Bargain with the Butcher

[Ariadne Van'Shelaq]

Nar Shaddaa//The Butcher District//Midnight​

Streets draped in black viscera and curdled by the scent of blood threaded throughout the neon stricken district in the far west of the Undercity, throbbing like diseased veins as the veil of night began to take hold of the scarred moon. Crowds wavered as the daily stock of meats and game were stripped from the parlors that reeked of death, with the dense smog of odious conversation and bartering dissipating into the humid air like embers lost in shadow and smoke. Gone were the slabs of salted veal lining durasteel shacks and the screeching cacophony of unlucky morsels trapped in cages, replaced instead by the hushed vagrants that picked apart whatever scrap of sustenance they could find leftover.

Alas, the Undercity still orchestrated its macabre symphony even under the glaring cover of dusk, its chorus of violence and deceit bleeding into the night air like individual crescendos snuffed out by the pull of a trigger or the lip of a blade. It was constant, an unwavering habit of the infested Undercity to enact its malicious hand on those that failed to comply to its rules.

The Butcher district was no such exception to this rule and, perhaps, actively endorsed the culling of those unfit to scavenge within the turf of the eponymous 'Zen'.

Vague was her description yet bloody was her judgement, a nameless specter that lurked within the rusted, labyrinthine quarters once owned by men far older yet no more wiser than the unseen woman who'd somehow replaced them. To some, the mere moniker was a fable, a well crafted tale to keep crime lords at bay and offer young upstarts a lesson in self preservation should they ever consider joining the tide of war that clawed its way deeper into the moon. All who approached the district did so with a modicum of respect and caution, the width of Zen's influence spanning from highest spires to the refuse and filth that littered her perpetually marrow scented streets. She was here, there and everywhere and one could never be too sure whether the woman at the bar or the whore waltzing the streets were just simple peons.

That night was no different, for the woman known as Zen had become another, a coy and scantily clad wallflower that would hang off the hip of her cabal's envoy. In her stead, playing her role, was a lean Zabrak woman whose face was divided by jagged tattoos. Milka was her name, loyal and steadfast to her leader and willing enough to assume the identity of the myth that had carved open the land in which they sat. She was the face that people could transpose onto the fable, tall and demonic and everything a discerning individual would expect of someone who'd cut the throats of her predecessors.

It was acceptable and everything Ariadne van'Shelaq would want of her cover.

~

The deep thrum of the synths reverberated into the heavy durasteel panels scaling the walls of the 'Lapis Cantina', sending an eclectic maelstrom of musical notes up the five story building and encasing its gnarled shell in a throbbing chorus of ebullient dancers and muffled conversation. Black and gold neon was messily strewn across the lower floors, the holographic light shows sweeping over the crowd of dancers as the spice and spirits were engulfed in droves. It was a night of excess and hedonism, the obligatory celebration of life on a moon that only knew death. Men, women and aliens of all shapes and sizes crowded the cantina, basking in the inebriated presence of one another as the night drew onward.

With the first floor offering music and dance, the second a grandiose bar stocked with every kind of beverage and the third masquerading as the hub of gambling for the vast quantities of spice being purchased over the variety of counters, it was everything one could want on a cantina in Nar Shaddaa. Those three floors were open to anyone willing to climb the stairs of debauchery on offer but any attempt at reaching the fourth floor was strictly permitted to a select few individuals.

Those with ample credits, close connections or reputations were graciously granted access to the 'banquet' as it was so enthusiastically titled by the elite few that trawled its chic obsidian interior.

Such a place was where Ariadne and her troupe resided. The woman, accompanied by Milka and several of her men, was comfortably nestled in the furthest corner of the bar with a cigarette precariously balanced between two slender fingers and a platter of untouched meats placed on the sleek table in front of her. The music from downstairs was a muted beat that struggled to break the thick walls of the private lounge, the muffled chatter of those present in the 'Banquet' filling the cool air in its stead. A snarling Barabel chef, renowned for his temper as he was his culinary skills, was located in the center of the lounge gutting a Faa fish with the edge of his cleaver, preparing a meal for the Zabrak that was strictly ordered to act as Zen would.

