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Star Wars (d6): The Gunfighter, the Bounty Hunter, and the Feral Kid
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<blockquote data-quote="Iron Sky" data-source="post: 5279056" data-attributes="member: 60965"><p><strong>Session 1 - Hunting the Hunter</strong></p><p></p><p>They walked off the bulk transport <em>Rhogot Found</em> into the tumult and chaos that surrounded gold rushes since time immemorial. This rush, however, was not gold, but <em>Isalis</em>, that rarest of crystals renowned for its almost unbelievable capacity for energy storage. The two men and the near-feral child that walked off the <em>Rhogot</em> weren't here for the rush, however, but more for the diversity of interesting employment opportunities that tended to accompany such things.</p><p></p><p>One was a stubbled, blond-haired man with a poncho, a dusty brown hat, the stub of a cigar, and the grip of a heavy blaster pistol strapped to his hip. His eyes were the cool, distant blue of a gunfighters, as though he was squinting off into a distant horizon rather than staring into the crowded docking ring of the <em>Rings </em>station deep in the Hradic Shroud<em>.</em></p><p></p><p> The second was a tall, heavily built man with an armored vest strapped on over his clothes, a blaster strapped to his hip and the sleek metal outline of a jetpack to his back. He took in the sights and sounds of the station with casual disinterest, occasionally sniffing the air as though tracking some prey by scent.</p><p></p><p> The child had spiky red hair, slicked with the same grease, dirt, and soot that covered the rest of his dirty mishmash of an outfit, held together with string, wire, and luck. He snarled at anyone who glanced his way, revealing teeth sharpened to points.</p><p></p><p>They didn't speak to one another as they arrived, simply began pressing through the crowd towards the literal hole-in-the-wall of a cantina with <em>Snidd's Lid</em> spray-painted onto the bulk-head near the jagged, weld-cut metal of the doorway. A minute later they were out of the smell of grease, greed, and unwashed creatures of all descriptions, and into the thrum and clang of the duct-works that ran through <em>Snidd's Lid</em>.</p><p></p><p> For a spaceport bar, it was fairly spacious, though it squeezed square-footage out of every nook and cranny of the winding path it wound through the inner workings of the outer Ring. Here a square air duct might have a couple tall stools pulled up to make an impromptu table, there a table squeezed in between cables and pipes with upturned metal buckets for chairs.</p><p></p><p>The bar itself was in the widest-open area just through the door, placed in front of the original access hatch that now probably served as an emergency exit for the employees should things get out of hand.</p><p></p><p>The three odd companions walked over to a square table squeezed between the bar and a massive metal box covered with dials and blinking lights that occasionally made a loud <em>bang</em> that nearly deafened everyone in the bar and rattled the cups and shot glasses. </p><p></p><p>Blondie sat facing the doorway, leaning back in the creaking faux wood chair and chomping on his cigar while the other man took up a seat facing the bar, leaning forward on the table and casting a stray gaze into the shadowy booths and tables, his gaze occasionally lingering on this woman or that alien as if trying to remember where he'd seen them before. The kid knelt on his chair, a small knife clicking from his belt as he carved notches in the battered fiberplastic armrest of his chair...</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Iron Sky, post: 5279056, member: 60965"] [B]Session 1 - Hunting the Hunter[/B] They walked off the bulk transport [I]Rhogot Found[/I] into the tumult and chaos that surrounded gold rushes since time immemorial. This rush, however, was not gold, but [I]Isalis[/I], that rarest of crystals renowned for its almost unbelievable capacity for energy storage. The two men and the near-feral child that walked off the [I]Rhogot[/I] weren't here for the rush, however, but more for the diversity of interesting employment opportunities that tended to accompany such things. One was a stubbled, blond-haired man with a poncho, a dusty brown hat, the stub of a cigar, and the grip of a heavy blaster pistol strapped to his hip. His eyes were the cool, distant blue of a gunfighters, as though he was squinting off into a distant horizon rather than staring into the crowded docking ring of the [I]Rings [/I]station deep in the Hradic Shroud[I].[/I] The second was a tall, heavily built man with an armored vest strapped on over his clothes, a blaster strapped to his hip and the sleek metal outline of a jetpack to his back. He took in the sights and sounds of the station with casual disinterest, occasionally sniffing the air as though tracking some prey by scent. The child had spiky red hair, slicked with the same grease, dirt, and soot that covered the rest of his dirty mishmash of an outfit, held together with string, wire, and luck. He snarled at anyone who glanced his way, revealing teeth sharpened to points. They didn't speak to one another as they arrived, simply began pressing through the crowd towards the literal hole-in-the-wall of a cantina with [I]Snidd's Lid[/I] spray-painted onto the bulk-head near the jagged, weld-cut metal of the doorway. A minute later they were out of the smell of grease, greed, and unwashed creatures of all descriptions, and into the thrum and clang of the duct-works that ran through [I]Snidd's Lid[/I]. For a spaceport bar, it was fairly spacious, though it squeezed square-footage out of every nook and cranny of the winding path it wound through the inner workings of the outer Ring. Here a square air duct might have a couple tall stools pulled up to make an impromptu table, there a table squeezed in between cables and pipes with upturned metal buckets for chairs. The bar itself was in the widest-open area just through the door, placed in front of the original access hatch that now probably served as an emergency exit for the employees should things get out of hand. The three odd companions walked over to a square table squeezed between the bar and a massive metal box covered with dials and blinking lights that occasionally made a loud [I]bang[/I] that nearly deafened everyone in the bar and rattled the cups and shot glasses. Blondie sat facing the doorway, leaning back in the creaking faux wood chair and chomping on his cigar while the other man took up a seat facing the bar, leaning forward on the table and casting a stray gaze into the shadowy booths and tables, his gaze occasionally lingering on this woman or that alien as if trying to remember where he'd seen them before. The kid knelt on his chair, a small knife clicking from his belt as he carved notches in the battered fiberplastic armrest of his chair... [/QUOTE]
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