A Smuggler Walks Into a Bar (Part 1)

It is Kelona, 24 ABY or 43 ISY.

Nar Shaddaa is home to some of the worst scum in the galaxy - a notorious destination for thrill-seekers, gamblers and vice tourism. Advisories by the New Republic government do little to discourage enlisted men spending their leave time on the galaxy's largest casino either. On the upper levels, the Hutts enforce a peace through brutal intimidation - nothing is allowed to disrupt the flow of credits from well heeled visitors. It is as one descends the smuggler's moon that the true core of the planet shows itself, smugglers, spice-dealers, thieves and black marketeers make their homes and livlihoods above but few dare venture down to the lowest levels. This is the home of the refugees, those who live in utter destitution. And here, where nobody cares to enforce law and order and none but the equally criminal dare to venture one can find pirates.

The Beggar's Cove cantina is infamous for being the roughest of the rough. Murder isn't just common-place here, its a local sport. And its the favoured drinking hole of the crew of the Hardlace and their infamous captain, Shiari Vane.

The woman in question lies in deep recline at an elevated booth off to the side of the room - a scantly dressed twi'lek straddling her lap, the blue-skinned woman undulating her torso and gyrating her hips to the low thrumbing music that helps to drown out the other patron's background noise, a half dozen crewmen scattered there about drink from unlabelled bottles of lum, two playing some variant of dice on a barrel top.

Into the cantina wanders yet another poor sod, trying with all of his power to keep to himself, sticking to the shadows and trying not to draw too much attention. He settles into a seat at the bar, after one last look over his shoulder, and calls the bartender over for his order - a "Pan-Galactic Gargleblaster." He's heard those are pretty good at calming the nerves. Or is it wiping memory? Who knows.. right now, he just needs something to drink, and that sounds perfect. Once his order is delivered, down the hatch it goes. Another look over his shoulder, and he heads into the crowds, making his way over to the general area occupied by the crew of the Hardlace. He scans their faces, looking for someone..

The drink arrives and performs as advertised - like having one's brains smashed out with a slice of lemon, wrapped around a large gold brick. A knack for keeping a low profile allows Jaspar to weave his way by the distracted gamers and the pair deep in their cups, but a sharp reptilian hiss and a strong clawed hand stops him just shy of Vane's little booth. "You got business with the Captain?" the large forest-green Trandoshan snaps and hisses, its blood red eyes burning like coals above a maw of wickedly sharp teeth, gleaming as they catch a narrow beam of focused light.

"N..Need someone to..help with a job...M'ship's.. impounded." The drink's obviously doing its job. "I'm carrying.. carrying some... pretty good stuff.. not fun if customs gets it.. I need the ship.. the ship.." Yeah, he's flying high and fancy free now.

Vane's view, for what its worth, is currently obscured by the writhing motions of the dancer's cleavage, but the Trandoshian's hissing in her direction sees chalk-white hands find hips and slide the woman off her lap, a credit chip slipped into her bra serving as dismissal and the lithe rutian squeezing through the narrow space between smuggler and lizard-man as she departs the table in search of new work. "Come..." Vane vocalizes, though over the music it doesn't get far her beckoning sees the Trandoshan release its vice-like grip and she gestures to the end of the circular stone bench that wraps around the table. "What's this cargo of yours, friend? And who has it?" the woman speaks in a coarse tone - a rather distinctive but difficult to actually localize accent that stretches her vowels and tending to inflect them upward while her consonants are short and crisp.

"It's... it's good.. it's enough to square me up.. square.. square me up with.." The smuggler continues, trying to see through the haze. He tries his best to make out a large Hutt with his hands. "..Big guy.. Didn' tell..me.. didn't tell me what it was.. just.. just needed to get it from.. from A to B.." He continues, emphasizing with gestures one way and the other. "Ship's been impounded.. Can't let customs get..."

Vane draws herself up from her recline long enough to reach for a bottle of lum resting on the table and the instant she has it, relaxes herself back into the awkward position. "That's...not much to go on." she remarks non-commitally. "How do you plan to /pay/ for this help? We're not a charity, my friend."

The drink's wearing off. Now that he's gotten over the first hurdle, he doesn't seem to need liquid courage. "If customs looks hard enough, they'll find what I've got hidden on it. I can always get another job, but that ship and I are like partners in crime... pun intended. It's not the score to end all scores, but it's close enough. I can always get other jobs to square up my debts. This haul's yours, if you help me get my ship back."

Vane looks across to the Trandoshan, a skeptical expression furrowing her brow as she lifts a hand to rub slowly along the line of her jaw. "But you won't tell me what it is..." she ponders. "...you realize, that if its not as good as you say, I will have no choice but to keep your ship. And quite possibly sell you..."

Jaspar nods. "Once my ship's been secured, the loot's yours, and I'll be on my way..." He states, simply.

Vane brings the bottle to her lips, slugging back a large mouthful that she lets burn across her tongue and cheeks before swallowing it, and gesturing to Jaspar with the neck. "We'll need to know some things...where your ship /is/, what kind of guard it is likely to have. And if they're holding it for a search, time is /not/ on your side." she points out. "You'll also be coming with us. Just in case, you see. If its a trap, I can shoot you right between the eyes."