Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Private Of all the cantinas in all the spaceports in all the galaxy...

Café Corellien, Son-Tuul Spaceport
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The Café Corellien wasn't the sort of cantina with twi'lek girls in skimpy clothes. To be sure, Perail's black leather pants were tight, but that wasn't the main attraction. There wasn't a band that no doubt snorted spice to get through the night, either, and nobody was dancing here. It was a quieter sort of place with a melancholic atmosphere.

The owner was a washed-up freighter captain from Corellia, and when you find yourself retiring on Son-tuul, everyone knows what 'freighter captain' really meant, not that it was considered disreputable around these parts. As a publican, he had a reputation as a fair man who wouldn't tolerate any ruckus in his establishment. He wanted you to enjoy your Corellian whisky and home-made ryshcate in peace. He didn't have a bouncer, that would have ruined the atmosphere. But there was a blaster on Perail's hip.

Closing hour was nearing, the light was dim, the air was stale, and only a few patrons were left, many quietly sunk into their seats, a few conversing in little more than a murmur. Perail had moved a barstool behind the counter and was sitting on it, leaning forward with her elbows on the bar, looking gently into the six eyes of an inebriated spider.

The harch was far from home, not entirely atypically for his individualistic species, many of whom struck out into the galaxy to make their fortune. Only he hadn't made a fortune, and he didn't know what he had done wrong, why he had trusted the wrong people. It went over his head how exactly he had ended up in debt to the Pride. His species was naturally long-lived, but he doubted he would see the end of his natural life-span.

For this one evening, he sought comfort in the haze of drink and the company of this curious mammal, who neither judged nor advised, and whose sympathy he could somehow feel even if he found the faces of its species inscrutable. Perail took a gulp from the bottle of Corellian ale that she was allowed towards the end of her shift. She smiled sadly, but somehow encouragingly. "You can't say you haven't lived."

The harch shifted its mandibles slowly and clumsily. "Yes <click> I've made a good showing <click> haven't I?"

She wasn't going to tell him what to do. Maybe he would calm down, pick himself up, and try again to find a way out of his predicament. Or maybe he would resign himself to his fate and wait for the end. But she had a hunch that what she had said might trigger a process within him that would eventually allow him to come to terms with his fate, in whatever way; for him to be at peace, or at least not so much in agony. That was all she could hope to do for him. When he had come in, she had felt his whole being writing in pain - now he was already better, and it wasn't just because the drink had dulled his mind.

The door opened and a new presence appeared. She straightened herself up, got off her stool, and smiled apologetically at the newcomer. "We're closing in half an hour."

 


Cerrik paused just inside the doorway, letting the heavy atmosphere of the café settle around him. He stood tall, but not imposing—his frame draped in his well-worn Jedi cloak, frayed just enough at the edges to speak of real use, not fashion. His boots made a soft thunk against the floor as he stepped forward, the light of the interior reflecting off his lightsaber at his belt.

He offered Perail a small, warm smile in return, not the kind that lit up a face, but the kind that understood the time of day and the tone of the room. His voice, when he spoke, was low and even, with that calm ripple of someone who listened more than he spoke.

"Half an hour's all I need," he said simply, pausing by the threshold as though not wanting to disturb the melancholy scene he'd walked into.

His gaze drifted briefly to the harch, then back to Perail, and something softened in his eyes—not pity, just recognition. He'd seen a lot of lost causes that weren't, in fact, lost at all. They just needed time. Or peace.

"I'll take something to drink," he added. "If its not too much trouble."

He didn't ask for trouble, and didn't expect company—but he didn't mind if it came either. There was something about this place. A quiet sort of gravity. He felt it tug at him already.

Perail Staite Perail Staite


 

"Not at all." Perail reached under the counter and for a glass and bottle and poured a tumbler of Corellian whisky - considered the default 'drink' in the house - to place before the newcomer. "Take your time", she assured him. Far be it from her to make guests uncomfortable by making them feel they were about to be rushed out the door again.

The first thing that had struck Perail about the man was just how tall he was. And yet he was not the sort who immediately commanded a room by his mere presence - the confidence with which he carried himself was the unassuming, quiet sort, well reflected in his clothes.

"Long day?" she asked casually. It stood to reason that the man had either had some late-night business or a long journey and was now trying to unwind with a quick nightcap. But she knew better than to ask after people's business too directly.

