Ask Corellia Through the Grapevine

[Veles]

CORONET CITY
CORELLIA
1650 LOCAL TIME

It wasn't everyday that a top-dog in the crime world reached out to a no-name Sith for help, but stranger things had happened before. Cin was curious and had nothing better to do, so he supposed it never hurt to help a neutral party out—after all, favors are a more valuable currency than credits. His mind was on the contact when he reached their meeting spot, the Sith nearly missing it.

It was a busy-looking cantina right under a shipyard—a meeting spot for laborers, and inconspicuous enough to warrant forgoing the helmet, which was in the pocket of his cloak. Pulling his hood down, he stepped inside and was met with chaos. A group of 3 shipyard workers covered in grease and gin brushed past him to leave, but he let the unwanted physical contact slide; starting a barfight before he even met the contact would be seen as very poor etiquette. Besides, he knew that displaying affinity with the Force was a polarizing issue nowadays, and he'd hate to wake up in Jedi prison.

Taking a seat in the corner like he'd arranged with the man he'd be meeting, Cin waved away a waiter—this was not the time to get drunk.

@Nor'baal​

 

[Thodi Bicker]

Rain streaked down on the pavement, providing a calming backdrop to the evening, as one of the many suns dipped down below the horizon, signalling the end of the day for many. For some however, the absence of the day's light heralded a new scene altogether, the patina of artificial light picking up where the sun's natural glow had left off. It was those lights now, that created a canvass of exotic colors in the prisms caused by the falling rain which dropped mercilessly onto the bonnet of a high end saloon-speeder, cast in black as it picked cooly through the night.

You could almost hear the quality of the engine, purring like an Acklay as it powered its occupant toward their destination. Blackout windows, masking the occupant no less attracted a solid amount of attention from the party goers and street-peddlers outside, as they darted for cover from the deluge. There was something almost enticing about the unknown, and the tinted windows ensured such a mystique was maintained, no, fanned to a fervour.

Inside the vehicle, a blackgloved hand gently picked up a silver high-end commlink. One of the newer models from the Czerka Corporation the sigil of the Crymorah inscribed into its facing. ”Speaking.” the occupant began, answering some unheard question ”It’s double for a disintegration.” there was silence on the line followed by ”You’re wasting my tim….” a frantic voice came over the line.

”Deal.”

The communicator clipped shut, almost as if arranged, for the saloon-speeder had just pulled up at their destination. Hurridly, the driver opened the passanger door, and stood to one side, holding an umbrella up for his client. The queue, for the non-VIP entrance, struggled to get a look at the occupant as they exited their ride.

Who was this exotic newcomer?

What did they do?

Why were they here?

Necks strained to catch a glimpse as the occupant walked up the door, the doorman doffing his hat ”Mr. Bicker Sir, a pleasure.”

Mr. Bicker waved a hand at the driver, who retreated - leaving Mr. Bicker safely under the roof of the cantina. He walked in without a word, flicking his entrance fee at the cashier, and walking into the club. He made a swift walk through the Cantina, making progress to the corner table where he had arranged to meet his client, and approached.

A commanding table was before him, and he stepped onto a small hover-plate on the floor, tapped a button on the controller, and floated three feet into the air, so his head and torso appeared level with the contact.

”Thodi Bicker, at your service.” the diminutive alien introduced himself, extending an impossibly short arm to the man.