RPlog:C Is For Cookey

Cursing quietly to himself, merely simmering after a long stream of curses getting off of the relocation ship, Cookey finds himself a refugee of all things, stuck on the wrong side of the galaxy. Literally punching the door to shove it open, he stomps his short, fuzzy form towards the bar and kicks the barstool's release. Sittin on it, he rises it to meet the bar with a slapping of a credstick. "Ale! House unless ye' be carryin the Blackwood!" He spits at the bartender. With the flick of a wrist he produces a canister lighter and lights a half-smoked cigar.

The Cat's Claw seems to have acquired a new fixture in the past week or so, and a rather strange one it is at that. The raggedy Quarren who sits at the bar nursing a tankard of ale would seem much more at home in the danker, shabbier haunts on Tatooine than the relatively more upscale Ord watering hole. Well, perhaps not more upscale, but at least cleaner. He drains the rest of his drink in one long swallow, slamming the glass back on the bartop and gesturing to the bartender. He looks about to say something, but at that point, the diminutive creature catches his attention. He turns, eyeing him up and down as he says, "Did I here ye aright? Be ye lookin' fer some Blackwood ale?"

"Ye damned be roight I did..." The squib turns, looking to the quarren without one ounce of fear. As the tender brings an ale that is sadly NOT Blackwood Ale. "This watered down bantha piss just be makin me angry. I've had me a bad day so if ye have some and want to share then fuss it up." He says, slapping to bar as he begins to gulp down his ale, spilling some of the contents over his fur.

This brazen talk gives the quarren a pause, and he leans back, hooked tentacle reaching up of its own accord to scratch the side of his face idly. After a minute, however, he reaches into his coat and pulls out a half-empty bottle of amber-colored liquid, and by the way it moves, it's much more viscous than the..."ale"...that the bartender gives to most customers. He grabs the squib's glass, and without a word, dumps it on the floor of the bar and refills it from his own bottle. "What be yer name, me hearty?" he inquires, oblivious to the groan of the bartender at his rather uncouth behavior.

A hearty fit of laughter rolls over the squib as he grabs the glass and looks up to the quarren. "M'name's Grizzlawlooraleth-Itabo but m' mates on my old crew called me Cookey. I was t' cook for the Black Betty, rest her soul." He says with a glint of annoyance in his eyes. "Blasted Hutts done her and her crew in, Capt'n went down with her." He adds, smart enough not to drink until the quarren makes his offer. "Wha'cha be givin yer ale away for?"

At the mention of his name, Jack blinks, trying to follow it for about three syllables before giving up and letting out a chuckle. "Well, that's what ol' Jack'll be callin' ye, then, 'cause yer name's no little bit difficult, that's fer true." As Cookey continues speaking, however, Jack sobers up right quick, and he pushes his hat back from his heavy brow as he simply says, "T'night I'm drinkin' ter me lovely Polly, me beauteous bird! He were lost ter the great monster o' the blackest space, and everyone should have a drink wi' me ter give 'im a proper send off." Jack takes a hearty swig from the bottle, both to demonstrate its innocuous nature and drown his sorrows. But there's still something more in his mind, because as soon as he puts the bottle down, he eyes the little creature again. "A cook, ye say? Any good?"

"No one on me crew died an' Capp'n liked it right." Cookey responds, quickly downing the strong liquor without a pause nor a grimace. "I cooks with what I got and I makes it as good as it kins be. Ye havin only a can o' fish, some refreshar paper, and some wood chips ye be sure I be feedin' th' crew an keepin' em strong to fight." He says with a laugh, raising a metallic finger to the Quarren. "An' Cappn used t'say it was good enough fer hit then it be bettr' than 'is crew deserved."

This time it's Jack's turn to laugh aloud, and he slaps his knee with his mirth as his tentacles wiggle with his nods. "That be true enou'," he says, taking another swig from the bottle to punctuate his agreement. "So now yer runnin' free, eh? Be ye lookin' fer a new crew? 'Cause I've got a proposition from some as can offer me more'n I'd be gettin' from piratin' alone, an' I c'n always use an old hand in the galley. Ye be small, but yer a feisty one, I'd wager. Come along o' old Salty Jack and he'll not do ye wrong."

"Ya' gotta be kiddin me? Ole Salty Jack? I thought I recognized the face with th' tales. Cappn' o' the Freedom Fish? Ye still be runnin time O-time wit dat Calamarian. I heard O ya...good Cappn' from what I heard and if'n I heard it then it best be truth." Cookey responds, slapping his mug down in front of the Captain. "I don' make no deals without makn' em over a drink. Pour me one and y'gots yerself a galley cook. But one rule. M'galley be m'galley and only you be allowed inside. So don't ya be reprimandin' me for throwin' hot water on a mate that be comin in for a snack ye don't be lettin' em have!"

Without hesitation, the quarren does just as instructed, pouring a healthy measure of ale, almost overflowing the glass as he says, "Aye, that be Bill. Ye'll see 'im soon enou', he's likely out wenchin' as we speak." He chuckles to himself at this, but then gives a decisive nod, "That be fair, I c'n promise ye that easy enou'. I'd tell ye that me crew'll answer ter me if they break the deal, but it seems ye've got a handle on it enou' fer the both o' us!" With that, he holds the bottle out for a toast to clinch the deal, "There's a room's been paid fer over yonder at the inn, where ye c'n stay 'til I get some things straightened out. Just mention me name ter the owner."

"A deal be a deal then, Cap'n." The squib responds, crashing his drink into the quarren's with a slight splash of ale. With a fluid motion he downs the tankard quickly and slaps it back onto the bar. "Ye got yerself a cook now. Now I'll be makin' my way to a cot and grabbin m'self some sleep roight out. Blatherin' refugees cryin kept me up on th'way over." He adds. With a kick, the chair rushes downwards and he deftly hops off of it, retaining his naturally squibbian dexterity. Nodding gruffly to the captain, as he's already been dismissed and allowed sleep, he heads out of the bar, quite less disgruntled than he did when he entered.