Two hundred years in the future, space travel is common among the disparate races of the galaxy, though the strange limitations of the Cosmic Warp limit the speed of larger ships. This has led to a bustling industry of independent space traders in speedy cargo transports, along with the space pirates who raid them. The best transport pilots are those who can safely bring their cargo to port, evading or fighting off the myriad dangers of the Cosmic Warp. But pirates too are skilled in their own ways, able to strike and fade quickly into the darkness of space, whether to an established secret base or to make their way to a new trade route to plunder.
However, some ships have returned from the depths of space without a single mark on them, but their cargo and crew have utterly vanished. Other ships have barely escaped what they describe as a horrifying spaceship that is as large as a moon, or even a planet. The speculation surrounding this "Darkstar" includes the much-rumored possibility that all of the stolen cargo remains intact in that ship - a storehouse of treasures beyond imagination in the history of the galaxy.
Enter Mr. Rake Datano, a clever and enterprising businessman who has had a secret lust for the treasures of the Darkstar since he was a young boy. The scheming Drakon has issued a summons unlike any other, to trader and pirate alike: all are welcome to join his expedition to find and loot the plunder of the Darkstar! He has guaranteed that any who join the expedition will be given a pardon of any crimes, and protection from the imminent arrest of the Star Patrol. But this comes with the condition that all who join the expedition must work together, regardless of race or affiliation, to join Rake aboard his massive starship, the Felldriver.
The gathering is taking place at the expansive Datano estate on the planet of Nova Jannia, one of the centers of trade and culture in the entire galaxy. Some come because of the lust for riches, others because of curiosity or the desire for instant fame, and others to fulfill their own dreams in life. Many have come whose talents are in the martial arts, others with useful skills to offer such as healing or technical prowess, but all are exceptional examples of the kind of people who can call themselves spacers!
And here our story begins.
IC:
In a bar at the spaceport in Nova Jannia's Capital City, the usual rabble of spacers were enjoying the influx of newcomers who had arrived because of the summons to join the Darkstar Expedition. Humans rubbed shoulders with members of the other races of the galaxy, including the dragon-like Drakons who stood eight feet tall with scaly bodies and lizard-like heads, stumpy Barogians with their single eye planted in their foreheads and spikes sticking out of their thick hair and backs, lean and lanky Drikitiks with their peculiar insectoid physiology ranging from ant-like drones to mantis-like warriors, and even many of the canid humanoids known as Venibreeds who could resemble foxes, dogs or wolves.
And these were not all; in the crowded and busy barroom, there were also robotic servitors who carried the trays of drinks around, android entertainers who played in the band that perpetually kept up the constant background music that accompanied the clinking of drinks and the low rumble of conversation, and even fearsome battledroids who had somehow earned their freedom from servitude and came to find their own fortunes as free mercenaries. The blue and white uniforms of the Star Patrol mingled with the varied spacesuits and outfits of independent traders and pirates. For now, the eternal rivalry between the lawkeepers and the lawless was mostly forgotten in the light of the treaty that Mr. Datano had signed to ensure that he would get the best of all spacers to his expedition.
"So we're assigned to the Star Patrol brigade that's attached to this expedition, eh?" mused a Venibreed woman in Star Patrol uniform as she and her human partner sat on hoverstools at the bar. Her fur color was black with brown, resembling the Doberman Earth dog breed with short ears, though she had a head of lush red hair that she kept combed over her left eye. Her right eye, a light blue color, sparkled with professional mischief. "I guess they needed the best pilot and the best footman in the Patrol to handle this job, right Marcel?"
Marcel, the man who sat her left, held his drink with one gloved hand and swirled the foamy liquid as hot steam rose from it. He wore a black and blue striped scarf around his neck, wrapped around enough times to effectively cover his mouth and most of his nose, and his spiky backswept dark brown hair looked like he had stuck his head out of a flyer jet and had gelled it that way. His eyes were quiet and gray, and seemed focused on the drink. His suit appeared a little thicker than that of his companion, and in the hot and oppressive air of the bar he looked a peculiar figure, especially since he wasn't sweating a bit. Hitched to the side of his left thigh was a pointed scabbard that nearly extended all the way from his hip to his knee, with a simple round-ended handle jutting up out of it. He shrugged as he carefully slipped the scarf down to take a sip of the warming fluid, before quickly raising it again and putting the now-empty glass onto the bar. "I suppose so, Rusty," he conceded, his gentle voice muffled by the scarf and nearly drowned out by the raucous noise around them.
