Member
The Happy Mandalorian Casino, New Lessu, Scarif
TAG: Aela Wren
Pravus was a man of subtleties.
In his 30 standard years alive, he had achieved a remarkable demeanor of calmness and presence that had made him popular with the various people he had come into contact with on Challon. As the eldest of three brothers, he had naturally fallen into the role of heir to the Cruento Holdings dynasty, a ‘minor-league but nonetheless successful’ portfolio managed by his father. Schooled on Coruscant, Pravus had slowly, but surely, built his own fortunes, trading and shipping all sorts of goods and services for corporations and private entities.
It was one of these entities that had brought him to the attention of the Viceroy of Fondor and had set him on this particular path. He had never managed an entertainment venue before. It wasn’t the sort-of-thing done by middle class elder sons of wealth bankers; and yet here he was on Scarif.
Scarif. A planet that, until recent history had dictated, had been left under the Imperial yoke of bondage. Shots fired, governance exchanged from Imperials to Rebels to Hutts and, eventually, the CIS intervened, claiming this sandy vacation-spot as a new conquest. The old regime had left signs that they had been there.
The research centre outside the capital city.
The shield gate that controlled planetary entry like a giant gaping gawping mouth.
It was the presence of both that had driven the commercial and industrial resurgence in recent years and brought all kinds of attention to the distant planet. The newest player was the Viceroy herself; Hester Shedo.
Shed-o? Sheee-dooo? Shaydo? He had no clue how to say her name.
He read it but rarely heard it. He didn’t listen much to planetary missives and they tended to only introduce her as ‘Her Excellency the Viceroy’ so that wasn’t much help. She had changed things.
A lot.
The new Planetary Defence Force was being built as an alarming rate. A new fleet constructed. Breshig War Forge had their armoured hands all over the training and he knew they defend the planet’s interests, here or abroad, as skillfully as any PDF could. She had built a new city. The old one, Isle Hermoso, was still the capital but this new city was everything. It was long and large and beginning to swell with various buildings, tall and growing ever taller! Grand edifice and complex administrative buildings had risen from the grounds, a new spaceport to control better the influx of off-world transportation. Public transit systems initiated and a breath-taking new array of peoples, species and cultures beginning to mingle.
For the first time in its history, New Lessu had brought a true metropolis to Scarif. The Viceroy had been ambitious, and it was paying off. The city had grown exponentially, nearing five million citizens, and counting. The public walkways and transport links meant that pedestrians had good access to all sorts of commercial ventures and entertainment centres, centres like The Happy Mandalorian Casino.
The Happy Mando was not a casino in the strictest sense of the word; little to no gambling occurred on site, though it did possess the various licences and authorities to permit this. It was a club for…a strictly professional cliental. Pravus found he had dealt with an array of professions; high ranking soldiers, bounty hunters, business capitalists, stock-brokers and some, he suspected, that were beginning the formation of a criminal underworld down in the depths of Uptown.
It had been purpose built for that very role. It was over 5 floors, the ground floor being the large reception hall that greeted guests who had passed the various security and credential checks. Planetary warrants and CIS intelligence missives were, for the most part, ignored but you had to be a member. No membership, no entry.
The basement floor held the stores of consumables, attached to the rest of the complex through a long service elevator that shifted between the various areas of the club. The second floor was accessed through an opulent stairway and corridor, wide enough for maybe six humans to walk side by side. It was carpeted in a purple matting and led to the first area accessible to members; the bar. Filled with a rotunda bar that could serve multiple customers, tenders filled various receptacles with cocktails concocted from every kind of alcohol. This week’s house special? The Sarlacc Seltzer.
Pravus had been proud of that name.
Third floor was a quieter affair, where members could drink in peace, away from the loud music and shouting staff. Booths set out amongst small tables where clients drank and played sabacc, discreet dalliances could be arranged, and intricate business propositions outlined.
The fourth and final floor held the office and apartment suite of the proprietor and manager of the club. He was handsome and wealthy and roguish and the toast of New Lessu’s emerging social life.
That would be me, Pravus thought.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was early in the day cycle in the Happy Mandalorian. As usual, Prav had stayed late to manage and oversee the various activities that allowed the club to operate. The various restocking, the checks on machines, the checking of the cloakrooms for valuables left behind which he could fence. He was an honest man, but even honest men did dishonest things, now and then. He sat at the large desk that sat in the centre of the office suite, the vista-window showing the sun of Scarif as it cut through the various tall buildings of the burgeoning metropolis. Scarif was waking up and it wouldn’t be long before he found himself answering all-manner of calls. He checked the roster, his diary that would tell him where he had to be and with whom at any moment of the day. It was empty, except for one entry.
25:00-Primary Delivery.
A late-cycle delivery? This one was new. He had learned to not ask questions. Thing sometimes arrived at the Mando and he wouldn’t ask questions. The real owners of the club, hidden behind all sorts of subsidiaries and conglomerates, had things delivered and then by the next day it would be gone. Crates. Cargo shipments. People, on occasion. They had to have friends in high-places to get through the Shield Gate without having been boarded or impounded. You needed the right credentials if you were a commercial vehicle and they would check.
Oh yes indeed they would check.
If your manifest didn’t match the docket or they suspected you were smuggling people or contraband, they would board you and arrest you and detain you and imprison you. It was simple. The new Viceroy was hot on crime. Most of the time.
Pravus sighed. It would be a long day of not much at all first. He smirked. This wasn’t what he had planned for himself, but it was worth it. A quiet life. An industrious one. He looked down at this dark shirt, intricate patterns stitched into the lining of the central panel. It was a perfect outfit and Pravus was content; he was, after all, a man of subtleties.
