Heaven's Little Demon (Open)

[Za'in]

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v706/LaLaBoogie/CloudCity.jpg

Bespin captured beauty, grace and eloquence. It's lone remote city was a place of diversity and unique, oblique elements. An interweave of wealth and scum keep the floating metropolis at a stark contrast. Nothing across the Outer or Inner Rims could align itself in romantic distinction. The grand luxury of the clouds supported the claims above, but the dark pink stained as the levels trailed deeper into the depths of turmoil.

Rich groupings coil at the concept of meddling with such delinquents below. The hierarchy of the planet scowed into the very essence of Bespin, supplying promotion of classicism throughout the world. Everyone was envelop in the sickened endeavors. Even tourist were subjected to the behavior. None did it purposely, it just came natural. It was just the way things ran, it was culture.

Some frowned, meanwhile others smiled. Elijawn was simply fine. The young pirate took his mind to other indulges since his arrival on that faithful day. A month had passed, and since his Gungan mentor did not give him a comm. or visit. The operation had been disbanded for the Gungan's own ventures, so that he could bring him a long shortly there after. Time swallowed the hope whole, supplying the near-human adoloscent with a focus elsewhere.

Cloud City, a metropolis of a diverse array carried a substantial amount of possibilities. Over the month the spacer successor had been pasted to the floor amidst the heavens abound. In the triumphant wheeze of the winds, channeling through from windows, he watched and observed. Artistry fester in his mind, but so did many other things. Contemplation was a poison without an antidote, and with the bustle of the metropolis, he managed to stand out.

There was no specific job to employee him, so he simply thought. A clarity occurred occasionally, but much of it was a salvage in the desert of his soul. He searched for himself, with only a spare experiences in his memory bank allowing shards of a mirror to scrutinize. No one in the chaos of the moving, luxurious city could provide a reflection to his growing pains. The men and women of Bespin were a people of life, that did not think, and only moved.

Pleasure took to the strings, and puppet-ed the people about. In the bounds of feet, chase and haste, Elijawn stood motionless. The youthful honey orbs of his stare in the sheer atrocity of civilization. People had advanced too far, too much, and forgot their soul behind. Clothes and other classically extravagant clothes draped the citizens,while some were attire in rags and forgotten garments. Even the corridors, walkways and streets drew a stylish division.

Despite it all, Elijawn was poor. There was not much more than a credit here and there for him to pinch at, and most of his time was occupied with street working. Trade sent him from the Administrative quarters to the landing bays of Port Town. All the facets of glory that the spacer had gather lead him astray in a world of merchandise. Treasures had been taken away at a bargain, while only a few straggling items remained in his shelter down in the Factory levels.

Another day at the job, and it was time for him to clock in. Esric had become his name around here, just as it was with Raurn, and it was a nice idenity to switch to when at labor. There were a few things he needed to take out of the bank before he started saling though, so he drifted off toward the closest antique shop. Certainly there they would have the required goods for him to sale about Port Town.

Smugglers didn't commonly drift up levels. Sticking to familiar grounds just was smart.

[Za'in]

Dust poured into the Near-Human's sensitive nostrils as the bell ringed behind him. Elijawn had never delved into antiques, but the merchandise seemed unique enough to send a glint into a possible costumer's eye. Inordinately objects always kept a keen eye preoccupied, and foolish folk absorbed. Just a straggle into the Squib art's of haggling, and he might manage to creep into the luxury of Cumulus one day.

The shop tingled at the youth's senses as he stood motionless in scrutiny. An old, yet perfumed aroma clustered his nose, his eyes awaiting an eopie. Around settled an array of oblique artifacts and irregular items the young Near-Human had never seen. One that caught his eye was a particularly dusty shield. An armor coated in brown particles and other unidentified segments of dirt dangled on the wall under a sign. The Arabesh read 100 Credits, but it did not disturb the Elijawn.

He would manage, as always.

Before the antique show owner could snuggle in his chair after a departure from the back room, he was acquainted with the humanoid alien. Blend of features held the youth's frame. Four fingered, marked hands, lightly bronze skin, barley visible freckles and an agile frame made up the humanoid. He was a peculiar character to say the least, but there resonated a handsomeness underneath the dirty facade that casted itself on him. Days had passed since his last breath, and he smelled as rotten as the dusty shop.

