07-20-2017, 07:32 AM
Vulre could almost laugh.
Almost.
A small child, summoning dark powers to bring forth a scythe, dressed in an outfit designed entirely to make them look ‘cool’? The only benefit of a scythe was how unpredictable it could be, to both its wielder and the target, to speak nothing of how cumbersome it was to carry and wield. Granted, magic did annul some of that last point, but it was nonetheless an egregious offense to practicality.
Were it not for the fact that he was silently cursing under his breath, his still functioning hand slowly sliding his bones back into place as he winced and quietly whimpered. His painful mending was interrupted when one of the ivory-clad soldiers quietly whispered to his blonde comrade. “Scythes, armoured badasses, and now they’re starting to break each other’s bones. Call me a pessimist, Cody, but I’d rather walk through Westside with a sack of credits slung over my back.” His compatriot hissed and waved gauntleted hands, trying to silence the sullen stormtrooper before the primes present could take notice.
Eyes like faded and wrinkled dollar bills, stained by all the dark and dirty deeds done in the name of profit, turned towards the pair, both of the soldiers shirking beneath the soulless gaze. “What is this Wes- Gah!” The hunter’s query was interrupted by one final push, a crack of bone settling back into place barely audible. He stretched his digits, pain flooding back into the appendages as he slowly twitched them, his fingers barely functional. Through gritted teeth, he spoke: “Westside. Elaborate.”
The flaxen-follicled enforcer spoke up, gulping down their fear. “It’s… It’s a district of Coruscant. There’s a little bit of a, well, crime problem, at the moment. It’s temporary.” Their patriotism was admirable, although it most decidedly clashed with the sad reality of the gang-infested streets of the lower tiers.
Vulre could practically hear the jangling racket of golden coins falling into his palm. Chaos, Corruption, and Crime, while devastating to property values and the health of the average citizen, were good for business. He bowed and spread his arms wide, allowing the sheathed blades upon his chest to give a gentle rattle, speaking in the well-practiced tones of a salesman, doing his best to ignore the pain consuming his hand.
“Then this is a rather fortuitous meeting, my friends.” The words were slick, honeyed things. Vulre most certainly had no friends: Childhood relationships rarely got better than individuals not throwing stones or insults his way, whereas his adult life provided little more than a network of employers, professional acquaintances, and suppliers.
“My name is Vulre Oakenlimb, hunter of men, beasts, and worse. I’ve done business on whatever plane I came from for more than a hundred years, and I can assure you my rates are eminently reasonable.”
The two men stood slack-jawed, each of them attempting to formulate an appropriate response to the sudden business proposition. The man with ‘CODY’ printed across his breastplate spoke up first. “I think Gorman’s in charge of, uh, Contracting.”
There was a brief lull in the conversation, the Storm Troopers trying to remember whatever errant paragraph in the Uplifting Imperial Primer mentioned the proper procedure in hiring Primes. A gauntlet was run through the trooper’s blonde locks as he considered his options.
“I, uh, guess I can put you in contact with him?”
The hunter smiled beneath his steel helmet, the dull metal stubbornly refusing to glean under the sourceless light that pervaded this empty plane.
“Please do,” he said, visions of blood and coin dancing through his mind, both of which held an undeniable appeal, a familiar point of reference in this strange new realm.
Almost.
A small child, summoning dark powers to bring forth a scythe, dressed in an outfit designed entirely to make them look ‘cool’? The only benefit of a scythe was how unpredictable it could be, to both its wielder and the target, to speak nothing of how cumbersome it was to carry and wield. Granted, magic did annul some of that last point, but it was nonetheless an egregious offense to practicality.
Were it not for the fact that he was silently cursing under his breath, his still functioning hand slowly sliding his bones back into place as he winced and quietly whimpered. His painful mending was interrupted when one of the ivory-clad soldiers quietly whispered to his blonde comrade. “Scythes, armoured badasses, and now they’re starting to break each other’s bones. Call me a pessimist, Cody, but I’d rather walk through Westside with a sack of credits slung over my back.” His compatriot hissed and waved gauntleted hands, trying to silence the sullen stormtrooper before the primes present could take notice.
Eyes like faded and wrinkled dollar bills, stained by all the dark and dirty deeds done in the name of profit, turned towards the pair, both of the soldiers shirking beneath the soulless gaze. “What is this Wes- Gah!” The hunter’s query was interrupted by one final push, a crack of bone settling back into place barely audible. He stretched his digits, pain flooding back into the appendages as he slowly twitched them, his fingers barely functional. Through gritted teeth, he spoke: “Westside. Elaborate.”
The flaxen-follicled enforcer spoke up, gulping down their fear. “It’s… It’s a district of Coruscant. There’s a little bit of a, well, crime problem, at the moment. It’s temporary.” Their patriotism was admirable, although it most decidedly clashed with the sad reality of the gang-infested streets of the lower tiers.
Vulre could practically hear the jangling racket of golden coins falling into his palm. Chaos, Corruption, and Crime, while devastating to property values and the health of the average citizen, were good for business. He bowed and spread his arms wide, allowing the sheathed blades upon his chest to give a gentle rattle, speaking in the well-practiced tones of a salesman, doing his best to ignore the pain consuming his hand.
“Then this is a rather fortuitous meeting, my friends.” The words were slick, honeyed things. Vulre most certainly had no friends: Childhood relationships rarely got better than individuals not throwing stones or insults his way, whereas his adult life provided little more than a network of employers, professional acquaintances, and suppliers.
“My name is Vulre Oakenlimb, hunter of men, beasts, and worse. I’ve done business on whatever plane I came from for more than a hundred years, and I can assure you my rates are eminently reasonable.”
The two men stood slack-jawed, each of them attempting to formulate an appropriate response to the sudden business proposition. The man with ‘CODY’ printed across his breastplate spoke up first. “I think Gorman’s in charge of, uh, Contracting.”
There was a brief lull in the conversation, the Storm Troopers trying to remember whatever errant paragraph in the Uplifting Imperial Primer mentioned the proper procedure in hiring Primes. A gauntlet was run through the trooper’s blonde locks as he considered his options.
“I, uh, guess I can put you in contact with him?”
The hunter smiled beneath his steel helmet, the dull metal stubbornly refusing to glean under the sourceless light that pervaded this empty plane.
“Please do,” he said, visions of blood and coin dancing through his mind, both of which held an undeniable appeal, a familiar point of reference in this strange new realm.
Torcher of tomes, slayer of sorcerers, taker of ears, and flayer of men. Reasonable rates.