Einar Valengard
SWRP Writer
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2019
- Messages
- 6
- Reaction score
- 4
Einar stood back and looked at the speeder he had just finished repairing, it was good work, he would stand by it. What bothered him about it was that it was the third time in a week he'd had to fix the kriffing thing. "It's better than new. Again. But I swear if you crash it into another ice block I'll charge you double." he said grumpily as he took the devaronian owner's credits. The owner of the speeder simply chuckled with his damned pointy teeth out, it was an irritating sound, this guy could only be about seventeen. Einar was sick of seeing him in his shop. After the man sped off in his newly repaired speeder the Deucalian tradesman spat into the snow
"
fordæmdur hálfviti" he cursed as the silhouette faded into the frosty wastes.
After locking the credits in his small safe he went back into the shop and began puttering around, tinkering with this and that for a while before heading back to his office.
The sign over the door read "Kalt Járn", Deucalic for "Cold Iron". He didn't really care what people called his shop but he had been told that a business needed a name, so he dug into his roots to pull one out that he didn't hate. Most of the people butchered the pronunciation, but he -again- didn't care. People brought him machines to work on, and credits to do it. If he was being honest he wouldn't care about the payment if it didn't cost money to keep the lights on.
He sat behind his desk, which was basically a drafting table beside a short workbench, and watched the door. Willing someone interesting to come in for once.
"
fordæmdur hálfviti" he cursed as the silhouette faded into the frosty wastes.
After locking the credits in his small safe he went back into the shop and began puttering around, tinkering with this and that for a while before heading back to his office.
The sign over the door read "Kalt Járn", Deucalic for "Cold Iron". He didn't really care what people called his shop but he had been told that a business needed a name, so he dug into his roots to pull one out that he didn't hate. Most of the people butchered the pronunciation, but he -again- didn't care. People brought him machines to work on, and credits to do it. If he was being honest he wouldn't care about the payment if it didn't cost money to keep the lights on.
He sat behind his desk, which was basically a drafting table beside a short workbench, and watched the door. Willing someone interesting to come in for once.