Galaxy Blues (Greystone)

[Kuhblam]

The bottle, all it's contents consumed, fell to the permacrete and shattered in two dozen different pieces as it's former owner yawned heavily and lay on his back across a bench in the middle of a busy Nar Shaddaa square. Around him, dozens of pedestrians walked about shopping and traveling wherever they needed to be. Above, speeders zoomed through lanes in the night-time sky, which was filled with stars. There was no end to the massive audio backdrop that filled his ears. The thought of why he wasn't sleeping in his ship didn't even pop into his head, and he remained as lazy as he had been when he first sat down. The ship could wait for another time, as could Terren. The droid knew how to take care of himself, although both of them were still acquainting themselves with the new ship's features.

A rather ugly Gran wasn't too particularly happy with glass being sprayed all over his trousers and approached the snoozing joker with his fist in the air. Yawning a second time, Dulgan pulled the holster clip back on his pant leg and the blaster slid into his gloved hand. The Gran's three eyes stared deep into the barrel, and a weak smile swept across Dulgan's face. Unwilling to get into a confrontation, the Gran backed off and continued on his way muttering random expletives in a foreign language Dulgan could not possibly hope to understand. Quietly, Dulgan slid the blaster back into his leg holster and clipped the cover back on.

I need more booze.

His mission for soul-searching hadn't been going very well. He'd though he could re-trace his steps, get in touch with some old friends on the Hutt's moon. Instead, he'd ended up taking another job against all the wrong people; this time, it was another Hutt. It had been done rather efficiently and rather quickly, but it had really been a set-up. Another set-up. Here he was again, the joker, being pranked on for a second time. At least he wasn't with two other partners this time. Sitting up on the bench, his hand reached into his jacket and pulled out an ancient looking bronze lightsaber, the treasure he had removed from the Hutt's residence. Blackened runes and decorative lines ran the length of it's body in every direction, and only an artisan could have designed something so unique. Despite being so old, the only blemishes he could identify was some light plasma scarring along the upper casing. It had a beautiful golden-yellow blade when ignited, but Dulgan had no use for it as he had both his sword and his own lightsaber. Perhaps he'd drop it off one day at the Temple in some sort of secretive fashion. Too bad there was no drive-through for Jedi and former members of the Order.

What he really wanted to do was sell it to some random antiquities buyer here on the moon, but it was simply too hot to handle. Furthermore, since the Hutt was aware of who had stolen his item, he was employing hunters specializing in hunting force-sensitives. How did he know this? Well, there was a holo-poster with a reward for whoever returned the lightsaber and whoever brought back Dulgan's head. He really needed to get off planet, but at the moment another bottle of ale was sounding really good. Stretching as he got off the bench, Dulgan moved towards a street vendor with a credit chip in hand and tossed him the coin as the man produced a bottle of Corellian ale. Reaching his hand out, Dulgan called upon the Force to take hold of the bottle from the man before walking away, pulling it into his grip as he sat back down on the bench. He literally had all the time he wanted even if sitting around was a bad idea, and he doubted anyone would take notice of that little display.

[Agent of Greystone]

There are several different ways to start your day on the city-planet Nar Shadaa, the Hutt's silver medal. Most of them involve alcohol. In those instances though, it is the type of alcohol that determines your day. For instance, somewhere on this back-end of a ranchor, someone was waking up and pouring themselves a helping of Lum, and their day would most likely be hard, like the strong flavor of the drink, but uneventful, like the non-lethal effects of the drink. Some people's day would begin with Juma Juice, and there was a good chance it would end there too, seeing as it knocks regular people back onto their ass in a good ten minutes. But here was a man, and powerful "Grey" Jedi, who was wasting a fine mourning of Corellian ale, the drink of good fortune and flavor, doing nothing but laze about on a park bench and threaten the common passerby every so often. Thank goodness he wasn't drinking it in it's spiced variety or Darvek may have actually wanted to kill this man.

He checked the shiny holo-poster before he made any sort of approach, just in case he began speaking to the wrong man, this Weequay didn't want any more trouble than was necessary to do his job. To be honest, Darvek had been muscled into searching for this particular Jedi. It was already a bad start to the day when he took several hits of Methyl, drink of the Chadra-Fans, which tasted like the vomity backwash of a Kowakian monkey-lizard. No then he had to be herded into a gas bar, along with several other respectable mercenaries, and were "greeted" by Taklur Anjiliac the Hutt. Now here's the trouble with talking to the Hutts, it's not going to be a "hello, how's your father" job with those giants, no they just like to be the conversation itself, no-one else talking suits them just fine. And when Taklur asked if these mercenaries if they were going to find his precious proto-saber and return it to him, no-one said "no". Darvek didn't even get to mention his whole policy on hitting Jedi Masters, like how killing a Oskan blood-eater with your teeth alone might be easier. Did I mention that people who drink Methyl in the mourning have a knack for bad luck?

