It Is, It Is A Glorious Thing

[Rurrick Grov]

Korphir

Rurrick Grov closed his one good eye, and breathed the free air.

It had been nearly ten years since he had escaped from his involuntary enjoyment of Imperial hospitality; another twelve years beyond that since his incarceration had begun. Free for almost as long as his captivity, one could be forgiven for assuming that he might have put the experience behind him, but he refused to. There was a lesson to be learned: one that he was reminded of every time he awoke and witnessed only half the world.

It was not the lesson one would have expected, though: not some cautionary tale that had taught him to see the error of his ways, inspired him to put aside his life of crime and violence, or embrace reform and rehabilitation. No, the lesson he had learned was far more fundamental, and far more important.

His attention drifted to the ensemble that surrounded him as he strode towards the Aerie, one of Korphir's most popular pirate haunts. A smile tugged at his lips.

Always have allies.

General Grov and his entourage attracted very little attention as they strode into the dank, dim, smoky interior of the cantina; a Falleen, a Cyborg, a Hapan, a Wookiee, and a Codru-Ji walking into a bar was more the start of a bad joke than it was a threat. Grov allowed himself a ghost of a smile. What harm could a haggard, green, one-eyed old man possibly do?

He came to a halt, gaze sweeping the disinterested faces for the one he'd committed to memory; the Omwati was not exactly hard to spot, blue skin clashing marvellously with the plume of crimson feathers plucked and styled into an aerodynamic fin down the centre of his skull.

"Moras Hican."

The name was spoken without inquiry; the Pirate Captain turned at the familiar sound of it, indignant gaze settling upon the General. Be began to speak, but the sentence never finished, a gurgling hole suddenly tearing open in his throat at the behest of the blaster in Rurrick's hand.

There was sudden silence; attention snapped to Rurrick as quickly as the hands of Hican's crew snapped to their blasters.

A chuckle escaped from the General's throat. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

He perceived the appearance of the bowcaster over his shoulder; felt his other officers reach for blasters and vibroblades and whatever else they'd strapped and sheathed to themselves. There weapons weren't what prevented the drunken pirate patrons from turning the tavern into a bloodbath however; the thermal detonator primed and held in Rurrick's other hand was responsible for that.

"Razor Wings of Korphir," he spoke, voice clear and eloquent, each word carefully articulated to carry to every corner of the Aerie. "I am General Rurrick Grov. Your Captain lies -"

He hesitated, as a gasping, stuttered plea for help escaped the Omwati. His blaster fired again; the corpse fell silent.

"- dead, and any immediate attempt to avenge him will result in your deaths, and those of everyone else in this establishment. Crimson Shadows, Steel Talons, and any other crews and individuals present; I suggest you do not let them. Anyone contemplating heroics should be aware that my ship is prepared to bombard this location from orbit at the slightest provocation. I assure you, no matter how skilled, resourceful, or lucky you are, you will most certainly be buried in the crater that this vicinity will become."

He let those words sink in, patiently scrutinising the expressions of those who watched, seeking out the fearful, the foolish, and those who his theatrics had successfully intimidated or impressed. He caught sight of a young human, less meat on him than a protocol droid, attempting to subtly draw his blaster without attracting attention. Rurrick continued to stare until the human noticed, and smiled as he watched the blood drain from his already pallid face.

"I am here to recruit, and to unify. The Alliance of Free Planets has lost it's taste for our kind, but they are young, naive, ill-equipped and ill-prepared. They believe that their Starkiller missiles make them invulnerable; untouchable. They only worry about the threats posed by the Empire, by the Hutts; not small and scattered bands like us. Together, we can become a threat too formidable for them to counter, more swiftly than they are able to react."

He gestured to the corpse with the barrel of his blaster.

"I contacted Captain Hican to offer an alliance. He declined." His eye narrowed. "Impolitely."

Threats wove between his words, left unsaid but understood all the same.

"In one hour, my officers and I will leave, return to our ship, and never trouble this establishment again. Those wishing to join us and take advantage of the Alliance's weakness are welcome to join us. Those who do not will not be harmed, provided they leave us in peace and avoid repeating Captain Hican's mistake."

He glanced to his officers, voice retreating to a more quiet tone. "Stay sober enough to stand, and to shoot; keep your eyes open; and for the sake of whatever gods you may or may not believe in -" His gaze lingered on the Hapan. "- try not to catch anything infectious, will you?"

He turned away, and strode towards the surviving Razor Wings, voice quiet and conspiratorial as he leaned forward to offer then a sickening smile.

"Excuse me, gentlemen: we'll be requiring your seats."

[Ledo G. Prent]

"Soundin' t' me like yeh wanna war, Guv."

A gravelly purr sounded a table away, and as Ledo Prent drew his knife, every blaster hand in Grov's contingent aligned to him. He paused in his motion, careful, and instead turned the blade to his face, shaving dry and against the grain with a slow draw across his jawline. Eventually, the tension ceased, and blasters returned to their regular state of readiness.

