Shiss returned to the crew compartment a few minutes later. A large pack was hanging from one hand. With his other he reached a finger under a storage unit, pulled out an extending table, placed his pack upon it and opened it.

He made inventory, removed an extra set of clothes and a bunch of other goods, including a number of extra packs for his blaster - and perhaps for others, should they need them. His eyes narrowed when he saw he only had one smoke grenade. The typical Imperial stormtrooper had enough trouble seeing out of those awkwardly-shaped helmets, so small and confined. No peripheral vision at all, it seemed, from previous experience.

Finally, from the bottom of the pack, he removed a battered handle half as long as his arm, with a blade extension at the far end - a very clean looking blade, though the flat of it was notched here and there - and a recessed switch to avoid accidental activation. The opposite end of the handle held a mean looking spike, as well as a twist-knob to telescope the handle in case he needed a longer reach.

He gave the axe a good once-over with a greased cloth, then slid it up and behind him into some sort of locking sheath, hidden between the back of his vest and his armor. That finished, he re-packed everything and slid the pack beneath a seat with his foot.

Shiss glanced over at Rhijans, then at the nick in his blaster's barrel.

"Should check that," he said, unholstering his own blaster and beginning to clean it carefully. "A gouge like that might mean your lenses are out of alignment." He blinked once, twice. A considering gesture from his kind. "End up shooting like a stormtrooper."

Rhijans heard the comment, and gave a tight-lipped smile.  "Oh, it still shoots straight," he answered.  "That was the first thing I checked after it happened.  And while I've been assured by those who know better than I that the barrel's integrity hasn't been compromised, I still don't like it.  Melee weapons are supposed to have scars like that, not blasters."  He shrugged, and walked over to where Shisskur had just tucked his pack away.

"Glad to see someone packing for eventualities," he observed, in a lower tone of voice.  "Looks like there's at least one being in this pack who really believes in preparation."  Rhijans' tone indicated some degree of envy...he'd have liked to have been so well prepared, but the limited gear available at the Rebel base hadn't really inspired any degree of confidence...his equipment was limited, but he knew it well and had a pretty solid idea of just what he could and couldn't manage with it.  So, he'd opted to travel light.

Mark returned his medpac. "Glad that I didn't have to try to make someone sick."

"Never done it before, and I'm not a doctor. So who knows what could have happened."

The man turned to those inside the cockpit, "You think you can check their network for any information on where they are having us land? Anything might be helpful if you don't think it'll trigger some sort of Imperial alarm."

Mark turned from the pilot to the co-pilot hoping for some assurance. "If you find schematics or anything useful. Let me know, I've a datapad."

"Glad I didn't have to find out." With Jacobs heading off to discuss matters in the cockpit, Shard leans her head back, closing her eyes.  Philosophy flows from Mogg - a decent philosophy, better than the crap she was force-fed earlier in her life.  Force fed.  The inadvertant pun makes her snicker, but a moment later water wells in her closed eyes.  One thumb finds the cap of the flask, snaps it closed - bad enough to be standing in the doorway of maudlin without actually entering that gloomy home.

Movement, motion.  One eye, now dry, cracks open to scan the Shishkurr's axe, then closes again.  The weapon, the man - straightforward and effective.  People she used to know would call it 'crude', but Shard feels there's a difference between 'simple' and 'clumsy'.  Or even 'simple' and 'easy'.  Vibro-axe'll kill you just as dead as anything else, and twice as fast if you stand in its way, she considers.

People laugh about the clumsiness of Shishkurr's race, but Shard knows slow isn't awkward and that timing has nothing to do with speed.

Shishkurr and Thanus discuss weaponry.  Funny how that always went in these things - nervousness before the mission sublimated into talk over what will hopefully pull its people out if everything goes south.  They seem to know their blaster-business, better than Shard to be sure.  She pats her cloak to make sure the little pistol is still in its pocket - she doesn't even know the thing's model number.

Thanus mutters something in a lower voice; Shard's quick ears catch 'preparation', but that's all.  She can guess, given the packing going on.  The older woman tried that, at one point in her glorious rebel career.  She ended up carrying everything but the kitchen sink, and still not having the gadget she needed.  Some people  - Shishkurr likely one of them - are good planners; she isn't.

Seat of my pants.  If I were wearing any.

I'll make do with what I find.

