The Quick, The Dead and The Drunk

[roadkill]

The Oyu’baat, a time honored and favorite drinking hall of the Clans, situated in the heart of Keldabe. Dhagon sat at his usual table, doing more than his part to ensure the air was filled with smoke and that his fellow warriors had their fill of drink. At the bottom of the rustic staircase, neatly across from the large fireplace and within shouting distance of the bar, Beviin toked away thoughtfully from the long-stemmed wooden pipe—filled with dried behot leaves. A large, meaty hand clasped the frosty ceramic mug to his left and brought it up to his mouth while the other plucked the pipe stem from his lips just enough for him to upend the mug and pour a drink down his throat. More than a little remained in his mustache and beard afterwards, which was decidedly slurped up. Dhagon abhorred waste.



It was far from uncommon to find the leader of Clan Beviin within, conducting “official business” in the cantina, of which he was part-owner. Most of that business involved drinking heavily and regaling any who would listen to his vastly-storied past. A bit later in the evening, he would even lead the crowd in a few drinking songs. The man once known as the Scourge of the Outer Rim, now Ba’vodu Beviin—that was Uncle to the whole of Manda’yaim, was entirely too jovial for the number of ways he knew how to kill. And any warrior knew they had to pay their Ba’vodu a visit if they wanted to glean any insight into how to kill with their bare hands. The price was simply to sit and listen to his stories, and be bought round after round of dark ale.



”So there I was, no osik,” Beviin continued to the young warrior seated across from him. His baritone was distinctly Concordian and had the gravely consistency of ground glass and razor blades. ”Narko was go’damn bleeding out, Skeev had taken a dozen blaster bolts to the face and Korath was still outside, keeping the reinforcements busy. That left a hundred mercs for me to cut my way through to the engine room and set the charges.”



”It was only fifty the last time I hear you tell this story,” came the husky voice of his only begotten daughter, Fi’anna. Dhagon waved a dismissive hand in her general direction.



”Next time, you can tell it, Fi. Though I doubt you have the same penchant for storytelling as y’er ol’ man. She gets that from ‘er mother, rest her soul. Now. Where was I? Oh, yeah. So it’s just me and a hundred mookes in the corridor. I heard Korath scream bloody go’damn murder on the other side of the door and figured it was time for me to make my play. So I swung ol’ Vela up and commenced to killin’ every last one of the bastards. Don’t remember reloading, but I never ran out—and Vela never jammed once. Bloodthirsty ol’ bitch. I tell you, adiik, I seen a lot of things in my life but nothing so sweet as watching that frigate blow from the shuttle. Called it in and lit out for the Territories, posthaste. Nobody else made it back, so I got the lion’s share from that job.”



The young warrior whom Dhagon had been regaling held a look of disbelief. “All that, just for one scumbag who owed gambling debts?”



Beviin nodded, taking another toke from his pipe. ”He owed the Hutt Cartels, and several other syndicates that ain’t around no more. Word to the wise, son. Never piss off the Hutts. Then they hire someone like me, for my ‘bring em in alive’ rates to send a message. Anyway, come back tomorrow, when I’m more sober and I’ll put the Beviin brand on you proper.”



”You’d best make that early morning, Kal, the old man here likes to start his drinking not long after he wakes up these days,” Fi chuckled, particularly proud of her wit—clearly inherited from her father. The young warrior rose from his seat at the table and nodded to his new clan leader and clan mate before departing for another table, packed with several other newly-rated warriors celebrating their acceptance into their respective clans. Dhagon turned, wrenching one eye shut, to face his daughter.



”I may be drunk, but y’er not too ol' for me to bend you over my knee and spank, ad’ika. Now, go fetch y’er ol'man another round. This one here was defective—had a hole in it.” With a sigh and a roll of both eyes, Fi’anna rose and made for the bar to do as her father instructed. Dhagon returned his attention back to his pipe, content for the moment as the behot herb worked its magic on his tired old body.

