09-10-2017, 09:52 PM
The Elf of negotiable hostility absent-mindedly licked his scarred lips as he flipped through the magazine, gloved hands running over images of abominable contraptions. He was no stranger to firearms: The Dwarves had their cannons that spat death from their mountain halls to the plains below, but this was something new entirely. Machines invisible to even his trained eyes worked in concert within these pages, turning static images of the esoteric and exotic weapons on display into shining slideshows of destruction with the slightest touch. Beams of energy lanced downrage, burning holes the size of fists in pigmentless torsos, flaming remnants falling to the floor as another montage of mayhem began: Explosive rounds chewing apart a small army of alabaster golems, electrified batons beating down a beast made entirely of blades.
As far as Vulre was concerned, it was a miracle from the heavens delivered directly into his lap. A needle-spitting contraption delivered an envenomed sliver of steel into the throat of a fleeing man covered in tattoos, bandoliers, and scraps of crimson cloth, the hulking gangster collapsing soon after into a puddle of his own drool. The hunter could scarcely contain a quiet chuckle as he watched the brute spasm and squirm his way out of consciousness. He continued his perusal of the periodical: Grappling hooks, wristblades, rocket launchers, and jetpacks alike all danced before his elvish eyes.
It took perhaps another half-hour of marvelling at the technological atrocities on display before him until a gentle ping and flash of gentle blue light drew his attention towards the woman at the desk, the sealed portal behind her sliding open. “Gorman will see you now,” she said, inclining her slim face, framed by golden locks, towards his newly-opened office. Setting his reading material down on the table, stained with the coffee-rings of a thousand prior hired guns. He passed by the red-clad receptionist, dainty fingers clutching a file as she did not deign to notice his passing.
His prospective employer was waiting for him within. Their visage was smug and somewhat smarmy, a carefully coiffed mane of black hair complimented by a thick ebon moustache that served its purpose in covering up what was presumably an insufferable smile. “Well, well, well, seems like the Nexus delivers unto us a new contender, hm?” The purveyor of for-profit pummeling’s smile escaped his facial follicles, resplendent in all of its smug glory. “Take a seat,” he said, waving a hand at a chrome and crimson chair.
Vulre obliged him, his well-maintained hauberk failing to disturb the quiet whirr of the fans and vents that endlessly recycled the stale atmosphere. Gorman’s hands templed themselves over a stack of paperwork, records of gang warfare and collateral damage, so many lives lost rendered down to nothing more than a statistic. The hunter’s gaze was torn away from the amount of Imperial credits listed upon the sheets when his host spoke. “Now, judging by the inscriptions on the rather expansive set of weaponry we confiscated, you’d be Vulre. So I’m either correct, or Vulre had a very shiny set of knives and didn’t know how to use them. You mind expanding on that?”
Gloved hands lifted the helmet from his head, the dull steel freeing his equally dull hair, his locks kept close-cropped by careful bladework. Scars, both fresh and faded lined his now-bared hide, stark beneath the artificial light. “My name is Vulre Oakenlimb. I’m a veteran of the World-Tree’s guardians, with roughly two centuries of bounty hunting experience.” His voice was careful, measured. He had long practiced his tones: memetic practices trained under the tutelage of a skilled politician in need of a sizable campaign contribution. “I’ve slain witches, warlords, and rebellious counts alike. I’m one of the most respected and skilled professionals in my fi-”
Gorman held a hand up, ceasing the spiel. “Now, that’s all well and good, but now that you’re in Coruscant, that means precisely jack shit.” Vulre did not react, his eyes as cold and hard as they were the moment before. “Wasn’t too long ago that we had a man in here who was a literal god in his home ‘verse. Do you want to know where he is now? I wouldn’t mind knowing myself, since a gang of Organleggers beat his teeth out with a length of pipe and dragged him down into the sewers. If you want a contract with us, you’re going to have to prove that you’re worth me spending more than ten minutes of my all-too-short secondary lifespan filing your paperwork. Are we clear, Vulre?”
“Crystal,” the hunter said, nodding.
“Good. If you want to collect a valid IBC contract, you’ll need to be registered with us. First thing’s first, why’re you here, rather than running off and taking some criminal heads, like most fresh primes? We pay in credits, the Omnillium’s deposited straight from the top.”
The aspiring assassin shrugged. “The power to shape reality to your will’s all well and good, but given how I don’t know the first thing about cooking a quality steak or how to put together an M41A rifle, let alone what kind of documentation I’d need to fill out to build a townhouse out of pure imagination. Cold, hard cash makes the world go round.” Gorman nodded, knowing full well the truth of that statement.
“And while I, of course, recognize the need for this vetting process, I’m sure you also understand that I expect to be paid for my work. Given my rather pressing need for funds and equipment, and how the primary purpose of this task is future work, rather than profit, I expect payment in advance.”
Gorman’s expression soured at the thought of parting with money, let alone doing so before the task was done. “Fine, fine. Your contract’s on a gang and its three leaders.” Gorman reached down, tossing an over-stuff manilla folder onto the table, images of skeletons clad in golden chains and intricate scrimshaw wielding pistols slipping from the collection. “Everything you need to know is in there, should you accept the contract.” Another tinge of pain ran through Gorman. “How much would this task set my quarterly budget back?”