The harch paid his tab and withdrew, waddling towards the door. Perail took another sip from her bottle, then produced a piece of cloth from under the counter and began wiping the surfaces of the traces of the night, occasionally throwing a glance at the guest to make sure she knew she was listening and not ignoring her.

 


Cerrik offered a small, appreciative nod as he took the glass, the liquid catching a glint of the bar's dim lighting. He wrapped his fingers around the glass but didn't drink right away, letting the scent rise to him first — a quiet ritual, like he was trying to figure out the day through the whisky before speaking about it.

"Something like that," he murmured at last, his voice low and smooth, as unhurried as the rest of him. "Jedi business is not always as grand as the stories like to tell."

He finally took a sip, eyes closing just for a second, then set the glass down with a soft clink. "I suppose I could ask if it's been a long day for you too, but judging by the harch and the way you wield that rag…" He offered a faint, amused tilt of his mouth. "You've had livelier evenings."

Perail Staite Perail Staite


 


"I don't think grand things happen out here", said Perail, trying to smile softly, but - to the perceptive eye - failing. She seemed worried, preoccupied. She had a feeling of unease and apprehension whose source she could not have named. It was not the guest himself who troubled her.

—​

The Son-Tuul Pride would have liked to think it's coup rather grand, however. They had managed to intercept a transport convoy carrying medical goods that were to be supplied to the Jedi Order, paid for from donations and earmarked for refugees from the Maw Cluster. Between the many warring factions in the galaxy, they would fetch a good price.

The trouble was that one of the pirates wanted both a full purse and a clean conscience and had tipped off the Jedi, proposing to meet one of theirs in the dead of night to reveal the location of the stolen goods, and probably to make a deal. This sort of double-dipping couldn't happen, and when the Pride had discovered the communication, his fate was sealed. Other people would show up in his stead at the rendezvous.

—​

Just as the door closed behind the harch with its characteristic swooshing sound, Perail could hear unpleasant voices outside. That happened sometimes, but usually didn't make its way inside. Occasionally there were even shoot-outs in the street nearby. It was best not to pay attention, and Perail hadn't had any rough time since she'd come here.

But now Perail's eyes were fixed on the door in uneasy apprehension. Her hand, still holding the cloth, rested motionless on the counter.

It was almost the same moment that the door flew open and she ducked instinctively, catching just a glimpse of the red light of a blaster shot coming towards the bar before the scene was out of sight, though not out of earshot. A girl screamed and, nonsensically, jumped up on a chair before she was plucked from it by her companion, who held her closely while they pressed against the wall. An Ithorian grunted indignantly, but did not move from his seat.

Perail fumbled for her blaster, which she had little practice drawing. It wasn't a reasoned decision - if one had thought it through, one might have come to the conclusion that it would be best to sit this one out, since whoever was shooting couldn't possibly have anything against her personally. But she did not think it through - the didn't even begin to think about it all. What she felt was that she, and the bar which she represented tonight, were being attacked. And when you were attacked, you had to either flee - which she couldn't, and the bar couldn't - or fight back. Even animals knew that.

When she finally had the blaster in her hand, after what felt like an eternity, but was in reality only a few seconds, she plucked up her courage and got on her feet, staying as low as she could while still aiming across the counter at the intruders, and for the first time in her life actually pulled the trigger while pointing a weapon at a person...

 


Cerrik simply tilted his head to the side to avoid the oncoming blaster bolt that was fired from the door, the red bolt sizzling past his cheek and searing a black mark into the wall behind the bar counter. His expression didn't shift—no fear, no alarm—just a calm, calculated awareness. Like a ripple moving through still water.

It was when Perail fired hers, that Cerrik stood. He rose fluidly, the motion quiet and unhurried even as chaos bloomed around him. One hand lifted toward her, palm open in a steadying gesture—Stop. As his eyes scanned the room, he counted the number of pirates that entered, all with their blasters trained on him.

"There is no need for such hostilities. Sit down, have a drink, and we can discuss a peaceful resloution to all this." He told the pirates. Ever the Jedi, he wanted to try to end this without any violence if he can.

Perail Staite Perail Staite
 

She shooting stopped as abruptly as it had started. Everyone, including the Son-Tuul Pride's enforcers, looked at each other in astonishment. You could just raise your hand and people would stop shooting? In what world did that work?