Milka was seated in the middle, confidence painting her crimson features as she maintained an air of indifference dutifully mimicked from her boss. Ariadne, on the other hand, was clothed in black leather and a velvoid body suit, a simple red choker adorning her porcelain neck and making her look all more like property than proprietor. With raven hair tied into two buns and her lips painted in the most luscious, if typically whorish, scarlet she looked the very part she felt like playing. A pretty face and nothing more, where she could simply watch , eat and remain unbothered.

[member="Darius Sedaire"]

 

[Cedric Grayson]

Working alone had become the name of the game as of late. In the past, fellow members of the order might have accompanied Darius. On such an assignment as this, far more senior masters to help guide the youthful knight.

But times had changed.

Darius Sedaire was a kngiht errant in every sense of the term. He paid homage to no lords, bent the knee to no great leaders. The creed he followed was his own, and it was one that had long since faded in popularity among the few remnants of the Jedi Order. Shattered into a dozen pieces and scattered across the solar winds, the remnants of the once prestigious order were little more than political pawns at this point. Few paid homage to the old ways, and even fewer cared for those that worshiped a different set of gods. The few that still paid heed to the qualities of tolerance and understanding were often left to atrophy in the shadow of neglect as their brethren marched to the beat of war drums.

Darius wasn't going to consign himself to such a fate. The Galactic Alliance had betrayed the values that the knight errant held close to his heart in such a disgusting manner as to make the young man defect. He belonged to no order now. What work he took was of his own volition; he would not commit atrocity in the name of democracy.

Whilst such thoughts had been empowering at first, the after effects of his self-imposed isolation was being to show. Though accustomed to dealing with the galaxy on his own, having another man at his back as he wandered through the grime encrusted streets of the butcher's district would have been reassuring at the very least. Still, the knight errant struck an imposing figure among the dregs that served as his peers here. He stood a little taller than the average man, and his body was that of a tried and true warrior. His deep green eyes and salt-and-pepper hair only served further to distinguish him, though his clothing fit the occasion. The rogue was draped in a long leather coat that fell to his ankles and hosted a dozen inner pockets for myriad purposes. The jingling of the shattergun hidden within the inner folds of his coat served well in giving those who came to close better ideas.

No one seemed to notice the lightsaber that hung freely from his belt.

The scent of debauchery filled the blonde's nostrils as he crossed into the cantina. He sifted through the throng of dancers with all the grace of an angered wookie, his brooding glare turning away any working girls that might have approached in search of a new client. The second floor was easier; folks didn't care much for another human making an entrance. They all stuck to their drinks, or whatever other vices they had brought to sate their lust for hedonism. Darius almost scoffed as he group of Zeltrons snorting lines of spice.

The third followed similarily to the second, but the fourth was no easy feet. Darius found himself halted at the doors.

"Zen sent for me," he said bluntly, a leather-bound hand raising up to put pressure on the mind of the guard. Mentalism had never been his specialty, but he'd been lucky with it enough to at least try the tactic. Even if it failed, the knight errant was rather sure he could talk his way in.

[member="Ariadne Van'Shelaq"]

 

[Ariadne Van'Shelaq]

Ariadne could hear it all. The slow chewing of the restaurant's patrons, the clatter of cutlery in the central kitchen area, every hushed moan bleating from the lavatories and murmured conversation interspersed with the tinkling of glasses. It was all there, a writhing orgy of noise and a veritable banquet of listening pieces. Every sound was a jagged symphony prodding her brain, a distinct and terrible constant that would never leave the grasp of her hearing regardless of how much she drowned it out with the steady rhythm from downstairs. It was as much a blessing as it was a curse and the woman did well to simply focus on whatever droll beat echoed in the lower floors.

Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump

The bass throbbed within her cranium, joining the multitude of heartbeats that filled the warmly lit interior of the 'Banquet' floor. She could dissect the rhythm of their bodies just as easily as conductor would a perilous orchestral piece. She could hear the faltered heartbeat of a nearby Trandoshan mercenary, the onset of withering age clutching the tempered breaths that quaked in the core of his scaly form. Every conversation was a window, an aperture into secrets of those around her. Ariadne cared not for privacy of those that chose to dwell in her district, it was her right to know every coming and going within the land she'd claimed as her own.

"...then I decided to take her sister instead..."

"...but let me say this, their spice is scented with some amazing additives such as..."

"...feth you like a pig and shove my coc..."

Every word spilled from the lips of those within the Banquet were morsels that the woman could season her meal with. Alas, such a task often devolved into the mundane with most of the conversations veering into petty banter and flirting. To any casual viewer she was just a pretty accessory for the cartel's leading figure, a slim creature draped over the arm of one of the many tattooed enforcers. With her discerning feline gaze scanning the crowd of shameless epicureans and her nailed fingers casually drumming into her Rodian bodyguard's chest plate, Ariadne was the very vision of contented boredom.

"Miss, unknown assailant from the elevator." A heavy voice echoed into the earpiece disguised as an elaborate piece of jewelry, the sound sending an unwanted jolt into a mind that was just settling into the tempo of the upper floor.

"Deal with it." Was all she whispered, kissing her bodyguard's shoulder to mask the movement of her lips.

The appearance of a rather shabby young man sprouting forth from the elevator was of little importance to the woman. It wasn't the first time some reveler from the lower floor thought it fun to breach the upper levels and it wasn't the first time the occupants of the Banquet had to deal with such an intrusion. She barely gave [member="Darius Sedaire"] a passing glance before returning to gingerly picking at the meat in front of her. He was certainly not a drunk, the rhythm of his heart was too measured for that and his smarmy attempts at charming the guards was just enough for the woman to roll her eyes.

"Provide proof or head back downstairs. We'll escort you if you refuse." A heavyset Barabel gurgled through his mouthpiece, narrowing his gaze and offering his fellow elevator guard what could only be interpreted as a reptilian sigh of exhaustion. With a firm shove of their scaled hands, the two bodyguards lightly shoved the would-be invader back into the metallic tube of Lapis' elevator. A dull clunk echoing into Ariadne's mind as his form brushed against the railing.

 

[Cedric Grayson]

Well, this wasn't how thing were supposed to go.

The guard had succumbed to Dariu's mental intrusion, though it seemed that the Jedi's approach had not gone unnoticed. He'd been hoping to slip into the gathering of decadence with little more than a whisper; seemed that whisper was going to have to be a yell instead.

The Barabel's words thrummed across Darius' mind and received nothing more than an apathetic shrug in reply. A few options presented themselves, though they all seemed to center on drawing steel as the alien shoved him back into the railing. Dull pain shot up Darius' spine as he bumped up against the metal, his patrician features contorting with distaste. The smell of acrid body odor filled his nostrils as the Barabel drew close once more, drowning out the cocktail of spice and perfume that had been addling the errant's mind. Meaty hands raised to shove him back into the elevator as he stamped a boot onto the tiles. His lips contorted in a nasty snarl, and a strong elbow was slammed into the alien's chest. The Barabel made a noise that might have been a grunt, but he wasn't going to be moving anytime soon. His partner stepped forward to block the elevator doors, thoroughly trapping Darius in with the larger alien.

"I've got a trade deal to strike with her, and don't touch me again." Darius grumbled, his hands going up in mock-surrender. "It's a lucrative one. Figure she'll want to hear it out if nothing else. Better she hears about that rather than her guards denying her business, yeah?" His lips pursed into a smile that might have been charming were it not for the predatory glare that he affixed on the Barabel. His hands fell to his sides, his body language all too telling. Darius was prepared to ruin a rather lovely banquet to get his way to Zen, guards or not.

"Call me an emissary," with a simple motion of his hand, Darius called attention to the lightsaber hanging freely from his hip. Even if he had no intention of acting on it, the threat of a violent dismemberment was usually enough to help strengthen Darius' argument.

