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- Jul 25, 2010
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OOC: This roleplay is still set in the SWRP galaxy. It takes place in the past. Others are welcome to join (and I welcome others to join) but probably better to ping me first given the particular board setting.
The Jolly Jockey
Ambience
The Jolly Jockey
Ambience
Theme
Tatooine
Mos Eisley
Spacers Row
Tatooine
Mos Eisley
Spacers Row
When it came to foul and unpleasant odors, one had but to walk down a street of Mos Eisley to catch a whiff. Maybe it was the dung of dewbacks and other beasts of burden, the sweat from thousands of bodies bunched together, or the rot of corpses not yet discovered in alleyways beneath the arid heat. Most pungent of all was the stench of crime and corruption that riddled the spaceport. There was a reason that the town was considered to be the armpit of the galaxy, though what that meant to one soul might have meant something entirely different to another.
Her head hit by dry air and damnable heat, Jetha mused on what a wise man had once told her about this place. In Eisley, whatever a person smells first is a quick clue to their kind of character. Some nostrils flared first at the perspiring armpits that mingled with beastly backsides, while others had their noses peaked to the monetary opportunities hanging around street corners like multi-species prostitutes in heat. When it came to Jetha, the first thing she smelled this morning was the sweet and sour spice emanating from the taxi driver who had been too out of it to care about receiving no tip. I told you no scrak, good sir, but nooo. The smells she could tolerate, but her ears might have bled from the scratchy buzzing blaring out of his speeder’s radio; a raucous noise that fools called music.
After Jetha exited the vehicle, it sped away and faded from view the moment she turned her head. Stretching down either side of her was the bustling road of Spacers Row, no more or less busy than any other street or plaza making up Mos Eisley. Company headquarters and trade buildings rose above their dome-roofed lessers in an attempt to scrape the sky and reach the golden suns that governed all. Pedestrians crawled about like ants, with every alien and their mother’s grandfather gathered about to spend the day chasing commerce and marketing money to make more. Often, that meant cheating or being cheated, killing or being killed, with earnings spilled out like spicy food in the restroom.
Jetha sniffed and regretted it immediately. The taxi’s own odor still clung to her nostrils. Better when I get out of this bloody heat. She might have glanced up at not one but two blazing suns and shaken both fists if she hadn’t valued her eyes. Wiping a bead of sweat from her face, she turned it toward the other Zeltron beside her.
“Out of the frying pan and into the fire, am I right?”
Whatever that comment might have warranted, Jetha diverted her gaze to the building before them that looked as sand-beaten as any other but was unique with its door that stood out like a sore thumb. Perhaps one of her own, given its pink decor and the blinking bulbs of the red neon sign that neither lived nor died. “Rongo’s Roadhouse” flashed its fancy letters save for both R's, a poor gimmick that the owner would insist was the fault of poor circuitry too complicated to fix. Jetha had since presumed that the Rodian was just going for a dive bar vibe in the middle of a dive bar of a spaceport.
“Well, this is the place. Step through here, my love, and I’ll do more than double your earnings from our little Logan job.”
It had been an ironic ordeal, venturing from Ryloth to Tatooine, trading one desert for the other, and certainly not a feat that Jetha had felt up to accomplishing much. Heat was a cruel joke that the universe had concocted during its blistering birth, a mystery that she may yet never unravel, which was just as well. There were other black boxes that needed to be opened, inside of which was many a credit chip, and inside Rongo’s cantina of all places.
Jetha had managed to convince her fellow Zeltron that there was still money to be made, a little detour before they might part and go their separate ways, and a contact to link up with whose lucrative business opportunity had come her way through the grapevine while the Dandelion had still been spaceborne. One deal, one Rodian, two suns and two Zeltrons. What could possibly go wrong?
Adjusting the strap of her backpack, Jetha popped a stick of chewing gum into her mouth and turned to face her newfound friend once more.
“So, simply put, Rongo’s a lecherous old Rodian with a penchant for flirting and a propensity for lying. It’s part of his table manners when it comes to business, but our pheromones will only go so far with the likes of this one. All that said, I’ll buy first round?”
@Herrith