"Hey, this is gonna be a fun trip! Even if this whole Darkstar business is a sham, there's bound to be a lot of people coming along with all kinds of goods to trade - maybe I'll even get a taste of some aleshard from Feldspar. That would be wicked!"
"We should go to the banquet itself and join the rest of the brigade there," suggested Marcel. "There'll just be trouble if we stay too long at this bar."
Rusty frowned after finishing her drink. "Eh, I'm not much for that high-flutin' fancypants stuff, and last I checked you weren't either. Something getting you antsy?"
"Just the high chance that trouble will start with all of these people here," mumbled Marcel as he got up to leave.
"What are the chances of that?" asked Rusty with an innocent grin.
CRASH!
"Hey, why'd you pinch my butt, you jerk!?" ranted a slender long-haired male human in a rather tight form-fitting navy blue jumpsuit with twin pistols locked in their black-strapped holsters at his side, yelling at the top of his lungs as his voice cracked. The bar instantly became focused on the shouter and his intended target, a Barogian with a full gray beard, stout arms, and dressed in a nearly comical white shirt with blue stripes, bright pink vest, and a pair of ragged trousers.
"'Cause I thought yer was a cute chick, that's what," growled the Barogian. "Turns out yer just effeminate and green as a space guppy."
"I'm all of twenty four, thank you very much!" And the man flipped some of his long hair out of his face and away from his high cheekbones. "And how dare you call me effeminate!"
This brought a lot of chuckles from the crowd, which had somehow pulled back despite the cramped conditions to allow room for a brawl if it became necessary. This certainly looked to be the case as the two humanoids faced each other with fierce glares. The raven-haired human started to brag. "I'm the dread pirate captain Drune McCoy! I've looted fifty transports in the past month alone, and I've faced brigands and bandits and space eels, all at the same time! And I've flown through the Starshatter Nebula, twice, without being blown to bits by the unstable starwings there!"
"Never heard of ya," a voice from the crowd said, which led to a roar of laughter that embarrassed the young man and emboldened the older Barogian to add his own tall tales to the scene.
"I'm Scrimbad, ther roughest, toughest, meanest piece of Barogian this side of ther Qwellan Sector! I've taken down gangs of Drikitik warriors with one hand tied behind me back! My name is infamous in ther Underdocks of Hokatello Spaceport!"
"Never heard of ya, either," said the same impudent voice. There was some danger in the crowd as the laughter ended up causing some of the bystanders to bend over with amusement, immediately causing a series of bumps between them.
"Hey, get yer head outta my back!"
"Only if you get yore elbow out of my gut, deckscrubber!"
"Brzzt! You stepped on my footclaw, numbskull."
"Stop wavin' those antennae at me or I'll do more than that, bugface!"
Drune and Scrimbad found themselves standing and blinking as a half-dozen brawls erupted around them. Then they both turned and grimaced at the Star Patrol whistle that sounded, and they squeezed through the crowd toward the exit as the Star Patrollers on duty entered the fray with force sticks beating left and right to break up the fights.
"Won't turn yer in if'n yer wern't me," grunted the Barogian as the two scrambled out of the bar and out into an alleyway, between two boxy pre-fabricated structures that looked like plastic boxes.
"Done deal, my good man."
The unlikely pair panted and leaned against the wall, soon recovering their breath from their mad dash. "Say, are you going to go get involved with that expedition everyone's been talking about?" asked Drune.
"'Twas gonna go 'fter findin' meself a drink'r two, but now no chance've gettin' that. Y'self?"
"Well of course, I mean, this is where the name of Drune McCoy becomes famous across the galaxy!" Drune smirked at his odd companion. "Might as well go over together, ey Scrimbad?"
Scrimbad scratched the side of his head with a thick finger. "I dern't mind. Truth ter tell, I've got no ship meself - figgered this'd get me ther cash to getten one."
Drune sighed, a very light and airy sound like a princess longing for her knight in shining armor. "I had a ship, the Black Lion, but my partner ran off with it and even changed the name, so I'm in the same boat as you." He smiled winningly. "Maybe we can team up for a while, and see what happens. We're not the only pirates out for treasure, and it'd be good to have someone to watch my back."
