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Everything posted by waywardgm

  1. Datapad Contents: With a quick tap of the screen, the pad springs to life with a glow of light. It has no lock screen, again owing to Chak's confidence no one would be in his room unless he deemed it. The main screen shows a set of folders, each labelled in detail, listing a long history of financial transactions ranging from drugs to weapons, food and clothing, all the way down to art. One particular file is of note, as it carries a record of the armor found in the cargo bay, and the leverage Chak has over a person named Corvin; someone who is clearly desperate to get their hands on it. Attached to the folder are a number of messages relating to the artifact, some from this Corvin, others from collectors and antiquarians with knowledge of what it is and the value of such a piece. Some estimated costs reach the millions of credits mark. After reading this, Ramani can see more folders linked to work for The Black Sun, with shipping manifests of merchant vessels for hijack, storage facility documents showing the best locations to hide or fence merchandise on particular planets, and recent communications between different groups discussing plans for the future. Finally, there is a lone folder of photos, most of which contain Chak and a female Zeltron, usually taking from an angle that would require one of the two to be pointing the camera back at themselves.
  2. Chak's Room(Captain's Quarters) As Ramani enters the room, he can already see the telltale signs of a man who has experienced what it means to be wealthy. Gaudy ornaments dot the shelving around the room, a platter made of what appears to be electrum sits on the table beside the bed, replete with fruits that look very fresh and a fine, crystal glass ready for the assortment of liquors found in the cabinet above the beautiful timber desk on the opposite side of the spacious quarters. Lush sheets sit across the bed well, likely fitted and folded by the droid serving unit who is still potting about the ship somewhere. Holoscreens, inert at this time, are positioned nicely to be viewed from the bed or by turning slightly in the revolving chair that is tucked against and under the desk. A wardrobe is clearly defined by the wooden veneer set atop the durasteel of the regular wall, roomy enough to accommodate a person standing upright from the appearance of the exterior. A datapad looks as though it was thrown on the end of the bed, and the soft duvet is indented by the weight of the electronic device. What appears to be a hunting trophy is mounted on the wall, an alien head from some strange beast protruding in a snarl from the shield supporting it. All in all, the room is clearly well furnished and carries an air of luxury, something not echoed by the rest of the ship.
  3. "Quit your hollerin' and do somethin' useful, Vex! Trok knows when he gets shot!" Lang cuts in over the intercom as he swings his gun around to target the TIEs. Just like shootin' a pistol, he tells himself, lead the target as it moves, take a moment, pull the trigger. The massive kick of the guns, even after the hydraulic compensation dampens the force, is enough to tell the Mirialan this is very much not like shooting a pistol. But his theory proves true, and the blasts of red laser fire streak away into the distance toward thee TIE Squadron. A moment later he is rewarded with a sizable explosion as the shots hit home. Almost swearing under his breath, the Marshal takes a moment to collect himself. It's the first time he has ever fired a gun of this size. He calls over the ship-wide band, "See, they ain't so hard to hit when they're flyin' like migratin' quadducks. Aim for them big wing panel things and you're more'n like to hit somethin'! And if you'd be so kind, Trok, tell a man before you pull a crazy move like that, not durin'!"
  4. Leaping into the gunner's seat, Lang flicks the switches to power up the gun and grabs the controls. Then he remembers, seatbelt first. The many times he has forgotten in the past all come crashing back. In the form of memories of crashes. Buckling in, he searches for the comm switch and opens what he hopes is a ship-wide broadcast, before reasserting his grip on the triggers set into the controls. Clearing his throat, the Mirialan thinks for a moment, choosing the words carefully, before saying in his usual drawl, "Alright, lady and gentlemen, it seems the Empire has some sorta interest in seein' us stay local. Don't rightly know if they've got a deal goin' with our old Hutt buddy, but either way, they've irked me good and proper shootin' at a pretty ship like this, so I intend to shoot back. Just remember to lead your shots if you're shootin', and please try and fly away from the incoming fire. Thanks Trok, you're gonna do fine." Well, that's about as Captain as I can get... Hope they feel inspired or somethin'...
  5. The sense of the Dark Side that Torin feels is palpable, a pulsing beat that he cannot ignore. But his eyes are focused, and his memory sharp. This piece of armor, this artifact of a bygone era, is Sith in origin; how old he cannot place exactly, but it's at least Old Republic era, some three thousand years prior to the current age. The glitter of the metal is suffused with something more, something the Kel-Dor knows from his studies, the lightsaber resistant material - Cortosis. This breastplate, while archaic in design, was clearly meant for use in war.