"Lotta high spurrit'd idealist drek t' me. Ah'm whatcha mot fink of as A-poh-litical. Beneaf me station in th' scheme a' tings.

Me an' me lads..."

Ledo gestured to the cadre at his table, an assemblage of Weequays and Humans representing a posse' of the Two-Hundred-And-One Bastards. They all nodded gravely at the informal introduction.

"...ain't essact'ly th' type. Rebels wiffou' a cause! Fortune an' glory! Tha'ssabou' wot counts innit? Stack me creds high, fill me belly wif rot, an' fuck me way from port-t'-port ne'er any two cunnies shall meet n' tell th' tale. Tha's...tha's me motto. An me boys."

[Vishus Thorn]

Two shows in one night, How lucky can I be.

Thorn watched mister frilly head fall down Grasping his neck gurgling with that familiar what just happened look in his eyes. He wanted no part of the exchange, and leaned back and wrapped his arms around the two less than sober women he had meet at the less than entertaining circus earlier that evening. As the man hit the ground a green creature began to give a speech which Thorn knew would work as well as bantha dung as a source of nourishment in this mix of delinquents and murders. Sure some would listen and maybe even a few join the Falleen in his merry little band of thieves. Thorn was not that desperate and even less intimidated.

The real problem was the merry little band he already had was far more then he wanted to tangle with. Not that he would have even if it had only been the Green one. Truth be told he was not a violent person by nature and was not interested in gambling with his life tonight. He would let the man and his friends do what they came to do, wait till they leave. Then take the two inebriated circus wenches to his ship and see if he could convince them to perform a hostile boarding action. That or find some food, maybe he was just hungry. Horny or hungry it did not matter, he knew he was not in a mood to fight and that was that.

[Mayael Rakkamar]

She started at the gunshot, blinking rapidly while only briefly holding a hand to her mouth. It did not make her any less threatening, because her other pair of arms was still holding the large barreled scattergun at an angle that would clearly remove knees from legs. Perhaps more frightening by just how slapped together the weapon appeared; as if it was created from the parts of a half dozen blasters with welded parts and odd angles that jutted in all directions. There was no way for anyone to predict just what the weapon was going to do when she pulled the trigger. She knew, of course. She built the damn thing, and it was pretty good at turning the air in front of it into a mess of superheated particles. Aiming was not important because anything in the general direction was going to take flak and go down with more holes than Corellian cheese.

Grov liked his theatrics, and it kept things interesting for the Codru-Ji scavenger. While others crews she served on were much safer and, well, more of the legal persuasion, Grov's crew offered excitement and an entertainment level she could not resist. It reminded her of the over complicated politics of her homeworld, only with less kidnapping. A smile cross her face as Grov finished his bit and the bar settled down, for the most part. A free hand tucked her hair behind her pointed ear and she lowered the scattergun at a less threatening angle. She didn't trust herself enough to mingle with the crowd so she stuck close to Grov as they took the seats recently vacated by the now leaderless crew.

Stepping over the cooling corpse she bent down, her tight clothing creaking. The four hands moved quickly, stripping the corpse of everything of value it held. Credits, blasters, knives, and bits of flair. It was all stuffed into a small bag which she carried over to the table and set down beside Grov before taking her own seat. "Barkeep something sour, yes?" she called out, her distinct accent filling her words with rolling r's and long o's. Mayael was not a hardened pirate scum of the galaxy like the rest of the crew. She enjoyed the finer things in life, like alcohol beverages with little umbrellas that tasted like melted candy.

[Remy Lafleche]

Notorious as his people might be for their pomp and ceremony, Remy Lafleche was more than happy to defer to the General when it came to dramatic entrances. He watched as the Codru-Ji as she went, his gaze lingering on her backside as she stooped to strip the corpse of Grov's latest victim.

“Don't shit where you eat, Remy,” he murmured, as he stepped over the still smoking body and paced his way towards a table that whilst not vacant to begin with, became vacated as he brushed aside the hem of his battered captain's coat to reveal the sword that was belted at his waist. Remy smiled as the previous occupants scurried away, though was none too impressed by the drinks they left behind.

Falling into a chair, he struck the tabletop with two fingertips and turned his head just enough to see the bar out of the corner of his eye.

“Rum.”

[Antho Moorheart]

Four hands.

That was new.

Antho was staring. He knew it, but he didn't care. Covering an indecent looking smile by lifting his glass - full of something blue that appeared to be smoking - to his lips, he was far too busy imagining what a woman with four hands could do to him to be concerned with trivial little things like discretion and grace.

Reclining on the bar-stool he'd perched on, he looked along the length of the bar – past the various slouching, hunched bodies of the semi-conscious – in search of something suitable flamboyant looking to take to his (soon to be) new four-armed friend.