"Same here. Although ye still look like a lass."
"Hey, no more cracks about that, all right?! Bah, if I only had a computer that could calculate how many times that's been said to me..."
The pair of pirates, now fast friends, headed off toward the banquet, hailing a hovercab to get them there.
The banquet itself was more like a grand ball with lavishly-set buffets out for the guests who arrived. It was held inside the Datano estate's mansion, an enormous and grand castle that held an air of distinguishment. Inside the main front doors, a short corridor guided the way to another set of huge oaken doors, which led into the massive front room where balls were typically held. Blue and green tiles in the marble floor shined like glass, and white-painted railings mounted the wide stone steps that were carpeted in red velvet on either side of the center of the room. An enormous powered chandelier projected powerful light that was reflected in the crystal mirrors at each corner of the ceiling, making it comfortably bright in the room. Directly beneath the chandelier, a cone-shaped base served as a platform for the holographic projection of a large blimp-like ship, its decks and sections outlined in different colors.
The variety of people in here easily matched those in the bars, and then some. Here were dignitaries representing their respective home planets, Headhunters and pirates and Star Patrollers mixed in with diplomats and nobles from dozens of star systems. Because of the special occasion, everyone came in their best uniforms and outfits - naturally this meant different things to different people, as some of the poorer pirates and ruffians had no especially fancy clothes to come in, but instead wore shining battle armor or baggy jumpsuits that hid their stained mismatched garb. Nevertheless, everyone was on their best behavior, as good food was readily available along with some of the finest beverages, and nobody wanted to quarrel or start a ruckus when they were too busy stuffing their faces. After all, in space you never knew when your supplies might run out and you would be desperate with hunger.
Standing next to the holographic projector stood the tall form of Rake Datano, looking very handsome in a customized tuxedo that fit his massive red-scaled form. He had his reptilian wings folded neatly behind his muscular back, his long earfins running back from the sides of his dragon-like head, his plain yellow eyes looking with tiny black pupils from the projection of the ship to his shapely companion, an emerald-skinned human female who possessed a buxom figure and certain catlike features, like the pointed ears that poked out of her thick hair of metallic purple hair that hung down her smooth back nearly down to her feet. The deep red dress she wore was sleeveless and backless, with the length of it reaching to the middle of her calves, but a long slit reached up nearly to her waist. "So what do you think, Ms. Starlight? The Felldriver is quite a ship, isn't it?" asked Rake in a surprisingly smooth tenor voice that didn't match with his scaly exterior.
Flair Starlight tittered, both of her green arms wrapped around Rake's arm. "It's quite a ship indeed, Mr. Datano! It's nearly the size of a city in itself! But my curiosity is aroused about what sort of armament it would have...after all, being an arms merchant myself, it is a professional interest."
Rake laughed, which rang out into the air to be heard nearly all about the room. "Ah, my incorrigible old friend, you haven't changed a bit. But do not concern yourself, the Felldriver is well-equipped to handle anything we'll run into. You should be more concerned with making sure that rogue crew of your Solar Flair stay out of trouble while on board."
"They are quite a handful, sometimes," agreed Flair as she looked over at two members of her crew, a powerfully-built three-legged battledroid with heavy metal armor and a single triangular visual sensor planted in the middle of his bullet-shaped head and a human clad in a tight-fitting red spacesuit with an angular helmet that masked his features behind a bubble visor. They both stood silently, and they radiated an aura of intimidation that made pirates and Patrollers alike skirt the area around them. "But they know the deal. We're along for our fair share of the game, after all."
"Flashman and Buster Hawk, aren't they?" asked Rake politely, although he knew the crew already quite well, having done much business with them. "Are you sure that a murdering battledroid and a space ninja will be enough for this entire ship?"
Flair nodded, smiling to reveal pointed teeth between lips that matched the color of her red dress. "You won't be disappointed, Mr. Datano. We'll be glad to help keep trouble from brewing on your ship. After all, anyone stupid enough to raise a ruckus probably doesn't deserve to get that treasure. Means more for us, too."
"And for me. But do try to keep quiet, and avoid using your larger weapons. I don't need holes in my ship after all."
