Log:Short Trip, Tall tales

Short Trip, Tall Tales

OOC Date: August 16, 2019
Location: Socorro
Participants: Netep Muri, Iollan Canem, Domino Graystorm

Welcome to Socorro. It’s hot as bantha breath, only much more dry. The arid air is ripe with the stale, earthy stink of druyza dung, but only once you've cleared the heart of the city-sized spaceport sprawl. Netep's vow of "Just a quick stop" has turned into over an hour of travel of tandem bike + grunty Druyza ride. Because Druyza are slow. If she's apologetic, it doesn't show behind her face-swaddling wool wraps that keep her from choking on dust...or flies.

Smells of lawless living aside, the landscape IS quite spectacular, if anyone cares to gaze off into the horizon line, through the heat wave. Before too much longer, they are making their way through a sparsely populated, residential area.

And then Muri stops, a stone's throw from an unassuming, squat little shit-brick 'building' that probably looks as old as it really is. Very.

"This is it!" Muri exclaims, killing the engine and stiffly sliding off the bike.

He had the foresight to bring a hat - it was perhaps best not to ask why it was stowed on his ship, wide-brimmed and worn leather that it was - but he had brought it. Combined with an old, blue-patterned bandanna of some kind, draw up over his face, the ride had not be as excruciating as possible. Not fun, but the slow sway of the Druyza failed to draw too many complaints from the PI.

"Muri," snakes in the rough, friendly band of his voice from behind. "We are gonna have to work on your sense of time, yeah?" A shake of his head and Iollan comes to swing his leg over the beast, heels hitting the dust with a muted thud of weight. A lightly stretch, broad shoulders rolling, as he leaves the animal to it's own (slow, surely not wandering) devices.

Domino is just a HORRIBLE travelling companion. 15 minutes into the trip she begins complaining about the heat, the sand, the Sun. After about twenty minutes she starts accusing Muri of being lost and begins to record her video diary to document her final hours of life in the vain hope someone finds it and relays her final will and testament. She is wearing off white culottes and a white blouse with a broad rimmed straw hat, her black hair in a braid and large oversized sunglasses protecting her eyes as she clutches her haversack.

A couple stray children have found an excuse to play nearby, kicking their weathered ball a little closer to the Uhl Doaba'I. Their motivation is clear - an opportunity to stare unabashedly at the two strangers. One of them has eyes black as the sands to match their hair, the other a striking case of heterochromia. One of them lifts a dusky little hand to wave at Muri, but fails to capture her attention.

"I'm precisely where I meant to be," Netep flashes a blind set of five fingers at the kids she saw sidling up and digs around deep in a coat pocket under her layers. How she isn't melted into a puddle would be a legitimate question. "/Almost/ captured the 'when'. But out here...time is relative, min larel." A throaty lilt of the native dialect comes out strong in her voice, those last two words.

It would appear that Muri is home. Or at least, on familiar ground. Without another word, she tosses a handful of candy at the kiddos, nods her head to the little shrine, and tucks on in.

A sign posted beside the dwarfed archway is comically hand-painted, showing a shaggy alien of substantial height ducking LOW to avoid knocking their head. ‘Mind your skull’ it warns. Apparently the local population here isn’t incredibly tall. Or they’re keen on presenting unexpected guests with difficulties.

Once one DOES stoop their way into the lowcut dugout, they descend a few sandstone steps and find new challenges ahead. The ceiling itself is tall enough - just - to accomodate most beings safely. Said ceiling, however, is riddled with a variety of drying boquets of herbs, petrified animal parts, and the occasional whimsy. One such whimsy catches in Netep’s hair and tinkles out a delightful chiming sound when she turns her head, scanning the mystical interior for its resident shaman.

A bundle of bachani leaves smolders silently in a corner nook, filling the poorly ventilated room with a light haze of fragrance. Rather than asphyxiate upon inhaling, it cools the lungs, soothing dried throats with anti-inflammatory properties.

“Harjov?” She calls out, fanning a bit of smoke from her eyes. A semi-transparent third eyelid shrugs halfway closed over her squinted peer into the corners.

Sadly, he is the comical alien. Minus the alien. Without undo haste, Iollan follows after, but not before raising a hand to tip the edge of his hat at the nearby children as they stare. The same hand pulls his mask down, puffs dust from the whole things as he moves to /very carefully/ duck under the doorway.