TAG: Aela Wren
Pravus was a man of subtleties.
In his 30 standard years alive, he had achieved a remarkable demeanor of calmness and presence that had made him popular with the various people he had come into contact with on Challon. As the eldest of three brothers, he had naturally fallen into the role of heir to the Cruento Holdings dynasty, a ‘minor-league but nonetheless successful’ portfolio managed by his father. Schooled on Coruscant, Pravus had slowly, but surely, built his own fortunes, trading and shipping all sorts of goods and services for corporations and private entities.
It was one of these entities that had brought him to the attention of the Viceroy of Fondor and had set him on this particular path. He had never managed an entertainment venue before. It wasn’t the sort-of-thing done by middle class elder sons of wealth bankers; and yet here he was on Scarif.
Scarif. A planet that, until recent history had dictated, had been left under the Imperial yoke of bondage. Shots fired, governance exchanged from Imperials to Rebels to Hutts and, eventually, the CIS intervened, claiming this sandy vacation-spot as a new conquest. The old regime had left signs that they had been there.
The research centre outside the capital city.
The shield gate that controlled planetary entry like a giant gaping gawping mouth.
It was the presence of both that had driven the commercial and industrial resurgence in recent years and brought all kinds of attention to the distant planet. The newest player was the Viceroy herself; Hester Shedo.
Shed-o? Sheee-dooo? Shaydo? He had no clue how to say her name.
He read it but rarely heard it. He didn’t listen much to planetary missives and they tended to only introduce her as ‘Her Excellency the Viceroy’ so that wasn’t much help. She had changed things.
A lot.
The new Planetary Defence Force was being built as an alarming rate. A new fleet constructed. Breshig War Forge had their armoured hands all over the training and he knew they defend the planet’s interests, here or abroad, as skillfully as any PDF could. She had built a new city. The old one, Isle Hermoso, was still the capital but this new city was everything. It was long and large and beginning to swell with various buildings, tall and growing ever taller! Grand edifice and complex administrative buildings had risen from the grounds, a new spaceport to control better the influx of off-world transportation. Public transit systems initiated and a breath-taking new array of peoples, species and cultures beginning to mingle.
For the first time in its history, New Lessu had brought a true metropolis to Scarif. The Viceroy had been ambitious, and it was paying off. The city had grown exponentially, nearing five million citizens, and counting. The public walkways and transport links meant that pedestrians had good access to all sorts of commercial ventures and entertainment centres, centres like The Happy Mandalorian Casino.
The Happy Mando was not a casino in the strictest sense of the word; little to no gambling occurred on site, though it did possess the various licences and authorities to permit this. It was a club for…a strictly professional cliental. Pravus found he had dealt with an array of professions; high ranking soldiers, bounty hunters, business capitalists, stock-brokers and some, he suspected, that were beginning the formation of a criminal underworld down in the depths of Uptown.
It had been purpose built for that very role. It was over 5 floors, the ground floor being the large reception hall that greeted guests who had passed the various security and credential checks. Planetary warrants and CIS intelligence missives were, for the most part, ignored but you had to be a member. No membership, no entry.
The basement floor held the stores of consumables, attached to the rest of the complex through a long service elevator that shifted between the various areas of the club. The second floor was accessed through an opulent stairway and corridor, wide enough for maybe six humans to walk side by side. It was carpeted in a purple matting and led to the first area accessible to members; the bar. Filled with a rotunda bar that could serve multiple customers, tenders filled various receptacles with cocktails concocted from every kind of alcohol. This week’s house special? The Sarlacc Seltzer.
Pravus had been proud of that name.
Third floor was a quieter affair, where members could drink in peace, away from the loud music and shouting staff. Booths set out amongst small tables where clients drank and played sabacc, discreet dalliances could be arranged, and intricate business propositions outlined.
The fourth and final floor held the office and apartment suite of the proprietor and manager of the club. He was handsome and wealthy and roguish and the toast of New Lessu’s emerging social life.
That would be me, Pravus thought.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was early in the day cycle in the Happy Mandalorian. As usual, Prav had stayed late to manage and oversee the various activities that allowed the club to operate. The various restocking, the checks on machines, the checking of the cloakrooms for valuables left behind which he could fence. He was an honest man, but even honest men did dishonest things, now and then. He sat at the large desk that sat in the centre of the office suite, the vista-window showing the sun of Scarif as it cut through the various tall buildings of the burgeoning metropolis. Scarif was waking up and it wouldn’t be long before he found himself answering all-manner of calls. He checked the roster, his diary that would tell him where he had to be and with whom at any moment of the day. It was empty, except for one entry.
25:00-Primary Delivery.
A late-cycle delivery? This one was new. He had learned to not ask questions. Thing sometimes arrived at the Mando and he wouldn’t ask questions. The real owners of the club, hidden behind all sorts of subsidiaries and conglomerates, had things delivered and then by the next day it would be gone. Crates. Cargo shipments. People, on occasion. They had to have friends in high-places to get through the Shield Gate without having been boarded or impounded. You needed the right credentials if you were a commercial vehicle and they would check.
Oh yes indeed they would check.
If your manifest didn’t match the docket or they suspected you were smuggling people or contraband, they would board you and arrest you and detain you and imprison you. It was simple. The new Viceroy was hot on crime. Most of the time.
Pravus sighed. It would be a long day of not much at all first. He smirked. This wasn’t what he had planned for himself, but it was worth it. A quiet life. An industrious one. He looked down at this dark shirt, intricate patterns stitched into the lining of the central panel. It was a perfect outfit and Pravus was content; he was, after all, a man of subtleties.