Every single glass was either empty, or half-full of liquid that looked like it was supposed to be used in the maintenance of a speeder. Hissing breath through his teeth, Antho shook his head. This was the trouble with Korphir, or any ex-Imperial planet for that matter. You could take the Empire out of the planet, but you couldn't just whip the Imperial way of life out of the people.

The bartender deposited a new drink on the bar-top and eyed it as if he wasn't sure what it was and whether it was entirely safe. Tall, green and fizzy, Antho could feel his eyes beginning to water at just a whiff of it.

There was a grunt from the 'tender and a nod, as he looked in the four-armed woman's direction. Antho grinned and, slipping gracefully down from his stool, caught the drink and sauntered across to the lady and her one-eyed companion.

[Rurrick Grov]

Rurrick embraced the pretence of carefully formulating an answer, watching in silence as the pirates began to slowly return to relative normalcy. It was an amusing quirk of their ilk that murder and death threats could be shrugged off so quickly, even while the man responsible was still sat with explosive in hand within their midsts. Granted, some were still watching him with suspicion, conferring with each other, and no doubt forming contingency plans; but while pirates were not exactly known for their intelligence, they seemed to have communal faith in each other's ability to not be that stupid.

Eventually he turned to the sour faced, sour voiced, and battle-scarred human, a faint sigh tumbling from his lips.

"I had a war," he countered, with an almost wistful air to his voice. "Sadly, war profiteering isn't nearly as profitable as it sounds."

He frowned briefly, dismissing those thoughts and Ledo's concerns in a single expression. "If, however, you truly believe that piracy is as divorced from politics as you claim, then it would seem your grasp of economics is even weaker than your grasp on language."

There was an edge, not quite of anger but more determination; an insistence to his words like a verbal slap upside the head.

"Run around as you are, and you'll certainly keep your stomachs full and your genitals empty. But what then? The same routine, time and again, until violence or consumption brings your pitiful existences to an end? Alone we are scavengers, picking off the bones. That served us well back when the Rebellion was doing all the hard work, but now there is peace -" He uttered the word as if it tasted vile and disgusting in his mouth. "- it is only a matter of time before the Alliance and the Empire turn their attentions away from their paranoia and towards us. Those same fleets that hounded the Rebels will hunt us into extinction."

A smile tugged at his pips.

"Together, however? Together we can be predators. No more scraps; no more scavenging. We target the herds, and bring down the beasts ourselves. Make ourselves enough of a monster, and the Empire will fear us and hide from us, not hunt; and with no worlds to strike at, no populations to threaten, the Empire and the Alliance will have no way of fighting back. This will not be a war: this will be a rout; and if you think your life is comfortable now, imagine how it will be when you have enough wealth to purchase your own moon."

[Lesai Ennix]

There were murmurs, some mocking, some genuinely interested, some half slurred and in way relating to the General's proposal and all of them were taken in, processed, filtered, and so on as Lesai dropped into one of the vacated seats. None of it was particularly encouraging. Figured. You could lead a pulga to water...

"Told you we should have hit up the Longshot." Lesai mumbled just loud enough that Grov would hear her over the general din. "Downright damn slim pickings in this joint. Buncha cravens..."

A small shrug of her shoulder and a glance at the bar brought another unimpressed look to her features at the Zeltron nearing their table. She would have commented on them getting a bite after all but with the prissy drink and hopeful expression Lesai got the feeling he was more interested in boarding their salvage expert rather than joining the crew.

"Well at least this shithole comes with free entertainment..." A knowing smirk was cast towards Grov before Lesai picked up one of the abandoned beer bottles and eyed half drained contents critically for a moment before taking a swig of it.

[Mayael Rakkamar]

Mayael's attention was elsewhere, as her dark canine-like eyes roamed about the interior of the bar, catching sight of little knit knacks and oddities that would dominate her attention for a moment, usually with facial cues of interest, before inevitably her attention waned and went elsewhere. The decoration and furniture was so interesting, she thought. Like they had intentionally filled it with crumbling chairs and dirty surfaces. Maybe it was to attract a certain clientele that would be uncomfortable with clean, even surfaces and bar stools with legs all the same length. The wobbling of her own stool had dominated her little world for all of three seconds. It was very hard for anyone to take the small attention span Codru-Ji seriously, but it was hard to ignore the scattergun in her second pair of arms.

Movement in the corner of her eye brought the Zeltron into focus with the turn of her head. She clapped one hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh as her other hand took the offered drink and set it on the bar, almost completely forgotten in the face of the obvious; "I've never seen a pink man before!" She exclaimed, fighting the urge to reach out and touch his face; ultimately so she could try and rub it off to see if it was fake. Mayael was no fool though, and in the face of the stranger, even one that interested her greatly with his skin pigment, the scattergun still changed angles to better shoot him should he be dangerous. Not pointing at him directly. No no. But close enough that a simple wrist turn would be all it would take and his lower abdomen would have a new hole where his navel should be.