Inside doesn't suit him better by any stretch. He makes it only half a pace in, straightens all over 2/3 of the way up before letting out a heavy, stilted sort of sigh. "Really had me ride all the way out here to get another concision, eh?" Hands find the front of his belt and the PI shakes his head, nearly sideways, as he scans the room.

Domino tucks her datapad away and adjusts the strap of her bag, following Muri cautiously and sticking close to Iollan but more in the fashion she's using him as fleshy shield than of any apparent attention for less honorable intentions. The kids are eyeballed as curiosities-don't see too many of those things on Nar. She is not, however, too anxious not to issue a soft chortle at Iollan's predicament, "You could always just get on your knees." Ok. THERE'S the inappropriate Dom. She does offer a not entirely sincere, "Sorry." To Muri though why she apologizes to Muri and not Iollan is anyone's guess, "So, what're we here for again?"

"Fishing expedition," Netep replies without missing a beat, as an older man with sun-leathered skin and a spattering of darker freckles stiffly materializes from behind a salvaged wood countertop, across from the entryway, surrounded by a wall of baskets and bins tucked into dugouts in the earthen wall. Coarse, gray hair wisps in all directions, what bits are loosed from his braids.

"Netep! Min selba..." he comes at her with open arms but stops short at the sight of the /real/ guests. A less than subtle wink fires off to Muri from his green eye, before it and its brown mate focus forward on said guests. Probably, he was anticipating this visit.

"Chobaso," Harjov intones deeply toward Iollan and Domino, arms folded over a puffed chest.

Netep angles a mildly awkward look aside with soft clearing of throat. "They don?t speak Huttese, Uncle," she unwraps her head and shoulders enough to let the fabric drape like a shawl. A thin bead of sweat lines her brow. Even she'll admit, it's a touch cozy in here.

The old man arcs a brow toward Netep, shrugs a shoulder, and turns around to scuff his way back to unpacking powdered spices. "I thought slug-tongue was spoken by all, on Nar Shaddaa...perhaps it is for the best it’s not. This one," he thumbs in Muri’s direction, "has taught me some over the years, but..." A groaning stretch interrupts his train of thought for a moment as he straightens up his back and fwops a pack of vibrant red powder onto the counter top. "Words like panwa muni," his hips roll suggestively "and cheeka", said with a little lecherous smile and chortle as gnarled hands grabby-grabby bare air, "have little conversational value." Another pack of spices, this one orange, joins the first. *FWOP*

"Outside most circles." *FWOP* "SO. You are embarking on a journey...surely you have come here to seek an osma, for your protection...?" One eye peeps open slyly and directs a look toward the two travelers. You can almost see the cha-ching of credits in his smile.

In the cramped space it behooves Iollan to remove his hat rather quickly, free hand combing through the blonde there revealed to at least lend some organization to their dusty entrance. Or his, at least; standing a bit straighter, he makes do with a deeper slouch. "Behave," is the only soft, sideways comment to Dom, well meaning still.

But still, green eyes are sharp, watchful, following their host as he walks and talks. Talks a lot. A pleasantly crooked grin haunts Iollan's face as he shrugs. "Most of us are too clever to want to know what a Hutt is saying, yeah?" It's like a joke, or something as easy.

A look shoots to Muri. Expectant. For the time being she's at the head of this negotiation.

Domino answers in huttese "<>" She adds in basic, "You are still one hundred percent correct about the conversational vallue." She gives the eyeballing alien a look as arid as the landscape outside.

Of course Domino has to be fluent NOW. Netep shoots the smaller woman a small look while Harjov - attempt at impressing the tourists suddenly validated - laughs heartily and starts picking bits and pieces of this and that from the baskets, pausing every now and again to cast a thoughful look over the tall man and short woman. Bent fingers get busy crafting, stuffing /carefully/ chosen artifacts into a pair of tiny sacks, then threading them with string.

"Osma," Netep motions to what he's doing. "You're better off agreeing to buy them now. Five whopping credits, best you'll ever spend." She makes a face. A face that the wise old 'uncle' catches from the corner of his hazy vision.

"All those pockets and she chooses to wear them in her hair. Exept, I don’t see..."

"It’s just a bead," Netep mutters, head canted aside with a smoldering ounce of shame.

"It is not!" Harjov gasps, a look of horror and insult upon his face too exaggerated to be real. Like somebody's grandad telling tall tales. "What about the time you fell, racing in from the sandstorm? So many were lost...but which one was it the sands chose to unveil the following morning? Your soul!" Netep eyes him dubiously.

