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| Red Business | |
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| Topic Started: Aug 17 2009, 08:11 PM (111 Views) | |
| Gordreg | Aug 17 2009, 08:11 PM Post #1 |
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Having taken a slow sip from the cup of Loqua in his hand, Lichan licked his lips and lowered the cup back to the table with a satisfied sigh. It was rare to find a decent Loqua in Nasr; and especially rare to find cooling Mur this far from Nasrad itself. Far too many of the local establishments served mostly Khale-Relik so that locals and tourists alike could flaunt their Machismo; Lichan considered it a good thing to find a place where he could just enjoy his drink without rowdy Nasrean sailors around to challenge the Valuan amongst them to contests. It was just a pity, he considered as he took another slow sip, that he was not here today for pleasure. Reaching awkwardly down to his trouser pocket, Lichan fumbled about for a moment before pulling out both a grey handkerchief and a scrap of torn-off paper. The handkerchief was swept quickly across his brow before returning to the pocket; the paper remained upon the tabletop a moment before Lichan picked it up again and unfurled it for the fourth time this hour, again reading the hastily-scribbled name that the Sailor’s Guild clerk had given to him when enquiring about local jobs. He’d even thought for a moment about ignoring it. Most official trade contracts out of Maramba were either arranged weeks, even months in advance; to ask had been purely routine and he hadn’t expected the answer he’d gotten. But the prospect of a good job and a substantial cargo was all he’d been looking for, and the idea had quickly swayed Lichan back around to considering it even faster then he’d quavered in doubt. Saraf Assillam. Lichan read the scribbled name once more, silently mouthing the words with his itchy lips. They still felt quite raw, and it felt quite odd to Lichan that his moustache wasn’t there any more. Not to such an extent, anyway – the moustache he had now was a feeble little thing, Lichan thought; nothing compared to the magnificent whiskers he’d cultivated for so long and had unwisely shaved away the previous week. The only upside of loosing it he could see was the temperature; though still itchy, his upper lip definitely felt a lot cooler these days. And under the red moon as he was, perhaps that had helped a lot… He cast his eyes warily around the tavern interior, running them first across the other tables. This early in the day there were few patrons; a few figures he couldn’t quite see in the far corner, and a gaggle of elderly men talking to one another about how bad things were these days as they relaxed in comfort and stole lecherous glances of the dancing girl. Lichan’s gaze then turned toward the Tavern door, where it lingered a moment, as if his awaited guest might just choose that exact moment to stroll inside. But the moment came and went; the door remaining shut to keep the heat of the lengthening day away from the cooled inside, and Lichan moved his gaze onward. They passed over the bar quite rapidly, for neither the tender nor the solitary drunkard waiting for his next half-pint were anything new; indeed the drunkard seemed not to have moved from his stool for almost an hour. The skimpy-costumed girl dancing on the stage drew his attention for longer, and despite an earlier promise to himself not to, Lichan’s eyes again found themselves lingering on her flexing body. Hurridly he broke the stare, and with an apologetic expression on his face, glanced up to the dancer’s blue eyes. But hers did not meet his in return, and as her sandy braid whipped around with a sudden turn, Lichan sank his eyes back down to his table, and stared back to his near-empty cup of Mur. Was Saraf Assillam going to be here soon, Lichan wondered, or would it take yet another hour? If this place wasn’t so much cooler and nicer then the boiling heat of approaching mid-day that awaited outside, he might have thought of leaving to head back to the port… but as it was, Lichan raised the cup slowly, and took another careful sip. |
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| The Karlminion | Aug 19 2009, 04:19 AM Post #2 |
180-proof Redneck
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"I hate this place," muttered the tall blond man, as he struggled against the bitter dusty wind. "Hate it, hate it, hate it." There was a tavern there, not twenty yards away, but he couldn't even look up; the sun would get in his eyes, as would the wind-driven sand. He realized now that those ridiculous-looking glasses the locals wore had a point. The tall man wasn't bad-looking, in fact might be rather handsome if he was cleaned up and in a good mood. As he was at the moment, though... well. Swathed from head to toe in brown rags, a threadbare scarf tied uselessly across his face, it was clear he hadn't been to the lands of the Red Moon in some time, if ever. He clung to a palm tree and waited for the wind to die down, but it showed no inclination of doing so any time soon. He didn't want to think about how he had gotten here, the pissant jobs he'd performed; he especially didn't want to think about Ixa'ness Village, yet there he was thinking about it. "Get a grip on yourself," he hissed, glaring out the corner of his eye at the passersby; there had to be a secret to it, had to be. After a few moments he noticed those who had no