A short silence followed. The thrum of music thundered in Darius' ears, coupled with sounds that he could only describe as deplorable from the nearby refreshers. It seemed some people couldn't take the time to find a bedroom, at the very least. Green eyes never fled from the two guards, his brow furrowed with quiet threat. Darius was going to see Zen whether the guards wished it or not.

[member="Ariadne Van'Shelaq"]

 

[Ariadne Van'Shelaq]

In the corner of Ariadne's vision, the steady movement of the two guards breached the grasp of her peripheries. Their advancement upon the stranger was nothing out of the ordinary, a sight so unbearably commonplace that the woman found the aesthetic of her late night meal comparatively more appealing. Where she found a sliver of enjoyment at the sight of a masterfully prepared steak, the scantily disguised woman found nothing of worth in the scuffle of a vagrant and some thugs she'd hired. Still, she was nothing more than a piece of arm candy that night. There was no use outwardly taking notice or even caring about the confrontation by the elevator. She simply wanted to enjoy an evening without the hassle of rival gangsters, needy dealers and credit hungry mercs.

Alas, such contentment would not be found that night, not yet anyway.

It was the sound of air hissing through the throats of the two simple Barabels and the accompanying shudders of their hearts that echoed in the woman's ears which caught her attention. Ariadne did not flinch or move, her gaze simply jolting to the scene the moment the duo of doormen audibly flinched. Something had been brandished. What exactly Ariadne did not know and that irked her more than it should've. With her jaw clenched, the porcelain skinned woman watched on as the two figures took several steps backwards, scaly digits clasping their weapons as the stranger gracelessly made his presence known to the decadent crowd of delinquents.

"Call me an emissary"

Silence instantly enveloped the room. Gone was the muted conversations and tinkling of cutlery, the only rhythm left being the muffled music from down below and the barely audible excitement coming from the private lavatories, Ariadne being in the small minority that could hear the latter. Every eye was trained on man, tracing his form like a horde of beasts would an isolated herbivore. This was a transgression, a move no one in their right mind would play by themselves and yet there he stood shielded by whatever pretense of concern he'd given the two typically intimidating bodyguards.

"He has a saber." A voice rumbled in the half Firrerreon's earpiece.

Ariadne blinked, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she watched 'Zen' roll her shoulders back.

The Zabrak remained composed, notable even in the face of the eerie young man and the half Firrereon offered her a shadow of a nod. The creature had performed well in the past and there was no point denying how well she played her role. If 'Zen' was the one the stranger wanted and then Milka would respond accordingly.

With a wave of her hand, the Zabrak dismissively motioned forward, the members of the Cabal dutifully standing up and slowly fanning out around the table where the eponymous 'Zen' sat. Like any good mimic, Milka glanced at her surroundings and with an audible click of her fingers, the Zabrak seemingly unpaused time and allowed the occupants of the fourth floor permission to return to their droll conversations. The kitchen once more kicked back to life, the now fuming chef tossing a burnt slab of meat into a nearby incinerator and swearing at the man who'd so rudely interrupted his delicate frying ritual. No one seemed too flustered, there was a silent acceptance that the woman who owned the district would deal with the foolish figure that so keenly sought her council.

He was brave.

Also, stupid.

Flanked by two armed guards, Ariadne strutted off of her seat and shimmied her tightly clothed form down the steps of the elevated booth and looked no less bothered by the sight of her brave seeker as she would a chipped fingernail. Her heeled boots, dainty and acceptably black, created a steady rhythm of footsteps as she approached the man with a look of coy disinterest only the most cynical of whores could muster. With her bright lips pursed and her slender arms crossed, the raven haired 'courtesan' cleared her throat before leering up at the man through thick dark lashes.