A shake of the head denied the owner a single word. Elijawn was not prepared to start his negotiation yet. Plus, the young man was too troubled swallowing Paaerduag's image. Symbiotic relationships were cute, when not so literal. Dependence was a grand idea, yet when seen visually it tortured the adolescent's eyes.

After a quick act, performed with a switch of his eyes to other merchandise, he finally prepared himself for another glance. The infusion of yellow and green squabble with his logic, as an awkward green being sat atop the yellow figure's back. Finally, he was ready...or at least he thought so.

"Aye! I was wondering' bout that armor up there." Esric flung his arm up with an effort of nonchalance, throwing a thumb behind him at the hanging armor. It would be a fine buy.

"Oh yes. Old, old armor. Before Old Republic."

"So..."

"So, it's going to cost you something. 100 credit it says."

"Yeah, but--"

"100 credits."

Already the negotiations had swayed before it even began. The Paaerduag wasn't trustful. Cloud City kept an array of customers, and not once had he slipped to the unsavory design of the rugged, immoral buyer. Not once. And the symbiotic critter would not end the streak here, with a single boy that reek of bargain-love.

No sound man would trust the Esric. Industrial grounds had left a stench about him, and the roads through Port Town and upside allowed his dirty frame all the necessary commodities of a bum. Old rags tatter his once generous features, leaving him near unsightly. There was nothing about him that illustrated glamor.

"What if I give you a zone ball for it?"

The green mush of features alter greatly, but the grand honey of Elijawn could not detail an expression. Many aliens flooded his mind and view throughout the years, but Paaerduag were a new sentient. Even understanding their features were hard task for the poor lad.

"What do you take me for?" The green critter sad, his symbiotic buddy following the lead. A flail of hands swung about behind him, before he continued on with his banter. "I will not take a zone ball for a trade.

This is an antique shop!"

Elijawn frowned at the thought of staring at the merge any longer. They were just simply too bizarre. A blink would savior the moment, and before the conversation could proceed he lowered his head in slight defeat. The perfect performance in heeding the onslaught of tenacious characteristics that attacked the youth's eyes. Blinks would not be necessary, only an act would be required.

Playing the roll, the adoloscent allowed his mouth to work the rest.

"Yeah, I know. Not an athletic store. I gotcha..."

The slaughter barter turned about, his hands fiddling in his pockets. Meddling in his torn jeans had become a habit of his, and he liked it. Albeit an observant man would analyze it with deep study, it only indicated one thing.

Flash of images splashed over through the switching eyes of the barter. Refined in piracy, adrenaline pump was alike any other heartbeat, and quick maneuvers weren't hard to harness after the many bouts in space. First the armor flashed over in his eye, then his hands, then the door.

He was gone before the unified duo could call for his name. Bargains were overrated. Free purchases were the best route.

[Za'in]

Port Town.


The influx of vile scum tamper the finery of architecture. Despite the rather articulate details that rolled through the halls, streets and buildings, the smugglers were still present. Even the air was tatter with the presence of darkness. Folks ranging from poor to rich infested the area, but all held one thing in common. An association of wrong spiral about, and it left the young with a sneeze.


Elijawn's hand brushed a long his nose as he jumped from the power lift. Level after level had splashed over his vision, leaving his mind in a spin. Such moments were rare for him. Endeavors below were a call to the infamy, even on small scales. People noticed those anew. Anything uncommon sent sirens throughout the sector, and smolder heat fumed from the protective.

Not all were bad here, but it was hard to recognize the wholesome. Immoral behavior scolded the area, leaving the good to fall into performance a long. Irregularly nice folk found themselves taken advantage of or shredded by the contempt of the setting. There were many niches in such a horrid environment, and Elijawn found his own.

Backpack strapped to his rear, the tall, agile figure danced between the crowds that stampeded in numerous directions. Disorder also was rampant in the Port Town. Most did not stay in one place for long, rather it be on business purpose or escape of the wrong business. Drama was ignored, therefore calls and pleas merged well with the ravage of thuds echoing from the hull at a step. Elijawn noticed it though, but he played his part.

He ignored.

Setting up post nearby the cantina, he laid the backpack down. Hands flailing about, he waved over a few customers. After a visit down into the industrial levels where he lived, he managed to scamper up a few more falling parts to be bargain. A haggle with a few unsightly customers wasn't going to hurt him. Actually, it'd help.

The face of the sale doesn't matter, only the credits to the name.

"Come one, come all! Come get an Old Republic blaster!"