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The bar had probably once been a reasonably nice establishment. Crumbling plaster, wood that was splintered from the impacts of heavy, hard objects, and a floor that looked like it probably had something lethal to most mammals growing on it attested to its current status as a complete shit-hole.
A jukebox that was more dents than not sat in the corner, the shattered glass from its front window still laying where it had fallen under a layer of scuffed dust. Synthrock music played tinnily from the speakers that remained - many of the sound alcoves were gaping holes full of torn wires. At the sound of the door shutting behind Mrrowl, a rough looking Weequay standing near the jukebox viciously kicked it to silence, adding a fresh series of dents to the dull casing, and every eye turned towards the new arrival.
Flinty stares met him from every occupied table and barstool in the room, adding menace to the sudden quiet. Each Weequay’s arm had a thin scarlet sash tied around it, with various symbols Mrrowl took to be rank of some sort embroidered near the frayed ends. There were enough weapons in evidence to stock a moderate arms bazaar, blaster pistols, rifles, even a missile launcher that had been carelessly tossed in a corner. The big Togorian breathed a mental sigh of relief when he didn’t see anyone reaching for that particular party favor.
A voice like gravel in a battered fuel drum echoed in Mrrowl’s head and a predatory smile broke out across his face. “Keep ‘em off balance, and keep ‘em guessing! They’re more unsure of what’s going on than you are...”
The room shook with an ear splitting roar as Mrrowl turned, grabbed a grungy Weequay in a torn leather jacket who was standing near the door, and threw him clear over the bar. Shattering glass underlay the rumble of his war-cry as the unfortunate bar patron’s head destroyed a couple of shelves of spirits, and bounced off of the edge of the back counter as his body hit the floor.
Spinning, Mrrowl’s right arm clothes-lined another patron as claws sprung from his left paw and raked deep furrows in a second Weequay trying to attack his blind side with a vibro-dagger. Grabbing the edge of a large table, it’s surface covered in crudely carved initials and lewd images, Mrrowl threw it end over end into a trio of Weequay; one holding a grenade and the other two bringing blaster carbines to bear. All three went down beneath the weight of the flying table, the sharp cracks of bones breaking followed quickly by an ear splitting THUMP as the grenade went off beneath the overturned table. The air in the room immediately turned hazy as dust loosened by the blast began to cascade from the ceiling, making it hard to see more than a few feet.
Off in the dusky gloom, the sounds of more thrown furniture added to the din as chairs and tables began flying in every direction - every Weequay in the bar clearing a fighting space, eager to meet this new threat. Mrrowl’s vision swam with stars as a metal pitcher smashed into the back of his head. Blinking rapidly, he dropped to all fours and used both rear feet to mule kick the offender, who collapsed with a high-pitched scream, clutching a stomach raked with deep gashes.
Still crouched, and slowly circling to watch for additional threats through the clearing air, Mrrowl finally realized he was in trouble as a large space opened around him. He noticed dozens of muzzles representing the finest collection of weaponry he’d seen to date, and all were pointed at him. With a prolonged hiss, he squatted down slightly, getting ready to pounce into the nearest cluster of Weequay.
“STOP!” rang out a voice in accented Basic, as a large Weequay with elaborate embroidery on his armband stepped from the crowd, empty hands held out in front of him. A quick glance at his clothing showed the big cat that this particular brigand was far better dressed than the mob, and Mrrowl immediately picked him out as someone with some rank. Stopping his slow circle to focus on the large newcomer, Mrrowl immediately prioritized him as someone to kill as soon as possible.
Silence again fell over the bar, interrupted only by moans from the injured. Mrrowl’s muscles bunched and writhed under his coat, still poised to spring as he bared his teeth and murled very low in his throat at the interloper standing in front of him.
“You’re a big one, aren’t you? Do you speak Basic?” the large Weequay asked, hands still held out in a gesture of peace.
Mrrowl’s eyes narrowed and his ears paused their scan behind him to flip attentively forward, but he said nothing as he considered the alien standing in front of him. Jade eyes sparkled with barely concealed glee as he pondered tearing off the Weequay’s arms and beating him with them.
“I am called Sorzen,“ the big mercenary offered, not liking the look he was getting from the Togorian one bit, “I’m sorry if my compatriots here, err, were less than cordial. Perhaps we can chalk this up to an, uhh, misunderstanding?”
Sorzen turned to the barely restrained mob of Weequay surrounding him, making lowering motions with his hands. He made sure, however, that he didn’t turn enough to lose sight of the hulking Togorian, who still looked ready to spring. Weapons were very slowly lowered and holstered, and the collection of Weequay began to reluctantly right the tables and chairs, sitting down with grudging mumbles and sidelong looks. Mrrowl finally relaxed slightly, giving Sorzen a wary look in between visual scans of the room.
“Why don’t we talk over a drink.....?” Sorzen prompted, trying for a name.
“Drink.....yessss.” replied Mrrowl, baring his sharp teeth in what Sorzen fervently hoped was a smile.
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