- Joined
- Jun 9, 2019
- Messages
- 75
- Reaction score
- 27
Biographical Information
. . Homeworld
. . Age
[IN] Corellia
[IN] 32
. . Age
[IN] Corellia
[IN] 32
Physical Description
. . Species
. . Gender
. . Height
. . Mass
. . Eye Colour
. . Hair Colour
. . Skin Colour
. . Force Sensitivity
[IN] Human
[IN] Male
[IN] 188 cm
[IN] 86 kg
[IN] Brown
[IN] Brown
[IN] Fair
[IN] Untested
. . Gender
. . Height
. . Mass
. . Eye Colour
. . Hair Colour
. . Skin Colour
. . Force Sensitivity
[IN] Human
[IN] Male
[IN] 188 cm
[IN] 86 kg
[IN] Brown
[IN] Brown
[IN] Fair
[IN] Untested
Known Affiliations
.[/glow]
Morgan sat, lazily, in front of an old holo that had clearly seen better days. Having initiated the record setting, a roguish grin swept across his features — a look that was classically his — and the man offered a friendly, casual wave.
"Hey there! It's been a while. So, how are you, how’s the wife?" — he paused, but just for an instant, as his eyes now stared directly into where he believed they'd meet his friend's gaze — "I have to say... I am not ready to be an uncle."
"I guess, what I'm trying to say is, uhh..." — another pause, as his left index turned palm facing the recorder, in the universal term for 'wait for it' — "On a scale from 1 to 10, can I borrow some credits?" — with a small shrug of his shoulders and a grin that seemed to say more than words could, a third beat of silence filled the room — "No, wait, that's not it. What was it again?"
"Oh! I got an offer that had our names on it, recently. Seemed like a fun gig... so I went ahead and signed us up." — Morgan struck a pose to show that the irony of it all hadn't been lost on him, but that was about all he did on that front — "Exciting, right? I know!"
"I've attached the coordinates to a place in the Smuggler's Moon to this message. You'll find me there. Should be fun. Like the good old days." — and, just as a hint of nostalgia seemed to overtake his mirth — "Anyway, that's it from me. Don't stay up too late, now. And always remember, daddy loves you." With a wink and a laugh, the message was completed, a set of coordinates for a nearby bar attached, alongside a set of characters that read: My chit. I'm calling it in. Sorry. Have a safe trip. Having wrapped his little song and dance routine, and with a taste of sour filling his mouth, the spacer's eyes unfocused as he took a breath and turned to the scene around him. This was his room... what was left of it, at least.
Charred pieces of wall and ground where blaster fire had hit, a very dented door that now made an awful noise when it opened or closed and most of his belongings strewn and shattered across the floor.
Living in Nar Shaddaa, the Corellian had seen his share of strange and shameless. But never in his life did he imagine that a gaggle of Mercs would burst through his door at the crack of dawn to drag his hungover, half-naked self through the streets, throw him into the back of a speeder truck, beat him to within an inch of his life, get him to confess to where he kept said life's savings and then take it... All of it.
Morgan Arcas now roamed through the streets of the Smuggler's Moon with nothing to his name but the clothes on his body, a pair of blasters and his ship — which had thankfully been left well alone — not unlike when he first came to Hutt Space. Only this time around, his creditors had heard that he'd been robbed blind, and so would be unlikely to meet his payments. There was blood in the water, and money-lenders weren't called sharks for nothing.
What little bacta he had had cleaned up visible cuts and bruises, but his innards still felt like they were on fire from a cocktail of booze, internal damage and seething rage. With a little luck, Morgan would soon be having a nice fireside chat with the bastards that sicced the dogs on him. But he'd burn those bridges when or, rather, if he got to them. Right now, the man needed to focus on getting himself out of this hole, before it turned into his grave.
"Hey there! It's been a while. So, how are you, how’s the wife?" — he paused, but just for an instant, as his eyes now stared directly into where he believed they'd meet his friend's gaze — "I have to say... I am not ready to be an uncle."
"I guess, what I'm trying to say is, uhh..." — another pause, as his left index turned palm facing the recorder, in the universal term for 'wait for it' — "On a scale from 1 to 10, can I borrow some credits?" — with a small shrug of his shoulders and a grin that seemed to say more than words could, a third beat of silence filled the room — "No, wait, that's not it. What was it again?"
"Oh! I got an offer that had our names on it, recently. Seemed like a fun gig... so I went ahead and signed us up." — Morgan struck a pose to show that the irony of it all hadn't been lost on him, but that was about all he did on that front — "Exciting, right? I know!"
"I've attached the coordinates to a place in the Smuggler's Moon to this message. You'll find me there. Should be fun. Like the good old days." — and, just as a hint of nostalgia seemed to overtake his mirth — "Anyway, that's it from me. Don't stay up too late, now. And always remember, daddy loves you." With a wink and a laugh, the message was completed, a set of coordinates for a nearby bar attached, alongside a set of characters that read: My chit. I'm calling it in. Sorry. Have a safe trip. Having wrapped his little song and dance routine, and with a taste of sour filling his mouth, the spacer's eyes unfocused as he took a breath and turned to the scene around him. This was his room... what was left of it, at least.
Charred pieces of wall and ground where blaster fire had hit, a very dented door that now made an awful noise when it opened or closed and most of his belongings strewn and shattered across the floor.
Living in Nar Shaddaa, the Corellian had seen his share of strange and shameless. But never in his life did he imagine that a gaggle of Mercs would burst through his door at the crack of dawn to drag his hungover, half-naked self through the streets, throw him into the back of a speeder truck, beat him to within an inch of his life, get him to confess to where he kept said life's savings and then take it... All of it.