"Your father gave that to you at the time of your birth! It has followed you tirelessly ever since..." His smile suggests he is hiding something, though.

"In various reincarnations?"

Wordlessly, the old man bows his head and reaches aside to pull open a drawer from the 'osma' collection. Within that drawer are a few partitioned sections with hand-scrawled writing of names. Front and center is 'Netep Muri'. Muri frowns, suspicions confirmed, and although it IS /just/ a bead, she can?t help but feel like the last lingering bit of childhood magic has been disappeared. Sucked into the vortex of unastounding realities. "Whenever lightning strikes the black sands, it fuses the minerals into shapes. Like infusing them with a life. These bits of stone are collected by Harjov and others like him, then shaped into /unique/ representations of spirit. Until now, it was my understanding that no two were alike." She scoffs.

"No two /persons?/ are alike," he corrects, finger raised pointedly. "Some individuals require a spare, kept slyly on hand. Others, a stockpile." He motions aside to the open drawer containing clone after clone of Muri?s 'soul'. "For you, child, this makes eleven." Two fingers pluck one delicately from the stash and extends it to her. "Your father asked me to put a few aside for future mishaps after..." A squint into the low ceiling. "I believe it was occasion number seven. You were nine. Impressively though, this is the first you?ve needed since you left home." While she's snatching it out of his grip, he's carrying the two mystery pouches on a string toward Domino and Iollan. "For the journey."

It becomes a difficult thing to maintain dignity with such a stoop, but Iollan does well. He's been quiet since they landed, quiet on the ride over; not bad, but reserved. It lives on here, how he watches each note of strange new culture with hawkish intent, but refuses to fade out of the conversation if by nothing other than presence.

"Funny, that," slides in his comment, quiet between the three of them. To what, it's hard to say, but the smile tipped to Muri is rakish and crooked. Another head shake, slight. "All my parents gave me was a gun."

But in a moment there's a new present for him, held out to carefully. A small hum catches in his chest, one gloved hand reaching to equally carefully take the pouch. "Some of us need a lot of soul, Muri," is louder, meant for the room. But then, it's a small space, so he simply nods to Harjov. "Thanks."

Domino's eyebrow lifts and her lips press for some reason. There is something of mild disapproval for some reason but she doesn't say anything, she just begins to inspect her nails for chips while she waits for Muri to conclude her business.

"You're welcome," Harjov bows his head, already half a head shorter than the young stranger. "There are some evils in this life that even sharp-shooting cannot save you from." Gone is the impish light in the shaman's eyes. He stares, deadpan at Domino while continuing to extend the dangling osma from a finger. "But, I suspect you know this...unless you are here for other reasons. Perhaps to shield Netep from her sisters' wrath for having arrived four weeks late for the wedding?"

Netep eyes Iollan with a half-humiliated seethe, while both hands work obediently to weave her lost soul back into her hair. "I don't have time to explain matters of real import to Jenica, nor do I s'pect she laments my absence," she says cooly to Harjov. "We're here for answers to unusual questions. What is it which makes dead men walk...and where do we find it?"

For the first time since their arrival, Harjov appears a touch surprised. Bushy brows go aloft and he looks to Iollan, the lady examining her nails, then lastly his ornery niece. "A spark of chaos lives inside you," he sounds resigned to this, his voice a verbose sigh. "You should go to the four sisters and ask them. No one knows the dead better than those who judge them. There is, of course, always the tavern, or Ethra brewery. Drunken wanderers oft possess a wisdom of their own."

The little pouch finds a quick home in the inner breast pocket of his jacket, tucked safe beside whatever other unmentionable trinkets the PI always seems to have on hand. He's amused still, in that distant way, watching as Muri goes about readorning herself.

"Many dead men at once," comes his helpful supply. Kindly, he skips over the wedding.

But dark brows knot at the answer, quick as it is. "I wouldn't think this is the business of living men. Who are the sisters?"

Domino sighs and eyes Muri as she weaves the bead into her hair. For some reason she seems to have a LOT to say about it but she doesn't say a word, simply dropping her gaze to lower to her nails putting on her best vapid air as she listens and lets the wiser one handle the Q & A portion of this adventure.

