Gambler
Banned
- Joined
- Apr 23, 2009
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((OOC: The OOC thread is located here.))
The day was drawing to a close on Corellia, where the various spacecraft of industry made their homes in the sky. The continuous fog of freighter fuel was thinning as fewer and fewer ships remained airborne, leaving the sun to set alone. Red and violet rays lit up the clouds, breathing new life into the evening. While the daily passersby left the streets, a new crowd bubbled to the surface. Hookers filled the corners, thugs the alleys, along with various sorts of criminals, gamblers and other citizens, all with agendas of their own.
Ryiek Lancer was one such criminal. Making his way down the street with the cowl of his heavy coat pulled up, he cut a suspicious figure. He rolled a fedora in his hands, fingering a silver inlaid turtle on the brim every few passes. Eventually, his feet brought him to an old cantina at the edge of civilization. Old, perhaps, but not the general cesspit most establishments fell into. The years gave it a vintage feel rather than a seedy one.
The cantina might not have been the most fashionable joint of the bunch, but it had a certain well-to-do air about it. Everyone from the patrons to the bouncers had a professional look, almost businesslike. The owner and part-time bartender of the joint, Caleb Mickey, could have made it into any blue collar dinner party with only a few questioning glances. His brown hair was cut in the local fashion, just long enough to be swept back from the eyes, while his hazel eyes gave him a vague catlike appearance. If not for the apron around his waist it would be rather difficult to place him as the owner of the local bar.
But the Armistice was more than a simple bar. To some it was a way of life. The upper level was dedicated entirely to gambling, but not in the classic sense. The card tables and slot machines were managed with a measure of sophistication. Well-shaven men acted as bouncers near the velvet entrance to the upper ring. To get in, one must flash a token to the bouncers, and that token could only be purchased by Caleb Mickey himself.
While there was a minibar in the casino area, the majority of the ring was dedicated to the sport alone. If one was in the mood for heated conversation, he or she would leave the casino and take a walk down to the bar. Even then the debate would be settled in quiet undertones without disturbing other patrons.
In essence, the Armistice had two basic rules: civility and sophistication. Any who breached either of the rules would soon find themselves thrown from the cantina and barred from entering except at the owner's discretion. It was almost ironic that Ryiek had managed to stay on his feet and in the good graces of the cantina for so long. Usually, after downing a few drinks, he had a tendency to get rough. In most places such behavior led swiftly to a barfight, sometimes escalating to the point where one or more patrons find themselves face down in the back alley with a few bullets in their heads.
Yet, somehow, Ryiek had managed to keep himself in check during his stay. Therefore, his entrance into the cantina was not impeded in any way by the burly toughs outside. He made his newly customary way over to the bar, hanging the fedora over a stool and leaning heavily on his elbows.
"Have a nice walk over here?" Caleb asked. His hands held a piece of cloth and he was in the process of polishing the bar as he spoke.
"Always," Ryiek replied. "It's almost too quiet around here," he added after a moment's thought.
"There is plenty of action, if you know where to look."
"It's too... organized," he corrected.
"Not everywhere is as bad as Coruscant. Hell, I'd be bored too if I was used to running into some small-time gangbanger every time I walked five feet from my front door," Caleb said. "What you call quiet is what I call business. You might like the rowdy night life and dangers of Coruscant, but I'm just fine with my little cantina out here. The credits keep on rolling in at this rate and I'll be able to open a chain."
Ryiek laughed. "Not kriffin' likely. The day you open a chain of these civilized bars is the day I marry a prostitute."
Caleb raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What about that Lilly girl you were telling me about the other day?"
"What about her?" Ryiek's expression became serious. "She ran off with Sleven a while back. The day she comes back is the day--"
"The day you stop making shitty analogies?" Caleb mimicked, roughly imitating Ryiek's deeper voice.
"I suppose so, at that," Ryiek said with a laughing scowl.
"Anyway," Caleb began, pouring a drink for Ryiek, "you didn't come here to waste the night away chatting with me. What do you need?"
