Worshipped as Gods

[Othniel Shabina]

In one of the lower levels of Nar Shaddaa, Othniel sat within the Mynock’s nest. Perhaps one of the seediest taverns on the planet. The scent of spice was strong in the air, along with it a faintly musty odor that was natural to the establishment. The only ones that frequented the cantina were scum, criminals of the worst sorts. Slavers, murderers, rapists, so vile and dangerous that no one would ever try and enforce order. However for Othniel it was the safest place to be, not even the Sith would come down this far. At least the Togorian prayed they wouldn’t.

Feet kicked up and resting on a nearby table, head low and chin to his chest Othniel breathed lightly attempting to tune out the distractions all around him. The band in the far corner continued blaring their music, slightly off-key. Others all around talked and Othniel could feel their darker urges as though it were a thick miasma in the air. Beneath these darker emotions was an undercurrent of pain, sadness, fear. Screams echoed within the Togorians mind, his teeth gritting, a snarl escaping his lips.

Opening his gold and crimson eyes they moved over across the cantina to an entrance where the door slid open allowing a Duros, and a Gamorrean to enter. In-between them a chained Zeltron girl dragged in. Fresh bruises could be seen on her skin, open wounds that leaked blood. Othniel’s feline scent picked it up instantly. “Look what we found! We’re going to have some fun tonight” The Duros shouted to a chorus of cheers that rose up to meet him from four others that sat in a booth.

Hand grasping the bottle of Juri juice the Togorian tossed it back, bits dripping from the side of his mouth and sinking into his orange fur. Rising from the table, the chair scraping across the wooden floor Othniel reached his full height. Standing taller than even the Gamorrean he approached the booth, in his left hand he grasped the empty bottle.

Flexing the fingers on his right hand, the claws slowly extended. Turning the Duros saw Othniel approaching, the sickening smile spreading wider. “Oh you want some too? Awwww! The big boys finally joinin-” The Duros started not even finishing his sentence as the claws raked across his throat. Blood spurted free, the Duros’ hand rising to clasp his throat to no avail. More of the crimson viscera escaped from between the fingers as the blue skin figure fell to the ground.

Not letting the others draw their blasters Othniel kicked the bottom of the table launching it up and onto two of them and snatched the Gamorrean to him as though the giant green-skinned abomination was nothing more than a toy. The left hand brought the bottle around across the creature's skull with a wicked crack. The glass shattered across the floor, bits falling onto the dying Duros. The Gamorrean’s head rolled on his shoulders, the alien trying to regain their composure only to be rewarded with the remnants of the bottle being shoved into the crown of its skull.

Less than two minutes later Othniel limped out the cantina, two blaster wounds apparent as the charred flesh was apparent on his right shoulder, and another on his left thigh. The scent of burnt fur assaulting his own nose. Blood coated him from head to toe none of it his own and from behind him the Zeltron ran out and past him. “Th-” She began but Othniel waved her off, pressing his back to the Cantina’s wall and sliding down to just sit and planted his head in his hands. Shoulders sagging, chest rising and falling unevenly and teeth gritting, Othniel began to weep.


[member="Scherezade deWinter"]

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Wearing: Armor | Pathfinder Boots | The Forgemaster's Ring | Ring of Stasis | Sofitor
Wielding: 10 Czerka knives | 2 Nastirci Combat Knives | Copero's Wail | Fire and Smoke (lightsabers) | Combat Gauntlets | Knight Obsidian Sword | 2 Dissuader K-30 Pistols with Glitter Bullets
Tag: [member="Othniel Shabina"]

Mynock's Nest
Nar Shaddaa​

She didn't mind joints like these. More often than those in charge of her would like to admit, she quite enjoyed herself in places like this. When too many of her moves were watched and tracked and she had to be on her best behavior, places such as this offered the solace the Sith often needed; a place to let loose, where no one would bat an eyelash if she broke someone's nose or showed the audience what someone's blood looked like when they emptied out through their skin. Normal stuff, y'know?

It was a table of gambling she was seated at then. Not Sabaac, something else, a name that the dealer and his friends had most likely invented. Scherezade paid it no mind. She wasn't here to actually win, and the meager sums she used to buy her rounds in were plenty evident of that. A small fry, they had called her, and then ogled her behind. She hadn't minded that either, considering she'd dressed in her very flashy armor and was carrying enough weapons about her to arm a small village.

The random screams and the pain of the chained Zeltron girl had gone unnoticed by the Sithling too, at least a first. As a Confederate, she was under a mandate that kept her from being able to own or trade with slave, an any slavers that ended up in Confederate space were to be immediately executed, no trial. But they were not in Confederate space now, and so this was none of her concern, unless she wanted it to be. And she didn't.

All Scherezade wanted was some time off, to kick back and relax, to not have to remember that she was on probation and that things usually turned out for the worst when she tried to fix them.

But then someone just had to bleed, and the Blood Hound's senses alerted her of that. Sharply. She was still learning how to ignore it sometimes; but now, her concentration had been broken, and glowing green eyes rose from the cards to see what was going on.

A man-cat (or cat-man? Kitten?) had started something with the slavers and the girl. The smell of the blood that escaped the Duros' throat was enticing. Scherezade knew she could have but the smallest drop of it and be able to see – see the Cathar going for him during his last seconds, smell his panic, hear some of his surface thoughts. But no. She was staying put, merely following the events with her eyes.

Scherezade smiled. A third kitten. She had one Cathar that she was training; the second was a Felacat. In more ways than one it seemed that the wolf motif that was refusing to let her be free of it was slowly building up competition. More and more cats, everywhere she went. The Sith used the fight as the Cathar's distraction, darting forward with the softest licks of the Force; not enough to make him feel threatened or intimidated, but just to feel what might be hiding beneath the surface of all that fur.

He made his way out, but by now, Scherezade was interested. What she was not interested in, was the little slave girl that made to go after him. She rolled her eyes. Pretty little women were so predictable. She was willing to bet her entire company on the Zeltron willing to go right there and let him do her in the middle of the streets as a form of thank you for saving her from slavers, and then she'd probably try to attach herself to the bit cat as though he was her master. Blechs.

Rising from her seat, she waved at the other people who were playing, and walked out of the cantina, pretending to be completely oblivious to the many eyes that followed her.

Finding the cat outside was not hard – all she had to do was follow the scent of blood. But what did surprise her, was seeing the Zeltron running away like… Well. Someone had just been rejected. Scherezade shrugged again and continued to follow the blood right into the ally, where she found him – weeping.

Scherezade wished now that it was her sister who'd found him, and not her. Her sister was good with words. She would've known what to say, how to give comfort. Scherezade pretty much sucked butt at that. But she knew what she had sensed earlier beneath the surface. It would be a shame to let it all go to waste.

"It's not every day I see a male reject a Zeltron woman," she said casually as she slid over to where the kitten was, taking a seat right next to him, "do Catharians have natural resistances to that whole hormone thing or something?"