nelvaanian off in the corner, uniquely unaffected by the tense atmosphere of the bar. Or maybe it was Rhett alone who felt it, that oppressive air that followed danger.

His back straightened, his shoulders tensed. In the corner of the bar, a man wreathed in shadow stood and made his approach.