Adventure 2: The Dramune Run
The Nebula Drift looks like any other thousand lounges that existed on Diasporum cruise ships, both in space and at sea, before the Cyleerin assaults. Now, it is likely unique among the fleet. Located aboard the civilian cruise ship Starlume, it caters to the survivors of some of the most well-off families of the colony worlds. Scantily clad waiters and waitresses of various races wind through the crowd serving drinks or special-order meals. Most of the more modest folks, the “poor wealthy”, eat instead at a buffet supplied with mid-range fare. Beyond what most of the crew of The Betty are used to eating, but far from gourmet.
Slumped over a table in the corner, heaving weakly, is a yellow-faced Human-obviously an Ixiol addict. The drug was unheard of ten years ago, but its effects are visible in virtually every hangout in the fleet. Potent and exhilarating at first, it helps many ease the emotional pain of such devastating loss as you all have suffered. Eventually it rots the innards of its victims.
Beyond the portholes, brilliant purple streaks and points of light slowly drift by, the vessel moving through the drift at the rate set by the fleet; the rate that allows the slowest vessels to keep up.
Among the well-off survivors and their scion is one Clarissa Hunt, debutant turned war medic turned medical officer aboard one starship for hire known as Black Betty. The crew finds their shipmate now sitting at the bar, finishing off a fruity beverage.
"Another Minata Mai Tai, Andon, when you get the chance." Clarissa sits humming and watching Andon work.
Andon the bartender is a slender but muscular brown-haired young man with at least three days of stubble on his chin and cheeks; seemingly quite good at his job, he moves from customer to customer with liquid fluidity, handing over drinks or food orders in a friendly fashion while maintaining pace. A healthy number of credit chits in his tip jar help emphasize this proficiency.
Alzura is quite familiar with most of the bars and bartenders in the fleet. "Hey, Clarissa. What are you doing here?" The suli asks, sliding in next to the medic. "I'll have my usual, Andon."
"Hey, Clarissa. What are you doing here?" [/b]
"Oh, I come here around this time on the reg. Andon is the BEST. In any case, I have a room here; a last parting gift from my parents' trust fund. They never would have approved of the way I spent the rest of my time."
"Speaking of which, I had sent a message to the group; there's a guy coming by in a bit that might have a job for us, if we're interested. Be great if the rest of the crew shows up to talk to him, but at least you're here."
The military had drummed certain habits into the Ysoki that the fall of the colony worlds failed to beat out of him. Any time he was going aboard a ‘fancy’ civilian vessel (and the Starlume counted), Burlap dressed up. He had swapped his unkempt fur and worn fatigues for a thorough washing, combed fur, and his dress uniform. He even pressed the creases in his pants and shined his boots. He probably stood out in this crowd but Burlap felt he looked sharp and that was the important part.
He navigates through the crowd of ‘talls’ with practiced ease and only a few ahems or gently nudging people to make sure they knew not to step on him. He makes it to the bar without injury and nods to Alzura and Clarissa, ”Good evening, ladies. Am I a drink behind or right on time?”
Cherry appears in a dress. Her scales shiny and bright as she childishly eats breaded balls on a stick. Her Tail holds a few more as one of her hands holds Toto.
'HI GUYS" She shouts coming over as she lets her tail offer the others some of the strange breaded balls.
"I brought Takoyaki! Its DELICIOUS" she than giggles as her Doshko hangs off her back and a strange bulge is seen on her right hip.
Vaëlorin stepped through the frosted doors of the Nebula Drift with the quiet precision of someone more accustomed to starfield silence than the buzz of clinking glasses and thumping bass.
He surveyed the lounge, its post-opulence preserved like a fossil in the drift—flickering lights, overdressed drinkware, and the ever-present reek of good intentions gone slightly stale.
“Ah,” he murmured softly, joining the others at the bar, “a cathedral to the remains of luxury.” His gaze passed over the array of drinks, then the patrons, then Clarissa’s empty glass. “And yet, somehow, we are the more interesting relics.”
He nodded to Andon with a polite lift of the fingers, then turned to the group with a faint smile.
“I hope the drinks are less volatile than our last salvage.”
Noting Burlap’s immaculate presentation and Cherry’s glittering scales and spherical cuisine, he added dryly,
“And here I feared I had overdressed. Clearly I should have arrived with fried octopus and a warhammer.”
A pause. Then, finally—he leaned slightly toward Clarissa.
