Sybarite [Open Club Thread]

[Preliat Mantis]

Everyone was sorry- but not as sorry as he was for letting them get to that point. He didn't say anything for a moment, opting instead to order another drink. In the dim light of the club, the weary man that was Preliat Mantis truly looked defeated, worn down, and downright tired. And old.

Middle age was creeping up on him. Fast.

"I can relate to the rogue bit." He took a sip from his drink. "I'm not sure if I exiled myself or they exiled me, but if we're being honest with each other-" He took another drink. "I'm not sure if I can be a Mandalorian anymore after what they did to me. And all I've done for them, for most of my life. And do you know what I have to show for it?" He ran a finger around the rim of his glass.

"Medals and ribbons that they gave me. But do you know what those are worth when they kill your family and destroyed everything you own-" He put both of his calloused, brawler marked hands up to emphasize his point. "In a supposed attempt to reinvigorate and unite their own people by killing millions of them." He took a rather large swig of his drink.

"Anyways. How'd the arm thing happen?" He could tell synthskin when he saw it. Never could quite match the tone of skin that someone had for their entire lives. Especially since he wore it for a number of years before abandoning the effort to cover up his cybernetic leg.

[member="Joza Perl"]

 

[Joza Perl]

Mandalorians, yeah. Could be a rough bunch. Joza had found herself in a spat or two with them over whatever, but they took care of their own and were accepting of newcomers which she couldn’t help but respect.

Both brows ticked upwards at the mention of her arm, something she wasn’t used to getting questions about out of the blue. The implant didn’t bother her much anymore, likely because she didn’t have the time to spend fretting over it. Synthflesh was good enough in making the cybernetic blend in, but she supposed he had enough experience with fake limbs to be able to spot her own.

“Sith took it.” She balanced her fingers along the rim of the glass. Nothing really in-depth there. She was barely out of her teen years when she knelt defeated before a dark creature who’d ordered his underling to sever the limb.

If she ever found @Abelain Narv’uk again he’d roast.

“You?”

She couldn’t tell his leg given that it was covered, but she figured from the question that he had at least one inorganic limb on him.

[member="Preliat Mantis"]

 

[Preliat Mantis]

"There was a war. And there was a building. Suddenly, that building wasn't there, and neither was my leg."In truth, he had to have it amputated due to the severity of the injuries he sustained. He leaned on the bar a bit more, relaxing. In reality, he was adjusting his position so the gun barrel wasn't pressing too hard into his lower back.

"The Sith took my leg, they took your arm."His fingers rapped on the glass in thought for a moment.

"I bet they're trying to build a person."

He took a swig of his drink before speaking again.

"One sexy person."

Whether he was commenting on [member="Joza Perl"] or himself, was up in the air.

 

[Joza Perl]

“Yikes, that doesn’t sound fun. Sorry to hear about your leg.”

Losing a limb sucked, but thankfully they lived in an era where replacements were pretty commonplace. Your average citizen wouldn’t typically need one, but the people they surrounded themselves with—forcers, military, mercs—made that sort of thing pretty common.

If you had the money, of course. While basic cybernetics weren’t insanely expensive, there were still plenty who wouldn’t be able to afford them easily.

She snorted at his comment as her lips curled into a vague smile against the glass before lowering it back onto the counter.

“Aye. Wouldn’t put it past the vision of some weird creepy necromancer.”

There seemed to be no short supply of those within Sith strongholds.

[member="Preliat Mantis"]

 

[Preliat Mantis]

"The Sith want to work with my people again."He tapped the bar, thinking for a while."Then again- my people is a bit of a stretch of the term."He rolled his knuckles, popping them. They were strained- years of fighting and work made his hands tense. Arthritis would kick in, eventually. If not already.

He turned his head towards Joza, instead of looking ahead like he had. Preliat was a weary man, even in the dim light.

"How did you manage to be wed to a Mando'ade and not...well, forgive me, be at least somewhat part of the culture?"

Innocent enough question, he supposed. As a Mandalorian (by habit, at this point), he wondered if their marriage was on the rocks, or more than a bargaining chip. He'd seen it before. But a Jedi marrying a Mandalorian was by all accounts- odd.

[member="Joza Perl"]

 

[Joza Perl]

She could only grunt at the mention of the Sith, drink finding its way down onto the counter after a long sip. Mandalorians allied with those who paid them well or were privy to their cause, so it came as no surprise. Various sects at different points in time had pledged allegiance to the Sith or Jedi. It was difficult to tell where they stood as a people.

