Faction Meet the Fleet (Verge Flotilla)

[Council of Captains]

The Stormy Skies Cantina, aboard the Tears of Taloraan
High Orbit over Revyia, just beyond the Sith border

It had begun as a rumor. An alliance of independent captains at the edge of known space, staying beyond the reach of the Sith and the Bryn'adul, defending each other from pirates, warlords, and madmen. It was said that they didn't care where you came from or what you'd done, only that you pulled your weight. It was said that they intended to never stop flying, so that no one could ever pin them down. They would wander, they would take care of each other, and they would never be anyone's victim, ever again.

The rumor had become a trickle. Bemused cantina talk about this deep space legend had turned to curiosity; out here on the fringe, where only the bold and self-reliant survived, the type of people who would risk their lives to investigate such claims were common. So a few ships per week had began to make their way to the Revyia system, and there they had found it: the Verge Flotilla. The rumors were true. Led by an elected Council of Captains, it was a small but growing fleet of ships, entirely serious about taking to the void forever. The bold investigators began to join the Flotilla. The stories spread.

The trickle became a flood. The numbers of incoming ships swelled from a few per week to a dozen every day. Refugees from Sith conquests and Bryn'adul genocides; pirates and smugglers who had pissed off the wrong rival criminals; military defectors and hunted terrorists; colonists at risk of being annexed by the great powers; all of them brought their ships, large and small, to join the Flotilla. Before long, the skies above Revyia were crowded, and the Council of Captains learned that they had overstayed their welcome. Even the peaceful, empathetic Revwien people had reached their limit for hardened desperadoes cavorting in their system.

Soon, the fleet would depart, drifting together into deep space before the Sith could reach out and grasp them. They would put some distance between their ships and the border. They would find a way to keep going, to somehow keep their grand but ramshackle experiment alive.

For now, though, it was a time of celebration. Something new had been born, a gathering of people diverse in appearance and background, but who needed each other to stay free. Aboard the Tears of Taloraan, one of the fleet's largest bulk cruisers, a makeshift cantina had been set up. The rules were simple: bring a bottle of something with you, your price of admission, and after that the drinks are free. The result: a grand buffet of liquor from every corner of the galaxy, some of it as fine as Alderaanian silk, some of it as rough as weeks-old droid oil.

So bring a bottle and mingle. Get to know your fleet-mates. Celebrate, because today is the last easy day. Tomorrow, we'll need each other.

 

[Rance Draysom]

Taking a deep breath, Rance stepped through the cantina doors, a dirty bottle of bright blue-green liquor under his arm.

Sometimes Rance still dreamed of Telos burning. He'd found that drinking straight Grakkyn tended to knock him out hard enough to keep the dreams away. It was Wookiee liquor, designed to intoxicate beings half again as tall as he was - and twice as heavy. The sweet, syrupy taste that came from being distilled from Kashyyyk forest fruits hid the kick of it at first, making it dangerous to drink recreationally; if he finished the bottle in one sitting, he would almost certainly be committing suicide. He had to make himself sip.

But he'd brought this bottle, his last, to share. For the first time he could remember, he was part of something again. Sure, the Flotilla was rough, slipshod, and untested, but Rance had a good feeling about it. It was going to matter to a whole lot of people. It was going to keep them safe, away from the wars consuming the galaxy at a terrifying pace, and he was going to be one of the people who made sure that it did. That was humbling, to have so much responsibility, but it gave him a sense of purpose that lifted his spirit.

The "cantina" they'd set up aboard the Tears of Taloraan was nothing fancy; only half of the "chairs" at the bar were anything other than repurposed cargo crates, and none of them matched. But it was the thought that counted. Everyone had brought something to contribute, and that was the spirit in which the Flotilla would need to move forward. There were no sorcerers waving laser swords or prototype engines of ultimate destruction here, only the determination and teamwork that this band of spacers could muster.

Sitting down on one of the crates, Rance poured himself a shot of the Grakkyn he'd brought. Who knew who he'd meet tonight?

 

[Cillian Raxis]

He had never intended to end up where he did.

When he ran, he didn't have a destination in his mind. He just wanted to escape the pressure that his family name was putting on him. When he ran, he didn't care where he ended up. He just wanted to be free, as free as he could be in the galaxy.

The ship wasn't anything special. When he had left the family home, after being expelled by everyone he had grown up with, he had taken the first ship he could see. It was a small fighter, he didn't know the model of it. He had just flown in a general direction, that being north.

He had also taken his father's jacket, of course. It was very defensive.

He had abandoned the fighter in a beaten, run down cantina. It was there he realized that perhaps family could exist. He had heard the talk, survivors who had found hope. The rumors of the band of gathering above Revyia. When he learned of a ship heading to meet up with this group, he put forward his services. He proved to the captain of the frigate that he knew his way around a spanner, and the captain invited him along.

He oddly hoped he could find family.