“So. A mysterious job offer. A bar with mood lighting. A ship with functional engines. One might almost suspect the galaxy is beginning to forgive us.”
James himself was not overly notable in that he wasn't overly attractive to most... physically. But, once he opened his mouth and offered a nod, wink or smile. Well, things got interesting.
He waded through the patrons seemingly knowing, at least in passing, nearly everyone. Trying not slow down, he deftly extricated himself from what could have been conversation after conversation.
Hey guys and gals. What's doing?
"Aww come on Vael, Have some" She says offering a stick.
"And a job would be fun!!!"
Andon brings drinks around to those who ordered them. His skill as a mixologist cannot be denied; even the high-born would appreciate the beverages.
A little man with no hair on his head, but shoulder length on the sides and back, and a gray goatee and mustache, moves up to the crew like a seeping jar of bearing lube. His face is as wrinkled and scarred as the Laconian Desert, and his voice rasps like dry reeds. He looks around, deliberately, eyes flickering with intelligence.
"Ah, hello young lady," the man says, taking Clarissa's hand and in his and touching it to his forehead. "Are these the colleagues to whom you referred?"
Upon her acknowledgement, he continues. "You're a starship crew, I hear. Word is you specialize in salvage, small cargo transport, and near-fleet exploration. I'm here to offer you jobs-jobs with good pay."
"Name's Garlus Tylappar, a former skipper in my own right, until relatively recently," the man says wistfully.
"I've got something I want to get to one of the far colonies long before the fleet can get there, and I hear you're the type what can help me do it."
"And to prove I'm serious, here's an advance for hearin' me out." Pulling a cred-projector from his pocket, the skipper enters his thumb print and illustrates a reading of 500 credits. The amount transfers, 1 hundred to each of you, and is immediately available in your accounts. A short spasm of coughs interrupts him, but he quickly regains his composure.
Vaëlorin folds his arms loosely, the ambient glow of the lounge casting faint highlights across his sharp features. His eyes narrow ever so slightly at the sight of the credit transfer flashing across his datapad.
“Ah. ‘Jobs-jobs,’ you say?” he intones dryly. “Plural, no less. Tell me—are we collecting them like commemorative drink tokens, or is someone actually keeping count?”
He offers Cherry the faintest of smiles before declining the snack with a raised hand.
“Gratitude, Cherry, but if I wished to fight a seafood sphere in public, I would have worn my softer gloves.”
His attention shifts to the older man, expression sharpening with curiosity.
“You mentioned ‘something’ you wish to get ahead of the fleet. I find the ambiguity... dramatic. And suspect.” A pause. “So, Mister Tylappar—what exactly are we transporting?”
Is it you? James asks out of the blue. And, thanks for the credits, Sir.
"Please say parts, please say parts, please say parts!" Cherry says giddy and excited, the often grease covered, engineer was almost girlish with excitement at the prospect of just random parts.
"Hey wait, you have special eating gloves Vael? Is that why you always turn me down you don't have your eating gloves on you?" She asks with a quizzical look, just realizing what the elf said.
Is it you? James asks out of the blue. And, thanks for the credits, Sir.
"No, no. Not me," the man says, followed by a brief coughing fit.
"Please say parts, please say parts, please say parts!"
"Nor 'Parts', regrettably; well, not as you mean the term."
“You mentioned ‘something’ you wish to get ahead of the fleet. I find the ambiguity... dramatic. And suspect.” A pause. “So, Mister Tylappar—what exactly are we transporting?”
"Well, I'm not at liberty to discuss it over-much. Nor do I rightly know it's significance. All I know is, it's being sought-after by some of the farmers on a far-colony world, from whence it comes, originally. It's some sort of encryption key. A physical key, mind, on a device that's come into my possession."
Damn, that sounds easy... think, James. So, a key, huh? That's not too bad. Anything else we should know?
Who owns it, by the way? Anyone else... want to own it?
He claps the man on the shoulder in a friendly manner, as one would a father or uncle and plops into a nearby seat crossing his ankles upon an ottoman.
Vaëlorin’s gaze sharpens at the mention of an encryption key. He leans back against the edge of the bar, arms folding with slow precision, a single brow rising like a solar flare poised to incinerate optimism.
“You know,” he begins, tone clipped but not unkind, “I have seen more holovids than I care to admit—most of them starting just like this. Some crew gets handed a mysterious object with vague importance, no one quite knows what it does, but it is definitely vital, definitely wanted by someone else, and definitely worth dying over.”