She didn’t hate them. She was wary and disgruntled ever since they lead an attack on Voss.

Scarlet brows knit at his next presumption and she stared straight ahead, eyes angling down a bit as she stared into space.

“I never said who I was married to.”

[member="Preliat Mantis"]

 

[Preliat Mantis]

"Forgive my assumptions if they're incorrect."

He was too cocky when he was drunk. He smirked, holding the drink that was going to push him over the edge of intoxication. He set it down. He needed to slow down if he wanted to make it at least back to the place he was staying at.

"You happy with how your life turned out, Joza?" Now- the drink was talking. It was speaking a lot.

[member="Joza Perl"]

 

[Marcus Itera]

The mercenary adjusted mournfully in the lawn chair. Not that comfortable - this was something suited to the old house parties that some from the Disfavored liked to host in the middle-class suburbs of Serenno. Apparently one of the lads had settled down there with some objectively "good-looking" Duros girl. Be that as it may, it was still strange to find these sorts of things on a mother-kriffin' battlecruiser.

This Slave knew a lot more about him than he'd figured, or he was just pulling the same lines that every aspiring client dropped on him: knowledge of his past and reputation, mock confidence in his skills, and a claim that they had big bucks to offer in exchange for completed missions. Marcus hated dropping clients because they couldn't pay up. Always left an awful taste in his mouth at the end of the day.

"I'm listening," the man took another deep drag from the cigarra. "Who do you need fragged?"

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

“Oh, nobody!”, he said readjusting in his seat.

The glow of his cigar illuminated his face as the AI overhead seemed to hum its usual tone. As the smoke leaked from his lips, he accelerated it for a moment through his nostrils and moved to speak again; faint trails of the smoke still departing from his mouth with each word.

“Infact, I’m looking for someone to help run what I own. Expand where I need it, and help take down who stands in our way.”, he said before leaning back in his seat once more.

“In short, I’m offering you a fortune. Something that needs both of us to work.”

│ [member="Marcus Itera"] │

 

[Marcus Itera]

Nobody? Well, that was different.

It was his job to take lives, a job choice that he'd grown accustomed to over the past decade spent wandering the galaxy in search of a larger clientele. The old soldier in him still yearned for a greater purpose to his duties rather than monetary gain, but the tens of thousands of credits often being shoved his way made for a very happy man. Even Miranda had tried talking him into retiring from his "private contractor" days and doing something much more delicate and peaceful.

Becoming a doctor? School's boring. Businessman? Too conniving.

He had nothing else, but this Slave seemed to be offering just a lot more than fat stacks of credits and girls.

"Alright." The man exhaled. "Let's talk details, then. What exactly is it you do and what do you need me to do?" Marcus ashed the cigarra on the bulkhead between his legs, eyes trailing back to the silver-maned man.

[member="The Slave"]

 

[Darth Empyrean]

“I do what I want.”, he said as he glanced off into space, watching the crowds move about in their whimsical ways.

“But I suppose you mean business wise.”, he mused, “I’m a man of forward thinking. Nightclubs, like the one you see before you, are only a fraction of what I want to do.”

He idled for a moment, bringing some dramatic flair to the conversation before glancing back to him with the golden orbs that held so many in their violent gaze.

“I want to build an empire. Not of the political nature perhaps, but the hegemonic.”


│ [member="Marcus Itera"] │

 

[Captain Marek]

*a tall man in black and red Mandolorian armor walks in, his black and red helmet tucked under his right arm. He appears to be in his late twenties. He has white hair, and a small piece if his ear is missing. He walks to the bar and talks to the bar tender.* "I'll have a pint of Tihaar, make it strong..." *He takes an empty stool at the bar*

 

[Marcus Itera]

It wasn't the first time he'd heard that. Corporate empires, political empires, they were a dime a dozen. The galaxy itself probably had hundreds, if not thousands of the things so what would one more be able to do? However, that wasn't his place to ask what this man before him was capable of. Marcus was just the man to take the cash and do his job like every good-natured fellow in his profession. Soldiers of fortune oft had the luxury of picking their own clients, which the man wholeheartedly adored.

They came to him because they needed him.

Marcus grinned and locked his dry, cobalt gaze with that of sulfuric gold.

"I think I just may be able to help you out with that."

[member="The Slave"]