Public In Memory of Duro Dan | Nar Shaddaa | [HUT & OPEN]

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

IN MEMORY OF DURO DAN

"He came. He conned. He cartwheeled into a trash compactor."​

The dim lights of The Womp Rat’s Whisker flickered like a faulty droid on its last firmware update, casting a somber—if slightly twitchy—glow over the cantina. Someone had attempted to hang streamers. Someone else had tried to eat them. Above the bar, a single dusty holo-projector looped a pixelated image of Duro Dan, the much-beloved Duros striking his infamous “trench coat reveal” pose, complete with sparkling energy cans lining the inside like fine jewels.

A sign hung crooked above the entrance:

“IN MEMORY OF DURO DAN — Please Check Your Blasters and Your Skepticism at the Door.”​

---

OBJECTIVE 1: THE OPEN MIC
“Speak now, or forever regret missing your shot.”​

At the far end of the cantina, a stage had been rigged out of stacked cargo crates and old swoop bike parts. A squeaky microphone stood ready beside a framed holo of Duro Dan, wreathed in marigolds and neon string lights. This was the designated Memory Mic—a place where anyone, friend or frenemy, could share a few words about the dearly departed Duro Dan.

Whether a tearful confession, a fond recollection, or an awkward tale about that time he tried to sell "Bantha-flavored caf pods" to an actual Bantha, this was the space for storytelling, eulogizing, and maybe a bit of therapeutic public embarrassment.

(Players may step up to the mic in-character to share Duro Dan anecdotes here.)​

---

OBJECTIVE 2: THE RECEPTION
“Snacks so authentic, even the stomachaches are canon.”​

The main cantina floor was decorated in what could only be described as "cosmic garage sale chic." Round tables lined with mismatched chairs were filled with mourners and miscreants. A buffet table (no doubt raided from Dan’s personal stash) groaned under the weight of questionable refreshments:

• Cans of Juri Juice Plus™ (tagline: “It’s still legal…technically!”)
• Mystery protein cubes shaped like the planets of the Mid Rim
• "Glowsticks" that may or may not be edible
• A punch bowl of something fizzing with ominous confidence. The scent was something between citrus and regret.

And many, many more questionable comestibles.

Servers in trench coats handed out napkins emblazoned with Dan’s unfortunate catchphrase:
“You can’t spell ‘delirium’ without Duro Dan!”

(Players can mingle here, share memories, scheme, or sample foods they will absolutely regret later.)​

---

Objective 3: The Alley Outside
“Neutral zone ends here. So might your evening.”​

Beyond the creaky cantina doors lay a slick, grimy alley bathed in neon glow and suspicion. The Womp Rat’s Whisker was considered a temporary neutral ground, but the second anyone stepped foot outside?

Open season.​

Bounty hunters loitered in shadowed corners, pretending to check datapads but keeping their eyes peeled for anyone worth credits. Duro Dan’s wake was a gathering of colorful personalities—some of whom owed debts, dodged contracts, or simply wore faces someone wanted punched.

For those brave (or foolish) enough to step outside, the alley was a place of danger, backroom deals, ambushes, and just maybe…new beginnings. Probably just endings.

(Players can attempt stealthy exits, street showdowns, or make unexpected alliances out here.)
​

Spoiler: OOC Note

This thread is open to all who knew Duro Dan, claimed to know Duro Dan, or are here for the snack table and chaos. Whether you're mourning, mocking, or bounty hunting, welcome to the wake. Just remember: trench coats optional. The Energy drinks absolutely not recommended.

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

OBJECTIVE 1: THE OPEN MIC​

Delivered from a repulsorlift dais, flanked by armed Nikto attendants and a large platter of half-eaten giju grubs, Whottoomuzz spoke first in the backroom of the Womp Rat's Whisker.

Ahem. "Chut chut, uba goola patogga doth slimo an mikiyuna nobata moulee-rah. Jee, Whottoomuzz Chantin, granee lorda doth da true Chantin Kajidic, wamma vota wata fo da jeeska mombay... wether uba doth banka fo boska or nopa."

Spoiler: Translation

“Ahem. Silence, you miserable collection of bottom-feeders and microcredit nobodies. I, Whottoomuzz Chantin, gracious head of the true Chantin Kajidic, will now deliver words for the dearly departed... whether you’re worthy of hearing them or not.”