OOC: All right, you can probably tell that this RP is going to feature an incredible variety of characters with unique abilities. There will be a certain level of cinematic value to this RP, with highly-skilled spacers who are masters of martial arts, gunmanship, or whatever other path they have chosen. But there are pilots and medics and some disciplines of mysterious "starmagic" as well.
Your character can be one of the following races:
Human: Self-explanatory, though genetic modifications are common to make them even more diverse than in our modern day.
Drakon: Think 8-foot-tall humanoid dragon. They are very strong and tough, can fly with their wings, and live for hundreds of years at a time.
Barogian: Short, almost dwarflike humanoids that are similar to thickly-built humans. They have thick shaggy hair and have spikes that grow out of their backs, as well as a single eye in their heads. They are also known for their incredible durability; even a Drakon has a hard time tearing one of these muscular people apart.
Drikitik: An insect race consisting of several subraces, including species resembling giant ants, mantises, spiders and scorpions. They are intelligent and able to communicate, but they are doggedly persistent in their specific genetic roles, and they wear nothing that would hinder their use of their natural abilities.
Venibreed: A doglike humanoid species, they have keen senses that make them excellent trackers. They are varied in their appearance, although they are all the same exact species. Fox, wolf, dog, jackal, coyote, and even hyena variants exist.
Your character can also be one of the following general "classes" although they may certainly not be limited to them:
Star Patrol: Think space police. They patrol the starways and try to stop pirates. They are given a variety of skills and equipment to aid them. A brigade of Star Patrol members has been posted to the expedition as representatives of the galactic government; though many of them have personal reasons, they are there primarily because of duty.
Headhunters: The bounty hunters of the galaxy. Somewhat more legitimate than pirates, they still have a shady background since many of their advanced weapons, cybernetics and genetic modifications are taken from the black market. Still, they are undoubtedly skilled and dangerous, as they have to be to chase after dangerous criminals and pirates and come back alive - unlike their targets. The thrill of the hunt and the temptation of profit are common motivations.
Trader: Maybe independent, maybe part of a larger fleet serving a company, traders ply the starways of the Cosmic Warp to transport goods from one world to another. Many traders are talented at business and negotiation, and often have musical talents that they can share, acting like the bards of the space age. But it takes a rugged sort to fight off pirates and make deadlines, and some traders can be just as deadly as their pirate counterparts. It is nearly all about the money with these people, though fame is certainly ideal - they get more business that way.
Pirate: Freedom-loving outlaws who live only by their own rules. They are as varied as the stars themselves, ranging from space scum to dashing buccaneers who live by a code of honor that rivals the Star Patrol's protocols. It takes a mix of luck, skill and a good dependable blaster or force sword to cut out a living as a pirate. Money, notoriety, and a piece of the good life are all things that pirates often look for.
Finally, you may have abilities that stem from natural racial abilities (like a swordfighting mantis-type Drikitik), cybernetic upgrades (either implanted or from a suit of collapsible battle armor that can extend out over your body in a flash), or genetic upgrades (which can make a human nearly like any of the other races!). Obviously powerplaying isn't allowed, but feel free to give your character at least one skill or power that they are really good at.
Combat will be featured in this RP, but you are not restricted to warrior characters if you desire; negotiation will be important too, as well as skills like healing.
You may join in at any point in the RP that has been presented to you, or make an entrance of your own. Feel free to ask any questions, either in this thread or via any private messaging system.
Game on!
OOC: Meet Billiam O'Tair. Human, womanizer, alcoholic, down-on-his luck trader with a freight business about to go bottom up. He has a dark past as a drug dealer that he's trying to put behind him.
IC:
Billiam O'Tair had been having a lovely dream involving a vacation to the Silica IV spas, a bottle of whiskey, and two lovely young women who had the most fascinating genetic modifications, when it was all interrupted by the shrill beeping of the ship's intercom. Cursing silently, he left the bliss of the dream world behind the open his eyes to the cramped and cluttered control room of the Flirty Sue (named after his second wife).
He quickly grabbed the microphone and put it up to his mouth.
"O'Tair and Son Shipping, where your package is precious, how may I direct your call."
"Billiam!" the harsh woman's voice screeched out of the speaker. "Put me on screen you louse!"
For some reason, no matter how many women he married, his wives somehow always managed to address him in the same tone of voice. Even the ones that weren't carbon-based life-forms. He flicked a switch and the image of Vernalia, his current wife popped up on the screen.