Vulre leaned forward, steepling his hands together as he stared at his employer over the gloved digits. “A sack and 5 minutes in wherever you’re hiding your confiscated weapons.”
A grin split the middle-manager of mercenaries’ mustachioed face. “That can be arranged.”
As far as Vulre was concerned, it was a miracle from the heavens delivered directly into his lap. A needle-spitting contraption delivered an envenomed sliver of steel into the throat of a fleeing man covered in tattoos, bandoliers, and scraps of crimson cloth, the hulking gangster collapsing soon after into a puddle of his own drool. The hunter could scarcely contain a quiet chuckle as he watched the brute spasm and squirm his way out of consciousness. He continued his perusal of the periodical: Grappling hooks, wristblades, rocket launchers, and jetpacks alike all danced before his elvish eyes.
It took perhaps another half-hour of marvelling at the technological atrocities on display before him until a gentle ping and flash of gentle blue light drew his attention towards the woman at the desk, the sealed portal behind her sliding open. “Gorman will see you now,” she said, inclining her slim face, framed by golden locks, towards his newly-opened office. Setting his reading material down on the table, stained with the coffee-rings of a thousand prior hired guns. He passed by the red-clad receptionist, dainty fingers clutching a file as she did not deign to notice his passing.
His prospective employer was waiting for him within. Their visage was smug and somewhat smarmy, a carefully coiffed mane of black hair complimented by a thick ebon moustache that served its purpose in covering up what was presumably an insufferable smile. “Well, well, well, seems like the Nexus delivers unto us a new contender, hm?” The purveyor of for-profit pummeling’s smile escaped his facial follicles, resplendent in all of its smug glory. “Take a seat,” he said, waving a hand at a chrome and crimson chair.
Vulre obliged him, his well-maintained hauberk failing to disturb the quiet whirr of the fans and vents that endlessly recycled the stale atmosphere. Gorman’s hands templed themselves over a stack of paperwork, records of gang warfare and collateral damage, so many lives lost rendered down to nothing more than a statistic. The hunter’s gaze was torn away from the amount of Imperial credits listed upon the sheets when his host spoke. “Now, judging by the inscriptions on the rather expansive set of weaponry we confiscated, you’d be Vulre. So I’m either correct, or Vulre had a very shiny set of knives and didn’t know how to use them. You mind expanding on that?”
Gloved hands lifted the helmet from his head, the dull steel freeing his equally dull hair, his locks kept close-cropped by careful bladework. Scars, both fresh and faded lined his now-bared hide, stark beneath the artificial light. “My name is Vulre Oakenlimb. I’m a veteran of the World-Tree’s guardians, with roughly two centuries of bounty hunting experience.” His voice was careful, measured. He had long practiced his tones: memetic practices trained under the tutelage of a skilled politician in need of a sizable campaign contribution. “I’ve slain witches, warlords, and rebellious counts alike. I’m one of the most respected and skilled professionals in my fi-”
Gorman held a hand up, ceasing the spiel. “Now, that’s all well and good, but now that you’re in Coruscant, that means precisely jack shit.” Vulre did not react, his eyes as cold and hard as they were the moment before. “Wasn’t too long ago that we had a man in here who was a literal god in his home ‘verse. Do you want to know where he is now? I wouldn’t mind knowing myself, since a gang of Organleggers beat his teeth out with a length of pipe and dragged him down into the sewers. If you want a contract with us, you’re going to have to prove that you’re worth me spending more than ten minutes of my all-too-short secondary lifespan filing your paperwork. Are we clear, Vulre?”
“Crystal,” the hunter said, nodding.
“Good. If you want to collect a valid IBC contract, you’ll need to be registered with us. First thing’s first, why’re you here, rather than running off and taking some criminal heads, like most fresh primes? We pay in credits, the Omnillium’s deposited straight from the top.”
The aspiring assassin shrugged. “The power to shape reality to your will’s all well and good, but given how I don’t know the first thing about cooking a quality steak or how to put together an M41A rifle, let alone what kind of documentation I’d need to fill out to build a townhouse out of pure imagination. Cold, hard cash makes the world go round.” Gorman nodded, knowing full well the truth of that statement.
“And while I, of course, recognize the need for this vetting process, I’m sure you also understand that I expect to be paid for my work. Given my rather pressing need for funds and equipment, and how the primary purpose of this task is future work, rather than profit, I expect payment in advance.”
Gorman’s expression soured at the thought of parting with money, let alone doing so before the task was done. “Fine, fine. Your contract’s on a gang and its three leaders.” Gorman reached down, tossing an over-stuff manilla folder onto the table, images of skeletons clad in golden chains and intricate scrimshaw wielding pistols slipping from the collection. “Everything you need to know is in there, should you accept the contract.” Another tinge of pain ran through Gorman. “How much would this task set my quarterly budget back?”
Vulre leaned forward, steepling his hands together as he stared at his employer over the gloved digits. “A sack and 5 minutes in wherever you’re hiding your confiscated weapons.”
A grin split the middle-manager of mercenaries’ mustachioed face. “That can be arranged.”
Torcher of tomes, slayer of sorcerers, taker of ears, and flayer of men. Reasonable rates.