"Now den—Duro Dan. Da hotshuh, trench-wearin', eye-rollin’ likkle blue dopa-meeky. Neva do haku hees wamma. Dwana yocola dat by law wamma lik ‘blastoh cleanin' reeta’ on steeth planeeto. Got pawa doth drunky Kowakian monkey-lizard, an che goola wash lik slica een backa pita een Tatooine hotsa. An yet..."

Spoiler: Translation

“Now then—Duro Dan. That irritating, trench-coated, eye-rolling little blue con-artist. Never did what he was told. Sold drinks that legally qualified as ‘flammable cleaning fluid’ on three worlds. Had the business sense of a drunken Kowakian monkey-lizard and the hygiene of a back-alley slicer during a Tatooine summer. And yet...”

Whottoomuzz paused, his eyes glistening like twin oil-slicks as his voice lowered slightly.

“Hees... pateesa. Irritata too mo gootu. Wen hoohah pushee at da smella doth murishani, Dan stayee ta dwana glow-worm fizz een da middle doth blastoh boonta. Hees once settah ta Jee dat Jee look ‘granee’ een Jee’s slima-crown ceremoniolo. Jee banisha hees fo dat. Doopa tuhma. Hees bolla backa botha tuhma wit tray doth testu caf shots an smeeleeya lik hees no just been jeeska een front doth hoohah.”

Spoiler: Translation

“He was... loyal. Irritatingly so. When others fled at the scent of bounty hunters, Dan stayed to hawk glow-worm fizz in the middle of a crossfire. He once told me I looked ‘distinguished’ in my ceremonial slime-crown. I exiled him for it. Twice. He came back both times with a tray of experimental caf shots and a smile like he hadn’t just been publicly humiliated.”

“Dan neva dwana moolee-rah. Ba hees panwa hoohah hoho. Hees stuka dem twice. Hees vota jee-jee dat even een da goola alley doth Nar Shaddaa, some stupa try ta dwana carbonata sea slug reeta an banka it wit all hees likkle dry pateesa.”

Spoiler: Translation

“Dan never made much profit. But he made people laugh. He made them look twice. He reminded us all that even in the darkest alleys of Nar Shaddaa, some idiot will try to sell you carbonated sea slug extract and mean it with his whole shriveled little heart.”

Whottoomuzz snorted, a deep gurgling sound.

“Hees wa stupa. Ba hees wa Jee’s stupa. Da Chantin Kajidic’s stupa. An du da stella, Jee wamma misha dat stupa mo dan any uba unbanka freeloada could ever tinka.”

“So drinka uba Fizzm Juri reeta. Chompa uba suspi dumplings. An if any uba crusha een dat cheesa an get blastoh’d by murishani... wel, dat’s haku Dan calla poetico symmetry.”

“Grancha boonta doth Duro Dan. May da bota-side got endless trenchy-coat an no food safe rulee.”

Spoiler: Translation

“He was a fool. But he was my fool. The Chantin Kajidic’s fool. And by the stars, I will miss that fool more than any of you ungrateful freeloaders could possibly understand.”

“So drink your Fizzm Juri Juice. Eat your suspicious dumplings. And if any of you cross into that alley and get ventilated by a bounty hunter... well, that’s what Dan would’ve called poetic symmetry.”

“Long live the legend of Duro Dan. May the afterlife have endless trench coats and zero food safety laws.”

Whottoomuzz pressed a button on his dais, cueing a janky holo-projection of Dan giving two thumbs up before it exploded into celebratory confetti.

“Now koga an chut chut. Jee in mournin’."

The Hutt hovered away from the mic with his entourage, glassy eyes finally allowing tears to form rivulets down his wrinkled, slimy face.

@OPEN​

 

[Ashin Cardé Varanin]

OBJECTIVE 1: THE OPEN MIC
“Speak now, or forever regret missing your shot.”​

At the far end of the cantina, a stage had been rigged out of stacked cargo crates and old swoop bike parts. A squeaky microphone stood ready beside a framed holo of Duro Dan, wreathed in marigolds and neon string lights. This was the designated Memory Mic—a place where anyone, friend or frenemy, could share a few words about the dearly departed Duro Dan.