So now here he was, peeking out from behind a corner at a Jedi Master as he drank his troubles away with Darvek's favorite, albeit unspiced, alcoholic beverage, stealing his good luck. The gray Weequay considered his options on this hit. He could take the direct approach, jumping at the Jedi with a pair of vibro-blades, an approach that most likely would buy him a lightsaber to the throat. Sniper approach would probably take too long to set up, and the Jedi may "sense a disturbance in theblahblahblah" cheating at life ruins his plans. Every option turned up sour, except one, the "make it up as you go", his favorite. The spiced Corellian ale of his assassination attempts.

After adjusting shoddy crimson leather duster, the Weequay bumbled his way over to the street vendor, who was still slack-jawed at the display of Force the Jedi had just performed when he picked up his drink. Darvek ordered a shot of Methyl as a trial and Corellian whiskey as a reward, before sitting down next to the side of the bench where the Jedi was resting his head. He downed the Methyl (which almost didn't make it down), and turned to look at his target. "Got enough room on that bench there Master Pryde? That's public seating right there you know?" He shifted his weight and sat on a jagged piece of glass. Shooting up from his seat, he roared, "QUAY BE DAMNED!"

[Kuhblam]

Lying on his back and drinking wasn't necessarily a good picture to paint for bystanders, but since when did he care? Chugging half the ale away and placing the bottle back on the ground, Dulgan's eyes slowly surrendered to the seductive idea of sleeping. Of course, his sunglasses blocked out anyone else knowing what he was up to. Alcohol tended to blur his connection to the Force a bit, but he wasn't necessarily about go sensing someone's true intentions or read their minds through telepathy, right? If anything, the assassin would attack from far or in a brutal direct assault. He would never think to try and speak with him before hand; such a thought was unfeasible. How many times had he yawned now? Truth be told, he didn't know any more. These were the sort of things Dulgan didn't keep track of anymore, although normal people didn't keep track of them in the first place.

"Got enough room on that bench there Master Pryde? That's public seating right there you know?"

Dulgan opened his eyes and leaned his head even further back to see the upside down upper figure of a Weequay holding a bottle of Methyl moving to take a seat beside the bench. The question to ask himself was whether this alien had simply identified him from the holo-poster or had done that and was also after him as one of Taklur's hired/conscripted pets. He didn't respond at all however because he was lightly chuckling under his breath as the man scrunching around for a better seat and then found a piece of jagged glass from his earlier bottle as a gift. The yelling of the Weequay only made Dulgan more awake before he inverted and put his head on the other side of the bench. As he flipped on his side, he pulled the bottle of Corellian ale along with him so it was still on the ground and parallel to his head if he wanted to take a quick swig. As he balanced thinking with sleeping, he wondered if he should probe his mind. Deciding it would require a little more effort than he was willing to expend at the moment, Dulgan squirmed for a more comfortable position. Words exited his mouth, but they were hardly enthusiastic.

"Impossible. If it were public seating, then would not the public be seated upon it? However, it appears that only I am seated upon it. Furthermore I am lying down upon it, so let us refer to this particular bench on Nar Shaddaa as "Master Pryde's bed" for now. Would you agree to that term for now, Mister...?"

Dulgan's voice trailed off since he did know the Weequay's name. He flipped over so he was lying on his back this time, took a quick swig of the ale he had bought, and placed the bottle back on the ground. He then thought about the Weequay who had come to speak with him, and so he manipulated the Force to press the bottle into the Weequay's chest as an offer for a drink.

[Agent of Greystone]

Maybe he was just tired, or maybe it was the alcohol, but when the Jedi Master finished talking, Darvek didn't really understand what he just said. Yeah, it was probably the alcohol. Then, as he was still trying to comprehend what he just heard, the bottle of Corellian ale floated through the air and pressed itself against his shirt. He took the bottle greatfully and turned his back to the Jedi, calling over a passing Chadra-Fan. He handed the remaining Methyl to the little rat, who took it with a squeak of glee, and continued on his merry way. Then, his back still turned to the Jedi, Darvek, popped open a deathstick and poured the contents down the neck. He then spun on his heels to face the Jedi again, and feigned a large gulp of the ale before setting it down on the bench again, next to the Jedi's head. That won't help his connection to the Force one bit. "Ahhh. That's the good stuff right there!" He announced, a slight slur in his speech.