It took them a few days of slow travel to reach Revyia. He hoped that none of the Raxis family would ever search this far north in the galaxy, he begged to himself that they would remain on Corellia, not even remotely caring about where he had gone.

To be safe, Cillian had used a fake name. He remembered a story his father had once told him, of how he once went by a fake last name. Cillian had learnt from the best, and instead of only changing his last name had decided to change his entire name.

To the galaxy, he was Rios McKenzie.

It was an interesting name, but when the captain had asked it was the first thing that had come to his mind. It worked, the captain honestly was mostly at fault for that. He hadn't really bothered to check, he just cared that the man could use a wrench.

When they joined up with the fleet, Cillian was surprised. It was as if hundreds of people had come together and formed a group. Nothing matched, every ship was different and unique, but all of them had come together because they had no-one else.

They had departed the frigate, and headed towards what looked to be the main ship in the fleet. Someone had mentioned the name before, the Tears of Taloraan. They boarded the ship with ease, and were directed into what looked like a makeshift cantina.

While the crew he had traveled with went off to mingle, Cillian sat down for a drink.

Rance Draysom

 

[Eris Volcata]

Eris Volcata was tired.

After more than a decade fighting a rogue's gallery of the galaxy's major powers running roughshod over the innocent people in their care, being caught up on the outskirts and aftermath of the Great Galactic War, the bludgeoning of the Silver Jedi Order, the collapse of the First Order and the rise of warlords in its place, she was just tired. And she wasn't a young woman, either, being well into her sixties by now. How long could someone be expected to fight for the freedoms of others when they couldn't be bothered to fight for themselves? With the rise of the Eternal Empire and the rekindling of the First Order in the galactic western reaches and unknown regions, it was getting harder and harder to justify sacrificing lives and equipment trying to keep people free when they seemed so eager to embrace the fascists.

Especially since the lives and equipment were running thin. They had retreated from Bakura for lack of funds to continue the fight, the Sanctuary Systems Liberation Army scattering like cockroaches in bright light. A thousand members went separate ways, leaving Eris barely a hundred and fifty loyalists, primarily aboard the CR90 Corvette Capricious but with a few other smaller freighters and fighter craft, including the three A-Wing fighters docked to the Capricious' hull. It was a sad state of affairs. But Eris wasn't ready to give up on doing something good, so when she heard rumors of this mystery fleet on their travels, her interest had been piqued.

They tentatively joined up, but neither Eris nor the crew was totally convinced. She would make sure this was the real deal before fully committing. So she loaded a tiny, fast transport with a case of Bakuran Namana liqueur and left the rest of her forces in the care of her sun and trusted lieutenant Drexel Volcata before setting off with instructions to get to safety if anything should happen to her.

Now here she was, touching down aboard the Tears of Taloran, carrying a case of liqueur as she made her way into the cantina, such as it was. It wasn't exactly what Eris had had in mind, but nothing was a deal-breaker... yet. There was an atmosphere of cautiously optimistic collegiality, which was a nice change from the stoic hopelessness she had been experiencing recently.

The diminutive older woman managed to get to the improvised bar buffet and hefted the case of namana liqueur to the top. Not seeing a barkeep, nor expecting to find one, she set about unloading the crate and placing the bottles alongside the others. Finally, she uncorked a bottle, found some ice, and poured herself a measure. Namana liqueur was deceptive in that it tasted like candy rather than hard alcohol, which meant one could easily imbibe too much. Eris didn't have plans for that tonight, but then again it was early.

She surveyed the room and, deciding that when on Coruscant one did as the Coruscantis did, she hauled herself up onto a crate near Rance Draysom and Cillian Raxis. She raised her glass towards the men in turn and leaned an elbow haphazardly on a slightly-higher stack of crates to sip the fruity drink. "You guys come here often?" she asked over the rim of her glass, a twinkle in her dark eyes.

 

[Hiro Statura]

Hiro Statura wasn't an uncommon sight within the Stormy Skies Cantina, always opting to escape the "jaws of death" by drinking away his sorrow. But that was only once a week, that one day where his charisma and bravery couldn't hope to stand up against the devil itself, which had taken the appearance of deathly press conferences.

The military personnel aboard the Holdo's Legacy advocated against them and yet the civilians outnumbered them two to one, demanding thier Captain brief them on affairs every week. It was becoming tiresome and downright aggregating.

"Cap'n, you did a mighty fine job today". His Chief Engineer/Head Chef/Chief Morale Officer was the one civilian on board the Holdo that actually agreed with him more than often. At the end of everyday, the Chief was there like a bright moon, calming the oceans which threatened to devour everything in thier path.

"It would seem so, at the least. The showers on Level Three are still broken and I got an ear full on that. Can't you just hurry up and fix 'em?" A ship the size of the Holdo always had engineering problems that always had to be fixed.