"Sweetheart!" he exclaimed. "How did the job on Demeter III go?"
"I'm leaving Bill. I can't take this anymore." Billiam couldn't tell if it was anger or relief in her voice. "You're on your way to an early grave, and I've no desire to be dragged down with you."
"...but...but...pumpkin! Sugarbaby! Sweetypie!" Billiam implored her, but no manner of sweet nicknames would salvage this marriage.
"Goodbye Billiam." The screen flickered blank, returning to his view of his docking berth at the McAuliffe Trading Post.
"Oh woe is me!" Billiam wailed, to no one in particular. "Is it my fate to forever wander the galaxy and not find love. Sweet, sweet Vernalia. I thought our love would last until the stars turned cold. if I could only once more see thy vermillion lips, caress thy raven black hair, rub thy...." he was disrupted from his ruminations by a blinking yellow light on the control console in front of him.
"...she took all of my fuel! That two-timing, no good, ugly devilspawn!"
*
"The Hungry Sloop" was not the only fueling depot on McAuliffe. In fact, it was one of ten. Out of these ten, the Sloop was not the cleanest, nor the cheapest, nor the most expensive. It had terrible service, horrible prices, and was always on the brink of foreclosure. The rumor was that the place had been under investigation by Star Patrol for putting illegal additives in it's fuel, causing a few desperate ships who stopped there to break down mid-flight.
It was quite possibly the worst fueling depot in McAuliffe.
Needless to say, Billiam O'Tair used it exclusively.
The proprieter, an ancient Barogian named Bluvariswho spent most of his time stuck in his chair by the spikes portruding from his back, saw O'Tair coming a mile away.
"Ho no you don't," he grumbled. "Yer not getting any fuel offa me Billiam O'Tair! Yeh still owe me for your last run. Yeh said you could pay me double."
Billiam threw up his hands in surrender. "It turns out that shipment of rare artifacts I had gotten my hands on was just some very interesting rock formations." He scratched his head "They didn't sell as well as I'd hoped."
"Yeah, well tough luck for you, because unless you got some coin in your hand, I ain't given you no fuel, no how." Blavarsis crossed his tiny arms and nodded with finality.
Billiam sighed. "There is another way I could pay." He hated to have to do this.
"Eh?" said Blavarsis. "You got some Dust?"
Billiam shoved a hand into his coat pocket, closed his eyes and concentrated, and before he knew it there was a pile of powder in his hand. He took his hand out of his pocket and extended it to Blavarsis, whose eyes went wide. The old Barogian freed himself from his chair, scurried forward, and took a pinch of the powder from Billiam, quickly sticking it in his mouth.
"Whoa," he struggled backward. "You always have the most pure grade. If you became a full-time dealer, you could be rolling in the dough."
"I don't do that anymore." Billiam said, looking down at his feet sheepishly.
"Yeah, whatver." Blavarsis said as he swept the rest of the powder off into a side pouch. "So what do you need."
"Enough fuel for a one-way trip to Nova Jannia," he said, rememberring the advertisement he had seen. That's all I need.
Billiam flew the Flirty Sue to Nova Jannia, and docked it in a long-term berth. If this venture didn't work out well, he might never see the old freighter again. At least she had that in common with the woman she was named after.
He arrived late at the banquet hall and surveyed the group of people there. Pretty much every species and spacer profession under the sun had turned out.
"Well that gives me the advantage I guess," he said to himself grinning. "Cuz none of these people is Billiam O'Tair."
OOC: I'm recycling my characters! Like Blackadder or something 😀
IC: Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Heavy boots thuded down the corridor. They were worn and slightly tattered, sturdy but broken through enough to give good movement. Brown in colour, no metal visible.
The reason these boots stood out so sorely is because the owner of them otherwise wore very formal attire. Black baggy trousers, tucked into the boots, and a pink shirt. Grey jacket tied around his waist.
Horrible.
A hand drew up to flick hair out of eyes. Other than the terrible dress sense and the shocking red hair, he looked... unremarkable. No genetic modifications to his features. He had a friendly face, like a teacher for toddlers.
His name was Will, a somewhat outdated name these days but it was a family tradition. His last name was either forgotten or hidden.
As he entered the bar he scanned the room in seconds, before choosing his target. He smirked. Him. By the bar.
