Jul 15, 2025 10:58 pm
The stink hits first—oil, old blood, and burnt ozone—clinging to the dry air like rot. Kharos Drift may not show up on many starcharts, but out here on the edge of the Drift Belt, it's infamous: a scab of steel and scum clinging to a desert moon. It’s where smugglers refuel, mercenaries spend too much credit, and fugitives try to disappear.
The crew walks shoulder to shoulder down the main drag of the Scrap Quarter, the only place in the sector where you can buy a cold drink, a blaster upgrade, and a conscience-removal chip—all before sunset.
The city pulses with noise. Neon signs flicker overhead, casting pale blues and radioactive greens across uneven ferrocrete streets. Steam jets from a busted conduit, hissing out over the ankles of a three-eyed Dravathi arms dealer as he argues with a floating orb-like Quarix who pulses red in irritation. Across the street, a hunched Crydan wrapped in torn furs drags a hover crate loaded with freeze-mined crystals, frost misting off his crystalline skin under the arid heat.
You pass a vendor stall strung together with scavenged ship panels. An oily alien with six elbows and no eyes hawks bootleg synth-drinks while a Gloam—small, quivering, and slick with inky black sheen—clings tightly to the vendor's leg. Its glowing eyes flick toward you. The vendor barely acknowledges it, but the Gloam strokes his pant leg like a pet desperate for affection.
To your right, a pair of Sythrex warriors laugh like jackals, watching as a drunken human is dragged into an alley by a trio of nimble Tekari who move like shadows. No one stops them. Here, the law is either for sale or already dead.
Further down the avenue, a Verdari stands alone, blooming from a patch of cracked street. Their vine-like arms gently stir the air, exuding calming spores, ignored entirely by the crowd as their flowers slowly close in frustration.
The sky above is a dull copper haze—smoke, dust, and the glow of orbiting freighters blinking like distant stars. Low-flying shuttles scream overhead, rattling the buildings with their approach. The ground quakes slightly from the weight of another lander coming in hot.
Your boots crunch over sand, grit, and old blood as the wind stirs up bits of litter and the occasional datachip long since fried. A child-sized Gloam slinks after your group, humming softly to itself, trying to mimic your walk.
And then you see it.
The Widow’s Respite.
It’s impossible to miss. Red-glow letters buzz and blink above a pair of thick steel doors scarred by decades of blaster fire. A broken Judicar badge hangs above the entrance, bullet holes clustered around it. Inside, you're sure there's music, violence, and most importantly—work.
Your last job is done. The credit was dirty, the clients dirtier. But now your pockets are heavier and your guns are light. You’re in need of fuel, rest, and a reason to keep flying.
A bounty, a smuggling run, maybe a corporate hit?
Whatever it is, it’s probably waiting inside.
The crew walks shoulder to shoulder down the main drag of the Scrap Quarter, the only place in the sector where you can buy a cold drink, a blaster upgrade, and a conscience-removal chip—all before sunset.
The city pulses with noise. Neon signs flicker overhead, casting pale blues and radioactive greens across uneven ferrocrete streets. Steam jets from a busted conduit, hissing out over the ankles of a three-eyed Dravathi arms dealer as he argues with a floating orb-like Quarix who pulses red in irritation. Across the street, a hunched Crydan wrapped in torn furs drags a hover crate loaded with freeze-mined crystals, frost misting off his crystalline skin under the arid heat.
You pass a vendor stall strung together with scavenged ship panels. An oily alien with six elbows and no eyes hawks bootleg synth-drinks while a Gloam—small, quivering, and slick with inky black sheen—clings tightly to the vendor's leg. Its glowing eyes flick toward you. The vendor barely acknowledges it, but the Gloam strokes his pant leg like a pet desperate for affection.
To your right, a pair of Sythrex warriors laugh like jackals, watching as a drunken human is dragged into an alley by a trio of nimble Tekari who move like shadows. No one stops them. Here, the law is either for sale or already dead.
Further down the avenue, a Verdari stands alone, blooming from a patch of cracked street. Their vine-like arms gently stir the air, exuding calming spores, ignored entirely by the crowd as their flowers slowly close in frustration.
The sky above is a dull copper haze—smoke, dust, and the glow of orbiting freighters blinking like distant stars. Low-flying shuttles scream overhead, rattling the buildings with their approach. The ground quakes slightly from the weight of another lander coming in hot.
Your boots crunch over sand, grit, and old blood as the wind stirs up bits of litter and the occasional datachip long since fried. A child-sized Gloam slinks after your group, humming softly to itself, trying to mimic your walk.
And then you see it.
The Widow’s Respite.
It’s impossible to miss. Red-glow letters buzz and blink above a pair of thick steel doors scarred by decades of blaster fire. A broken Judicar badge hangs above the entrance, bullet holes clustered around it. Inside, you're sure there's music, violence, and most importantly—work.
Your last job is done. The credit was dirty, the clients dirtier. But now your pockets are heavier and your guns are light. You’re in need of fuel, rest, and a reason to keep flying.
A bounty, a smuggling run, maybe a corporate hit?
Whatever it is, it’s probably waiting inside.
OOC:
@Fyndhal,@Xgamersma Please describe your characters and What you do? 