"Zen says if you want to see her you gotta let me check you." The woman sighed in a voice far more chirpier and coy than her own, resting her hands on her hips as she waited for the man to respond. The possessed an urban twang, a coquettish drawl that she'd picked up during her younger years on the streets. "You could've just sent her a holo or something. This is more trouble for the both of us, honey." Ariadne mused with a raised brow, leaning forward ever so slightly to show she meant no threat and was merely the little carrier pigeon between the stranger and Milka.

It was role she got some level of satisfaction from, one which lured men into her arms without them knowing.

Still, she'd give him his wish...for now anyway.

Not even looking at the two agitated Barabels flanking his sides, the would-be whore puckered her lips before glancing at the two keenly observant guards either side of her. "No weapons big boy, understood? She don't like no toys in her playground." She tutted with a little smirk, a slight hint of mischief streaking across her feline gaze as she took another step forward to pet the man down.

[member="Darius Sedaire"]

 

[Cedric Grayson]

The silence that followed his words was unexpected, to say the least. A room full of hardened criminals shouldn't have paid him much mind, but then they had dealt with Jedi in the past had they not? It was not so long ago that elements of the old order had attempted to assuage the troubles that the populace went through out here in Hutt space, and a rather large margin of important kingpins had disappeared shortly thereafter. The efforts had failed, that much was obvious, but folks still remembered what people with lightsabers usually meant. Few would ever oblige them, and even fewer would actually cooperate. Jedi weren't a welcome sort here, and so Darius would not be a Jedi.

He'd be something far worse.

Green eyes locked with the narrow slits of the Zabrak's. Judging by the way the rest of the gathering regarded her, Darius could only assume the alien to be the illustrious Zen. The reputation fit the face; a reputation that had given Darius ample pause in his decision to seek her out. There were few that would help his refugees, and no one would do it for free. The criminal element just happened to be the only truly neutral party in all of this, which made things a bit skewed on the moral scale. His attention shifted from one grime encrusted corner of the 'banquet hall' to the next.

The room itself was a mass of detritus with gold painted over it in some vain attempt to hide the depravity. Floors caked with sweat, spice, and a myriad other unmentionables were hidden by the bright flashes of neon that pervaded every corner of the building. Food that could only be described of decadent was inhaled by men that looked like they would fit better taking hand outs at a soup kitchen. Women wore little or nothing at all and hung on the arms of unwashed barbarians like decorations. It was everything Darius was not, and he found himself looking upon it with a private sense of pity. This was what his new allies were trying to prevent, yet they required the assistance of their antithesis in order to save their people.

A pained smile twisted its way onto Darius' lips as he regarded the death of order and morality. In its place stood chaos and degradation; people became animals and animals became true beasts. The thoughts vanished as a pretty little thing with painted lips and a feline stare that could have meant a thousand things sauntered up to his side. She stood a head or so shorter than himself, though he knew from the brief moment that their eyes met that size did not deter her. They'd sent a whore to deal with him; set him off-guard in the face of soft skin and and an alluring smile. It was the easiest way to influence the mind of a man, but Darius' psyche was one of iron.

"I've got a shattergun in my jacket and a lightsaber at my belt. I'll get them back when I leave?" He asked, his voice a bit brusque as he pulled open his coat and indicated the shattergun with a tilt of his head. He wasn't going to remove it himself. Having the locals think he was getting ready to go on a shooting spree wasn't going to help his cause.

Emotion, yet peace.

The opening of the old mantra echoed through the fringes of his mind, and he found himself expelling a breath he hadn't known he was holding. He needed to play the part if Zen was going to listen to him. "Can't send a holo. Someone might pick it up, and then I'd be too busy dealing with the aftermath to even think about speaking with her," he added as justification for his actions, his arms held out wide for her to make her search. The distinct smell of cigar smoke clung to his clothes like a veil; something that resembled old oak to be specific.

She would find that he carried no further weapons on him, his only possessions being a datapad and a half smoked cigarillo. His lips pursed into a tight little smile that might have been friendly. "My name's Darius if you need that. Might have heard about the big war on Atrisia about a month back? I'm here representing some of the survivors."