"Hell no. The whole damn system needs to be shut down for me do that and you already know us civvies gotta have our water. We ain't get trained to survive without it like you defenders" The Chief threw his head back as he took a long, hard swig of his flask before turning back to Hiro. "Eh...I may be able to figure sumin' out. I'll talk to the Chief Fleet Marshal. I need some damn tools to fix the damn thing". And like that, the druken engineer disappeared into the crowd, yelling and pushing his way through.

"Why do I put up with that" Hiro silently whispered to himself as he rose from the bar and joined the procession to his right, climbing back on to a stool. "Anyone want anything to drink? It's on me...that's if its in my price range"

Eris Volcata Cillian Raxis Rance Draysom

 

[Mark Cross]

In an odd kind of way, this was Mark's scene. He was a below-average bounty hunter, an average shot, and an above-average pilot, but when it came to cocktails or food, he was more powerful than Sith Lords and Jedi Masters...or so he thought anyway.

As a chef, he'd worked in kitchens of various sizes, with teams that matched the size of the kitchen. A lot of them he'd managed himself, some he'd just been part of the brigade, but tonight he was alone, and that was maybe his favourite way of all. Nobody to micro-manage, and nobody shouting at you when it didn't meet their exacting, often unrealistic standards.

He'd prepared for large crowds and minimal work, large batches simmering away in some of the largest pots they could muster and the best part of it all? The longer they sat there under low heat, the better the flavours developed, and the more pleased the guests would be.

From the party, he'd swiped one of the cheapest bottles of whiskey he could find (his budget usually stretched to the third least expensive, if he was buying his own, but he didn't want to take from the guests) and would attack it in earnest now the hard part was over.

 

[Rance Draysom]

More people started to filter in, and Rance kept an eye on each of them. He'd been watching cargo for his parents for years, since he was seven or eight, and had been out on his own for a decade now; there wasn't much he missed, because he couldn't afford to. A few stolen crates, wiping out the earnings from an entire smuggling run, had taught him that lesson very quickly. The folks entering the Stormy Skies Cantina were certainly a varied group; Rance recognized a few of them, but most were new to him. A new beginning for them all.

In his time out on the spacelanes, which was most of his twenty-seven standard years of life, Rance had learned two important and sometimes contradictory lessons. First, be careful who you trust, and when in doubt, trust no one. He'd run into more pirates, thieves, and con artists than he could count, all of them intent on using him to get whatever credits they could squeeze out. He'd been beaten, shot, stabbed, and even blown out an airlock once. He had all the scars, and stories, to prove that he was really fething lucky to be alive at all.

The galaxy, in his experience, was full to bursting with greedy, amoral sons of banthas who'd as soon stick a vibroknife in your gut and steal your credstick as share a drink with you, even if you were buying. But that was where the second lesson came in: you'll go karking crazy if you never trust anyone. Rance knew loneliness well. His friendships - and his string of brief romantic relationships, all passionate but unstable - had been the few lights in a life that often felt dark and hopeless. When those people were gone, he missed them terribly.

Rance knew he needed friends and allies, people he could rely on, and who knew they could rely on him. This was a good chance to branch out and take a risk on trusting someone new, because if they were here, that meant they had something in common: they both needed a home, and were willing to work together to build one. So Rance turned to the man who had sat down nearby - something McKenzie, wasn't he? Rance had seen his brief interview with one of the other Fleet Marshals, one of hundreds, even thousands, in the past few days.

Scooting his crate closer to where Cillian Raxis was sitting, the supply officer extended a hand to shake. "Rance Draysom," he said, cracking a smile. "You're McKenzie, right? I hear you're real fethin' handy with a wrench. We could sure use that, half of our ships are about eight hundred years past their warranty." He poured out a second shot of Grakkyn, then a third as Eris Volcata sat down between them, and slid the drinks over to them both. "Careful, that fruity taste covers one hell of a kick."

Rance did a double take as he recognized Eris. In addition to civilian refugees, the Flotilla was quickly gaining a significant population of former rebels and freedom fighters, people with prices on their heads courtesy of the galaxy's authoritarian governments. To balance out the dangerous attention they brought the fleet, though, they also brought military ships and hardware - even if it was battered and secondhand at best, it would help the Flotilla survive against the pirates and warlords they'd encounter at the edges of known space.

Eris, he knew, had been the leader of one of those rebel cells, fighting over in the Galactic West. She'd brought the last of her freedom fighters with her, experienced soldiers they badly needed in order to stay alive. He poured her a second shot of Grakkyn. "Whenever I have time," he replied to her question. "Drinking beats working. Shame there's so much work to do. We've all heard of you, you've been working harder than most. You might need two of these to start chasing away your troubles."

Hearing a snatch of conversation, Rance turned to see Hiro Statura talking to one of his men. There was another rebel leader, a man bringing the fleet's largest defensive ship. "Looks like working found me anyway," Rance sighed, then quickly threw back his shot before turning to Hiro. "Statura! Welcome aboard. Let me guess, the Holdo needs new... what this time, power couplings? Buy me a Corellian ale and I'll make sure you get them by tomorrow."