[Karl the Unfettered]

Even though he was Clan Ordo, Renauld like to come into the Oyu'baat every now and then. It was one of the few places a Mando warrior could drink these days without being side-eyed or mistreated or anything like that. Plus one of the owners liked to sit there and tell the craziest stories! It was worth it just for that alone, even though some part of him disagreed with the man's boastful ways; a successful mission was great and all, but what was the point of talking about them past their time? Details got mixed up, some parts were exaggerated to make the storyteller look better. Romeo just didn't see the point.

On the other hand, he'd been told he took it too far the other way, that his after-action reports were too cut and dried for a true Mandalorian. Well, maybe he wasn't a true Mandalorian then, was his usual response. What did they want him to do, anyway, make stuff up?

...that was probably exactly what they wanted of him, come to think of it. But there was a fine line between lying and embellishing, and it wasn't a line he was comfortable crossing just yet, not for his brothers and sisters in arms. He still felt like an outsider sometimes, despite his successes and his contributions to the crusade.

Maybe he really did have to tell a few tall tales, when he thought about it that way.

In any event, he was preoccupied with these morose thoughts, hunched over a glass of something dark and strong at the bar as he listened with half an ear to Dhagon's bullshit. He had to chuckle quietly; one man against a hundred others? That was rare, that was. But he kept his opinions to himself for now.

The new guy walked off, and Romeo gestured for two more drinks. They came and he stood up, taking them over to Dhagon's table and putting one down before him. "Name's Romeo," he said by way of introduction, sitting down across from the old man. "I come in here now and then, but we've never been introduced. Got any stories of something a bit quieter?" He twisted one wrist to the side for a second, revealing the inside of the ornate arm guard he wore. It might look like a regular piece of armor, but he was confident Dhagon would recognize the lethal hidden dagger for what it was.

[loganomics]

Hmm. The lad has confidence and eagerness to show his capabilities but just how willing is he to change his habits? His parents are boastful and proud. No doubt he's got an ego that would need to be knocked down a few pegs but would any of it stick or would he just do enough to think he's earned my blessing before he goes out and gets himself killed....

Aedria mindlessly put the wooden cup she'd been sipping at the bar to her lips and poured it back to enjoy the fruity, biting sensation of.... nothing.

"Blasted light pours..." She muttered as she peered down into her empty cup. This was supposed to be relaxing part of her leave. The tall, half human instructor very seldom left her isolated home on the Onderon moon of Dxun. She had no plans to even visit Keldabe but a request to take on the son of some notable weapons manufacturers in the Mandalorian capital as an apprentice was too lucrative an opportunity to pass up. That, and there was the added benefit of sniffing out the current political climate currently unfolding among the more powerful clans. With the title of Mand'alor up for grabs and the potential for clan conflict erupting Aedria felt that knowing as much as she could would only help her and the rest of Clan Vizsla survive whatever chaos was sure to ensue following the recent terrorist attack. Mandalorians could hardly be expected to be civil without strong unifying leadership after all.

Looking over to the bartender who seemed to be strategically avoiding her steely gaze, Aedria nonchalantly raised her hand and yelled over to him. "Oi! Another tihaar!"

The man's eyes darted over to her before opening a second bottle of the fruit flavored alcohol. He then approached wordlessly, obviously put off by her apparent soberness despite the five or six emptied cups sitting beside her, and got ready to pour it into her most recent cup. Aedria, however, wasn't focused on the bartender. Rather, she was more interested in the stranger who had just approached the unmissable storyteller sitting a mere few meters from her. With her eyes locked on them, more specifically on the younger man's gestures with his forearm, she placed a credit chit on the table and spoke quietly to the barman.

"Leave the bottle." The tone in her voice was clear, concise, and very serious sounding. Not wanting to argue, the barman did as he was told, taking the chit before leaving the bottle next to her to pick up. She promptly followed through, took a large swig, and then stood up from her stool. Her silent, graceful steps took her closer to her interests as she picked up the last few words of the two men's conversation.