"Between Vakeyya and the Rym mountain range there is a shrine. Four rock formations, 'bout fifty meters tall. They are the judges of the dead." Muri lowers her arms to her sides and blows a puff of dangling feathers from her cheek.

"Four old crones," Harjov elaborates, conceding to Domino's refusal to accept the gift and tucking it into Muri's coat instead. She'll know what to do with it, later, this he trusts. "They have stood before all civilizations here, young and old. All here who die will find their souls standing before the four sisters, and it is those judges of the dead who will determine their eternal fate. There is much to hear, in their silence." A knowing look lights softly upon Netep, then he turns his back on them all and returns to his workshop of sorts.

"We're in need of living lips to tell tales. Not stone." Netep watches him shuffle, fixing a look on his left leg in particular. Quietly, her right hand slips into a different pocket and produces a handful of credits, which she deposits on a dusty shelf, on the sly. He'll find it.

"Might be these old ears have heard told a tale of incorporeal beings, haunting the hyperlanes...there was a drunk," which describes a good number of locals and travelers alike, "by the name of Jaco. Spoutin off a good deal about his own encounter, not last week. Knowing the difficulty he has procuring a crew, I'd wager he's still there, marinating his luck."

His head drops, after a moment. Still he smiles, but Iollan let's a soft, honest laugh pull to life. Frustrated. As his face comes back up, far as it can, the PI shakes his head. "Thank you," he concedes. "Drunks seem more my speed than the living rocks of the dead, yeah?"

A sidelong shrug to Muri, still well-natured enough. "That sounds good enough?"

Domino still has nothing to say which with Dom-can almost never be a good sign. She watches Iollan side long, guaging his reaction to all this through the fringe of her long lash extensions while the adults talk.

"Yeah, darling, works for me," Netep jumps on the tailend of Iollan's question, already turning to climb her way out of this aromatic dugout. Halfway up though she stops and twists a look over her shoulder.

"Those boys outside - the one with a blue eye - issat a bastard nephew o'mine? Can't recall counting him among the previous brood, but I'd swear he's a dead ringer for Lok."

"Number four of six," Harjov confirms with a small yawn to stretch his aching jaw.

"I thought there were five?"

"His first love's ripe again with a new one. You haven't heard?"

Muri makes a soft 'psh' noise and resumes her exit. "He's building a clan of his own, he is. Repopulate the badlands in no time. Atta lad." Her grin resurfaces for only the musty bricks to see before that, too, disappears between a rising wrap of wool.

"Your family certainly is something, darling," affects the stooped PI as he finally has the chance to follow her out into the open air. It isn't judgmental, not as such, but amusement colours his tone in a broad sort of way.

The moment they're in the open, Iollan tips back with the roll of broad shoulders, letting out a sort of grunt as he steps from the doorway. Elbows pull behind him slightly as the cool-green of his gaze finds both girls in turn. "So we've got a drunk to hunt then, yeah?"

Domino bobs her head "Big, bubbly family. Bet there's a story why you left all that fun." she drawls as she gestures, "Out before your spine gets stuck like that."

"Yeah, they're somethin all right," Muri mutters, watching the shrinking forms of the boys ball-kicking their way back home. "Most don't even live /here/, fortunately fer you. They're out /there/." A motion goes to the great expanse of obsidian desert. "A nomad's life's the most free, yeah? It's a hard life, but it's worth livin. I only got a fraction of a taste, squirreled away on Omwat, we were." She spits, possibly confirming Domino's assumption about a story, and expels some grit from teeth. A hand pats the sticky nose of Iollan's tusked mount on her way back to the bike. A fresh pile of building material lies steaming on the sand.

"How's your neck, stretch?" A note of almost concern for Iollan, before continuing on. "Ethra it is. If I were wallowing about for a week, I'd save my liver for the Raava, not waste it on some imported drek." With a little grunt, she hoists herself up and onto the bike, then tosses a genuinely bright smile to Dom. "You and your diary're in for a real treat. Elixer of life, this stuff is. Ain't produced anywhere else in the galaxy."

"Generally I tends to steer my ass clear of elixers," he supplies helpfully, long-legged stride taking him back to the beast as another sigh pulls free. "On account of my poor state of life. They give me terrible headaches."

Is he joking? Hard to say at the best of times, but now with the bandanna pulled back up it's a mystery left to the eating desert heat. With small pause to mount up again, Iollan slides his attention back to Muri with a hum. "I'll live. Though, sooner we get to some answers, sooner I'll feel like it, darling."