At that moment, a delicious smell wafted out of the kitchen. Rance took a long whiff, and a smile settled over his face. He'd eaten a lot of bad grub to get by, but he'd also managed to get some damn fine meals in his day... and this one smelled like it could top all of them. Mark Cross was new to the fleet, but Rance hoped he'd stick around; the guy was an artist. "Feth me, Cross, what're you cooking back there? Whatever it is, I need some. Come join us, lemme get you a drink."

 

[Evie Cutter]

The door slid open and there she was. In the 'Cantina.' Truth be told, Evie'd been in backwater-port bathrooms that had more facilities and class than this place... but what it lacked in charm it more than made up for in atmosphere. It seemed alive. An excited hubbub of people, all come for the same dream. Freedom, of a sort. Hard work and struggles ahead, but some measure of real freedom.

As long as it takes me away from Sith space, they can paint whatever dingy rustbucket and call it a palace for all I care.

She'd managed to work her way there on another ship but she wasn't exactly beholden. She'd paid for a tiny cabin and a bit of privacy on the way over. She coulda offered her services but she didn't want to be tied down just yet. There were going to be a lot of ships. A lot of crews. A lot of captains. Your general hands and your apprentice engineers, they were ten-a-credit, but Evie had something rare. Skills that were difficult to get on a rough-and-tumble set-up like the Flotilla.

Cutter by name...

She reached into her pack as she approached the 'bar' and slipped out two bottles. Vaguely brown liquid gurgled inside. The tops were stoppered tightly, with no labels on the bottles at all. Two unused, untouched bottles of Evie's finest medical-grade booze. You learn all sorts of skills when you don't care which ship or camp you end up in. It had an incredible range of uses, from anaesthetic, disinfecting her tools and improvised explosives. It worked wonders as a general medicine too. All Evie had to do was snap a bottle open and suddenly the patient felt a whole lot better.

Mental note: hide the rest of the stash somewhere the boozehounds can't get it. Hit up someone for some better beakers for the still.

Now Evie had unloaded her 'contribution,' she took the time to investigate what was on offer. Looking over the collected bottles, she nodded in appreciation. A good collection for such a ramshackle group. She spied the bottles that the older lady had brought in a little before her, seeing an open bottle. Well, if she'd brought a crate full of them, she wouldn't miss one glass, surely...

Without waiting for an invitation, she poured some of it into a glass and walked casually through the crowd, looking for someone interesting (and important enough) to strike up a conversation with. Luckily, she saw the group of people that were perched on crates. A couple of them looked important. Something about the way they carried themselves... and the collection of drink they'd assembled.

Pulling up alongside them, she sat herself down on a crate and pulled it into the group a little closer. Giving everyone a quick smile as she tasted her glass of freshly stolen acquired wine. "So. Funny story. I hear there's this group of captains, rebels, runaways, assorted ne'er-do-wells, who are assembling this Flotilla. And I hear they're looking for medics and offering booze too." She shrugged as she sipped more of the wine, making sure to smile specifically at Eris Volcata as she did. "Sound familiar?"

 

[Roth Likonis]

Some weeks ago, a black slip of a ship had exited hyperspace and made its way for the flotilla. Sleek and scarab-shaped, the craft's black hull had a strange sheen to it - almost oily, with purple and green swirling across its surface whenever it caught the light just so. It would have been pretty, and likely once was, if not for the battle damage; pockmarked laser scoring littered and pitted the port side, while an actinic blue plasma fire raged on the starboard side. Two of the ship's four engines - arranged in a diamond configuration at the rear - were inoperable, one stuttering as if trying to engage, the other completely destroyed in its housing.​

She had the name Sable Savior, and she was initially unwelcome in the fleet. ​

A restored Vibre-class assault cruiser, the craft had only one purpose when she was made by Imperials so long ago; lurk, ambush, and capture prey relatively undamaged. Naturally, she made a capable pirate ship. The veteran Captains of the fleet, well versed with such craft (and her rather dubious transponder codes) saw her for what she was. Pirate scum. A few had made to destroy the Sable immediately, while others held reservations that maybe it was the ship of a privateer, after all the craft was no immediate threat with such battle damage. The captain of the Sable was quick to make a deal before any harm could be done, however, after no small amount of haggling. A tithe and a half for entry and safe harbor into the fleet, payment and a half for repairs, and the solemn understanding that if the Sable and her crew molested any flotilla craft or personnel that it would mean quick destruction. The terms agreeable, if a little one-sided, and the Sable was now a regular if somewhat suspicious sight in the fleet. Suspicious, for the Sable always lurked at the edge of the fleet, ready to run, her shields up but her weapons unpowered. Her crew unknown, her captain a recluse, it had surprised many when the Sable put out a notice that her commanding officers would be attending the meeting aboard the Tears of Taloraan.​

----------------------------------------------​

Heavy boots thudded against the deck, followed by a pair of lighter ones. In the halls of the Taloraan, crewmen gave a wide berth to the small procession; a burgundy-haired and golden-eyed near-human, a female pantoran who wore her black hair in a severe bun, and a hulking Houk in assorted cloth and plastoid armor carrying a fair-sized crate. Down the corridors from the docking bays, the houk nearly tripping several times over bulkheads, and the group arrived without ceremony at the makeshift cantina.