Something a bit quieter, eh?

Aedria stepped up into proximity of the two's conversation, eyes trained on the older man with an amused smile and the subtlest hint of playfulness in her normally cold, intimidating eyes. Despite her slight buzz and the focus she had on her work, she had still enjoyed the over-the-top tales that the man was known for around here. She was also quite attentive to the younger man, albeit much more subtly, still not entirely sure what to make of him.

"I must say, you put quite a lot of sugar on top of those tales of yours, Ba'vodu. Luckily, I have a liking for sweet things." Her eyebrow arches teasingly and her smile broadens slightly as she takes another swig from her bottle. Then, her gaze shifts to the younger man and her eyes regain their more piercing nature. "What about you, vod? Are you more sweet or spicy?"

[roadkill]

The Oyu’baat was open to all Clans, though with the political climate primed for civil war, it was certain that it wouldn’t be for much longer. Clan Beviin’s holdings were just outside of Keldabe, and old Dhagon sure wasn’t about to let his favorite drinking hole succumb to whoever appeared on the opposing side.

The behot sent waves of relaxation all throughout his armored body, sans helmet. A subtle head-high threatened to make him feel as if he were floating far above, coupled with the slight euphoria of the ne’tra gal he had been consuming all day—that was the thick, black ale brewed daily by the Oyu’baat’s master brewers. Any drink made by Mando’ade had to be stiff and strong, it was a reflection on their culture. Their ways.

Another young man approached his table, prompting the old man to smile. Fi’anna was likely stalling in fetching drinks, of that Dhagon was certain. A lovely girl, his only daughter, but a bit of a wet blanket. She must have inherited that from her mother. Perhaps she was merely afraid the old man was turning into his own father, a notorious drunk and stim addict who had run clan Beviin into the dirt. It was why Dhagon left the Territories, all those decades ago. And it was why he rebuilt the Clan from nothing.

His eyes darted down to the tankards placed fresh on the table, and back up to the young Ordo who had brought them. ”Romeo…Romeo…” the aging warrior mused aloud. ”Ah, yes. From Clan Ordo.” The flash of recognition lit up his dark eyes, and the smile turned to a wicked grin, contorting his scarred face into a devious thing. Recognition at both the young man’s armor, and the hidden dagger poised to strike from his gauntlet. Dhagon chuckled, a deep rumble emanating from his belly. He knew Fi’anna was watching from the bar, and she would allow no harm to come to him. Anyone who was bold enough to come after a beloved figure in his home turf, deserved at least a drink and a story. When one got to be as old as Dhagon, all one had left were their stories of past glories. With luck, the young pup would learn that lesson himself someday. A hand drifted toward the fresh tankard of ale and raised it in salute to his new friend. Dhagon poured a healthy drink down his throat and slammed the ceramic mug back down with a meaty thunk. ”I don’t do quiet, boy.”

The devious, gnarled grin remained. Dhagon liked the young pup already. Before he could continue that train of thought, a more familiar face approached with a bottle of tihaar in hand. Without looking away from Romeo, his wicked contortion of a smile faded into something far gentler. ”Aedria Vizsla, as I live and breathe. And with a present for y’er ol’ Ba’vodu Beviin.” He patted his armored leg once or twice. ”Come, I’ve cleared a place for you to sit, my dear!” That was the thing about growing old—he could remember when Aedria was just a child. It seemed most were mere children compared to him these days. As fierce a warrior as she had become, Dhagon could only see that wide-eyed little girl she had once been. She was trouble with a capitol T, and always had been.