goggles bore scarves, like himself, tied up in a particular way, though he wasn't sure he could copy it. Inwardly he cringed; he'd have to ask for help. Fortunately the locals were known for being friendly... "Er, excuse me," he said after a few deep breaths, as a young boy walked by, "I, ah... I can't seem to get this scarf tied, and..." "Oh!" the boy exclaimed, grinning helpfully as he unwound his own cloth. "Here, I'll show ya!" In a few deft twists he revealed the secret, which was easier than it looked, and the Valuan man was soon shielded, for the most part, against the wind and dust. "Thank you, lad," he said, with unnaccustomed sincerity; the boy laughed and went about his business, and the man made his way at last across the way to the tavern. Inside it was deliciously cool, and he took no time in shrugging out of the dusty cloak; beneath he wore servicable, if somewhat wore-out khakis, with a silver medallion prominently hanging about his neck. Dangling from his side were an ornate sword and an oversized revolver; his pockets clinked gently with extra rounds. His face had an aristocratic stamp to it, with an arched nose and imperious eyes, though it also bore the unmistakable signs of past tragedy; bitter lines about his eyes and mouth, sunken cheeks, and lank, unkempt hair. Quickly he surveyed the interior, his glance alighting on Lichan. Thank the Moons, a fellow Valuan, he thought gratefully, going over and sitting down across from the freighter captain without so much as a by-your-leave. "A fellow countryman," he said in a low tone. "You're a sight for sore eyes, sir." His voice didn't indicate such, though. "Jareth Montoya is my name; what is yours?" One of the staff came over, and the blond man ordered a Mur loqua. |
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| Gordreg | Aug 19 2009, 08:06 PM Post #3 |
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The door to the outside opened as Lichan was holding the mug to his lips; a quick clack of moving wood and the brief jangle of the door-side chime, followed a moment later by a miniature front of warm air as the heat of the desert briefly intruded upon the cooled paradise of the tavern. Placing his mug back down upon the table, Lichan drew his handkerchief again and gave his brow another wipe as he looked across to the doorway. A tall man had just entered the tavern, and was already busily shrugging out of his desert clothes. Briefly Lichan wondered if this was the contact he’d been waiting for and he glanced over expectantly; but when the man’s scarf unwrapped it revealed unkempt blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a paler face more similar in tone to his own, none of which looked anything like Lichan’s expected mental image of a ‘Saraf Assillam’. Quickly deciding that this new arrival wasn’t the man he was waiting for, Lichan reached for his mug again to continue where he’d left off, and hurriedly stole another glance toward the timepiece above the bar. Saraf, whoever he was, was either very late, not coming, or had given him the wrong table number… "A fellow countryman…" Lichan almost jumped out of his trousers as a low voice sounded from the other side of his table, and quickly turned around, his eyes wide with sudden panic, to see that the tall man who’d entered just a moment ago had sat himself down right across from him. Bringing his hand quickly to his mouth to try and hide any audible signs of his panic Lichan misjudged the cushioning upon his upper lip and dealt himself a rigid slap across his nose and mouth, which was followed a moment later by Lichan’s grunt of annoyance and muffled pain. “I… ow… am?” Lichan blurted out as he started recovering his wits, one finger still pressed to his stinging mouth. “I mean… oh!” he exclaimed dimly, suddenly realising. This was Nasr, after all; evidently the other fellow hadn’t expected to find another Valuan around here. “Lichan’s my name.” He relaxed as he introduced himself with a nod, finally getting round to taking a better look at the other man. Jareth’s face was narrow with a proud nose and his accent had definitely been that of the upper city, as far as Lichan could tell; yet in some respects he looked almost dishevelled enough to have been one of the old factory-hands. “Lichan Hangarus, Captain of the Marocca.” He added, pridefully puffing out his chest a notch. The Marocca was hardly greatest ship in the skies, of course, but Lichan doubted Jareth would be likely to know that. “Here to meet with a customer; if the fella ever shows that is.” Lichan glanced again to the timepiece as he said this, noting again how much further it had moved. A slow hiss of breath escaped his mouth from frustration, and he shook his head slowly and dejectedly before at last looking back across to Jareth. “So, what brings you about these parts, then?” |
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| Tatlin | Aug 23 2009, 07:56 PM Post #4 |
