From Different Ties...

[Julius Sedaire]

Location: Spacers Rift Cantina - Kal'Shebbol, Kathol Outback​

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It was not terribly often that he remembered things clearly these days. With what amounted to three lives worth of memories in his head, what was real and what was vision was almost inseparable. But never-the-less, he remembered @Jorus Merril. In every aspect, he was a leader and a person to be near. Things just happened around the man. In some he was a dear, close friend who he would struggle to picture being without the support of. In others, just a passing business associate. But regardless the circumstance, him calling an air strike on himself and nearly dying was a bad thing.

The man who pulled him out to safety? That man would have the Green Jedis' gratitude. So, after making sure Jorus was on the mend, he had sent a wave to this [member="Alkor Centaris"]. The name rang alarm bells in his head, and old memories ran it as a hated person, a vile criminal. But, again... The mind of his own life had went astray.. How much of it could he trust as being this reality. None of it really, not fully. Besides. There were few who he couldn't beat if he absolutely needed to. Not with his blade anyway. In this Cantina, he wore it proudly on his belt, next to his MP1.

Waiting, he kicked his chair back against the wall and grabbed a bottle of some local vintage. It had a cork, so he bit it out and spat it into his hand, flipping it like a shell casing for a rifle, threading it from finger to finger before plopping it on the table, pouring a straight glass of the booze, and raising it to sniff. Thick, heavy liquid. Dark color. Spice notes. Heavy sugar smell, almost a syrup. A black rum, and poorly made at that. But it was a favorite of local spacers, so he slugged it back and grinned at the man who had sent it to him. Probably wanting to learn about where he had been. About the tattoos at the base of his neck and across his torso.

But that was between him and the Aing-Tii, the Monks. He was here to meet [member="Alkor Centaris"], and not overly much else concerned him at present.

 

[Alkor Centaris]

It was rare that Alkor found good, legitimate Corellian swill. When he did, it was as close to home as he'd ever get. The Kathol sector was an isolated region at the far end of the Rimma trade route, which ran right into the Corellian trade spine. It was a bit too remote to effect proper trade with the eviscerated planet, but if anything Alkor heard was true then many Corellians had migrated to this area and settled. That meant it was highly likely that they brought the secret art of brewing with them.

Unfortunately, it also meant that people here would know him. He sipped the ale gingerly and headed to the table where the other man indicated they would meet. Since he mentioned that he wanted to thank Alkor for saving Merrill, he warily accepted the invitation. When every eye in the place stared daggers at him, Alkor thought better of the decision. It was too late to turn back now.

He slid the chair out and spun it round, took the seat abruptly and kept his senses sharp. He would know if anyone tried to pull a weapon. "Evening," Alkor greeted in a manner as nice as the Dark Jedi got. The blade that hung from his waist was visible now, but not for the sake of intimidation. It did help to dissuade the onlookers from glaring, though. Alkor placed the tankard on top of the table and drummed his fingers idly next to it.

"I have to say, I was skeptical when a Corellian contacted me for a meeting. I'll have to disappoint you if this is a well-planned hit, I don't intend to die any time soon." Quickly to the point, Alkor wanted to get that eventuality out of the way from the start. Most Corellians old enough to remember him wanted him dead. [member="Jorus Merrill"] had been one of very few exceptions, and he hoped [member="Glavo Pahro"] would be one as well. While he was an exile from Corellia for the crime of murder, he harbored no intentions of a repeat offense.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

"If I wanted your blood, you would never see me coming until my blade was driving for your eye. Theatrics I do... But if I want a man for an honor killing, I don't bother. You're safe unless you give me a reason you shouldn't be..Besides, I spent a few years with the Mandalorians... They have a concept... Cin Vhetin... Stands for 'White Snow' or 'Pure Snow'.... It means past deeds are forgiven, or not the speakers concerns. We all make errors. We all do things we are not proud of. My brother was a Captain at CorSec.... If my memory isn't twisted, I know you, Alkor. I know who and how you killed, and with what... And I don't care... You saved the life of one of the few men I respect as a superior. With no reason to... The least I can do is bring that man to as good a bar as exists in this hell-hole, and thank him."