"More for me, then." Because who's she kidding? Netep's liver hasn't been 'saved' for anyone or thing in a long, long time. The Nightfalcon kicks a plume of shimmering black particulate into the air as it warms up, awaiting her too-quiet passenger to get settled. Maybe Domino used up all her energy on the complaints here, to afford a barrage of new on the next leg of trip?

Maybe.

OFF THEY GO. Muri zooooooooooooms ahead, only to double back and perform the occasional, lazy circle around the patient Druyza as it lumbers along. There's no masking this bit of fun she's having. Clearly. If SHE were the one sat upon the Druyza's back, it might've been another story. But she's not. ZOOOOOOOOOOOM!

(Fast travel)

The next leg of journey takes them southeast, into the more densely populated streets of Vakeyya. There's a colorful blend of peoples here. A robust population of types who practically scream 'SPACER'PIRATE'SMUGGLER' or some derivitive thereof. Oiled leather, colorful smbroidery, slapjob metal-worked armor bits...it isn't hard to see traces of the native Ibhann'I garb adopted into the space pirate style. Vendor stalls bear rich displays of Ibhann'I-woven tapestries and garments, as it's a craft the tribe's women are known for producing. Stare at enough of the native population long enough and you'll see traces of their ancient, Corellian ancestry, for sure. If nothing else, it's in the swagger. The biggest difference is that life here has shaped their bodies to endure, over the milennia.

After a ride slightly shorter than the first leg, Netep steers them around a relatively tall building (two stories!!) and finds a place to park her bike amid a handful of other personal craft. Safety in numbers, after all. For the Druyza, there is a hefty trough around back on a lesser traveled street, where a couple other beasts are already tethered and watched over by a half-asleep local boy.

HE himself is a bastion of infinite patience. How annoying for all involved. Under the mask, somewhere, there's that awful smile of his as they journ on and on again. But, other marvels await.

He dismounts again in less windy, blustering heat forgone in the strange company of this city. "You know, Muri," he offers as they reconvene on the way in, his rangy look skimming over the crowd with a practiced eye. "I really am learning so much about you today."

"You think so?" Netep wrinkles her brow in his direction, face half shrouded by lopsided hood. With the oversized shawl criss-crossed over head and face and hair, it makes her look a bit like a caricature of her near human self. A head disproportionately huge for the petite frame dismounting the bike. Only when the protective wraps are again unwound does the rest of her spritely spacer self resume normal form.

"Harjov's a right piece of work, he is. Cunning old mouth on that one." Like she can't think of anyone else who might fit such a description. "Anyway. Let's go find ourselves a 'Jaco'. Best wet your whistle, lest you risk offendin' the Ethra powers that brew. A man who sits at a bar and tastes not a drop isn't to be trusted. If your constitution's a bit weak-kneed you can always sup the Zsajhira berry tea." And in she goes, stamping boots and clapping together jacket flaps at the entryway.

"Word in the port is, there's a man goes by 'Jaco!" she lifts her voice upon entry into the taproom. "Finds 'imself in need of a deckhand!? Wager I might fit the bill..." her head turns in study of faces, to see if any bear suspicious signs of interest.

And there's a laugh, low and slithered out as he pulls the bandanna down. The hat follows, in hand for a moment as Iollan smacks it against his thigh a couple times, dislodging dust into the air as they walk. "Darling, if you ain't figured I'm no one to be trusted by now..."

But it trails, joke or otherwise, and the hand-combing procedure of remounting that worn out hat comes just as they turn to the door. For the moment he keeps his silence just behind her, looking over the crowd with the practiced twinkle of a ner'dowell abroad in the stars, searching for any sign of who it is they want.

For a brief moment, the drone of blended conversation buzzes at a muted level while a few faces turn to examine the announcement-maker and size up the shape looming on her heels. Most resume their own business, but there's one fellow in particular who isn't. Instead, he motions with a slosh of Raava for her to come closer.

There's a short while of stupored silence in between them, then Jaco 'pahs' his mouth into a sneer and wags a finger at her. "Nah, I knowed you...you one o'them eh...whassa name? Mmmuuuri. I see it in your face, I do. S'posed to be dead, all the Ibbies been talkin. What's a ghost captain want deck work for? Don't need no more ghosts."