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The sun bore down on Maramba, as it usually did during this hot period of the day. The rays almost bored holes through Reka's clothes, yet their light and airy fabric allowed the slight breeze to blow through, airing his already drenched body. Reka thought that perhaps he looked like the biggest outcast to have ever been seen in the desert town. His traditional Yafutoman fishing garb attracted looks from everyone he passed. He tried to ignore the nervous sensations, but it lingered deep in his stomach, a pit of despair. The man who led his dhabu motioned to Reka that it was time to get off. He pulled the beast as close as he good to the platform and uneasily dismounted the creature, his thighs sore with the motion of the creature's legs. He quickly threw some money in the direction to the dhabu leader, who Reka found was once again staring at him. He gulped and dashed off, hoping to find some place where people wouldn't be astonished. You would think they would have seen more of us...I guess the trading here isn't like Nasrad Reka thought to himself. He walked wearily down the street, looking around eagerly for either a place to stay or some sort of tavern to pop into. He noticed a few folks walk into what appeared to be a tavern ahead of him. A quick glance at the sign above the store confirmed his suspicions. Reka quickly dashed to the entrance, and slipped in through the door. He pulled off his goggles and looked around. He peered at the bar patrons, seeing mostly Nasrean folk. One table caught his eye, which appeared to be two Valuans discussing something. He considered approaching them, hopefully some people who wouldn't be adverse to seeing such a foreigner in this town. But Reka decided against it, instead nervously slithering over to the bar. He took a seat and asked for some loqua from the bartender. He nodded slightly, but gave Reka a second glance, looking over his clothing and face. Reka looked into the bar nervously, little beads of sweat on his forehead. Hopefully he wouldn't attract too much attention. He had already had enough at the port and from his travels around the town. The bartender passed him his loqua, which he began to sip. He once again made a survey across the tavern again. Nothing had changed, but a couple more Nasreans had entered. Reka concentrated again on the Valuans. Something compelled him to them. However, he once again abstained from speaking to them, once again sipping more loqua. |
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| The Karlminion | Aug 27 2009, 10:52 PM Post #5 |
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180-proof Redneck
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Even as Jareth spoke, Lichan smacked himself on the lip and made a bit of a scene, and the former captain stifled a groan. Just my luck, I end up with a melodramatic fool, he thought. But as Lichan went on, his opinion changed slightly. A fool with a ship, at least, which is more than you can say for yourself. He vaguely recalled a battered old Valuan freighter out at the harbor, and wondered if that was the Marocca mentioned by Lichan. They seemed to match with each other, somehow... "I'd rather not get into how I ended up here," he began, sniffing disdainfully. "Suffice to say it began with being stranded in the heathen jungles of the West." He shook his head irritably; there he went, thinking about that hell hole again. "As to how I ended up in Maramba..." A growl of disgust emanated from his throat. "I... worked... for it." Somehow he managed to make the admission, which should have been one of pride, sound like a shameful confession of horrid guilt. "Can you believe it? One such as myself, highest of the high-born, a survivor of the Battle of Soltis and a loyal soldier of the Armada, reduced to working for passage across the skies!" His voice was a mutter for Lichan's ears alone, but it couldn't hide the Upper Valuan sneer, and for a second you could really believe the Medallion around his neck wasn't just a decoration; that the sword and the gun weren't there for show. In the next second he recalled himself to reality, to the fact that he was dressed in rags and seated across from a man likely descended of factory workers. He glanced up, at a dark-skinned fellow at the bar who kept looking at them, and scowled. The fellow had a different sort of dark skin than the others; his was more yellow than brown, somehow, and his eyes and hair were darker. Most notably, though, were his clothes. "Easterners," he grumbled, returning Reka's glances with a haughty stare of his own, as if daring the Yafutoman to come over. Behind them, a couple Nasreans were arguing amongst themselves; they had the look of sailors about them, the muscularity and subtle alertness of trained naval soldiers. Retired from the Nasrean forces, perhaps? In time one of them stood up, barechested, and walked past where Jareth and Lichan were seated. He paused, though, on seeing Jareth's blond hair and Lichan's brown, and regarded the two men. "Valuans," he remarked, in a neutral tone. "Yeah, so?" Jareth replied, rolling his eyes at Lichan and allowing the scorn back into his voice. "This is a public place, isn't it?" The sailor scowled, and looked down at the silvery medallion hanging prominent on Jareth's chest. "You, ah... fought, did you?" "I did, yes," Jareth replied, turning slightly to look up at the sailor, resting his hand on the ornate hilt of his heavy saber. "I was in the Crystal Wars, in fact. Followed orders just like anyone else; just like you, I bet." Which was entirely true; the proud captain had never faltered in obeying his superiors, regardless of who they were. The sailor rumbled in his throat, then shrugged. "I guess we all did, didn't we," he said at last, turning to keep on going. When the big man was out of earshot, Jareth let out a sigh and released his sword. "Big fellow, he was," he said lightly. "Wouldn't have fancied going up against him, not a bit." Edited by The Karlminion, Sep 23 2009, 08:43 PM.