"What kind of experience do you fellows have?" she asks the compartment at large, her eyes still closed.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:29, Wed 07 July 2010.

"Mostly bitter," Mogg says, the meditative smile still lingering. "We are in the rebellion; what other kind of experience would lead us here?"

He leans forward. Two hands brace on his knees. Another gestures at Shard.

"You mean violent experience, yes? I have been in some fights. Fist fights, you might say."

He raises four fists.

"Not many. Most beings are disinclined, one way or another, to fight me when the opportunity arises. Very persuasive sometimes. Sometimes must know the force of words to know the force of people."

He leans back against the bulkhead again.

"Between talking and fighting. I prefer talk."

He smiles. "Pleasant talking."

"Preparation is a key to survival," Shisskurr responded to Rhijans. He holstered his blaster, folding his long arms before his equally large chest. Shiss' eyes remained open for a horribly long time now, not blinking, not moving. Shiss found that other beings found such a thing disconcerting. He was really just thinking to himself.

Shard made an inquiry. Shiss blinked again.

"Various jobs protecting particular individuals. Been doing it for about fifteen standard cycles, now. Imps, Rebels and by private request." His lip curled slightly, then settled. "I don't work Imperial anymore."

One eye looked at Mogg. Shiss resisted a sneer; considered what it might be like to face the Besalisk in unarmed combat. Grappling would be out of the question.

"Some races don't have the gift of fine speech." His mouth suddenly opened a bit, showing rows of sharp teeth. His voice was gravel over synthcrete. "Not much use in talking when a blaster's in your face."
This message was last edited by the player at 22:54, Wed 07 July 2010.

"Is it so?" Mogg asks. His head tilts to one side in curiosity. "Haven't found that to be true. Depends on what you say, I guess. Perhaps soon there will be a blaster in my face, and I will have the opportunity to show."

One eye-crest arches a bit.

"Unless you feel up to trying sometime, that is."

Rhijans rolled his eyes.  There was posturing...and then there was taking things to ridiculous levels.  "Let's save the talking around blaster bolts for some time when we're not all penned up in the same ship, shall we?" he asked, a tired edge in his voice.  He glanced over at Shard.

"My experience consists mainly of retrieving very reluctant individuals who are trying to run out on the demands of justice.  Occasionally, justice has nothing to do with it and it's just someone wants to talk to someone who doesn't want to talk to them.  Either way, it usually means I have to find my way in and back out of trouble again."  He shrugged.  "It's a living...of sorts."

Bad feelings already, of sorts, between two of the men.  Shard wonders if it has to do with them both being reptilian, decides it doesn't; for starters, she isn't certain Mogg is of that persuasion.  And stuff a couple of mammals in the same room, you might get the same issue, she blearily considers.

Thanus steps in as adjudicator of sorts - thank the spirits, the gods, whathaveyou - then prounounces himself a bounty-hunter.  At least, that's what Shard gets from his bureaucratese.  Bodyguard, bounty-hunter, and philosophical pugelist.  Pursing her lips, she slowly nods her head.  Got it.  There's a small pain starting behind her left eye - half from the alcohol, half from the stress; she rubs it, struggling to work it away.

"We're gonna have to work together," she says, opening her eyes and leaning forward.  "Better figure out the pecking order before we get down there, 'cause if we're arguing about things we're not keeping an eye on what's creeping up our tails.  I've never been a bounty-hunter or bodyguard," she admits.  Tried the philosopher thing.  Didn't work out. "Been doing this rebellion thing for over a decade.  I guess that's my experience.  Bit of a jack of all trades, certainly master of none." 

She waves one hand absently at the others.  "No cursed good with those guns you're toting...I'll leave that sort of thing to you."

The Dancing Bantha drops into the atmosphere and descends rapidly, swooping low over ancient forested mountains interspersed with broad lakes.  Ahead, and a little to port, the gas giant which Dateen orbits sits on the horizon.  Dateen orbits far enough out that the giant doesn't dominate the sky.  That sky is a clear turquoise.

Very picturesque.  A beautiful day for a stroll in the woods.  Don't forget your respirator though.

Spores in Dateen's atmosphere, exuded by most of the plants, can take root in the moist environment of the lungs, producing a slow, painful death which can take weeks...

The ship climbs over a muntain range, and there is a city on the other side.  All enclosed domes and sealed towers.  The space port stands a little way off, covered by a low intensity force field, intended to keep the local atmospheric contaminants out.