  6. "Capt... Wait, what?" Lang does a double take as the Dug addresses him. "Surely there are better candidates n'me aboard?" But Trok is already moving, and so is Dro-Kar, and then Vex. "Well, fine. I guess I can tell you all not to crash into things and to please shoot the bad guys." Of course they don't hear this, they're all doing their jobs already. That's the right way to go about it when you're in a hurry and on the run; again, in some of their cases. Hurrying after Trok, who the Mirialan assumes knows where the cockpit is, Lang takes in what he can of the ship as he moves. It's not one he's familiar with, but it's plenty pretty and clearly something to be admired.
  7. The Cargo Bay: Taking his time, and thoroughly searching through the various contents of the cargo bay, Ramani manages to push past the need for a death-stick long enough to discover a significant number of things. First, the cargo bay seems smaller than it should be, based on his knowledge of the outside of the ship. Second, the crates and boxes stacked against the wall that slowly sprawl out into the middle of the room contain various dried foods, some simple metals, a few piece of a broken down dejaric table, a couple of crates of gemstones and jewelry totaling some couple of thousand credits on the black market - or so he believes based on his knowledge, and finally a strange feeling emanating from behind the crates. With Grrowv's help, and it's lucky she is there, her burly frame allows her to lug the heavy boxes around with ease, even in her injured state. Finally, they reach the other wall of the bay, finding the source of the strange feeling. It's a draft, of sorts. More a cold feeling, a strange chill in the air that can be felt against the normal temperature of the ship's regulated climate control. Grrowv reaches up, sliding the tips of her fingers into a small jamb and begins to pry at the wall panel, behind which is an odd light, flickering slowly. Finally, with a herculean effort, the Togorian rips the panel off, tossing it aside with a clang and heaving exerted breaths. The compartment behind is small, but accounts for the missing area Ramani noted. Under the flickering light is something odd to the eyes of the pair, a set of what appears to be armor, but ancient in design. Foreboding panel lines, rigid and cold, then short spikes that appear less ornamentation and likely more a weapon, with a dark red paint suffuses the metal makes the thing seem angry, aggressive... Dark. A moment later, Torin feels something. Something that shakes his sense of the Force. Violently. As does Eya, though her sense of it feels more welcoming, an invitation in a silky voice.
  8. "Good choice, partner. Let's hope we spend a long time on opposite sides of the galaxy from one another!" Lang says, as he tips his hat to Trex while walking backwards up the ramp and into the interior of the ship. Inside, he heaves a sigh of relief, pleased that they avoided fighting in the docking bay where the vessel could get damaged. He watches Six-Tee-Six stomp off, and decides it's best to leave the huge droid alone as requested.
  9. Grrowv: Standing and pushing her chair back, the hulking Togorian follows Ramani out of the room. Her long strides help her catch the man quickly, and she then falls into step beside him. "I've realized neither of us has said thank you. We'd both likely be dead if not for you and your... Cleverness," she growls, haltingly. Anyone looking at her could see this to be true, the wounds across her body would probably have felled a lesser creature and the large woman seems to be operating on sheer willpower and perhaps a hefty portion of anger at the situation, or perhaps her inability in it. However she hides the pain well, her usual bass not tinged with any pitch that would denote suffering. "So you think we might have something tidy in the hold then?" she asks as they arrive in the cargo bay. The Cargo Bay: As before, the bay is separated into a side with two prison cells, and the remainder. This other section is filled with all sorts of cargo crates, some labelled with food products, others with holo-discs, still more with cooking utensils. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to the layout here, or the way the cargo is arranged. It is simply stacked up, from wall to wall, slowly spilling out towards the cell area.
  10. "Hell, that's about as honest as ya can get," Lang comments, the grimace on his face clear as he blanches as Dro-Kar's forthright way of approaching the matter. But it's better that than dancing around the truth for a time before just getting into a scrap anyway, he figures. Deciding to pitch in, the Mirialan adds, "Better to be alive and without a ship than dead and still without a ship, friend."