"Ah, glad you remembered." He took a sip of his ale before answering. "Remember that note I asked you to send out the other day?" Caleb nodded. "People should be arriving soon enough, but I want to make sure that what I wrote is... literate. Kind of hard to tell when you're puking cheap beer."
"Cheap?" Caleb scoffed. "Costs more than your sorry ass' worth." He shook his head, trailing off quietly. Ryiek quirked a brow. "Ah, right, the note." He cleared his throat. "Yeah, just give me a sec to pull it up."
He lifted a datapad from beneath the bar, tapping a password into it before handing the device to Ryiek. "This it?" he asked, sliding it across the bar.
On the screen, the message said:
"I'm looking for a few big time smugglers, criminals, gamblers, or whatever the hell you want to call yourselves to help me with a job. This'll be the biggest haul of your life, so don't pass the opportunity up. Come to the Armistice and ask for 'Ryiek.' The bartender will tell you where I am. This heist'll be worth more than your life, so don't pass it up. You want the details? Come to the Armistice."
It wasn't the most eloquent of requests, but it was the best Ryiek could come up with. It had taken several mugs of 'cheap' beer along with hours of frustration to decide what to write. He needed a crew to help him out here, but he only wanted the best. Unfortunately, he couldn't get the best without having contacts. He could only send notes along a few friends in the underworlds of Coruscant, Nar Shaddaa and a few other places and hope that someone halfway decent decided to take him up on the offer. It was a stretch, and it was the best he could do.
Years had passed since his last big pull, and he was beginning to feel rusty. He needed something to break him out of his retirement, something to put his name back on the most wanted list. Most of all, he needed a challenge. All of these little robberies and drug deals were fun, sometimes with a hint of danger, but none of them held a chip to his luck. It was past time to push the boundaries again. It was time to put his name up in lights.
"I'll be in the back," he said, nodding to Caleb. "You know where to send anyone who comes in looking for me, just do me a favor and have them leave their weapons here. I'm not a fan of bullets in my head."
The day was drawing to a close on Corellia, where the various spacecraft of industry made their homes in the sky. The continuous fog of freighter fuel was thinning as fewer and fewer ships remained airborne, leaving the sun to set alone. Red and violet rays lit up the clouds, breathing new life into the evening. While the daily passersby left the streets, a new crowd bubbled to the surface. Hookers filled the corners, thugs the alleys, along with various sorts of criminals, gamblers and other citizens, all with agendas of their own.
Ryiek Lancer was one such criminal. Making his way down the street with the cowl of his heavy coat pulled up, he cut a suspicious figure. He rolled a fedora in his hands, fingering a silver inlaid turtle on the brim every few passes. Eventually, his feet brought him to an old cantina at the edge of civilization. Old, perhaps, but not the general cesspit most establishments fell into. The years gave it a vintage feel rather than a seedy one.
The cantina might not have been the most fashionable joint of the bunch, but it had a certain well-to-do air about it. Everyone from the patrons to the bouncers had a professional look, almost businesslike. The owner and part-time bartender of the joint, Caleb Mickey, could have made it into any blue collar dinner party with only a few questioning glances. His brown hair was cut in the local fashion, just long enough to be swept back from the eyes, while his hazel eyes gave him a vague catlike appearance. If not for the apron around his waist it would be rather difficult to place him as the owner of the local bar.
But the Armistice was more than a simple bar. To some it was a way of life. The upper level was dedicated entirely to gambling, but not in the classic sense. The card tables and slot machines were managed with a measure of sophistication. Well-shaven men acted as bouncers near the velvet entrance to the upper ring. To get in, one must flash a token to the bouncers, and that token could only be purchased by Caleb Mickey himself.
While there was a minibar in the casino area, the majority of the ring was dedicated to the sport alone. If one was in the mood for heated conversation, he or she would leave the casino and take a walk down to the bar. Even then the debate would be settled in quiet undertones without disturbing other patrons.