For the ship, passing through that barrier causes no more than a minute reduction in speed.  And then Dancing Bantha is settling onto a landing pad.  Safe and sound.

And a little over a thousand kilometres from where it should be.

Regrettable. Mogg leans back again as the ship enters Dateen's atmosphere. It seems the others have mistaken his invitation as antagonism. There was certainly no reason to assume any blasters would actually be fired in the demonstration, but these seemed to be individuals who assumed hostility and violence as a matter of course. Very Regrettable.

Then again, they didn't know Mogg. They didn't know what he was capable of, so assuming a confrontation as described would end violently might seem reasonable to them, not knowing ... or not caring, perhaps. Not interested?

"I am happy following," Mogg says. "Someone else can do the pecking?"

His eyes close and the slow, meditative smile returns to his features. Who knew his companions would prove to be interesting as the mission?

Things seem to have calmed a little by the time they land - well, Mogg has, assuming he was ever irate.  It's hard to tell, Shard reflects.  She has other ways she could check, but...why?  It takes two to tango, and Mogg certainly doesn't seem interested.

Finally the ship fully settles on the pad, and Shard unbuckles herself from the safety harness, standing and stretching to the unmelodic accompaniment of pops and cracks - her left ankle, her left shoulder, her right wrist.  They don't hurt, not quite, but still come in the same places it hurts when it rains.  There is no doubt a connection; she really needs to remember to do her daily stretches.

Probably recollect better if I weren't drinking...

Thrusting that unpleasant thought aside, she does a brief check both on and in her cloak.  Sundry items...check.  Small blaster...check.  Flask...flask...where's the accursed fla-...check.  "All present and accounted for," the woman mutters to herself, then raises her voice as she paces toward the hatch.  "Anything waiting for us outside, Captain Jalt?"  With her luck....

So, better me than them.

Shiss was more amused than bristled by the minor disagreement with the Besalisk, though he kept that entirely to himself, maintaining a presence of simple alien uncaringness in response to the remainder of his team. It was good to test the waters that this group represented. He wouldn't do well working with weak-minded fools, especially if they were all to work a part. Better to see that they could stand even the smallest things if things ever got hairy.

For his own sake, Shiss hoped he'd be relegated to the few standard practices he was already used to. Keeping an eye on things and making sure people survived. Beating the crap out of the individuals he was working beside wasn't in his job description. Unless, of course, those individuals decided to find it more profitable to space him or his responsibilities and be done with it. That was a different story.

He erred on the side of the positive, for now. Generally speaking, if things went a certain way, good or bad, Shiss tended to accept it and move on. It was in the preparation for either outcome that he mostly stressed over.

Shisskurr reached behind him and down, picking up his pack and throwing it over his shoulder, awaiting the Captain's answer.

"Landing pad looks clear." Reldan calls out over his shoulder.  Then, to his first mate, "Neary, make sure everything's locked down.  If we're going to be away from the 'Bantha' for a while, I don't want anybody fooling around with her."

He gets up from his station and walks through to where the "passengers" are waiting to disembark, "If we're going to travel to Ker Aldas, does anybody else think it might be a good idea to find out what's happening there first?"

"Absolutely vital, in fact," Rhijans responded.  "Also be a good idea to find out what kinds of travel arrangements are available.  If the only way to get there--and back--is an Imperial-monitored transit system, this is going to get tricky...and if the only way is a chartered speeder flight, it's going to get expensive."

He looked around.  Still didn't have a very complete picture of the team...for all that they'd been posted together, they hadn't been there long enough to know each other by more than names and faces, really.  But it was starting to look like they might actually have come up with a talent pool that overlapped nicely.  So far, he was feeling good about the team...even though the situation was spiralling downward.

Shard pondered the bounty-hunter’s ideas.  “Good plan.  I’d also like to know why there’s an accursed Impy Star Destroyer in orbit.”  It’s one thing to see patrol ships, or even cruisers.  But the big boys?  The Empire tends to keep them ready for use or send them to hot spots, not have them sitting around planets in the armpit of wherever on patrol duty.

“There’s a purpose to it being here,” Shard muttered.  “And I don’t believe in coincidence.”  One thing on which she and her old masters could agree.

Weighed against their disagreements, it came up woefully short of balance.

"Sure thing, Rel."