He gestures lightly in the air, as though sketching the arc of inevitable narrative collapse.
“The crew says yes, carries it halfway across the stars, and by Act Three—” he snaps his fingers, “—half the ship is on fire, someone is possessed, and the youngest crewmember has discovered an ancient alien heritage.”
He exhales softly through his nose and fixes Garlus with an appraising look.
“So. Before I agree to 'transport the mysterious key of vaguely described importance,' I would like some assurance this is not THAT holovid.”
"Not that I know of, but that said, I wouldn't say danger is out of the question on this job. See, AgroCorp, the company that runs the farms, is located in an area where the Malthar are known to operate."
“So. Before I agree to 'transport the mysterious key of vaguely described importance,' I would like some assurance this is not THAT holovid.”
"Well, no, nothing along those lines, certainly. But as I said, I'm not going to lie; there is a certain amount of risk involved. But for seasoned spacers like you, I should expect you've encountered that sort of thing before."
James waves the Elf off, in a cavalier manner. Malthar... shmalthar.
Hey Clarissa, how old are you?
I know you're never supposed to ask a lady but, I wanna know which of us is going to discover the... ancient alien lineage. He's all smiles.
Burlap listens quietly, trying to smell a rat (or another rat) lurking behind Garlus’ words. ”Joy, I’m probably the youngest one here. We Ysoki don’t sashay through our tween years growing pimples and getting pointlessly tall. So, can we see this device? It’d be a lot easier to spot a key if we can examine the lock.”
" We dont get pimples just scale shedding"
Hey Clarissa, how old are you?I know you're never supposed to ask a lady but, I wanna know which of us is going to discover the... ancient alien lineage.[/b] He's all smiles.
"Twenty, space jockey," Clarissa answers teasingly, sticking her tongue out.
Burlap thinks he's heard a name something like Malthar, but not exactly that. He's not sure in what context, though.
The Ysoki is fairly certain their host is being upfront.
Alzura isn't the sharpest Alzura in the shed, but once she's had a few drinks, she's sharper than some. And untrusting always. She leans on one elbow on the bar, and empty glass in her had, and cocks and inquisitive eyebrow at the man. Gesturing to the bartender for another round, she looks the businessman up and down, her cheeks flushing a shade darker blue than usual as she feels the effects of the alcohol. "Are these really times to be secreting around the universe with... secrets? How do we - how does anyone know this isn't something that can help - or hurt - what's left of our civilization?"
Culture: 21
Alzura recognizes the name. Some sort of syndicate, she thinks, from a race called Sathar. She doesn't know much about them; worms with arms, generally xenophobic (though not to the level of the Cyleerin).
"Are these really times to be secreting around the universe with... secrets? How do we - how does anyone know this isn't something that can help - or hurt - what's left of our civilization?"
Garlus Tylappar weighs these words. "All I know is that the colony, Mwangi Acres, really wants this back. Probably something to do with farming. In any case, I took the liberty of checking the public fleet database. Mwangi Acres isn't planning on evacuating. So anything that they feel like they need is probably something they should have."
"But I'll leave it to you; if you get to Mwangi Acres and look into it and decide it's not a good idea to pass this on, destroy it. You'll still be paid."
Come on, Captain... if they really need it for feeding themselves or exporting crops to feed others, we might be their... only hope.
Sounds cheesy but, there it is. If they are using it for illicit activity or to cause any other sort of harm we can't abide by. Pay is still there.
He let's his summation set it, tossing Clarissa a mock angry face then smiling.
"...So, can we see this device? It’d be a lot easier to spot a key if we can examine the lock.”
"...So, can we see this device? It’d be a lot easier to spot a key if we can examine the lock.”
"Yes, certainly, though I don't have it on me at the moment. I doubt there are Malthar agents working in The Fleet, but one can never be too safe. If you meet me later, you can examine it. I'll message you a location immediately beforehand. I'm staying aboard The Cassomir."
The Cassomir is one of the converted troop carriers being used to house civilians (ones of less financial pedigree than those on the Starlume).
So we're delivering this thing right into the grimy tentacles of racist worms?! Alzura thinks as she takes a sip (well, a very large sip) from her cup. That's exactly what we need! She keeps her doubts to herself pending the the findings of the techies on her crew. "Tell me more about you, Garlus. How do you play into all this? Just a humble collector of......... keys? And you happen to know who holds the matchin lock? Hmmm.... And have a drink. Anton, another whiskey! Two!"