"You've been to the Uhl Doaba'I, have you?" Muri smirks, finding comfortable steps forward to hover at the man's small table, ignoring his fellows. "Figures, the fates entwine. Harjov is a master weaver." She glances back to Iollan. "Had a few questions 'bout you, we did. Or rather, somethin you experienced. Quite a tall tale, I hear. Happens t'be we've got one, too, and I fancy to wonder if there be similiarites twixt the two?"

From behind her, out of sight of his companion, a certain sort of energy manages to steal over Iollan. Perhaps it's the height, or the hat, or some part of the way his habitual slouch straightens to pull muscled shoulders to a straight line. But by the time he walks into the bar proper, trailing Muri to the table, a sense of awful promise seems to haze around the man.

Heavy hand finds a nearby chair, drags it the two paces to the table even as Muri makes no move to sit. He has his own plan; it turns into sitting next to Jaco with a heavy thud of weight, a sharp and unkind laugh spinning to life as he leans back, hands slapping down to his thighs. "Funny, that," comes the familiar, easy lilt, in no wait tainted with any threat of his posture. "Even trade and all, yeah? Story for a story; what are the odds."

Jaco's few companions appear to have varied thoughts about this intrusion on their relaxation, but look to their pal for direction. Just say the word, the expression of that Nikto seems to read. Fortunately, Jaco's got too many words to be put to premature end by a bar fight.

"You ever been accosted by a corpse?" Is what Netep chooses to lead with. Serious as sin. One of the other humans at the table cracks a disbelieving smirk and almost comments on it, but the sudden shift in Jaco's expression keeps him quiet.

"Huh," Jaco rubs a few oily fingers against his three-day stubble. "Like a...like a Starweird. Yeah, I seen one o'them." Bushy brows dance once as if to say 'penny for my thoughts?'

Netep sideeyes Iollan a moment too long to be casual and nods once. "Next rounds on me?" she offers, while helping herself to a sniff of the dregs left in an 'empty' black glass's bottom.

"How about more than one corpse?" That, too, rings honest as the dawn. He smiles wide and easy, tipping the bright line of his gaze from one face to the next (it lingers on Nikto a beat, smile widening) and circles back to Jaco in short order.

"We got jumped by a whole mess of them. Ugly as sin. Trapped in some floating crypt, yeah?"

Jaco's bloodshot, gray eyes grow a little bit bigger with a show of being impressed. But then doubtful. "A whole mess of 'em you say, eh? Fat chance you'd be standin' afore me now, thick as flesh." He gives a pretentious little pinch to Muri's leather sleeve, succeeding in rattling the bangles and baubles beneath moreso than harassing her skin.

"So either you're a god among men, or you're a pair o' liars." Smugglers like Jaco aren't ones to be slinging dirt though, and he knows it. The story proceeds, whether he believes theirs or not. Netep listens, just half-attentively at first while she takes note of the fact that she's neglected to secure herself a seat. So the table's edge suffices, claimed by one cheek and a hefty fold of jacket that tips an empty glass and sends it rolling into the next. NOW it'z cozy.

"Was after we had a little mishap in the asteroid field. Old bird took a big hit - rent some tears in the hull...lost half our cargo haul faster'n /that/!" His fingers snap together in front of Iollan's nose. "Me an' my brudder, we set to work sealin it off, best we could with the droid, till that got sucked out, too. Decided was time to cut our losses an' head for port for proper repairs. An' that?s when we saw it. Not five steps from the pit. Must've got in through one o'them holes. Hadn't never made a sound, till we set eyes 'pon it.

"An' MY what a scream...sounded like two my ex wives, hollerin' at once. Thought for sure would be the end o'me, but then it take on my brother's likeness, there'bouts" he circles a hand around his face. "Right afore it done him wrong. Tore open his belly, one slash o'them claws. I dunno what it meant to do next, but I shove him and we both fall into the pit, shut that door, and blast straight away for home. Thought I lost him there, bleedin out on the floor. Port authority come in and they see all the blood and assume it were me what did him in. Bind me up like a bula bird for the roastin. Didn't believe my tale none at all, spite those dents an' claw marks other side the door. Never turned up a trace when they search the ship. Nuthin at all, but me a'? him.

Them doctors worth their grit. He woke up two days later an' tell the same tale as me and denied the need for charges 'gainst me, so..."

A big shrug.

"Here I sit. Free as sin. Still in operation, some fifteen years later. He done crossed the wrong fella in a set of pazaak though, so..." a smaller, sadder shrug. "Guess he's somewhere floatin 'round up there with the starweirds now. An' I’m here. Lookin to fill his boots."

