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-Korstyn-

You are currently in an interview regarding a possible job, for a bounty. You are meeting with Woryn Maral, a Cerean diplomat who is offering a bounty for the safe rescue of  Sym Alvira, a Kian'thar from Shaum Hii.

He apparently has some information that might be of use to the Rebels, if they can act on it. These rebels have actually no idea what the information might be, but it is valuable enough that the Empire has sent out a contract through the Bounty Hunters Guild offering 1,500 credits for proof of his elimination.

Woryn has made a counter offer, also with the Bounty Hunters Guild of 4,000 credits for him to be brought to safety, where the Rebels can hide him. 

It's a win-win.  If you can bring him in alive, it's a bigger payday, and here, where you are as well. If you cannot, well at least the Empire will reward you. You'd just have to present proof of his demise to an Imperial outpost.

Your problem.. you lack a ship. You also lack any idea where his last known coordinates are. Then there is the problem that every other bounty hunter looking for a quick few credits will be looking.

Your meeting is abruptly interrupted by an alarm bell, and a yellow flashing light.

Woryn sets down the datapad he had been looking at.

"It seems we might have to continue this later." He looks up as an aide enters the room, then leans in and whispers in his ear. [Perception check]

Perception: [1d20+8] = 5+8 = 13  ((I don't have the campaign ID, so please trust me when I say that this is what I rolled))

Korstyn leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her Beskar'gam.  She generally wasn't a talker, so she lets this bureaucratic di'kut prattle on for entirely too long before finally getting down to brass tacks.  She holds a hand up and is about to speak when an even more minor functionary interrupts the negotiations, earning the target of her narrowed eyes.  The fiery-haired Mandalorian had a bit of a temper, and more than a few blasters at her disposal if something kept her from a score.

Getting to the contact would require a ship, which she did not have...yet.  Korstyn is a Mandalorian.  Resourceful, clever, and brutally efficient at whatever she needed to do.

"This had better not stop you from giving me that contract."

Campaign ID 606


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(12-09-2020, 03:45 AM)Korstyn Steele Wrote: [ -> ]Perception: [1d20+8] = 5+8 = 13  ((I don't have the campaign ID, so please trust me when I say that this is what I rolled))

Korstyn leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her Beskar'gam.  She generally wasn't a talker, so she lets this bureaucratic di'kut prattle on for entirely too long before finally getting down to brass tacks.  She holds a hand up and is about to speak when an even more minor functionary interrupts the negotiations, earning the target of her narrowed eyes.  The fiery-haired Mandalorian had a bit of a temper, and more than a few blasters at her disposal if something kept her from a score.

Getting to the contact would require a ship, which she did not have...yet.  Korstyn is a Mandalorian.  Resourceful, clever, and brutally efficient at whatever she needed to do.

"This had better not stop you from giving me that contract."

[OoC  can you clarify what you mean by contact?  Woryn Maral is hoping to hire you,  the quarry is Sym Alvira.  There has been no mention of a third contact]

[[Contract. As in the contract being offered presently.]]

[OoC: U miss read, she said "cont-r-act", not "cont-act".  the "r" is evidently really important in the meaning of the word.]   just razing ya a little!

[OoC: U misse read, she said "cont-r-act", not "cont-act".  the "r" is evidently really important in the meaning of the word.]   I'm just razing you a little!

(12-09-2020, 03:45 AM)Korstyn Steele Wrote: [ -> ]Perception: [1d20+8] = 5+8 = 13  ((I don't have the campaign ID, so please trust me when I say that this is what I rolled))

Korstyn leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her Beskar'gam.  She generally wasn't a talker, so she lets this bureaucratic di'kut prattle on for entirely too long before finally getting down to brass tacks.  She holds a hand up and is about to speak when an even more minor functionary interrupts the negotiations, earning the target of her narrowed eyes.  The fiery-haired Mandalorian had a bit of a temper, and more than a few blasters at her disposal if something kept her from a score.

Getting to the contact would require a ship, which she did not have...yet.  Korstyn is a Mandalorian.  Resourceful, clever, and brutally efficient at whatever she needed to do.

"This had better not stop you from giving me that contract."

You were unable to overhear any of what the aide said to him, but you did notice his eyes go wide a bit.

"Yes, of course we shall continue this discussion. It seems you may have some assistance. Perhaps."

He gathers his datapad and excuses himself, hurrying past you out of the room, leaving you to wander as you will. Where would you go, this station was small, mostly just hangars and living quarters and little else, what passed for a cantina was a converted storeroom with a few tables and the owners still in one corner. There was no market to speak of, this was no market stopover but a converted communications relay being used as a base by this small rebel group. The vessel you jad arrived on had limped in, barely in one piece, and then was promptly torn apart for anyuthing salvageable for materials to keep the few rebel ships functioning.

Korstyn turns her nose up a bit at that. I'm a Mandalorian. I don't need 'assistance'! Pushing herself off of the hatchway she'd been leaning against, the woman starts wandering around the station, such as it was. Doubtful they'd have Karkan-spiced Ribenes and for certain they'd have no distractions to speak of. This was a place where a person went to hide from the rest of the Galaxy, and that was just fine with her...for now. But she wasn't about to spend the rest of her life on a dive like this.

-Everyone else-

You all begin to wander down the ramp, unsure of what to do next. 

Iak, the young repulsor-chair bound technician is not offering any direction, as he is lost in his own grief. The g others inm the hangar,  guards, pilots, and techs all seem to think you know what to do next, and return to what they were doing. It is obvious from that reaction that this group is very loosely organized, not a military unit by any definition.  What unites them is common cause, that is all.

You are still trying to decid what next when you see a cerean man heading your way across the hangar. He has a single rather militant looking human trailing just behind him. A bodyguard, or just fellow commander, it is hard to tell.  

"Captain Ubi Sunt?"  It was a question, Ubi has never met this man before.  "You are overdue, we had feared the worst. Did you rescue the informant?" He looks at everyone else, obviously unsure if any of you are the person Ubi was sent to retrieve.