[member="Ariadne Van'Shelaq"]

 

[Ariadne Van'Shelaq]

The visitor was younger than the standard variant of desperate deal makers that came snooping after Zen and her cabal. Nubile and youthful, the young man's presence was an odd little sight amidst the glam and grime of the spice soaked cantina. The scent of death did not cling to his form like the vagrants that tore their way through Nar Shadda's crust, he smelt fresh, like a boy pressed and primed for his first day of school. He was built, lean and stoic enough to warrant the presence of the saber that gleamed by his side and the quietly confident glimmer in the pools of his green eyes. It was an amusing sight, especially for a woman so accustomed to the presence of growling beasts, raving addicts and her rarely talkative cabal. Here she was presented something fresh, a new cut of meat.

Smirking, Ariadne stood up on the tips of her boots and firmly traced her fingers down the flesh of his neck, under the warmth of his arms, past the ridges of his abdomen and into the bump of his groin like any dutiful whore would. There wasn't anything hidden, nothing her fingers could feel anyway. Blowing a strand of raven hair out from her vision, the porcelain skinned woman plucked the gleaming saber that dangled from his hips and tossed it over her shoulder to one of the accompanying guards. Little interest was given to the weapon, she'd seen plenty in her time. If the young man thought he was the first jedi or sith in her part of town then he was almost as naive as he looked.

With a pop of her mouth, the red lipped courtesan leaned in a little closer, close enough that the rhythm of his heartbeat was a resounding drum in the base of her skull. He was exercising his self control, a fact that offered the pouty creature a moment to clarify before she unclasped the shattergun from its place within his jacket and handed it to the second guard that flanked her. She could appreciate a man of strong will, but will wasn't enough when you waltzed into a proverbial nexu den.

"If you behave, you get them back." The would-be whore grinned, patting her hand against his solar plexus before she wrenched herself away from his warmth and sucked in a deep breath. The scent of his tobacco and faint traces of evaporated perfume filled her nose, purging the aroma of banquet for a brief second before she slowly exhaled. Glancing briefly at the two guards behind her, the seemingly unfazed little minx relinquished a shallow sigh before looking upwards at the stern young man.

What was this saber wielding fool doing here?

"Atrisia? That place ain't no concern down here, stranger." She hummed, feigning ignorance and lightly shrugging her shoulders. The whore was a fool, the woman playing the role was not. Ariadne, was very much informed about the intergalactic mess that the war on Atrisia caused, stock was all over the place and the galaxy was now filled with droves of refugees and nameless armies just ripe for the picking. Alas, she let no shadow of contemplation cast itself over her auburn gaze as she offered the young man a coy little smile.

"Well aren't you polite." The alabaster skinned courtesan, swiveling on the heels of her boots and addressing the seated Milka with a deceptive gaze. "He's got a name, Miss Zen. He also has no more toys." Ariadne purred, flitting her gaze at the two guards in possession of Darius' weapons before curling a finger for the young force user to follow.

Embraced in the sneering squad of shotgun wielding Cabal members, Ariadne slinked up the hovering platform and took her place atop the crescent shaped couch once more. Her meat had gone cold and her neon pink beverage still sputtered with the occasional burst of sugarsand, nothing that couldn't be replaced by those that worked here. With a wink and a painted smirk, the nameless whore motioned with the toe of her boot where the young man was to sit. Opposite the Zabrak and right next to his raven haired mediator. Flanked by the small crowd of Zen's followers, Darius was cloistered atop the elevated platform with every eye on him. Every eye but the one woman that hid right underneath his nose.

All she needed to do was listen and lounge.

[member="Darius Sedaire"]

 

[Cedric Grayson]

Fingers that had held as many tools of death as they had glasses of wine prodded over Darius' form. His jaw tightened as she drew a little closer than he would have liked; made movements that most certainly were not necessary to her given task. He knew why she was doing it, but that did not make it anymore welcome. Green eyes narrowed to suspicious slits as the pretty little thing put her hands where they didn't need to be. She smelled like spice and some sort of alcohol that Darius could only describe at mind numbing. Those accented words were spoken at his chest, hot breath expelling against his neck and making his face flush slightly. The woman knew how to do her job well, just as all the working girls here likely did. Her purpose was to throw him off balance before he could meet with Zen, but Darius would not be so easily swayed. He had grown unfortunately used to this sort of scenario after having worked to destroy the ruling criminal element on Ession.

