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GoodManners
Planetoid
- Joined
- Apr 26, 2019
There is a shitty old derelict station just along the eastern fringes of the Sailin nebula. It floats through the void along an old and disused shunt-space trading route, a reminder of the days before the mainstay galaxy-drives that are now prevalent throughout the major hubs. The station is called Arathby's, and not a day goes by where something doesn't go wrong- coolant leaks, generator fluctuations, even the odd pirate raid.
The only reason that it is still operational is the small trickle of scum and villainy that dock at its ports- old cruiser ships still using the outdated and archaic shut-drives that have need of the stations coolant reservoirs. It's these beaten and weary travelers, traders, mercs, and raiders that keep Arathby afloat. They make use of the stations shitty old markets and hotels, passing along chits at narco-dens and black market salver rings. There are lighter, more altogether reputable installations on Arathby, one of these corners of sanity is a simple Bar, named Novocain, after an old Human medicinal of an age long past.
It's not far from the docks, hemmed in on either side by several storefronts selling old ship parts and barley above grade reactor parts, the kind of stuff that not even the shadiest of black market pushers would think about carrying. The front of Novocain is a dull grey bulkhead with a sign hanging over the double-door automatic entrance. The sign is neon lettering, but the 'N' flickers intermittently, and the door is half open on a shitty sliding track. Dull rustic light filters out through the part in the door.
Inside the bar there is only a few select customers, some regulars, the rest, just drifters and nomads that are down on their luck, trying to strike it rich and failing. The galaxy is indeed vast and still unexplored, but treasure and adventure is surprisingly sparse and fought with danger. Everyone has a tale of near death encounters, and at a bar, is where they are to be told. The mistress of the bar, is more than willing to listen. Her name is Cetrine, and she's a Valku, a native of that distant ice-world of Inot. Like all of her kind, she is a white furred alien, with big ears and long tail with the snowy white hair and pretty blue eyes, constantly half lidded in a patient expression.
Her bar; Novocain, is her life's work, and she's always there: standing behind a shitty false-wood counter, running her fingers along the glasses, checking for the ever-present threat of dust or grime. Her ears perk up upon any new customers arrival, the sliding door squealing on its automated tracks that she has never gotten around to repairing, no matter how much her clientele bitch and whine about it.
Certine is a collector, importing and buying up all manner of exotic drinks and busting her fluffy little white ass off to learn the new tricks and mixing techniques that always seem to be cropping up from every corner of the galaxy. Sometimes she nails them, other times, not so much. She's sworn off on trying to make those weird flaming drinks that are on fire- complains about some of her hair not growing back because of her last attempt.
That doesn't matter right now. Closing time is approaching, the last few customers paying off their tabs for the night and making ready to leave.
The only reason that it is still operational is the small trickle of scum and villainy that dock at its ports- old cruiser ships still using the outdated and archaic shut-drives that have need of the stations coolant reservoirs. It's these beaten and weary travelers, traders, mercs, and raiders that keep Arathby afloat. They make use of the stations shitty old markets and hotels, passing along chits at narco-dens and black market salver rings. There are lighter, more altogether reputable installations on Arathby, one of these corners of sanity is a simple Bar, named Novocain, after an old Human medicinal of an age long past.
It's not far from the docks, hemmed in on either side by several storefronts selling old ship parts and barley above grade reactor parts, the kind of stuff that not even the shadiest of black market pushers would think about carrying. The front of Novocain is a dull grey bulkhead with a sign hanging over the double-door automatic entrance. The sign is neon lettering, but the 'N' flickers intermittently, and the door is half open on a shitty sliding track. Dull rustic light filters out through the part in the door.
Inside the bar there is only a few select customers, some regulars, the rest, just drifters and nomads that are down on their luck, trying to strike it rich and failing. The galaxy is indeed vast and still unexplored, but treasure and adventure is surprisingly sparse and fought with danger. Everyone has a tale of near death encounters, and at a bar, is where they are to be told. The mistress of the bar, is more than willing to listen. Her name is Cetrine, and she's a Valku, a native of that distant ice-world of Inot. Like all of her kind, she is a white furred alien, with big ears and long tail with the snowy white hair and pretty blue eyes, constantly half lidded in a patient expression.
Her bar; Novocain, is her life's work, and she's always there: standing behind a shitty false-wood counter, running her fingers along the glasses, checking for the ever-present threat of dust or grime. Her ears perk up upon any new customers arrival, the sliding door squealing on its automated tracks that she has never gotten around to repairing, no matter how much her clientele bitch and whine about it.
Certine is a collector, importing and buying up all manner of exotic drinks and busting her fluffy little white ass off to learn the new tricks and mixing techniques that always seem to be cropping up from every corner of the galaxy. Sometimes she nails them, other times, not so much. She's sworn off on trying to make those weird flaming drinks that are on fire- complains about some of her hair not growing back because of her last attempt.
That doesn't matter right now. Closing time is approaching, the last few customers paying off their tabs for the night and making ready to leave.
