The green one grins that slow, predatory grin of his: seems the swim (and the Cooldown) did him a world of good.
"You give up taw easy, Sra." He snatches up a highly-ornate flute of... ripened fruit juice? from the table and takes a sip.
"We might still be able taw help awt awer emplawyer... And I haven't been 'dishawnest' a day in my life, Sra: all legal and abawve bawrd, that's the Crimsan Fists fawr you!" He playfully pats Darius and Mack on the shoulder as he finishes, then turns to leave, grinning.
As he strides away, TB comments:
"Amazing what comes out of his mouth, isn't it?"
***
Sloor walks over to Darga's 'throne', stopping close:
"If I can, Nawble awne?" he inquires, feeling marbling confident that he frecsing bloody will, but it doesn't hurt to ask, does it? Hutts like that sort of thing.
[sblock=Assuming Darga gives his OK]The heavily armed besalisk puts a foot on the edge of Darga's platform and leans close so he can whisper, one elbow propped up on the raised knee. He takes a largish pull from his 'juice', flings the empty on a passing server tray:
"Saw the way I hear it, those spirks awver there are saying they gawt shawrt-changed, while *we're* saying they're a bunch awf vacheads who tend taw break their awn frecsing tawys and then blame the tawy maker, right?"
<Response Darga?>
One of his periodic, outwardly casual look into the rest of the hall (wouldn't do to be caught unawares, now would it?):
"Haw abawt this then, Hawnawred Employer: *certified* healthy slaves! Hire a dawc bawth parties can agree with. He stamps his seal, they pay fair price." A look up into Darga's huge dark eyes, canny businessman aura set on High,
"There's sawme definite advantages taw selling a quality prawduct line, as my pawp used taw say." A chuckle.
"AND it might just shut them up fawr a while at least."
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OOC:
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Figure I'll stop here, see Darga's reaction to the general idea before I go on.
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[/sblock]