But Perail didn't really reflect on it. She saw the girl on the table and her protective instincts kicked in, she sprang back into action. "Follow me everyone." It was clear that she didn't mean everyone, though, just those not actually involved in whatever dispute it was that had caused this situation. She made for the door to the kitchen, which was dark and deserted - they didn't offer food so late in the night, and the cook had long gone cleaned up and gone home. Perail switched on the light and ushered the guests through, as though in a kind of trance. She didn't really know what she was doing or going to do, and she had a very bad feeling about the situation and a lump in her throat.

She was unaware that, by bizarre coincidence and certainly not any kind of marksmanship, her shot had actually hit one of the mob enforcers in the shoulder, who was now writhing in pain. His comrade, on the other hand, was very much aware, and resentful, of the fact, and for a moment even looked past Cerrik and after Perail. A barmaid wasn't supposed to take part in a shootout, she was supposed to be nice and look pretty.

Thus it was only after a moment's delay that he looked straight at Cerrik, the gears in his mind turning and contemplating what he was to do with this enigmatic character. He didn't seem to arrive at a definitive conclusion, because for now, all he announced was: "Your date ain't comin'."

His eyes flitted again to Perail as she was poised to disappear through the kitchen door, then back to Cerrik.

 

Cerrik's eyes didn't leave the enforcer's face. The silence in the bar seemed to stretch, taut as a wire. You could feel the thoughts churning in the air—fear, confusion, irritation. None of it touched Cerrik's expression. The enforcer's words landed, and Cerrik tilted his head slightly, gaze narrowing.

"Then that leaves me to deal with you." Cerrick spoke. "So what I can do for you fine gentlemen?"

He had turned in order to grab his glass from the counter and finished what was left in a big gulp. "Surely you have better things to do than to barge into a cantina and start blasting."

Perail Staite Perail Staite

 

The was some clunking as inebriated guests were shooed through the kitchen and into a small corridor. It had a storage room with an open door at the other end, and a door off to the side. "That's the staff door, it leads outside. Best get yourselves home. I'm... so sorry", she said. It was scarce comfort to the frightened souls, but the couple, stumbling past, caught a sheepish smile from her, and the guy put his hand on her shoulder in passing as if to express his appreciation before continuing to lead his companion onwards.

Perail ushered everyone out, then slumped against the wall. She finally realised she still had her blaster in one hand, hanging limply to her side, and holstered it. She was clearly unpracticed in the procedure, or maybe it was simply her nerves, but she needed both hands to put it in.

After a moment's reprieve, she snuck back into the kitchen and peered through the pass-through to see what was going on in the main room.

—​

"And you got better things to do than to stick your nose where it don't belong and get people killed. Don't see you doing that, either. So now what?" It was somehow despite himself that the man now found himself - sort of - negotiating with this man.

The man next to him, who had been hit by Perail's shot, was not, however, quite so peaceably inclined. "What the kriff?" He grunted. "What are you waiting for, run round the back and fetch the queen!" he told the two men behind him. He had not yet spotted her in the kitchen.

 

Cerrik's gaze didn't flicker. He heard everything—the wounded enforcer's barked orders, the scrape of boots as the others began to move. But it was the first one's question he answered first.

"I'm exactly where and doing what the Force needs me to do."

His hand lifted slightly fingers curled as though gripping something unseen. And then the Force moved, invisible and swift. A subtle, precise push—not violent, but commanding—sent the two men who'd started for the back door stumbling sideways, slamming lightly against the wall. Not enough to harm. Just enough to stop.

Cerrik turned his head just slightly to acknowledge him. "You've got a wound. You're angry. You want it to mean something. But if you chase her, it'll mean less. Because I will stop you."

He turned back to the leader.

"I have the sense that you got wind of your man that called the Jedi offering the location of the stolen goods. And you showed up in order to stop whichever Jedi managed to arrive. Am I correct?"

Perail Staite Perail Staite

 

"Round the back, you idiots! Outside!"

The two men picked themselves up from the floor and gave the Jedi a wide, wide berth as they made their way back to their comrades at the door, slipping through between them, only to then hesitantly remain outside.

"Right. Only he didn't get to tell you the location, and won't get to. But if you now go off snooping around instead of buggering the kriff off, you can see how we're gonna have a problem." The man gave the Jedi a smirk. His weapon was lowered, but still held very much at the ready.

"Kriffin' 'ell, have you all lost your mind?!" howled the injured man in disbelief at the conversation he was witnessing. His head was growing dizzy from the pain, now that the initial shock was beginning to subside and his anger at the situation was met with little reaction.

