Post by brahgan on Mar 12, 2014 2:49:09 GMT
Dreakor II - The Whispering Snarlk
It was a cold night. The kind of cold that a man felt creep up on him, before it pounced. Such nights were a regular occurrence on Dreakor II, an arid, cold world, where a warm temperature was considered to be 30 degrees, and that's on a good day. Though even among such cold, biting weather were bastions of hope throughout Dreakor II. See, Dreakor II was considered "off the grid", you might say. No government, no laws. The man, or alien lifeform, with the larger rifle made the rules, and in such a cold, lawless world, scum and villainy finds its way to creep in. Dotted throughout the cold landscape, were a wide assortment of bars, gentleman's clubs, and all kinds of bandit hangouts and brigand haunts. A real scum pit Dreakor was. The perfect place to lose yourself in a drink. Hell, maybe even find yourself.
This one bar, known as the Whispering Snarlk was an interesting one, in particular. This bar was the most successful in a region of Dreakor known as "the Frozen Tooth", a 50 mile expanse filled with establishments and seedy motels. Consider this "the strip" of Dreakor II, compare it to the tales of the ancient Terran city of 'Las Vegas'. All scum and villainy on Draekor flocked to the Tooth, because in a place with such vice and villainy, there are always credits to be made. The barman was a very tall man, with a well-toned figure and narrow, masculine features. This man's name is Harley Jackson, and he is the focus of this tale. See, Harley Jackson had never been anybody in life; grew up a street urchin, served in a space platoon, earned an insignificant, "crappy" medal, as you'd hear him call it. A true nobody; but he had a couple things going for him, he did. He was a hell of a shot.. and one hell of a bartender.Not much is known about this Harley Jackson, and he'd very much like it that way. This is where the allure of Dreakor II came to him; a frozen world on the outer rim of space. No questions asked, no people coming to knock on his door. Harley's usual shift ended at around sundown, and he had a deal with a little 8-eyed alien on a motel room near the bar. He'd come in, work the majority of the day, deal with any rabble rousers, hang up his coat and be on his way. But not tonight.
The wooden saloon door of the Whispering Snarlk crashed open, and energy bolts rang through the bar. Harley quickly reached for the laser pistol on his waist, ducking behind the counter. Dynamite Darr and his boys, Harley was familiar with the bunch. They had come around the bar a few days earlier, poking around about Harley and pestering him about what a fleshy human was doing on Dreakor. Harley sent them off, thinking they'd know better than to poke around any more. They didn't.Leaning over the counter, Jackson lined up a couple shots and managed to drop two of them. They might have been big bad alien gangsters, but they were lousy shooters. Harley, of course, wasn't. Pretty soon the saloon gunfight was over, and Harley had dropped Darr, foot on his throat. "Who sent you!" Shouted Jackson into the conquered bandit, but only received laughter in response. The alien coughed back a response, along with some colorful blood, "The boss is gonna get you good, Jackson. He knows all about you!" Harley had enough. His trigger finger twitched, and in a couple seconds Darr was no more. Jackson stepped over the many vaporized alien scum around the bar, putting on his coat and walking out the door. Even in the cold, Harley had succumbed to his smoking habit, and as he popped a space cigarette into his mouth, lighting it up in one smooth, fluid movement, he looked over the horizon, towards the motel where he was staying. "Let's see what Frazzo knows about this." He said, intrigued, and tucking his firearm into his waist, signaled for a taxi in the cold Dreakor night.
To be continued
It was a cold night. The kind of cold that a man felt creep up on him, before it pounced. Such nights were a regular occurrence on Dreakor II, an arid, cold world, where a warm temperature was considered to be 30 degrees, and that's on a good day. Though even among such cold, biting weather were bastions of hope throughout Dreakor II. See, Dreakor II was considered "off the grid", you might say. No government, no laws. The man, or alien lifeform, with the larger rifle made the rules, and in such a cold, lawless world, scum and villainy finds its way to creep in. Dotted throughout the cold landscape, were a wide assortment of bars, gentleman's clubs, and all kinds of bandit hangouts and brigand haunts. A real scum pit Dreakor was. The perfect place to lose yourself in a drink. Hell, maybe even find yourself.
This one bar, known as the Whispering Snarlk was an interesting one, in particular. This bar was the most successful in a region of Dreakor known as "the Frozen Tooth", a 50 mile expanse filled with establishments and seedy motels. Consider this "the strip" of Dreakor II, compare it to the tales of the ancient Terran city of 'Las Vegas'. All scum and villainy on Draekor flocked to the Tooth, because in a place with such vice and villainy, there are always credits to be made. The barman was a very tall man, with a well-toned figure and narrow, masculine features. This man's name is Harley Jackson, and he is the focus of this tale. See, Harley Jackson had never been anybody in life; grew up a street urchin, served in a space platoon, earned an insignificant, "crappy" medal, as you'd hear him call it. A true nobody; but he had a couple things going for him, he did. He was a hell of a shot.. and one hell of a bartender.Not much is known about this Harley Jackson, and he'd very much like it that way. This is where the allure of Dreakor II came to him; a frozen world on the outer rim of space. No questions asked, no people coming to knock on his door. Harley's usual shift ended at around sundown, and he had a deal with a little 8-eyed alien on a motel room near the bar. He'd come in, work the majority of the day, deal with any rabble rousers, hang up his coat and be on his way. But not tonight.
The wooden saloon door of the Whispering Snarlk crashed open, and energy bolts rang through the bar. Harley quickly reached for the laser pistol on his waist, ducking behind the counter. Dynamite Darr and his boys, Harley was familiar with the bunch. They had come around the bar a few days earlier, poking around about Harley and pestering him about what a fleshy human was doing on Dreakor. Harley sent them off, thinking they'd know better than to poke around any more. They didn't.Leaning over the counter, Jackson lined up a couple shots and managed to drop two of them. They might have been big bad alien gangsters, but they were lousy shooters. Harley, of course, wasn't. Pretty soon the saloon gunfight was over, and Harley had dropped Darr, foot on his throat. "Who sent you!" Shouted Jackson into the conquered bandit, but only received laughter in response. The alien coughed back a response, along with some colorful blood, "The boss is gonna get you good, Jackson. He knows all about you!" Harley had enough. His trigger finger twitched, and in a couple seconds Darr was no more. Jackson stepped over the many vaporized alien scum around the bar, putting on his coat and walking out the door. Even in the cold, Harley had succumbed to his smoking habit, and as he popped a space cigarette into his mouth, lighting it up in one smooth, fluid movement, he looked over the horizon, towards the motel where he was staying. "Let's see what Frazzo knows about this." He said, intrigued, and tucking his firearm into his waist, signaled for a taxi in the cold Dreakor night.
To be continued