In essence, the Armistice had two basic rules: civility and sophistication. Any who breached either of the rules would soon find themselves thrown from the cantina and barred from entering except at the owner's discretion. It was almost ironic that Ryiek had managed to stay on his feet and in the good graces of the cantina for so long. Usually, after downing a few drinks, he had a tendency to get rough. In most places such behavior led swiftly to a barfight, sometimes escalating to the point where one or more patrons find themselves face down in the back alley with a few bullets in their heads.
Yet, somehow, Ryiek had managed to keep himself in check during his stay. Therefore, his entrance into the cantina was not impeded in any way by the burly toughs outside. He made his newly customary way over to the bar, hanging the fedora over a stool and leaning heavily on his elbows.
"Have a nice walk over here?" Caleb asked. His hands held a piece of cloth and he was in the process of polishing the bar as he spoke.
"Always," Ryiek replied. "It's almost too quiet around here," he added after a moment's thought.
"There is plenty of action, if you know where to look."
"It's too... organized," he corrected.
"Not everywhere is as bad as Coruscant. Hell, I'd be bored too if I was used to running into some small-time gangbanger every time I walked five feet from my front door," Caleb said. "What you call quiet is what I call business. You might like the rowdy night life and dangers of Coruscant, but I'm just fine with my little cantina out here. The credits keep on rolling in at this rate and I'll be able to open a chain."
Ryiek laughed. "Not kriffin' likely. The day you open a chain of these civilized bars is the day I marry a prostitute."
Caleb raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What about that Lilly girl you were telling me about the other day?"
"What about her?" Ryiek's expression became serious. "She ran off with Sleven a while back. The day she comes back is the day--"
"The day you stop making shitty analogies?" Caleb mimicked, roughly imitating Ryiek's deeper voice.
"I suppose so, at that," Ryiek said with a laughing scowl.
"Anyway," Caleb began, pouring a drink for Ryiek, "you didn't come here to waste the night away chatting with me. What do you need?"
"Ah, glad you remembered." He took a sip of his ale before answering. "Remember that note I asked you to send out the other day?" Caleb nodded. "People should be arriving soon enough, but I want to make sure that what I wrote is... literate. Kind of hard to tell when you're puking cheap beer."
"Cheap?" Caleb scoffed. "Costs more than your sorry ass' worth." He shook his head, trailing off quietly. Ryiek quirked a brow. "Ah, right, the note." He cleared his throat. "Yeah, just give me a sec to pull it up."
He lifted a datapad from beneath the bar, tapping a password into it before handing the device to Ryiek. "This it?" he asked, sliding it across the bar.
On the screen, the message said:
"I'm looking for a few big time smugglers, criminals, gamblers, or whatever the hell you want to call yourselves to help me with a job. This'll be the biggest haul of your life, so don't pass the opportunity up. Come to the Armistice and ask for 'Ryiek.' The bartender will tell you where I am. This heist'll be worth more than your life, so don't pass it up. You want the details? Come to the Armistice."
It wasn't the most eloquent of requests, but it was the best Ryiek could come up with. It had taken several mugs of 'cheap' beer along with hours of frustration to decide what to write. He needed a crew to help him out here, but he only wanted the best. Unfortunately, he couldn't get the best without having contacts. He could only send notes along a few friends in the underworlds of Coruscant, Nar Shaddaa and a few other places and hope that someone halfway decent decided to take him up on the offer. It was a stretch, and it was the best he could do.
Years had passed since his last big pull, and he was beginning to feel rusty. He needed something to break him out of his retirement, something to put his name back on the most wanted list. Most of all, he needed a challenge. All of these little robberies and drug deals were fun, sometimes with a hint of danger, but none of them held a chip to his luck. It was past time to push the boundaries again. It was time to put his name up in lights.
"I'll be in the back," he said, nodding to Caleb. "You know where to send anyone who comes in looking for me, just do me a favor and have them leave their weapons here. I'm not a fan of bullets in my head."