Neary began the procedure immediately. Not that it would take long but no point holding it off either.

"Hey, folks, at least we're in the clear for now thanks to Mr. Smooth Talker here. We could always board that thing up there and I'll happily blow it up."

She joins the others as they are about to leave the ship. Behind her Wheel comes whizzing along while making it own little noises.

Mark replied to Shard, "The short story is that I've some militia training."

"Save the long story for another time.

The man followed the captain and the co-pilot from the cockpit. He was a bit disappointed that they were unable to pull up any useful data. But you got to go with the deck that was dealt. Mark put his datapad away.

"I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Let's figure out our next step."

There are a number of options available to the crew and passengers of the Dancing Bantha.

They are at a space port, on the edge of a large city.  Naturally there is going to be a transport system to ferry goods and personnel between the port and that city, Ker Zaineer.  Doubtless there will be some sort of transport hub in the city, giving access to other cities on the planet.

It may even be possible to rent a vehicle of some sort, either at the port, or in Ker Zaineer itself.

For those wanting information about the situation in Ker Aldas, there is a directory alongside the landing pad, showing the locations of several businesses on the perimeter of the port: hotels and hostels, diners, freight agencies, cantinas...

Rhijans looked around.  He was of two minds...going to a freight shipper would give them a potential chance to arrange for someone to ship their goods from Ker Aldas here to the starport.  Unfortunately, there was a chance that the someone involved might be reporting suspicious activity to the Empire, which would put an end to their mission real quick.

Sometimes, the fastest way forward is to slip sideways for a little bit, he reminded himself.  The tricky thing about cantina-hopping for information was finding one disreputable enough to have the kind of contacts they'd need, but not so seedy that they'd end up having to shoot their way out.  Gunplay involved the authorities coming to investigate, and Rhijans didn't imagine there were too many other groups roaming the starport with a gray-skinned human and a Trandoshan in their midst.

So, he started looking for the second-seediest looking place...

"I'll have to remember to ask about the long story," Shard manages to say, more or less clearly.  She scrunches her eyes closed for a moment, the stares out the hatchway with some bleariness.  "Does anyone actually know this planet?  Cause if not, the best idea might be to chat some people up."

With a shrug, she settles her heavy cloak about her, almost vanishing into its folds. "I figure a bar or a cantina is a nice starting point."  Would be a good place to fill up, as well, she quietly admits to herself.

Guess I'll get back on that exercise regime tomorrow.  And the better diet - year by year, she wastes away a little more.  Quit drinking, eat better, exercises....  Her eyes snap to the directory, skimming it over in search of the nearest watering ho - information sink.

Yeah.  Tomorrow.

"Don't know this planet," Mogg admits. "But I like chatting. Solve many problems that way."

He begins to wander off, letting instincts and a cunning eye guide him rather than a directory. The kind of place he seeks probably won't be in the directory anyway.

Over his shoulder he says, "Place of drink always best place to start."

"Yeah." Mark replied to Shard when she mentioned the long story. "If you buy me enough drinks after this milk run, I'll tell ya about me and my buddies."

Mark Jacobs decided it was time to get some fresh air. "If the captain don't mind. I'm going to open the hatch." He stood next to the boarding ramp and pressed a few buttons.

Nothing happened.

Mark looked over his shoulder and pressed a few more buttons, "Damn rust bucket didn't like the access code the first time."

When the ramp was deployed, Mark was first to walk down and find the terminal. "I'll pull up a list of cantinas in the area."

After removing a couple of things from his pack (a pair of spare charges and his comlink), Shiss shoved the bag back under the seat. With nary a word, he slid past everyone else and followed Mark down the gangway.

He stood a bit away from Mark as he accessed the local network, keeping an eye out, making mental notes of what he could surmise about the environment itself. Options regarding the locals would have to wait until he saw more of them. It was mostly a force of habit. As far as the current plan was concerned, he'd choose to go where someone of his talent was most necessary.

Then again, sometimes the situations you end up in are the ones you're supposed to encounter. So he stood, and waited.

NEary throws a grin Johin's way.

"CHatting sure beats shooting any day.  Less chance of dying from words than blasters or blades."

After making sure that Wheely manages to navigate the ramp she looks around for a suitable person not too far away and then calls out.

"Hey, excuse me!  Can you tell me where the nearest cantina is?"

She figures they might as well start there as anywhere else.