Morgan Arcas now roamed through the streets of the Smuggler's Moon with nothing to his name but the clothes on his body, a pair of blasters and his ship — which had thankfully been left well alone — not unlike when he first came to Hutt Space. Only this time around, his creditors had heard that he'd been robbed blind, and so would be unlikely to meet his payments. There was blood in the water, and money-lenders weren't called sharks for nothing.
What little bacta he had had cleaned up visible cuts and bruises, but his innards still felt like they were on fire from a cocktail of booze, internal damage and seething rage. With a little luck, Morgan would soon be having a nice fireside chat with the bastards that sicced the dogs on him. But he'd burn those bridges when or, rather, if he got to them. Right now, the man needed to focus on getting himself out of this hole, before it turned into his grave.
- Backstory
-
Born on Corellia, to two parents who worked for the CEC — one on repairs, the other a pilot — and lived next door to another family of similar inclinations, with a boy his age to boot: Callahan McKoy. The two grew up to be inseparable. But even as a child, Morgan had a couple of tendencies that made him... difficult. The Arcas household had been greeted by a CorSec officer holding their son, demanding the child be put in his place more than a few times. His parents worked long hours and an attention-starved kid with complicated tendencies was then given too much time on his hands. All in all, a recipe for disaster.
By the time he was 17, the boy could steal, tweak and drive speeders and swoops better than most, and had put more time behind the proverbial wheels of space-faring crafts than a great deal of would-be pilots. But Corellia was not a very nice place to live for one with such proclivities. The prevalence of gangs, slavers and a very harsh Security force made it so that young ones who stepped outside of beaten path were on a race against the clock. Would they lose, they'd turn up dead, or much, much worse. So, not long before his 20th, he and his long-time friend hatched a getaway plan: There was a (mostly) abandoned ship in a nearby lot. She was old, but she'd fly. They would grab it and move to Hutt Space, where they would live by their own rules.
Alas, Cal chose Corellia, which ended up spelling the end of their days together. Arcas ultimately did steal the ship not too long after, and made his way out of the planet by himself — his greatest adventure up to that point — leaving family and friend behind.
Last he'd heard, McKoy had been on the straight and narrow. They hadn't spoken a great deal in years, but there was enough history there that, of all the people he'd had to ask for help — and there had been a few — this one had hurt the most... Especially with what he'd had to do to be sure that Cal would come.
Life in Nar Shaddaa had agreed with him. Easy-going, witty and a capable pilot, Morgan had found work and settled in the Smuggler Moon lifestyle. Landing on one of the galaxy's most infamous dens of crime as a bright-eyed young man hadn't always proved painless, but he'd managed. A little smuggling here and some getaway flying there kept his head above water for the most part, and mercenary or protection work would do in a pinch — life in Hutt Space had lent to the Corellian learning his way around a real fight quickly enough.
Adding to that, the Corellian'd been smart enough to start setting some things aside from early on, and said cleverness extended to keeping his stash where it wouldn't be found — well, until the incident, at least: Until the former boss of an old crew he ran with decided to get too deep in debt and volunteer a few unwitting participants as collateral, claiming one of them had stolen an enormously valuable item from him, but he didn't know who.
Following this lovely tale, he'd been abducted and tortured for information pertaining to something he did not have, and then robbed of most of what he did.
He'd asked everyone he knew for a little bit of rope. Nobody had shown. Meaning, it was time for the other option. And, while leaping out of the frying pan and into the fire tended to be how good smugglers got themselves killed, Morgan always had been a sucker for excitement.
- .Appearance & Personality
-
Tall, lean and well built, but not always the biggest guy in the room, Morgan discovered early on that cultivating wit and presence of being would take him further than size.
Back straight, chest proud, with a hint of stubble or even the beginnings of a beard, and a hair primarily combed with a simple brush of the fingers, the man's posture seems to work for him, but is neither militaristic nor the epitome of sophistication. Instead, the Corellian carries himself much in the same way that he moves through life: with a practical but laid-back approach, topped with the barest hint of flair.
In keeping with his spacer persona, Arcas can typically be found garbed in casual, not particularly ornate clothing, largely made up of neutral tones like blacks, blues, browns and greys — with a visible blaster and holster around his waist or leg whenever situations permit.
A handful of small tattoos can be seen in certain parts of his body, and some form of accessories like watches or bracelets typically line at least one of his wrists, mostly made up of mementos from his travels. On occasion, a ring will be worn, particularly if the man believes fist-fights to be on the horizon.
Despite his impulsive tendencies, the Corellian is known for taking care of himself — even if mostly after the fact — and for having a strong sense of self-preservation and does not, as a result, possess a great deal of scars.
Madly and hopelessly in love with notion of adventure, Morgan's entire life has revolved around chasing the thrill of going places and participating in wild, at times dangerous schemes, and that has led to significant development in skills pertaining to both carrying out said exploits, and in those related to slinking his way out of trouble when it inevitably follows suit — most notably a caustic sense of humour, with a hint of self-deprecation.
Arcas's informal, leisurely stance largely frames his bearing, and is betrayed only by his sharp, watchful gaze and pointed banter.
- Notable Possessions
-
. . Transportation:
YT-2400 Light Freighter, officially 'The Old Habit'
W7P Wingracer Swoop, 'The Lantern'
. . Droids:
BG Series Astromech, BG-12, 'One-Two'
. . Weapons:
WESTAR-55 Heavy Blaster Pistol, Two Power Packs
DG-29 Heavy Blaster Pistol, Two Power Packs
Shock Boxing Gloves, Single Pair (Black)
Vibroknives, Three Combat Knives
. . Armour:
Personal Armour
. . Misc:
Datapad
Personav
StarX Emergency Repair Kit - Threads
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