The stage creaked and frosted under the monolithic tread of Ashin Cardé Desmius Varanin. Garbed in black armourweave and plate armour, wearing the crown of the Sith Empire circa 836 ABY and the maces Khovesk and Kotsirluuk at her hips, the conqueror of ten thousand worlds seized the microphone in a frigid gauntlet of battle-scarred phrik.

She gazed balefully over the crowd through the eyes of the mask of Anger, and she had rarely felt like a truer inheritor of that primeval mantle. She breathed into the microphone and the crowd flinched back at that small sound.

"In my darkest hour," she said, "when none else stood against my most tenacious enemies, the being you knew as Duro Dan refused to forsake me. I have no other eulogy that would be worthy of him."

A Wookiee in the back dared an incredulous laugh that choked in his throat for an eternal moment in which transcendent violence — no, devastation — hung in the balance.

"I will not mar his memorial with bloodshed for such weak provocation," Ashin decided, and left the stage for canapés.

 

[Mr. Usher]

NAR SHADAA, WOMP RAT'S WHISKER
TAGS: Whottoomuzz Chantin
@Duro Dan (in spirit)​

---

A Dapper Drone Shuffled to the microphone. The figure was impeccably dressed in a pinstripe suit, gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat that cast a shadow over its featureless face. It reached the microphone accompanied by a subtle ripple beneath the fabric of the suit, slithering from the shifting biomass beneath. The voice that emerges is gritty but calculated and carries an eerie resonance.

Mr. Usher

"Ladies, gentlemen, and assorted entities of questionable taxonomy, I stand before you not as a mere observer but as one who shared a peculiar rapport with the late Duro Dan."

"In the vast tapestry of the galaxy's underbelly, few threads were as... vibrant as Dan's. His concoctions defied logic, his sales tactics defied consent, and his trench coat defied fashion. Yet, amidst the chaos, there was a method—a rhythm to his madness that resonated with the very essence of entropy I so dearly cherish."

"Dan once attempted to sell me a beverage he claimed could 'reinvigorate the soul.' Intrigued, I analyzed its components. It was, in essence, a volatile mix of sugar, caffeine, and something that screamed in the presence of light. I declined the offer. He laughed, patted me on the shoulder, and said, 'Worth a shot, right?' That was Dan—ever the optimist in a galaxy that had no right to optimism."

"He was a connoisseur of the absurd, a maestro of the meaningless, and in that, he found purpose. In a universe that often takes itself too seriously, Dan was a reminder that sometimes, it's okay to drink the questionable beverage, wear the oversized coat, and dance like everyone's watching because they probably are, and they need the entertainment."

"So, here's to Duro Dan: may his spirit continue to peddle the improbable in whatever afterlife he now inhabits. And may we all find a fraction of his audacity within ourselves."

"Thank you."

With a nod, the figure stepped back, the shadows swallowes its form as it melded seamlessly into the crowd.

---

 

[Xoff Chantin]

OBJECTIVE 1: THE OPEN MIC​

Outfit: Something Nice

Spoiler: Loadout

• Vixen's Vault
• FFS Utility Belt
• Beauty Blades
• Bond-Lock Pomade
• ClearView Essence: Perfume
• Code Breaker Card
• Covert Compact
• Covert Kiss: Laser Lipstick
• Covert PurseGlow Guard
• HushCuffs
• Nite Night Nails: Polish
• Phantom FreshProcessor
• PendantRe-Pulse Ring
• SlyTie
• Vixen's Vambrace

The lighting in the cantina seemed to dim naturally as Xoff Chantin ascended the repurposed stage. Every step of his gliding gait commanded attention, his crimson skin caught the flicker of memorial candles. His voice, low and honeyed like velvet over satin, flowed from the speakers like a promise and a threat wrapped in silk.

“Ah... Duro Dan.”

A pause. A smirk. A sigh that could melt glass.

“A man with the aroma of expired citrus and the energy of a caffeinated tooka cat. He was, to some, a nuisance... to others, a hazard… and to a very select few? A delightfully chaotic cocktail of charm, deception, and trench coat chic.”

The nubile Zeltron's hand trailed over the edge of the podium like he was tracing the memory of a warm night that ended with poor decisions and a lot of fizzy drink samples.