The near-human wore leather boots, well polished, with a blaster and a cutlass sling low on his hips. Grinning at the cantina (and its occupants), he gestured to the side and exclaimed something in Huttese to the houk. "Pa dora ya, eh? (set it down there)." Obliging the near-human, the houk slammed the crate onto the ground, a sharp clinking and clattering coming from inside. "Gently! Do I have to add that?" The man slapped a hand to his face, before prying the lid off the crate to reveal a good twenty bottles of some kind of liquid. "But, hey, no harm done there big guy." Said the man, noting that none were broken.

"Jashin, really, can I just skip out on -" Began the Pantoran. But she was quickly cut off by Jashin, who wavered her away.

"I know, I know, not a party girl. I get it. Go and see their quartermaster, but take Hurrk here with you. I don't like the looks of these..." Jashin trailed off, taking in the faces present, recognizing a few of them to be rebels. Eventually he found the word he was looking for. "Do-gooders." The word sounded disparaging coming out of Jashin's mouth, but he followed it with a good-natured grin. "Bet they make good customers though."

"You better hope so." Said the woman ominously. With an absent wave of her hand, the pantoran and the houk departed the cantina, leaving the troublesome Jashin to his own devices.

Jashin, for his part, hefted out a bottle - closer to a pitcher really - and looked at it appreciatively. The glass was cloudy, the cork crumbling, and the label so faded that the language, whatever it had been, was lost to time. It stank of vinegar. "Well...that's of dubious quality." He muttered to himself under his breath. With an easy laugh and a shrug, he hefted out several more - passing them out to a few people who came through the door. "Take one, take one! More the merrier! Hahaha! Jashin's the name, and procurement is the game!" Several people in the room curled their lips at the term "procurement". But, once again, Jashin paid them no mind. You had to start somewhere, and, for better or for worse, they were suck with each other. "Need an item? Weapon? Obscure piece of whatsit? I'm your pira - man. I'm your man." Coughed Jashin, stumbling over nearly saying the word "pirate."

 

[Eris Volcata]

Eris took the shot from Rance Draysom and set it next to her shot of namana liqueur, examining the differences between the two beverages. "Thank you kindly," she said to the man and lifted the glass of Grakkyn -- partially in a silent salute, partially to give it an inquisitive sniff -- before lifting it to her lips as he continued speaking. It tasted pleasant but burned on the way down, and Rance's comment made her laugh, causing her to nearly choke on the beverage. She drew her water flask and took a swig to calm her throat, raising her hand in a dismissive wave.

"I don't know about working harder," she said with a self-deprecating smirk. "I'm just old, so it looks harder. Still, I'll take it." She downed the rest of the shot and then shotgunned the second. If Drexel could see me now, she thought to herself, setting off another fit of giggles, though thankfully this time without the coughing.

An easy camaraderie building among them, the group grew larger as Hiro Statura, Mark Cross and Evie Cutter joined the group. The latter, apparently some kind of medical specialist. Thank goodness; her skills would be desperately needed if things continued along the same lines they were. Cutter spoke about how she'd heard of the group, and despite herself, Eris found herself nodding along halfway through. "Tale as old as time," she agreed. "It's not always booze, but often. You like that?" she asked, nodding towards the glass in Cutter's hand. "It's made from namana, a fruit native to Bakura. Unfortunately, thanks to its... recent troubles ...namana is in short supply, so there's no telling when there will be more. Take a bottle. Call it credit towards future services. In this line of work and this part of the galaxy, you never know when you'll need a medic."

She took a sip of the namana liqueur, letting the sense of well-being and euphoria inherent to the fruit wash over her, then smiled broadly. "Also, it's really good over ice, if you're into that kind of thing."

 

[Rance Draysom]

Rance watched as Eris Volcata put away both shots in rapid succession, letting out a low whistle of appreciation. "Guess they don't let you lead rebellions if you can't hold your liquor," he chuckled, casting around for a bottle of something new; it kind of defeated the purpose of the evening if he only drank what he had brought. He poured himself some unidentifiable grey liquid out of a metal bottle and took an experimental sip. It was thick and coppery, like machine oil, and clung to his throat. He shrugged and took a bigger swig.