"Starweirds," comes the absent echo, as if he can make sense of it. The smile stays all through the story, as it is, but whatever sharp effect comes to Iollan's gaze is something edged with a proper hunger. It lingers as his head tips back, scans sideways to where Muri sits, just as the tale winds out. He pauses, he considers. Jaw opens as if releasing a soundless laugh, and Lan rolls his face back to Jaco with raised brows.

"You see anything else in that pit? Anything look like slime?"

"Guts is slimy," Jaco intelligently supposes, looking from Iollan to Muri. "I'll take another one o'these," he motions with the stein before downing the rest of the contents.

Muri regards the tale teller with silent study, tracing each and every pockmark and wrinkle on the man's face with an inquisitive eye. "I believe you," she confesses, a note more warm and genuine than her initial cut-to-the-chase approach. "But I'm not sure that's a mirror of our own experience. Equally horrifying in its own right, of that I've no doubt. So I'll raise a glass to your brother. And you." Without a word about /what/ a starweird IS (for now), she vacates the table and repositions at the bar. There's a great deal of quicky chat and gesturing to their table, then one by one the drinks begin to stack on tray. Said tray follows along after Muri on steadier hands then her own, and everyone's doled out another glass of Raava. Except Iollan. He receives a steaming cup of Zsajhira berry tea.

"Chakta sai kae," Netep lifts her voice and her glass in toast. And then down, down, down it goes. Glug glug.

A toast he has no manners to refuse, and so his own cup lifts in unison with the rest. A pause, words he doesn't understand, but the respect comes with a nod and a sip of tea. It'll do.

"Quite a story. But I'm not sure it's what ours is, yeah? Like the lady said, not quite a mirror." Iollan tips a shrug, still reclined back as he is, though the hawkish front of his attention does not recede with the easy languish of his posture. "No disrespect, but when they undead goons came from the ceiling at me, it wasn't just screaming and all. You knew."

"Y'damn straight we knew!" Jaco suddenly goes on the defensive, bristling at the thought that his mortifying encounter with the disembodied ghoul was anything less than real. "It sliced through'im like a fine cheese!"

"Only cheese you know 'bout s'what yer wi--"

The 'friend' to Jaco's left doesn't get to complete his wisecrack, on account of Jaco's fist getting intimate with his teeth. The spark ignites and the Nikto's lunging in tandem to contribute to the fight.

OKNOPE! There's still a worthy swallow or two left in Muri's glass, but she's not lingering around this outburst of violence to polish it off. It drops from her hand faster than her rear levitates from that table and she breaks for the door. FAR from fist reach, a decent head start away from chair tosses or bottle flings.

Barely. A bottle shatters against the wall /just/ over her head. That would've most certainly left a mark. "THANKS FOR YOUR TIME!!!" she cries out while fleeing back into the dimming sunlight.

Well, it was inevitable. Or it was hurried along so deftly there's little way to tell the difference. A skilled practitioner of the spacer bar fight, Iollan has the mind to down at least half his tea before the cup comes back to the table. It's just in time too as all of a sudden--

Yeah. /Yeah./ Muri is off like a shot and, though the PI moves to follow with a similarly expedited pass, he can't help scratching an itch. One step as he rises and a deft hand grabs the back of his chair, pivots and swiiiings. %R%RIt's a good impact; it hits at least two of them, locked in their scuffle, with the satisfying crumble of cheap wood and possible ribs. Clearly all that muscles isn't just for show, hm? But he has no intent on staying and, without even looking at the carnage, Iollan is following after Muri with a speedy jog and a trailing, brassy laugh.

Iollan's chair smash is as effective as dropping a smoke bomb, for this quick get-away. The surprise! The added confusion! It buys them time. "Starweirds are a thing, but they're not our thing. Least, from what the legends say." A moment of educational rambling happens while she scrambles to wake up the Nightfalcon. "Y'know, I wager we can fit three on here," Muri decides about the bike and squinches herself WAY up at the front. "It's a long haul back to port." This is Muri flashing the white of her tail, all too eager to bow out before the trouble has time to follow. Harjov wasn't wrong. Chaos /does/ tend to follow, like an old friend. One she'd like to believe she's outgrown, but still finds herself falling into shennanigans with.

“The tavern IS on the way...just sayin'."