“Dan was many things. A vendor. A visionary. A walking hazard to both public health and galactic decency codes. But what truly set him apart—what fascinated me—was his shamelessness. He was unapologetically himself. Loudly. Repeatedly. And usually right before being chased out of a food court by authorities.”

He chuckled, soft and indulgent, like a lover reminiscing about a particularly strange fling.

“He once tried to sell me a six-pack of something called ‘Wormjuice Redux.’ Told me it’d ‘make a Hutt blush.’ Naturally, I told him I don’t drink anything I can hear breathing. He didn’t flinch. He winked. He said, ‘You’re missing out.’ Stars, I almost believed him.”

The crowd grew quiet. Even the bounty hunters by the door listened. Xoff leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial purr.

“We all laughed at Dan. Or with him. Or... occasionally because the fumes from his drink samples made it hard not to. But here’s the secret, my darlings: Dan never needed your approval. He just needed a crowd. And you gave him that. Every glare, every groan, every chuckle—you were part of his stage. And he? He was always the star.”

A moment of stillness.

“So tonight, we honor not just the trench coat or the juri juice or the spectacular exit via trash compactor. We honor the rare, ridiculous gift of a man who dared to sell wonder in a can—and had the audacity to call it refreshment.”

Xoff raised a can: one of Dan’s last unopened products. It glowed faintly. Menacingly.

“To Duro Dan. The sparkle in the gutter. The fizz in the dark. May his memory forever stain our tongues... and our medical records.”

He blew a kiss to the portrait, turned, and walked away. The can hissed and popped behind him. No one dared to drink it.

​

 

[Jerec Asyr]

The can hissed and popped behind him. No one dared to drink it.

... except the loudly mourning Ithorian in the front row, who stopped watching Xoff Chantin walk away just long enough to snag the can and pour it into one side of his neck.

 

[Eivii]

OBJECTIVE 1: THE OPEN MIC
“Speak now, or forever regret missing your shot.”
Outfit: Durasteel Armor
Weapons: Slugthrower Rifle | Blaster Pistol

The microphone buzzed with interference as Eivii stepped forward, her boots clicking against the cantina floor. She wore her usual gear as if she'd only stopped by on her way to collect a bounty. Her expression was unreadable, save for the tight line of her lips and the faint flicker of restrained impatience.

She didn't bother to adjust the mic.

“I’m Elae'ivi'ilomer. Eivii,” she said flatly. “Some of you know me professionally. Some of you owe me credits. And one of you—Duro Dan—owed me fifteen hundred credits thanks to a busted cooler unit filled with electrolyte drink syrup.”

A few awkward chuckles rippled through the crowd. Eivii didn’t acknowledge them. Her eyes flicked briefly toward the makeshift memorial where Dan’s portrait grinned through a haze of neon garland.

“This is the third time I’ve gotten news that Dan was ‘dead.’ First time, it was a warehouse explosion—he turned up three days later selling novelty bandages made to look like burn scars. Second time, he mailed out his own memorial cards with a coupon for discounted juri juice. Now it’s a trash compactor. Honestly? I’m not convinced he’s not sitting in the back right now wearing a fake mustache and writing down who showed up.”

She let the silence settle for a moment. Her arms remained folded, and she didn’t soften her stance.

“But if—if—this one is real, then I suppose I should say something resembling a goodbye. Dan was irritating. He was pushy. He had the kind of smile that made you check your wallet. And he had absolutely no concept of personal space.”

Her gaze dropped slightly, and she exhaled through her nose. Not quite a laugh—closer to resignation.

“But dank farrik, could he sell. I saw him pitch ‘Devaronian-scented mist’ to a Twi’lek spa chain. I watched him convince a spice dealer that his drink line was ‘an herbal supplement with legal ambiguity.’ He once told me—me! that my relationship could be fixed with a warm can of Fizzm Juri Juice. The gall.”

Eivii shook her head. Her voice never once cracked or rose. But her eyes lingered on Dan’s portrait a moment longer before she stepped back.

“If you’re actually dead this time, Dan… goodbye. And if you’re not—if this is another one of your stunts—then congratulations, you'll wish you were when I'm through with you. You still owe me fifteen hundred credits.”

Without another word, she turned from the mic and walked off the stage.