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| Gordreg | Aug 30 2009, 04:48 PM Post #6 |
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Lichan’s eyes narrowed contemptuously as Jareth gave him a disdainful sniff. “Y’know, some of us ‘ave had to work for everythin’ we’ve gotten in life…” He muttered under his breath, unsympathetic to the plight of this upper-city aristocrat. Lichan didn’t say it too loudly; of course - the man across the table from him might have been dishevelled, but he was definitely armed, and apparently a former soldier, neither of which added up to a person Lichan wanted to anger. But either Jareth hadn’t heard his comment or else didn’t care, for the man was already scowling toward the bar, exchanging a superior grimace with a nearby Yafutoman. ‘Easterners’ Lichan heard Jareth grumble as he stared toward the man, though what it was about easterners that caused Jareth’s discontent, he didn’t say. ”Easterners?” Lichan repeated the word in a questioning tone of voice, giving Jareth a quizzical stare. Although his own navigational charts were too far out of date to contain the lands under the blue moon, the ex-military charts he’d seen whilst on the Marigold had placed the lands of Yafutoma far to the west of Valua, further west even then Ixa’taka. To Lichan, the word ‘easterners’ had always been associated with the people of Nasr… and cautiously he glanced around the tavern, wondering if the many Nasreans within earshot might also have made that misassumption. The sound of argument behind him made Lichan suspect some might have, and he turned his head slowly, a pained grimace spreading across his face when he saw one of the men rising from his seat. Barechested and muscular, the man seemed to carry himself confidently, and Lichan inwardly groaned. Sitting back squarely in his seat, he glanced across toward the doorway, as much searching for a possible escape route as he was for any sign of the overdue Saraf Assillam… “Valuans” The word, when it came, was neutral in tone; and at the sound Lichan exhaled a breath he hadn’t noticed himself holding. Just a statement, he told himself. No qualifiers, no proceeding shout of ‘get the…’ to rouse the tavern into action. Keeping his mouth closed, Lichan cautiously turned, glancing quickly up at the Nasrean standing behind him then across the table to Jareth, who rolled his eyes. For the next minute or so Jareth and the Narean conversed, whilst Lichan’s stomach danced in knots for fear of things getting ugly. But eventually the tension lessened, and then with a shrug of his broad shoulders the Nasrean began wandering off back toward his table. Lichan sighed again, the relief even more palatable this time, and slowly wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “Yeah…” Lichan wheezed, glad that the Nasrean had moved off, and even more glad that Jareth felt the same way he did. “Good thing he wasn’t planning ‘nothing.” He’d feared for a moment that Jareth was going to kick off an argument, or worse. Carefully, he took a sip from his Loqua, and smacked his lips as the liquid passed smoothly down his throat. Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing that his customer was late… Glancing cautiously around again, Lichan noticed that though the Nasreans had gone back to their drinking, the Yafutoman man was still staring at them. Did he want something, perhaps? Squinting, Lichan wondered what the man might be after, and had almost put the man out of his mind again when a sudden thought came to him. He’d simply assumed Saraf Assillam was a Nasrean name… but what if it wasn’t? He had no idea what Yafutomans tended to call themselves, after all… what if this man had been his customer all along? Lichan turned back to the Yafutoman with barely a pause in his thoughts, and quickly waved at the unknown man, beckoning him to come over so Lichan could ask his name. Edited by Gordreg, Sep 26 2009, 07:38 PM.
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