The whore was not the first woman to try and pull him from the path, and she most certainly was not going to be the last.

"I've got an unfortunate penchant for mischief," he fired back, allowing a hint of amusement to lace its way into his words. His lips curled into a smile that might have been real in some sense as Darius slipped into his practiced persona. "I like a bit of excitement, but I'll be good enough for you." The words were spoken in the kind of quiet mumble that forced Darius to lean in close, and they were meant solely for the courtesan. None of what he said was anyone else's business, even if it was all an act for the simple purpose of fitting the part expected of him.

"Most folks don't care about Atrisia. Too far away," the blonde added in reply, his head tilting toward the horned figure of Zen. For all the reverence paid to her name, Darius found that she rather lacked some of the qualities spoken of by her followers. She looked intimidating, yes, but the dangerous beauty was missing. Her eyes lacked the animal cunning he had come to expect of the infamous crimelord. Having dealt with this kind of situation numerous times in the past, he understood the very real possibility that he was talking to a mouthpiece. Even still, the mouthpiece would speak the words of the organization's head, and so her words were just about as good as the real Zen's, if she even existed. It wasn't all that uncommon for organizations such as this to create fables about some fictional character to draw up their collective fame. Zen or not, Darius was goign to get his deal made.

"He's got a name, Miss Zen. He also has no more toys."

Not true

Given his training, Darius was always armed. He wasn't going to explain that to the little seductress though. Besides, even the force wasn't going to accomplish all that much when he was flanked by so many armed guards. He followed the woman's lead, settling down in the chair opposite of the infamous Zen. His gaze shifted to the porcelain face of the mediator, then to the Zabrak in question. A short silence followed as Darius picked his next course of action.

"Darius Sedaire, to be exact," he added in response to the courtesan's mention of a name. "I represent the refugees of Atrisia. We've got some trouble with raiders back home. Nothing we can't handle, but supplies are short and so are ships. Not looking to deal with the hutts, and every other major power in the galaxy would gobble our people up and send them off to fight their wars," Darius leaned forward, his fingers steeping between spread legs as he peered into the Zabrak's eyes. "You're the middle ground here, Miss Zen. I've got a couple thousand folks that need food and transport. Not your usual sort of thing, I know, but you've got the ships. I'm looking to strike a deal of sorts. Don't have many credits, but I'm still trained. The lightsaber isn't for show, and I have talents you could put to use."

[member="Ariadne Van'Shelaq"]

 

[Ariadne Van'Shelaq]

Although Milka dismissed the attention from the surroundings patrons, the air remained pregnant with gnawing suspicion and discontented murmurs. Eyes flickered back and forth between meals on hovering tables and the strange new visitor that was caged within Zen's platform. The young man, as proud and brave as he appeared to be, seemed at a loss with the gravity of his choice that night. It wasn't often that individuals actively came seeking after the entity that was Zen, even more so in the flesh with little regard for their own safety. It was clear Darius was a tourist, completely estranged from the culture that was cultivated in the moon's veins.

How the rest of the night went was entirely up to him and the manner of his behavior.

With her painted lips curled into an amused little simper, Ariadne remained a figment in the young man's peripherals. She was to be just another piece of furniture, some mewling trinket owned by the enigma the ruled the butcher district. It was a mirage that built the legend and the raven haired creature was content with its success, even if all of it was birthed from hapless traditions and folklore. In reality, Ariadne was far too pragmatic and disinterested to casually flaunt ownership over some scantily clad piece of meat.

Still, the rather masochistic lady of crime enjoyed the occasional venture into hypothetically playing out Nar Shaddaa's opinions of her.