When he looked up, Evie Cutter had made her way over. Rance raised his glass, saluting her. The young woman was easy on the eyes, and she had a hell of a smile, but focusing too much on that would be selling her short. The talent she'd mentioned was a skill the Flotilla was in dire need of - but short supply. At present, they had far too few medics to keep their raggedy band of outcasts patched up. That was bad, because they had a steady flow of injuries and illnesses from maintenance accidents, portside brawls, malnutrition, and worse.

Hearing what Eris had to say about the rare and sweet namana, Rance looked down at his own drink and regretted his choice. Oh well. He finished the glass and reached for something else, pouring it without looking; a bit slopped over his fingers, and he cursed. "Oh, we know when we'll need a medic, and it's all the time," he joked, matching Cutter's smile. "Someone with those skills would be well paid in booze, and I hear they get the nice cabins, too. Better they deal with gashes and blaster burns than me." Gore made him queasy.

Turning away from the conversation for a moment, the supply officer spied Roth Likonis passing out drinks near the door. Rance frowned slightly. There had been a lively debate among the Council of Captains about the pirate's involvement with the Flotilla; they had enough lawless elements as it was, and didn't need anyone bringing down more trouble and disorder on their heads. But there was no denying that Jashin was good in a fight, and at least as good at "procuring" useful supplies. They needed men like that, just like they needed medics.

Getting into his fifth drink, Rance could feel himself starting to get comfortably pickled with the alcohol. He wasn't drunk yet, not really, but his emotions had taken on a pleasant, fuzzy edge, keeping the bad memories at bay. "Hey 'procurement expert'," he called over to Jashin, "come join us!" The offer was partly friendliness... and partly a desire to keep an eye on the pirate. Of course, if he kept drinking at the rate he was going, he wouldn't be much good for keeping an eye on anyone. The thought came and went. He didn't stop.

"We should liven it up in here," he said, grinning again. "You folks have been around the galaxy a time or two, it's clear. But who out of us has the best scar, and the best story for it?" Rance pulled his jacket off his left arm and rolled up his shirt sleeve, exposing a long, jagged scar that ran from his shoulder almost to his elbow. "Explosion in a salvage yard over Cadomai," he explained. "The scav next to me cut through a bulkhead without checking what was on the other side, detonated a fuel line. Shrapnel everywhere."

Rance shook his head, remembering the mess and feeling suddenly ill. "Let's just say I was the lucky one."

 

[Ned Rhosen]

Ned was tinkering with an old blaster that hadn't fired for what, centuries? Still, it didn't stop his messing around with it seeing what parts he could salvage, which bits had gone past the point of no return and just how it worked in general. The man couldn't settle unless he knew how something worked, how to take it apart, put it back together and if he could upgrade it in some way. It was his career and his pastime.

The mechanic was still sat in his quarters well after he had meant to leave, he was supposed to be heading over to the faux-cantina for the knees-up that would ensue. He had tidied himself up a little, most of the dirt and grime of messing around with old rust buckets had been removed although his latest distraction with the blaster had resulted in more building up on his hands and an untimely brush of cheek left the remnants of oil across it.

"Ah well, no more putting it off" he muttered to himself as he picked up the bottle of Jaffa cider, he had never been one for drinking really, and definitely not social drinking, or just socializing in general really. Ned had always been happier messing around with some gadget or other, normally on his own, maybe sometimes with his father in attendance (although that tended to be when he was younger). It was a habit he had picked up from his father and one he found hard to shake, still, this was a big day in the Flotilla's history and Ned wanted to be a part of it.

Spaceships were all he'd ever known, that and a few spaceports to pick up supplies or switch ships, something that he had done no too long ago. His collection of trinkets had overgrown their previous home, that and the fact he'd always wanted to live on something as big as this had led him to the Flotilla. He'd been welcomed with relative welcome arms, although there were a few sideways glances as he arrived with mounds of rusted machinery on what was already a ship that needed a bit, neigh a lot of love.

He entered the cantina and looked around, he wasn't really sure of the protocols here, did he just sit down anywhere or wait for someone to approach him? He settled on perching himself on a crate near the makeshift bar area and opened his bottle, took a swig and settled down, his leg tapping, interested to see how the rest of the evening would go, but also wondering how long he had to stay before it was acceptable to leave.

 

[Cillian Raxis]

He heard the people talk.

He had been vaguely listening to the people talking. He raised his glass when asked, and drunk when required. He was more focused on himself. He had been doing a lot of thinking about his life and everything that he had seen and lived through, everything that he had been.

Surprisingly, he felt more at peace among the ragtag group. He hadn't felt more at peace in his life. He felt merry, the atmosphere was incredible. People drank and were merry, cherry and positive. Everyone seemed like a family, a group of people that were just happy to exist together.

He heard a man, he hadn't caught his name. They were discussing scars. Cillian had numerous scars, many he didn't want to remember the story behind. One of them was given by his father in a "training" session. It was a brutal session that left many wounds.

He spoke up finally.