"Seruzian Sunset bar tender, please" Cherry says as she then eats another stick of Takoyaki.
"Oh and a Yellow Brick Road chaser" She says as she sits at the bar and smiles.
Andon opens his eyes wider at Cherry Bomb's order.
"Bold choice." he notes, getting started on the whiskeys first.
"Well, this is something an associate brought into my possession. As I'm familiar with the people of Mwangi Acres, having hauled produce from there a few times, I kind of have a personal stake in getting it back to them, you might say. And I myself..." Garlus pauses and coughs, covering his mouth with a piece of golden cloth. "Excuse me. I myself cannot take it there. I used to have a vessel, the Gullwind, but that was another life."
"Be more than happy to accompany you, though, if you'd like," the old Skipper says as an afterthought.
"Well, what do you make of it, gearhead?"
Cherry continues to drink and eat and then looks around."Gearhead? You mean me? What was the question again, I was thinking about upgrades to Tin Man"
After hearing the idea she nods.'I am alwyas happy to have more help aboard. besides I can probably learn a thing or two from a seasoned engineer. I mean its how I learned how to patch a ship in the first place was either learning to fight or fix the ship. I fixed the ship and then was thrown to Vesk Engineering. IE Learn or die!" She says as if it weren't abnormal to force children into grueling life or death scenerios. It was though the Vesk way as Domitash and the Commanders made it.
"Very well! I'll join you. One last journey!" Garlus says, and he seems sincere in his resolve.
"Here's my berthing on the Cassomir," Garlus puts through his "address" to the party's various personal devices. I'll head there after grabbing a quick meal. "You can meet me any time this evening you want to show up, and we can examine the key and discuss departure plans."
Having satisfied the questions, for the moment at least, Garlus Tylappar makes his way back to the landing bay, whereby the intra-Fleet shuttle arrives hourly. The crew follows suit after finishing their beverages and foodstuffs; the Betty is docked to a portal off the same bay.
When they arrive in the bay, however, the crew sees Garlus being roughed up by some unsavory types.
A large Orcish man seems to be supervising the beating. Three others like him, and one more clearly human ruffian, are delivering it. The onlookers waiting for the shuttle are clearly not interested in getting involved; ship security is nowhere to be seen.
James whistles sharply as he approaches in a relaxed manner.
Any of you fine gentlemen got a match?
"Piss off, idiots! Get off my dock!" Alzura stomps up to the goons. She intends to be her usual placid and amiable self, but since no one stopped her from drinking she lets the whisky do the talking. She suckerpunches the orc. "And stay away from my ship!" And again.
Joyride wanders up, his usual roguish self, and begins what might be a con game. The unsavory types look over at him angrily, and one standing apart from the others (one who's not getting his hands dirty, Joyride notes) says "Take a hike, flyboy. This doesn't involve you. Private business matter."
At that point, whatever Joyride was planning becomes academic. Alzura comes up, gut-punches one, and when he bends over due to the pain, she upper-cuts him; he sways dizzily, but manages through sheer ferocity to remain conscious.
Initiative, please. The thugs are armed with clubs and fists, but they do have firearms strapped to their wastes, and one or two have knives as well.
Got my match boys, his face and her fist. He grins.
Burlap didn't mind a donnybrook... As long as they abided by the Queensbury Rules - not drawing lethal arms - he was willing to leave his pistol in its holster. "Be civil, boys and girls. No deadly weapons unless you want to be recycled."
"But Burlap, I wanna hit them with my Doshko, I wanna hit them really bad" Cherry whispers to Burlap still in a dress.
"But Burlap, I wanna hit them with my Doshko, I wanna hit them really bad" Cherry whispers to Burlap still in a dress.
The ysoki shoulders the vesk’s elbow before replying in an equally hushed tone. ”You’ll get your chance. Five credits says one of these bully boys pulls a blade within two hits… three max. Then you can slice and dice in that lovely frock.”
Vaëlorin:
Clarissa:
Thugs:
All PCs may act before the thugs. They're taking a -2 AC penalty until their action.
Drawing a tactical baton, Joyride approaches the nearest standing ruffian.
Alzura delivers another combo. It's been too long since she's had a good bar fight.