Public South Stretch Sabbac

[Davik Lorso]

It was Davik's first time to Canto Bight and it was turning into quite the deception. Having seen all the HoloAds on its casino's and all the splendor that the wealthy enjoyed, he had hoped to spend some of his own credits among them after he delivered the Pyke shipment of Sansanna to the Sixth Kin. To his own shock and disappointment he wasn't even allowed anywhere near the rich and famous. They had judged him by his looks, clothing and available purse and suggested -rather forcibly- that he'd be better off trying his hand at Sabacc in the South Stretch Worker's District. Unfortunately for the forty-something smuggler he first had to wash away his disappointment with a few ales, a Chandrilan rum and a vial of Glitterstim before he felt up to testing his Sabacc skills at the local Den.

And boy this partical table was surrounded by shady characters and filth. The den itself was in a side-alley of a street marked by abject poverty and the very noticeable graffiti of the number six, meaning to local gang pretty much ran the street and stole everyone's hard earned credits for themselves. Luckily, for Davik, he had just delivered them a few crates of Sansanna so he was on good enough terms not to get assaulted on his way to the table. Perhaps they figured he'd lose his payment there anyway and then they'd just come to collect it later from the proprietor.

'What's the pot?' Davik asked as he approached the four-player Sabacc table. The Klatoonian proprietor stepped forward, his muscles well-defined under his shirt and the callouses on his knuckles a bit too visible to Davik's liking. 'hundred credits buy-in,' the way he said it made it seem like he didn't expect the obvious spice-addict spacer to be able to cough up the credits, '350 the pot. House takes the other 50.'

Davik blinked twice. Kriffing Farrik. Owning your own Sabacc table was a profitable business. Take fifty from the pot for every game, host at least ten games a day without much cost to rent the small room and you'll get rich while you sleep. Davik already had credits for eyes thinking about it. 'I'm in,' to the visible surprise of the Klatoonian he pulled a big enough credit chip from his pocket -the last he had left from the sansanna delivery- and took a seat.

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[OOC: Anyone up for a game of Sabacc? Three rounds, Roll two d6 to start. Each new round either dont roll (Stand) or roll one of the two dice again. Specificy which in the roll comment. Score is the difference between dice. Smaller difference the better. Lowest equal wins.]
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'I have to warn you all,' he grinned, looking at the other three players, 'because I just played a mean game on Toshara'. He lied. He had lost horribly and had been forced by the Pykes to do this transport for a reduced fee to cover his gambling debt, but that wasn't something the table on Cantonica needed to know.

Die Shize

 

[Cook]

Spoiler: Music IC

It wasn’t Cook’s first time to Canto Bight or Cantonica for that matter. Oh, for sure, the former was the main attraction—a coastal city and gambler’s paradise right beside an artificial ocean—but the planet boasted other features such as mountain settlements that, well, okay, nobody really wanted to visit. In the end, everybody basically came for the same reason: Canto Bight. Come and get it.

Cook was determined to get his. Tumble some dice here, rumble with lives there, gamble over sabacc and pazaak, poker and blackjack, races of fathiers and fights of Gamorreans and the like and he would be just fine. Oh, he was, for a bit at least. However, the richer and deeper pockets of this particular establishment quickly caught onto his antics and, moments later, it was take a blaster to his face or run for his money. He did the latter.

Fast forward some time later and, still in Canto Bight because why not, right, Cook found himself in hell. Well, the darker armpits of the casino city, really. South Stretch Worker’s District. Surely nobody knew him here and, if they did, he’d be okay with taking a fist to their face to make them forget it. Wasn’t like the local mafia cared what happened to the gangs in these backstreets anyway so kriff it.

Keep the Glitterstim. Hold the Chandrilan rum. Better yet, just give him a basic whiskey in Basic or Huttese and never mind the difference. Moments later, taking a sip of his beer, Cook, looking like he was up to no good so just another customer in this pisspot establishment, watched as a man just then approached a table asking about the pot. Cook was close enough to be able to listen in amid the music. Sounded like jazz. Nah dude. That’s the blues. Cook tended to correct himself when the occasion warranted it. It did.