"Scars? Chest, fight in a Corellian alleyway"

 

[Evie Cutter]

Evie knocked the expensive liquor back in a way that it definitely didn't deserve. It tasted damned fantastic, easily the best booze she'd had... ever. Though it was probably wasted on her uncultured tongue. Beautiful flavours and feelings of utter contentment were grand, but it lacked the good, honest and mildly dangerous kick of some good-ol' ship-brewed shine.

Nonetheless, she grinned at Eris Volcata in thanks. "Well, that's sure kind of you. You can be first in line when we all start havin' to stitch each other up." She turned a little more towards Rance Draysom as he talked about the opportunities on offer. "Hm... well now, I'm not gonna turn down the nice cabin. Seems like a pretty big upgrade from 'dirty bunk' in the passenger quarters," she said, rolling her eyes as she knocked back more luxurious booze. "Give me that and a decent sickbay, I'm yours," she said firmly, before frowning slightly. "I mean, yours in the work kinda way. Not the other kind."

The cantina was an eager hive of half-drunken chatter and eager boasting. It felt good. Easy and free and warm, all things that she'd lived without over the last few years. Every second she spent there was confirming her decision to seek out the Flotilla. She waved over at someone who'd just walked in and looked lost, Ned Rhosen , not wanting anyone to be left out. If you were alone, they picked you off. And despite the fact that there probably wasn't any Sith lurking in the shadows, Evie kept her attitude up.

Evie slid her sleeve up, showing freckly, pale skin and, just above her elbow, a somewhat crooked scar running over her upper arm. "Had a scalpel match with a drunk camp medic once. Had to stitch myself afterwards. He got off worse," she admitted with a shrug. It'd been so long she didn't remember his face. She turned a little, tugging at her collar to show the beginnings of a messy, black-grey line down her back.

"Saber. Hurt like you wouldn't believe. No blood though, they cauterise immediately. Small mercies, I guess."

 

[Ned Rhosen]

Ned was scanning the room again, playing with a nut and bolt that he always seemed to have handy when she waved at him, he had no idea who she was, and if he hadn't been the only one over here he wouldn't have been sure it was him she was waving at, but it had to be. He picked up his bottle, slid the nut and bolt into his pocket and set course for the makeshift table that appeared to be the hub for most of the action here.

In his eagerness he stumbled a bit as he arrived at the table, "Nice one Ned" he thought to himself as he tried to breeze over the mishap, he'd arrived as Evie Cutter was showing off some of the scars she was sporting. Having no idea what was happening Ned pulled himself a crate over to sit down, hoping that this what he'd been waved over for. A sudden fear that she'd only been asking him for drinks or something came over him, after all he'd been sat near the bar. Despite his internal meltdown Ned decided he had been invited, but he didn't have the confidence to interrupt, so he just sat there, listening to the others.

 

[Eris Volcata]

Eris nodded and lifted the glass again in a silent toast to Evie, smiling broadly. The conversation turned to scars and the old woman couldn't help but chuckle. Drexel had her beat, dollars to donuts, where scars were concerned. The boy had been a reckless child who had grown into a cavalier adult, and his line of work didn't help where dangerous situations were concerned. Eris had had her fair share of scrapes and run-ins, of course, and though she'd seen combat relatively recently, she had luckily been spared any serious injuries for years.

Still, Eris could appreciate a good scar and a great battle story, so she paid rapt attention to the conversation. When the conversation came around to her, she hopped off the crate she had been using as a stool. "Granted," she cautioned them. "It's been a while. And you may not be able to see because it's mostly wrinkles now." She paused for dramatic effect, shrugging out of the heavy, high-necked cloak she had been wearing. She folded it, and set it down on the crate before wandering over to the makeshift bar for the opened bottle of manana liqueur. She poured a fresh glass and set it down in front of Ned Rhosen , murmuring in a confidential greeting: "Welcome, kid. Have a drink on me."

She returned to her position with the bottle, refilling her own glass as she recounted the tale. "It was after the Silver Jedi vacated the Mara-Perlemian. You had every kind of scum popping up to try to take control. Warlord scum, Sith scum, corporate scum, and -- of course, best for last -- rebel scum. That was us," she added with a smirk. "Point is, it was a free-for-all and I don't know that I ever found out who did it but I ended up with this little souvenir." As she had been speaking, Eris rolled her left sleeve up, first exposing a few simple bangle bracelets but then a gnarly burn scar just above her elbow, culminating in a slight divot where she'd taken a blaster bolt to the shoulder.

Eris cast her gaze around the group, then waved her right hand dismissively. "Like I said -- it would be a lot more impressive without the wrinkles. Never get old, boys and girls."