Here he raised two fingers to the tender, and made a swirling motion. Quickly, the woman dropped Glavo two clean glasses, set with frosty stone cubes looking like granite, and a dusty green bottle. He smiled, Glavo did. Popping with a suction sound and rending the wax seal coated with dust, the cork was layed to the side, as the Green Jedi poured from the bottle. He slid the first glass to Alkor, and the second he kept for himself. Liquor smelled Earthy, rich, and with a hint of maybe moss and savory spice. Whyrens was written on the bottle, but the label was faded beyond almost all reading. Shaking his head, Glavo inhaled deeply and sighed happily, nodding to Alkor.

"I opened it so you'd know it was not tainted. This is Whyrens Reserve... The batch number escapes me, but apparently a member of a smugglers group of sorts that I run with got a hold of a stasis box with it in it. Rumor comes from the Old Man that it was Empire era stuff. I managed to sneak two bottles... And I hear you are a man that likes drink... Klini Bhiq Ohna via tranchil, Il las via lanlo Bey liver, as the saying goes... Lets you and I get to know one another. Maybe get far too drunk on good whiskey. Maybe start a brawl, with some ugly tough or one another... Or pick a pair of pretty lasses to dandle on our knees... The night is young, and the Galaxy is a big place."

[member="Alkor Centaris"]

Spoiler

'Lean back on your knife, and let your tongue be free'

 

[Alkor Centaris]

"If I intend to kill a man," Alkor spoke as he accepted the Whyren's Reserve- gods, he hadn't heard of it finding any of it surviving past the last days of the Empire, and here he was about to drink it, "he's going to be looking me dead in the eyes as I do it, armed, and able to defend himself." The man said he knew about Alkor's convictions, and this would sound very different from the manner in which any of the slain were killed. The young Corellian Alkor had once been was swallowed by the creature he had become. Infamy was eternal, it seemed.

He took the liquor straight to the head, and damn did it burn. The most flavorful and vicious thing he'd ever tasted slid through his esophagus like plasma and filled his gut with a longing for more. Age did that to anything- doubled the burn, maybe even tripled it after this many years. But the flavor remained. Earthen like a good dry red wine, but so much better than the glorified grape juice.

"But you're not wrong," Alkor said after he took a moment to savor the taste. "Years on Muunilinst with men like I knew drives a man to drink. Admittedly though, I was lost long before that." Alkor smirked and took another swig.

He remained silent for a few long moments after that as the images of his victims- the first ones, the ones before he became a Dark Jedi- swam through his mind. There was a man, too drunk to stand as he hobbled his way home. It was raining.

A woman, still unwed. Her former flame had been doused by an unfortunate disagreement, and while he still loved her, she had eyes for another. The bastard had paid with credits he spent by pawning the engagment ring.

Her lover, a fighter pilot and the best in his class. He might have been an ace if things had gone differently. Alkor still remembered him crying over her in the seconds before his own end.

Of course, the girl who never deserved it. If Alkor strained to remember, her smile was bright and her eyes like sapphires. Her mother was a senator and her father worked in the market. Her aspirations were all noble. A philanthropist by nature, she ran afoul of a group of thugs in the blue light district, and she used her Mother's influence to have them locked up. They used theirs to hire Alkor.

He stared into the liquor and swirled it round. "You may be one of the only men from Corellia," Alkor said quietly, "who would ever share drinks with me." He glanced up at Glavo and nodded.

"Let's not sour the occassion with blood or lust," he toasted. "This is very good drink."

[member="Glavo Pahro"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Here, Glavo grinned and nodded at the drink a small, open handed gesture. The man seemed to read, not in the Force, but in the eyes, of one who had walked regret. So had he, for that matter. In a silent toast, he filled a shot glass a piece and slid one to Alkor, and downed his, slapping it to the wood with a resounding clink, and a sigh of pleasure at the seductive glow of warmth and harsh burn all at once. After a moment, he spoke, his own eyes distant. But thankful all the same.

"I hope so... I run the distillery that makes it... If it were swill, I'd be disgraced!"

Here the grin was playful, joking, and genuine. And what came next was a pure admission, a fact not many knew. Something to even their standing, in his eyes.

"I was sent to the Republic as a child. Waylaid, almost. Meant for the Green Jedi. Some old man with dubious ties took me over... I never knew our home, truly, until I was a Jedi Knight... I tried, and failed, to revive the Green Jedi... Led a few failed raids on Corellia... Some keep putting me up as a hero... Truth be told... I'm just too stubborn to give over and realize I'm not the one for the job... And too angry to let our people die out homeless, alone, and drifting..."

[member="Alkor Centaris"]