"Shut it", snapped the one who was apparently in charge. "Get yourself outta here to get that treated. Forget the broad, can always come back for her."

Perail quietly switched off the light in the kitchen and snuck to the back door to lock it. Better to be locked in here, because that way she at least had that stranger between her and the mobsters. She didn't want to think any further and, having locked the door, just sunk onto the floor, shaking from her nerves, and started sobbing quietly.

 

Cerrik's voice remained calm, but there was a steely thread woven through it now, like durasteel under silk. "Right… well… the Jedi need the supplies that were stolen. So I'm afraid I won't be leaving until I have them."

He took a slow step forward, eyes never leaving the man with the smirk, though his hands remained relaxed at his sides. Not threatening—yet. "So that leaves us with two options. The first is we negotiate terms for a trade—supplies for something you want in return." His tone was even, measured. "If its something in my power to give."

He let that hang in the air for a moment before continuing, quieter now, more deliberate. "Option two… is the last resort option. The one that, lets just say..." Cerrik's gaze darkened slightly, and while he made no move, the very atmosphere seemed to tighten around him. "You won't like."

"Now,"
Cerrik said, voice light again, but the edge never left, "which will it be?"

Perail Staite Perail Staite

 

"You propose... business." The man had clearly not expected this and took a moment to process this turn of events. "Well, it ain't my stuff. We're... er... gonna have to get back to you." It was, in fact, exactly the justification he needed to get out of this disagreeable situation. If he didn't shoot a man who proposed a deal, could anyone blame him? On the contrary, he could be blamed if he did! Of course, it wasn't his deal to make. It was all out of his hands. Perfect.

"Right, lads. Let's go." He turned back to the Jedi and announced: "And you... be findable."

—​

Perail heard the slight hushing sound of the front door in the distance and picked herself up from the floor to go back. Having reassured herself that the men were gone by peeking through the pass-through once more, she re-emerged from the kitchen and looked around. The damage to the place was surprisingly minor, but there were several broken glasses and bottles and spilled drinks, in addition an the impact against the wall.

"I'd better clean up..." she said without conviction. It somehow didn't seem to occur to her to ask what had happened. Maybe it was the shock, or maybe she just took for granted that the galaxy was an insane place where insane things happened.

 
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"Its not like I am hard to find." Cerrik told the pirates before they left the cantina. It wasn't long after that he heard the sounds of someone coming from the kitchen. Turning around, he spotted Perail, the barmaid from earlier. A quick glance at her told him she didn't have any injuries from the altercation.

"Since this is partially my fault, allow me to help with the clean up." He spoke to Perail, stepping over to see if there were any spare rags or cleaning tools he could use.

Perail Staite Perail Staite

 

"No, please. It's no trouble." Asking guests to help with the clean-up was just wrong.

When she reached for the cloth to wipe the splinters and spilled liquids from the surfaces onto the floor - to be cleaned up later -, she noticed that her hand was shaking, stopped, and looked at it forlornly for several moments. She also became aware of the slight change in feeling on her cheeks, where the salt from her dried tears was still adhering to the skin. "Oh..." she murmured to herself and wiped her face with her sleeve.

She put down the cloth again. After a moment's hesitation, she reached for a glass, poured herself a finger breadth of whisky, and downed it at once. The circumstances warranted it. She put the glass in the sink and stowed the bottle away, diligently, before she even felt the first effect of the spirit. She threw a glance at the clock on the wall. "So twenty minutes until we close, I guess..." she remarked with a helpless smile.

It was a long time since she had eaten dinner by now, and the whisky didn't leave her to wait for long. She could feel herself relax a little and her experience mellow. She finally took up the cleaning work in earnest, focusing on the mundane task perhaps to evade thoughts about the bigger question of what this all meant for her.

 
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Cerrik watched her quietly for a moment, his arms folded loosely across his chest, posture relaxed yet attentive. He hadn't moved to interfere when she waved off the help, respecting her space—though not without a trace of concern in his eyes.

When she reached for the whisky, his gaze flicked to the bottle, then back to her. He didn't judge. Spirits had their place, same as silence did. And tonight had offered plenty of both.

He took a slow breath and stepped closer, his voice low and even, the way one might speak near a skittish animal. "You don't have to pretend you're alright just because it's almost closing time." He nodded toward the cloth in her hand. "That kind of weight doesn't lift with elbow grease."