Beviin tended the pipe, still burning the sweet-smelling herb and took a long, thoughtful toke. He held the smoke in his lung for a good five-count before letting it roll from his nostrils, another wave of slight euphoric bliss washing over him. He’d winced, just ever-so-slightly, at the taste, knowing he was getting to the bottom of the bowl. Fortunately, the old man had a pouch full of freshly ground herb to replace it with. Dhagon upended the long-stemmed pipe, dumping the ashes into a gloved hand before letting them fall carelessly to the dingy floor. All the while, he searched his mind for a story more to Romeo’s liking. His offhand reached down into the pouch on his belt, drawing forth a bag of dried and ground herb, his eyes never leaving the young man before him as he worked to pack a fresh bowl. Once done, Beviin struck a fire and lit it, puffing rapidly to ensure it stayed lit. The pipe was extended to young Aedria, beckoning her to join him in it.

[Karl the Unfettered]

Romeo got the feeling his gesture had been misunderstood. To his thinking it was a sign of good intention to reveal one's weapons, that way one's fellows wouldn't be surprised if something happened later. He hadn't extended the blade either, just rotated his arm to show it to Dhagon.

Well, whatever. He'd just keep it calm and show he meant no harm through his actions, instead of his words. Talk was cheap, after all.

"Aye, Romeo of Clan Ordo," he replied with a nod. Aedria was approaching before he could get much farther, though, so he watched the two of them interact. Much friendlier than himself and the old man, he noted immediately. He wondered how she'd take to being invited to sit on the man's knee; were they that familiar? How would she react if Romeo made the same invitation? He'd probably get slapped, he suspected.

But she was talking to him. Sweet or spicy? What? His brow furrowed, at a loss for how to respond. "I'm, uh... I'm bland, really, just... bland," he practically stammered. That was lame, but it was the best he could come up with. How much had these two had to drink? The old man had been holding court for some time, and despite her soberness he could smell the drink coming off Aedria. Tihaar no less.

"Should I give you two a minute alone?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood. The old man seemed to be struggling with something. Trying to remember a story, maybe? Romeo suspected he'd be telling a tale or two of his own before the day was done, and groaned internally. He hated talking himself up.

[loganomics]

Ah, Bevin. Aedria nostalgically thought to herself. In her teens when she had trained with her father Bevin was among the most well respected men that her father had ever introduced to her. The weathered man was stocky and thick, smelt of ashen herb, and had one of the most colorful memories of anyone she had met in her life. Often she would find herself listening fondly to the old man's tales, only heightening her love and awe of her father's people. In fact, she recalled her father half-jokingly warning her of Bevin's type.

"Beware the ones who excel at talking, Aedria. If you're not careful you'll get caught up in what they're saying and lose track of what they're doing."

Aedria gazed back down at the old man as he patted his thigh, inviting her to sit. All Aedria could do was stifle a laugh, a small chuckle being allowed to escape instead. The invitation to join the pair was still appreciated though and the athletic woman grabbed a nearby, empty chair and sat down next to the two at the table. A thud followed as soon as she sat down, her bottle being placed on the table near Bevin in exchange for his pipe. Moments passed in silence as she enjoyed the smoke, still eyeing the unfamiliar man beside him and his uncomfortable response to her teasing. Once she had her fill of the pipe, she passed it back to Bevin, eyeing him now teasingly as she jokingly exclamed:

"Wayii! Now, Ba'vodu, what did my mother ever do to make you forget her so easily? You mustn't forget the Varak in my name. You may not have ever met her but I'd warn you that she doesn't take offense or discount lightly."

Looking back over to the younger man she sized him up and down once more, analyzing in her thoughts what she saw of him after his response to her teasing.

Hmmm... Not very quick with his tongue. That or he's a bit taken aback by being put on the spot. A bit disheveled outside of the armor. Almost like he takes care of it better than he does himself... What a shame, he's not unattractive by any measure. Nice eyes. I like the color and he's got quite the confidence to approach the old yarn-spinner like that.

Responding lightly back to him, Aedria leaned back in her chair casually, flashing an approachable grin while still holding a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"No need to put yourself down like that... Romeo, was it? Every vode has a bit of spiciness to them, although... some might get a bit more than they should."