That was why Milka was so crucial.

Sneering, the red skinned Zabrak offered the young visitor a moment of silence as she gingerly sipped on a tall glass of rum. The purposeful imposter, clothed in red and grey, was an individual of great stature and startling ferocity. Pronged horns crowned her crimson head, framing a face marred by a brooding violence and barbed tattoos. She was the monster the districts wanted her to be. She was the face of the fable, the perfect cover for the cunning creature that dwelt in the shadows.

"You're far away from home." Milka uttered, sharpened nails rapping against the durasteel arms of her seat. "Atrisia is a blip on our radars, we know about what happened and we don't actually care. Although I'm sure this doesn't surprise you." Milka intoned, a stray click of a tongue following her hoarse words. "Although you offer a...charming little bargain, I have enough men and enough guns to settle me for the next few decades, what is a stray swordsman and his promises to me?" The Zabrak snarled, a delicious enough noise to warrant the shadow of a smirk to play upon Ariadne's mouth.

Licking some salt off the tip of her index finger, the red skinned creature labelled as Zen leaned back into her seat before swatting away at the air.

"This isn't a charity Mr. Sedaire, waltzing in here and begging for the safe passage of some poor unfortunate souls would break the hearts of a few but I cannot abide by it. People are flesh and flesh is business, do you really want risk their lives trusting me? Why, you must've visited every other crime lord before settling for my good graces." Milka crowed tauntingly, yellow eyes narrowing as she stared the young man down.

Ariadne did not react to the monologue, instead, the porcelain skinned predator did little more than yawn and drape herself across the couch with the tips of her boots balancing on the thighs of her brave little seeker. She was just the courtesan, nothing of importance.

She only paid minimal attention to the words of her cover. What interested her was the rise and fall of Darius' heartbeat, the heavy tempo that echoed in the forefront of her attention was her glimpse into the young man's state of being. Anything remotely off would be a telltale sign.

Sign enough to call off this little charade.

[member="Darius Sedaire"]

 

[Cedric Grayson]

There is no emotion, there is peace.

The mantra brought Darius a semblance of acceptance for the situation. Zen was every bit the murderous creature he had been led to believe that she was. The horns certainly added to the grim picture that Darius had formed in the back of his mind, and the angry snarl only added to his illusion. It all seemed a little too cliche for the Jedi Knight. The situation itself resembled something one might expect to play out in a holofilm rather in the cold reality of a trade deal atop a busling night club.

Still, Zen's words were quite real. The threat they carried would have set Darius on edge had he not prepared for them. This was far from his first dealing with the galaxy's criminal element. He recognized just what they went through on a day to day basis - the codes that they lived by. Their creed was money and power; anything else was a waste of time. Expecting common courtesy or any kind of altruism from these people was a terrible mistake, one that Darius would never make.

"Better than risking their lives with the alliance," Darius pointed out with a tilt of his head. Few believed the man when he spoke of his former allies, but Darius knew of their practices all too well. The Atrisians would be returned to their homeworld where they would live under the iron rule of the alliance designated governor. There would be no freedom for these people: only servitude. With that in mind, making the decision to at least seek out Zen had not been a difficult one.

"I ask of this in return for service. You have many men, but men can only accomplish so much. I am a master of the force," a bit of an exaggeration, "and I can get things done that ordinary men can't. Give me something to work with here - anything you might have thought of as impossible or otherwise, and I'll see it through."

These people are worth it.

Green eyes darted to the courtesan as she came to rest her boots upon his legs. The motion was a distraction, if a momentary one, and he found himself looking to her. Their eyes met for but a moment, in which Darius' visage flickered for but a moment. Half a second later, and it was restored, his expression one of calm neutrality as he beheld Zen once more. The courtesan was there to serve as a distraction: the promise of a pretty face and a warm bed if he...well, he wasn't sure what Zen might want of him.

It didn't matter either way. He wasn't going to let the comfort woman distract him.

[member="Ariadne Van'Shelaq"]