  11. Solan: Finishing his meal, Solan sits back with a contented look on his face. He eyes Chusara, who is still guarding her meal as though it could be stolen at any moment, and then Grrowv, who continues eating stoically. "You are dead right it's corrupt, my mass-produced friend. So much so it's almost like Imperials will completely ignore you if you word things correctly and pay the right credits to the wrong folk." He takes a moment, then raises a hand to his mouth to cover a burp. Manner enough for that, at least. "And if you're this up tight about putting an end to Chak, we can do that for you. Of course, there'd be a price attached. Otherwise I don't hate the idea of dropping him somewhere awful to suffer for a while. If he does make it back to the galaxy after a jungle adventure, he deserves a shot at us again." Grrowv: At this, the large Togorian growls. She looks tired, her wounds, now dressed and attended to by Embeetoo, have clearly taken a toll on her. "I don't see why we'd waste a chance like this, Solan. You know full well the Mark on you isn't going away unless you do something to remove it. Here's an opportunity to get back into the Sun's good books... Or at least out of their bad. He's bargaining power, and I can't believe I'm the one who has to say it."
  12. "Right," Lang replies, a grin on his face that he can't help, "And I imagine that you're not the complicated plan type. We have that in common, at least." Hopping out of the speeder as well, the Marshal moves off to the docking bay office with the hulking Nikto. Looking a little less intimidating, but no less dashing, as he sweeps up with his coat flaring out behind him, Lang greets the droids with a tip of his hat and a smile. "Howdy. I trust you're havin' yourself a nice day here. We're just poppin' in to sort the Queen Scepter, so it'd be mighty kind of y'all to let us through."
  13. "Listen, big feller," Lang begins, measuring his words carefully, "I'm not ignorin' your logic, I just think that these folks are likely on edge what with livin' under the thumb... Hutts have thumbs, right? Either way, livin' under the rule of a tyrant like that. I'd be cautious as a backed up bantha stuck in a corner with kath hounds barkin' in my face." The Mirialan turns to face the hulking droid, completely oblivious to the technical lecture going on, but feigning interest as best he can. "Why don't we all go in and put our best foot, or horizontal balancin' parts that're attached to our leg joints, forward."
  14. Massaging his still swollen jaw, Lang eyes the landing bay with the gaze of a cautious man. "If there was anywhere I'd be lookin' to ambush, this'd be the place. I'd put good credits down that our slimy old pal up in the palace likely knows about this ship too." Running his tongue around the inside of his right cheek, he feels where it's split, and has a moment of hesitation where he thinks a tooth might be loose. "Ah well, smile wasn't anythin' to write home about anyway. Is it our turn to take a crack at the talkin' that comes before the shootin, Dro?"
  15. Solan: "Quermia is no fun anyways, far too rigid to offload any illicit goods like the blasters we've snagged. I mean you could put into port there to get info, maybe check the Holonet, but odds are the ship will get searched and explaining this kinda stuff to officials is never a smooth ride. Gotta grease those palms. Ramani knows what I mean," the Corellian pipes up, his mouth full of the food he had found. Grrowv munches away stoically, her face an expression of distaste but her mouth moving as mechanically as any droid's. "That's on the Perlemian Trade Route, however, and we're headed... Towards Ithor?" Without putting the spoon in his hand down, Solan reaches into a pouch at his waist and drags out a small data cube, clearly old, very well worn. Placing it on the galley table he taps a button on the side of it, and a small hologram springs into life above the tiny device. Waving the spoon at it, the man at least has the grace to swallow his mouthful before saying, "Hell, if I were thinking of running anywhere, it'd be there." The spoon finished moving, pointing to a tiny planet, orbited by two moons. "Phaeda." Chusara: Tucking into the food with gusto, the Twi'lek woman abandons all sense of propriety and simply puts the food away. It's a functional eating, of the sort one might see in military service when on a short deployment rotation or snatching time between patrols or other duties. She eats methodically, taking each chunk of food and biting down, chewing quickly and swallowing a second before placing the next morsel in her mouth. She watches each of the group, her eyes darting around as though she is a cornered animal, worried that someone may take the meal away from her at any moment. At the mention of removing Chak, she pauses for a moment. The rage is clear in her eyes. But she says nothing. She simply continues to eat.
  16. Lowering his pistol, Lang watches Dro-Kar vent his frustrations on the Imperials. He considers stepping in, but as he does, the Nikto finally stops firing. Well, if we didn't have names for ourselves in town, we sure do now. Turning back towards the speeder, he sees the others are in one piece, although they look a little haggard and certainly ready to get a move on. Waiting for everyone else to clamber into the vehicle, the Marshal waits until they are all comfortable before taking the last seat. Hopping into the speeder and holstering his gun in one movement, he takes a few moments to clear his head, wishing the blasted headache he had would go away. "Right then, shall we get movin', folks? Off to get us a way off this rock, correct?"
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