Four players. Five with this nerf herder. Cook breathed easy, blowing smoke from a freshly lit cigarette. Seems capable. Confident at least. Jacket and whatshit. Not that it mattered amid his own outfit. The hosts had a free seat and it was about to be filled with a sixth contestant or else sip your swill, ladies and gentlemen.

“Dust, dirt and desert,” Cook commented as he took his seat and flicked in two credit chips that purchased his way in. “Pykes. Curious business.” He meant that as open-ended as intended, vague in his expression, giving nothing away. “Like Jedi and Sith, am I right?” He grinned; didn’t even grimace with what happened next. After all, this was just the beginning, and his stack was still tall.

Davik Lorso

 

[Gentis Freem]

"No funny business, Lorso." Gentis looked the rag-tag spacer up and down as he nodded to the dealer droid to deal him in, and the other man, in. Mean game on Toshara? Gimme a break, the Klatoonian thought to himself. This was his place, his racket, and he wasn't about to be shrifted of his credits by some two-bit nobody from Toshara. The only thing that backwater produced was windbags, hot-heads and scoundrels, and Gentis was sure he was looking at a mix of all three when he cast his gaze over at Lorso.

The other man, whose name Gentis did not know, chucked his credits into the mix as well. Gentis nodded, the cards dealt. Next, he served up a collection of drinks in two somewhat clean glasses. Corellian 'Firewhiskey', he called it - a posh sounding name for whiskey brewed in a vat in some basement halfway across the workers district. It was cheap and cheerful, and had been given the name 'Firewhiskey' because of the might heat it gave the back of your throat as it 'slipped down'.

These drinks where on the house. Why? Because easy-flowing liquor made for easy flowing credits. Gentis remained standing, leaning against the wall at the back of the room - his beedy eyes watching over the game, checking to see if either of these mudskuffers attempted to muck about. He couldn't quite see everything, so he moved over and took the seat left free for the games 'host'. "Alright, play the hands your dealt, and drinks, you get served between hands. Any trouble I start cracking heads."

 

[Cook]

(Forgot to roll twice)

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Undercover Smuggler (commission)
Weapons: Blasters

Valery stepped into the room with quiet confidence, her presence almost unnoticeable at first, but there was an undeniable grace in the way she moved. Her attire was carefully chosen to blend in while still catching the eye — tight brown pants that were practical yet flattering, and a white blouse with a modest but deliberate neckline. The suspenders added a touch of rugged charm, grounding her in the atmosphere of the underworld without drawing too much attention.

As she walked, her movements were fluid, almost effortless, with just the faintest hint of a sway in her hips. It wasn't overt, but enough to suggest a natural elegance rather than a calculated allure. Her long, dark hair was pulled back loosely, revealing a face that was focused but with a soft, approachable expression.

She made her way toward the Sabacc table, her gaze sweeping over the players without lingering too long on any one of them. Valery didn't need to rely on flashy entrances or overt gestures; her subtlety was her strength. She positioned herself close enough to the table to catch the ongoing conversation, leaning casually against a nearby wall. Her posture was relaxed, her hands resting lightly on her hips, one thumb hooked into a belt loop.

Occasionally, she glanced down at the table, giving the impression that she was mildly interested in the game, but her real focus was on the words being exchanged. She was there to listen, to gather intel, and her calm demeanor allowed her to do so without raising suspicion. Every now and then, she offered a small smile or a nod to whoever looked her way, her approach designed to make them comfortable, to let their guard down.

Cook Gentis Freem Davik Lorso ​

 

[Davik Lorso]

Davik smiled as he realized that they'd be having an audience today with two people leaning against the nearby wall. No doubt, or so Davik figured, winning this game could get you an invitiation into a more exclusive Canto Bight game with more credits on the table and overall a better locale with free drinks and spice. Something other than the firewhiskey he got placed in front of him with the clear fingerprint of the Klatoonian on the outside of the glass. That just doesn't happen in the upper class locales, Davik figured, because he hadn't actually been in one before.