Evie Cutter | Rance Draysom | Cillian Raxis | Roth Likonis | Mark Cross | Hiro Statura​

 

[Rance Draysom]

An easy camaraderie was building between them all, their tongues loosened and moods improved by liquor and good company, and Rance was deeply glad for it. Beyond the simple fact that he was having a damn good time, he knew that moments like this were important. The Flotilla was no authoritarian government with a legion of military police to bind its parts together; people came and went as they chose. A sense of community, friendship, and shared purpose was their glue; without it, the Flotilla would drift apart just as previous vagrant fleets had.

"A clean, private bunk guaranteed," he told Evie, shooting her a warm smile. "I'll see what I can do about a sickbay. Get me a list of what you need, and I'll find it. Most likely it'll be either secondhand or stolen, but I'll make sure it's sterile and workable." He chuckled at her clarification of what she meant by "I'm yours", but let it pass without further comment. He had a good first impression of her - confident and competent were a good combo - and didn't want to mess anything up with a joke that might come off as skeevy.

McKenzie had been quiet up until then, just soaking up the atmosphere, and Rance was almost surprised to hear him speak up. "Glad you pulled through," he told the younger man. "I've never been much good at close-quarters." He smiled at Ned as the engineer sat down; the guy was clearly more comfortable with machines than social situations, so it was extra important to Rance that he feel welcome. Like Cutter, he brought vital skills to the Flotilla, and from what Rance knew of him he was a good man besides. "Glad you made it, Rhosen."

The Fleet Marshal winced at Evie's description of a "scalpel match". He'd never been much good with blood, or needles, and imagining poor Cutter having to stitch up her own arm one-handed after some drunk gashed her made him feel a little woozy. But it was her next scar that took his breath away. "No fething way," he whispered. He'd never seen a saber scar on someone still alive before, just the messy aftermath of a Sith on the rampage as told in corpses. "How you came away alive from that... must be a story and a half."

He didn't press, though. Rance knew what it was like to have painful memories of the Sith; he wouldn't ask her to relive it.

Just then, Eris stood, and his focus shifted. The older woman had a way about her, even without speaking loudly, that demanded attention and respect. He could easily see how she'd been able to lead. She was a born storyteller, too, and he hung on her every word. He chuckled at her closing joke. "I'll do my best. 'Course, if I can't keep the repair bay supplied, then a reactor explosion will probably solve my potential aging problem pretty quick." The thought brought him back down to stressful reality, which he didn't enjoy.

So he reached for Ned's bottle of Jaffa cider and poured himself a generous glass. A pickled liver was another way to avoid getting old.

At that moment, a battered serving droid trundled out of the kitchen, bearing trays of streaming hot food. This might be their last chance to have a great meal, freshly cooked from fresh ingredients, for quite a while; the pressure was already on for them to leave the Revyia system, and what they could carry with them was mostly freeze-dried ration packs. "And there's dinner," Rance said, grinning again. "Enjoy it while we've got it, who knows when we'll get something like this again." He reached out for a generous helping.

Ned Rhosen | Evie Cutter | Cillian Raxis | Eris Volcata | Roth Likonis | Hiro Statura | Mark Cross ​

 

[Jim Pehico]

Jim walked into the bar, already slightly tipsy. A favorite tradition of his, was to arrive to any social event either late or drunk, though sometimes both. He pulled out his flask and took another sip of the liquor. Jim hadn't come out to the bar to drink, he came to the bar to socialize with the people he'll be working with. Jim sat down with a group of people he remembered, Particularly Rance Draysom who was the head of the entire operation that was the Verge Flotilla. "Hey, hey, everyone!" Jim exclaimed walking towards everyone. "Rance, buddy! Is that a new haircut? Looking sharp!" Jim said shooting finger guns at the head of the fleet marshals. Jim quickly sat down next to Ned Rhosen . he quickly whispered into his ear "Any chance you could catch me up on what is going on?" he smiled at everyone as he reached into his jacket for another sip from his flask.

​

Evie Cutter | Cillian Raxis | Eris Volcata | Roth Likonis | Hiro Statura | Mark Cross

​

 

[Ned Rhosen]

Ned was taken aback by how confident the new arrival ( Jim Pehico ) had been, he wished he would be able to walk into a place like this one day and not worry about where to sit or what to say, maybe not the finger guns though... never the finger guns.

"I er... don't really know" replied Ned in earnest, he'd witnessed Evie Cutter and Eris Volcata displaying their war wounds but had missed the beginning of the conversation, "I think it's a game of whose got the worst scar but your guess is as good as mine"

He grabbed some of the food that had been brought to the table and tucked in, he never really ate much but when its on offer like this you might as well make the most of it, after all as Rance Draysom had said, how long would it be before they had something as fresh and delicious as this? After a few spoonfuls Ned held out his hand to the group revealing an old scar that ran across his palm and back of his left hand from between his thumb and his index finger, "I was messing around on an engine and get my hand caught in one of the moving parts, thankfully my dad shut it off before I lost my hand, and escaped any major nerve damage, lucky I'm right-handed though as I couldn't hold anything in my left for ages"