Aedria's face swapped back to Bevin, a teasing smile on her slightly blushed face as the effects of the booze and herb seeped into her attitude a bit more. Bevin always had a knack for attracting entertaining stories to him, even if some of them could be... lost in magnitude as she thought the old warrior would put it. A moment later and Aedria was pouring back another gulp of the fruity drink she had brought followed by her arm extending it out to her new acquaintance and placing it on the table in front of her.

"Here, drink, vode."

Once more, turning back to her older friend, Aedria's face became a tad bit more serious, although the blush from the booze and the light-hearted glint in her eyes remained, as she spoke to him.

"So, Bevin, me'vaar ti gar?" She asked curiously. A general and vague question for him, but she had no doubt he would have lots to say considering all the buzzing news around the capital city.

[roadkill]

The old man took the bottle of Tihaar and upended it for a hearty swig as Aedria toked upon his pipe. Dhagon feigned a look of surprise and hurt, just for a moment as Aedria half-jokingly remarked on his lack of using her full name. ”You wound me, ad’ika,” he said, taking the pipe back from her to toke upon. ”I’m sure Kaekella is more than capable of chastising me herself, hm? Tell her I said su cuy’gar.,” his eyes burned intensely with the extra emphasis on the final word before a deep belly-chuckle rumbled up. It only increased at Romeo’s quip at giving them some time alone, but Dhagon remained speechless otherwise as the pair traded barbs, and she threw more shade his way.

He remembered her father, Ghalor, well; he was marching far away with his Vela now. Had been for nearly two decades. A fearless one, that—something it seemed had been inherited by the young Aedria.

”I like you, vod,” he said, decidedly, to Romeo at long last. ”I think she likes you, too; it isn’t often Aedira here shares a drink with a stranger. But then, we aren’t strangers anymore, are we?” Smoke rolling from his nostrils in a steady stream, Dhagon extended the pipe out for Romeo to accept or decline. The behot herb was not everyone’s cup of tea, but it was always best to offer whatever party favors were on hand. All the while, his mind still turned over in search of a tamer story, such as had the young warrior requested.

His gaze was forced back to Aedria, as she asked the all-important question. It might have seemed small and vague, but he knew better. It was the one topic he had avoided for the entirety of the race to prop up a new Mand’alor to the title. His friendly demeanor shifted, a snarling scowl warping his scarred, pockmarked face downward. Had it been anyone else asking, he would have changed the subject. ”You speak of our new Mand’alor, yes? Well, I will say this only once.” Dhagon paused, glancing around the packed house, and rose from his seat. ”We don’t have to like our new Mand’alor, but we do have to answer his call,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. It had been much like reminding mewling babes of the Resol’nare. ”Any who feel otherwise may find another cantina to waste their time in!” Dhagon shouted, spitting upon the floor. The Oyu’baat was his, in more ways than one, and who was served was up to him.

It pained him to see the Clans in such disarray, especially when there were much larger foes for the Mando’ade to rally against. Such as the scum who had destroyed the Par’jila and likely killed the former Mand’alor. In his life, he had seen many Mand’alors. Time would tell if Hal Kelborn was truly worthy of the mantle, but Dhagon would reserve judgment. Clan Kelborn had produced many honorable Vode, and their line was long. To think Mand’alor the Vigilant was anything less, until proven otherwise, was folly.

A few began to filter out, as Dhagon stared daggers at them. Good riddance, so far as he was concerned. Those who could not put aside their insignificant rivalries for the greater good were not true followers of the Resol’nare in his mind. With a grunt, his scowl softened some and he returned to his seat. Dhagon dismissed those who had departed at his demand with a hand wave. They would likely be back tomorrow, as would Dhagon. And they would be welcome, so long as they were appropriately contrite. ”Another civil war is on the rise. Some think we will come out stronger for it, but I have seen it entirely too many times, my friends. While we quarrel amongst our own vode, our borders are less secure. While we look upon our own vode with mistrust, we cannot see the blade coming at our backs.”