"Now I don't quite recollect what it is you just said, but that's probably because I'm a little tipsy and you're an ever-cryptic Jedi Master. But moving on, my name is Darvek Mavros." Darvek began to pace as he spoke, losing his balence several times in the process. Now then, Master Pryde, He said, clapping his hands. "It has come to my attention, and the attention of my colleagues, that you posses a certain item, an item which you have seen fit to...partake for reasons that which are your own. He stopped and tapped his pointer-fingers together, trying to find the right words. "When you took this item, I don't think that you thought through the uh... repercussions of your actions. And not just against you either."

He had to find a way to say "I'm a Jedi hunter hired by Taklur to kill you and take your stuff" without using those exact words. "You see, Master Pryde, my job is to...find certain Jedi, and usually I get to choose whether or not I want to get involved in each job. Suffice to say, I did not this time around." Slowly as he spoke, Darvek pulled back his coat, to rest his hand on the grip of his Ripper. "Now then, you are in fact, still in possession of the Proto-Saber, are you not?"

[Kuhblam]

"Hmmph. Well, Marvek Davros, you are very welcome for the drink."

Dulgan listened to the Weequay as he tried to explain why he had hunted him down. The reason wasn't surprising; Taklur wanted the lightsaber back, which wasn't about to happen. Plus he had come to grow on the gilded prehistoric weapon; it was rather beautiful in the moonlight. Yes, he would keep his prize. It was the least he could do for himself as a birthday present... well, it wasn't his birthday. But he could imagine it was his birthday, and that was good enough for him in this case. He'd never had any birthday parties in his life-time partly from growing up in the Jedi Order; moreover, he could technically say he never knew his father but that would be a morose cliche statement that many depressed maniacs said in an attempt to gain pity for themselves.

"Hmm... a certain item. I possess many items these days. A proto-saber, you say?"

His gloved hand out-reached once more, the ale bottle returned to his grasp as he sat up straight and once again took a swig from it. Leaning back with his arms out-stretched along the top of the bench with his left ankle resting on top of his right leg, he stroked his thin black goatee with the movement of a suave gunslinger. Then an idea struck him... a most peculiar idea. Here he was, with nothing to do, and all of a sudden here was an assassin next to him to whom he could play to his advantage--- well, moreover just have some fun with his head. Granted, he could just run or fight with heavy odds of winning or escaping, but that was too boring and he didn't particularly enjoy out-running everyone all the time. Speed was both a blessing and a curse in that the pursuers just couldn't stay on his trail.

"Yes, I remember it. Taklur wasn't too particularly happy about losing it, that slimy green slug. Alas, I sold it. Of course, I could help you get it back."

[Agent of Greystone]

Darvek nursed his slowly growing headache as the Jedi recounted to him what exactly he had done with the Proto-Saber. Sold it, of course he'd sold it. For all Darvek knew, he could have it in his pocket, hell, he probably did have it in his pocket. Unfortunately, he couldn't take that risk. If he tried calling his bluff, there was a good chance that a fight would start. If he fought, he would most likely die, and if he actually did manage to slay the Jedi, and it turned out that he was telling the truth, Taklur would probably have him executed anyways, just for telling him the bad news. So the only available option that possibly left him alive at the end was to follow this man to his "buyer."

Darvek let out a sigh, at least it was going to get interesting when the deathstick hit him, when he thought about it, he'd never seen a Jedi high on deathstick before, so maybe he could still have a laugh. So, after he thought over his choices, and then thought them over again to be sure, he reluctantly concluded, ploy or no, that to follow him, would be the safest and best course of action.

"Alright then." Darvek said, slowly. "If you truly did manage to rid yourself of an item that hot, in that short-a-period, then you should certainly know where and how to get this item back." He turned, slapped a credit-chit down onto the street vendor's table, and grabbed a bottle of Lum. He was gonna need a lot of alcohol for this job, and he couldn't afford any negative side-effects. He tipped it back and chugged it, and then motioned to the Jedi to stand.

"Lead the way then Master Dulgan Pryde, and let us see where your drunken feet shall lead us."