Quickly he dove into the crowd, weaving through the mass of people with suprising stealth considering the show he was making of thuding around earlier. He reached his target. His hand slowly entered his pocket, then grasped the smooth surface of what he was looking for.
With lightning reflexes he took it out of his pocket and pointed it at the man.
"Number 639, strong please" he grinned, his smile reaching his eyes.
"Certainly sir" the droid replied, taking his card. Will thanked him, then began to listen discreetly to the conversations behind him.
OOC: I'm leaving out his class for now but you could probably guess it o.-
k he's short, 5ft2. Tomato red, jaw length hair. His hair covers his left eye for a reason I'm not revealing now but it's your usual cliche so you probably know it already. Like I said, he has a friendly demeanour. But there's more than meets the eye...
Some were here for money. Some for the fame. Some for the excitement or the rush, or even simply out of curiosity. Yes, the reasons behind the attendance of the many and varied figures at the banquet were indeed diverse...
But out of them all, his was perhaps unique. He needed to dissapear, to become scarce for a while, to leave this part of the galaxy and not return for a very long time. And a crazy mission in search of an absurd fairytale that didn't exist? That was perfect.
He prowled the halls of the estate now like a shadow, a spectre risen from the depths of hell itself, and many gave him a wide berth as they passed. Nobody heard him complaining, he was never very good with large crowds. Still, it was nessecery to keep up an appearence lest someone should get suspicious, so all the time he kept his sharp bone mandibles fixed in a smile, a surprisingly warm and genuine expression for his armoured face, not to mention it's insincerity. He had had lots and lots of practice at faking emotions over the years, and was now nothing less than an expert - nobody could see through any carefully constructed fascade he errected around himself.
The impression of something that had crawled straight from the underworld was an apt one...his body was a mass of sharp spikes and marbled ebony armour, gleaming like a black mirror in the bright lights of the banquet hall. Not a suit of armour covering his large frame, but part of his body itself: he was a Drikitik, his entire skin taking the form of a thick, boney carrapice of interlocking armoured plates that formed an almost impenetrable barrier against virtually any weapon known to the civilised races. He was a Scorpion-type, with three long, thin legs protruding from either side of his body, each tipped with a visious sharp spike, and a flexible, muscular tail curling up behind him, standing a full eight feet above the floor and boasting a massive foot-and-a-half long spike on it's end. Towards his front his body curved up into a more Humaniod form, with wide shoulders mounting powerful arms which bore bladed pincers that could cut through most metals with ease, and a thick, strong neck leading into a head seemingly devoid of almost all features. His eyes were as black as his armour, camoflaging perfectly against the long, forward-thrusting shape of his skull and turning his face into a smooth, featureless dome of gleaming black bone, broken only by the small pair of needle sharp bone mandibles mounted on the front of his features. His head, while being around a foot lower in height than his curved tail, still topped no less than seven feet above the ground, making him taller even than some of the shorter Drakon kin at the banquet.
Currently he was going under the name of Rampart, a humble Trader from the inner planets of Alpha Centurai who had fallen on hard times...another fascade he had concocted for the general poppulace. For if anyone were to find out who he really was, things could get very difficult indeed.
Serash. The name was known across fifty sectors and countless races, always with fear and hatred. Serash the Scorpion, expert Headhunter, cold-hearted serial killer, wanted across the majority of known space for upwards of 150 savage murders. The ones that they knew about...
He had initially been a Royal Guardian in his hive back on Sirrius 7, charged with protecting the Queen and King of his Colony from danger of any kind. What they had never expected was that he could have become the danger. After a fierce battle against one of the larger native creatures that had attacked the nest, his blood lust had been awakened. He had loved the feel of warm blood coating his armoured hide, the sound of the creature's last gasps of life and slowly fading heartbeat, the feeling of power as the beast had fallen. It had been a rush he had never felt before, and one he had craved like an addiction ever since.
Even despite his skill at covering his tracks, it wasn't long before the missing workers were noticed. In such a tight community the source of the killings was quickly traced, and he was hauled up before the Queen to stand trial for his crimes. They had guarded him closely, yet they knew beond all doubt that he would not be so insane, so twisted as to attack his very own mother, the life of the Colony, the Queen herself.
