Casany Praxor
Anvil
Exits her cockpit. Marches along the catwalk. Out of the hangar, into the station proper. Bix’s Gift. A bit like a small city. Equipped with establishments and amenities from cantinas to gunsmiths and everything in between. Hotels as far as tired eyes could tell. Brothels for those looking for a good time. Jails when the police ring the bells.
Mandalorian. Yes. She looks it. Walking forward in her armor, her red gold beskar’gam, with a red cloak hanging at her back amid equipment, and no need for the hood to be pulled over her helmet. A black visor gazed out, eyes behind it, as the Mandalorian negotiated her way toward her target.
Having navigated to this space station in her starship, that left only one destination. Bix’s Gift had a bit of a misfit of an inhabitant when it came to a name that some wanted either dead or alive. Her assignment, mission, job, wasn’t to take the guy’s life but take him in alive if she could help it.
Griff’s Business. Cantina in the distance. A simple restaurant in the middle of the station’s spaceport. The Mandalorian’s report was that her target might be in it. Kad Pan. A Gran wanted for theft, smuggling, extortion and unauthorized executions and the like.
Entering the establishment, Anvil didn't see her prey straight away, so the predator made her way to the bar. “Vodka. Straight.” Two fingers held up for the bartender’s attention, then tilted sideways to indicate the level of pour.
“Of course,” the woman replied, grabbing the drink. The other woman, Anvil, eyes behind visor, looked away from a hundred bottles on the wall to a hundred faces. Her drink came. She lifted the bottom of her helmet in a bit of a hiss and sipped. Where are you, you damned Gran? Whatever, wherever, two things are certain: A Mandalorian is on a mission and, after a minor absence in this business, Mando's back.
Jho'Henig
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