'I don't know anything about Jedi or Sith,' he replied to the other player that joined in saying some gibberish about the syndicates being the same as those Force cultists. Someone like Davik, who couldn't sense kriff with the Force, always made sure to avoid those that could with the widest arc possible. Couldn't trust those power-crazy whackjobs, after all. 'All I know is what it takes to get Prime Sabacc,' he tapped his fingers on the table to tell the droid he wanted to draw a new card. 'and that's to draw a card'.

As he looked at his new card his attention seemed to shift towards the Klatoonian, 'and how to get sansanna around.' The syndicates controlled the spice trade for one simple reason: they transported only the raw materials. On every planet, often hidden in their controlled districts, they had their own refinery to actually transform the crude sansanna into spice. Same with the spiders from which they made Glitterryll. There was no point in hijjacking them if you didn't have your own refinery and selling a shipment to another syndicate got your such a small payout that it wasn't really worth it. That's how the syndicates kept power amongst themselves. They'd steal each other's shipments, ofcourse, but they didn't generally allow newcomers. On Etti IV Davik happened to have a contact for refining a slightly lower quality spice (from a larger quantity of sansanna, or more spiders) and while it was more expensive to refine and more crude a product, the Calamari Seafood market cut out the syndicates almost completely. Ofcourse, the spice mines were under armed syndicate control. Always have been as far as Davik knew. 'For free drinks and a pinch of Glitterryll,' he shifted his gaze from the Klatoonian to the woman leaning nearby with the rather revealing shirt and back to Gentis, 'I could be convinced share some trade secrets.'

Cook Gentis Freem Valery Noble

 

[Cook]

Having brought a drink to the table, well, Cook wasn’t one to ignore another free drink that was promptly offered to him. Clean glass or clean enough. Brewed in a vat too or whatever the hell. It didn’t matter to him anyhow. What mattered was that it was on the house. However, he still had his own whiskey to finish first, so he would save the fire for later.

Any trouble and heads would be cracked. Typical. But expected in an establishment like this. Fortunately, Cook had no intention of arguing or cheating. He wasn’t good enough at it, especially when drunk, not that he intended to be. He needed his wits for a game like this if he wanted to win.

So, his opponent didn’t know anything about Jedi or Sith, which wasn’t curious. Not everybody did. Yet Cook had some curious business with more than one Force-user before this. Maybe it was the desert that reminded him of them, or the Pykes who were after him, but his rival player was right: it didn’t matter at the moment. Only the hands did.

“Prime Sabacc.” Any player who wasn’t an idiot knew that was the second-best hand. They might also know that one of its components, the sylop, was Old Corellian for ‘idiot’. “That’d be a pretty sweet hand.” Cook spoke as he kept his eyes on the game, watching his opponent draw a card, mention sansanna. That got Cook’s attention as he glanced about and found a woman.

She smiled and nodded at him, suggesting nothing, and wasn’t the only person in the audience. She was pretty to the penny, cleavage in between, and he might have grinned and winked but instead shifted his attention to the Klatooinian to witness his reaction to the discussion. Whatever it was, Cook turned back to the table, cracking a corner of his lips before taking a sip of his whiskey and listening.

“Glitterryll,” Cook once again repeated in nonchalance. A synthesis of glitterstim and ryll; a drug produced on Ryloth. Maybe it was just something else this other guy knew how to get around—or he just wanted to forget his girlfriend and the Pykes and the chick with the white blouse reminded him of her. Whatever it was, it was an interesting conversation, for sure.

“Met a Jedi on Ryloth once,” Cook said, apparently aimlessly as he checked the deck. “Needed some assistance finding a chemist. Good thing she found me.” He smiled, aiming to delight nobody. “Met a Sith on Firma-5, space station in the Rim. He won a game like this with the Rule of Two. Go figure.” He slid his fingers, drew a card.

“Don’t know what happened to either between the stars but one needed a chemist and the other needed a cook.” Didn’t matter whose attention he had if anyone’s. Cook was just here to play the game. “I make a sweet pie and a spicy sandwich.”

Davik Lorso Gentis Freem Valery Noble