They were wrong. And by the time they realised their mistake, both King and Queen were dead, along with a sizable proportion of the Colony's Soldier population, and Serash was gone, escaping to a small trading outpost some way away to arrange passage off his world. From that point on, he had used his natural strength and skill in a new career as a Bounty Hunter and Mercinery, and had found it to be a very lucrative occupation, paying his way through the galaxy and much, much more...enough, even, for the work he had applied for just three months ago at the underground Cybernetics Workshops on Archadia, work which had assisted him even more in his sordid trade. And best of all, as he went, he got to feed his addiction, indulge his passion, celebrate his beutiful art...not only on the targets of his contracts, but on others too. He had become a master at evading and confusing the Star Patrol, and had never been caught once since he began.
Still, even the best laid cover wasn't inpenetrable, and eventually the authorities would begin to put the pieces together. Usually when this happened he would move on, booking transport out of the area and dissapearing like a ghost, leaving all the hopeful trails to go cold in his wake. In this case, however, that was proving somewhat more difficult than usual. It was this darned announcement that was causing it...Datano's fabled mission had quadrupled the traffic passing through this area of space in a matter of days, and right at a time when the Nova Jannia law enforcement were beginning to figure out some of the small clues he had been unable to hide from his last few 'artistic expressions'. Transports out were fully booked for weeks, but if he didn't leave soon it was possible that suspicions would be raised and some of the clue trails would begin to point in his direction. It was with some small irony, then, that he realised the very cause of this misfortune in his dark and sinnister life may actually double as his salvation too.
And so he had come, despite the risk, despite the crowd, to investigate the announcement, listening and looking to every word and action as he prowled the gathering behind his friendly, cheery fascade, searching for a surefire way to affirm his place on the crazy and rediculous venture. As far as he was concerned the mission was stupid...the Darkstar was nothing more than a legend, it's existance was as likely as being able to escape from the event horizon of a black hole. Still, so long as it got him out of the way...
(OOC: Let me know if anything needs changing.)
OOC: All looks good to me. Let's keep things rolling along:
IC:
Marcel and Rusty stepped inside the ballroom, having been brought by a hovercab to the stately mansion. Rusty was all aglow with anticipation and unbounded excitement; Marcel kept up with her but maintained his quiet demeanor. It didn't take them long to reach the food tables.
"Stars, Marcel! Look at these meat truffles from Dorgood VI! I've heard they come from these big spider animals they raise like a cross between cattle and produce. I don't like to think of that though, they taste too good to waste on awkward thoughts. And here are some sparkle-wheat buns - pretty and naturally sweet! Oh here, why don't you try some of this hotroot cider, that would warm you right up, wouldn't it? It'll be hard to leave room for that Barogian spiffleberry trifle, with this kind of spread laid out!"
Marcel stepped up next to Rusty and tapped her side as if bumping into her by accident. "Oh, sorry," he muttered, but his other hand flipped a subtle gesture to Rusty.
Rusty stayed bubbly as she said casually, "Oh, it's all right! You need a little more room there, Marcel?" She made a flourishing gesture in the air as she brushed the hair away from her covered eye, just long enough to glance toward her left away from Marcel. The glance was only for a moment, but it was long enough to catch sight of a large Drikitik with black carapace and an ingratiating smile - or what passed for a smile among the insectoid race - plastered on its face. The Drikitik was a warrior of the scorpion subtype, and looked particularly formidable with well-developed spikes and wicked claws, not to mention that tail. He was walking through the crowd, looking left and right as if taking a Sunday stroll through the banquet, and perhaps that disturbed people enough to give him a certain degree of berth.
The hair was back over Rusty's eye in a second as she finished her gesture, and she gave the slightest of nods as she smiled in ditzy fashion at her partner. Both of them recognized the signals they were giving each other, developed over the course of their long partnership and on long, lonely patrols between the stars.
"I'm not really hungry," mumbled Marcel as he broke away from the table. "I'm going to find the bathroom."
"Don't get lost!" called Rusty in a bubbly way after him as she waved her fork. Though her assignment was to maintain her own watch here from the vantage point of the food tables, she couldn't escape her pleasure at being able to indulge in the fine food while at her work. It made things so much more pleasant.
Marcel was winding his way through the crowd, aiming to go toward the bathroom, but he was watching the black Drikitik and seeing just what he would do next.
OOC: More later, feel free to post in the meantime though.