There was no reprimand in his tone, only quiet understanding, born of witnessing too many people try to scrub grief out of wood grain. "I'll wait with you. Just until the doors are shut. No trouble." He stepped to the side, out of her way, but not out of reach. Present. Solid. A calm shore to come back to—if she wanted.

"With all the commotion, I forgot I never asked for your name. How rude of me. Allow me to offer mine. I am Cerrik."

Perail Staite Perail Staite

 

"Perail. Perry, if you want."

Perail suddenly felt the weight of the blaster hanging on her belt. Perhaps it was just because she was exhausted and tired. She unbuckled the belt and put it on the counter, now wiped clearn.

For a moment, she looked at and contemplated the weapon. She never thought she'd have reason to use it. She thought it was more symbolic, or at best a deterrent. To be sure, Perail wasn't entirely oblivious to what went on in the world. She knew what types operated on Son-Tuul - after all, that was, in a way, how she had ended up here in the first place. And it wasn't that the Café Corellien existed entirely outside of this world. On the contrary, she was pretty sure that shady parleys were held and deals were made in the establishment on a regular basis. But she somehow hadn't expected anyone would pull a weapon here, let alone shoot anyone - perhaps on the principle of 'don't sh*t where you eat'.

She looked up at Cerrik. "You get shot at often?" she asked naively.

 

Cerrik's gaze dropped briefly to the blaster on the counter, then back to Perail. He didn't move closer, just leaned one arm on the bar, his posture relaxed in that unbothered way of his—but his eyes, always quietly alert, didn't waver.

"All the time." he said with a soft huff of breath, not quite a laugh. "Hazard of being a Jedi."

He studied her face for a moment—too pale, too tired, with that heavy look people got when their world shifted and they hadn't caught up yet.

"You handled yourself alright today," he added, voice lower now. "But Perry… this place isn't a neutral ground. There's no rule that says blasters stay holstered just 'cause there's something on the table."

He glanced toward the door, where the pirate had been hauled out not long ago. "And pirates like that?" His expression hardened for a moment, just a flicker, before smoothing again. "They're not done. Next time, if they think they can get away with it, they won't pull a blaster to make a point."

He didn't say it outright, but his voice had the kind of steady weight that made sure the words landed.

"They'll drag you out back and break you into pieces just for the fun of it. And no one here will stop them."

Perail Staite Perail Staite


 

The message took a moment to arrive. Then Perail's eyes widened as she looked at the Jedi. He was right. She had shot one of those guys. She had got involved into a fight when she should just have stayed out of it. Nobody could have wanted to actually hurt her. She would have been fine just hiding behind the bar. Why had she done that?

"You're saying I should run away."

She paused for a while. She felt like her world was tumbling.

"But how? I've got no money, I don't know anyone. There's a jungle out there. I've got no speeder and I don't even know where the next city is."

Tears were welling up in her eyes. She turned around, leaned against the bar counter with her backside, and slumped forward and looked down at the floor, breathing audibly.

As though in a desperate attempt to distract herself from this nightmare and maintain a state of denial, she bent down to retrieve a broom from the floor. As she raised it and stood up again, the end of the stick hit a shelf of bottles from below. She bottles on it jumped slightly, shifted, and the last one in the row tipped over. Perail caught the bottle mid-air in her hand with a quickness that should have been altogether impossible in her state of tipsiness, but she didn't seem to notice anything extraordinary and simply put it down on the counter as if nothing had happened.

 

Cerrik had remained still as she spoke, watching the storm settle in her eyes. Her fear wasn't just for what had happened—it was about what came next. He didn't blame her. Most people didn't ask for chaos to come crashing through their lives. And even fewer were ready to face it when it did.

Crash—clink—shfft.

The bottle toppled. And her hand snapped forward, catching it before it hit the ground. Cerrik blinked. Not because she had caught it—but because she shouldn't have. Not in her state. Not with her attention fractured and her breath shaky and her muscles still tense from panic.

His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in thought. He kept his voice low as he spoke. "That was fast," he said, nodding slightly at the bottle she'd set down. "I've seen sober mercs miss catches like that.
You ever notice things like that? Like your body moves before you even think about it?"

He wasn't accusing her. If anything, his tone was... curious. A touch of wonder. Like he was fitting a new piece into a puzzle he hadn't known he was building.

Perail Staite Perail Staite

 

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