Chapter 1: Liberty

Chapter 1: Liberty — Red Howl House

Liberty begins at the Starport Core.

The grav tube platforms sit beneath the main concourse—clean, brightly lit, and built for volume rather than comfort. Wide lanes funnel foot traffic toward numbered lines while overhead holos mark destinations in clean iconography rather than text. Districts, not streets.

As the group steps onto the platform for District 3 — Entertainment Strip, wrist-comms vibrate once in brief confirmation.
Fare: 1.5 Poisha.

The debit is automatic. Ironhand accounts are already linked to local transit systems; no tickets, no turnstiles, no delays. For those watching closely, the transaction is logged twice—once locally, once mirrored through Ironhand’s internal ledger. Simple, fast, and intentionally boring.

The grav tube arrives without ceremony. Doors slide open. The car is long, open-plan, and quiet—seating along the sides, standing space down the center. Acceleration is smooth enough that motion is felt more as pressure than speed.

The first stretch carries the train directly through the Starport Core. Through the wide transparisteel panels, stacks of cargo containers slide past in orderly grids. Dock cranes move in precise choreography. Ships sit cradled in service frames, their hulls lit in bands of white and amber as crews work through refits and inspections.

The next segment transitions into the Dockyard / Industrial District. The view tightens. Heavy fabrication structures crowd closer to the line—foundries, maintenance towers, fuel processing plants. The lighting shifts cooler, harsher. Fewer passengers board here; those who do are dressed for work, not leisure.

The grav tube barely slows as it clears the industrial zone and enters District 3.

Here, the architecture opens again. Lighting warms. Color returns. Each stop is marked by a distinct audio tone and icon set rather than spoken announcements.

Stop One.
A trickle of passengers exits—locals, workers changing shifts.

Stop Two.
More movement now. Clothing trends sharper. Music leaks faintly through station walls.

Stop Three.
This is your stop.

The doors open onto the heart of the Entertainment Strip.

---

From the street, its jagged silhouette looms at an angle that feels deliberate—walls overlapping, surfaces layered with color that seems too vivid under the district lighting. Reds and deep ambers dominate, broken by sharp white markings that resemble scars more than decoration. The howling sigil above the entrance is not backlit; it is shadowed, visible only when the ambient light catches its edges just right.
The music reaches you before the door opens. Not loud—dense. Percussion layered over irregular rhythms, the kind that settle into your chest rather than your ears.
Inside, the space opens suddenly—and you feel it immediately.
This is not a room designed to funnel patrons or focus attention. It is wide, uneven, and deliberately communal. Sightlines overlap. Conversations bleed into one another. No single vantage point dominates, yet from nearly anywhere, someone can see you.
The air is warm and heavy with scent—heated alcohols, cooked meat, sharp spices. Light sources are indirect and uneven, throwing long shadows across bright surfaces. Colors clash by Terran standards, but the effect is intentional: movement stands out, stillness does not.

You are noticed.

Not stared at—but clocked. Ears flick. Tails shift. Short bursts of Gvegh pass between Vargr in low tones, punctuated by laughter that cuts off a second too quickly. Authority here is not posted, uniformed, or announced. It moves with confidence, with posture, with who others subtly orient toward.

Inside, the space opens wide and communal.
Despite the Vargr ownership, humans dominate the crowd. Ship crew cluster near the edges—utility clothing, boots scuffed, eyes scanning out of habit. Closer to the center, well-dressed locals and visitors treat the space like a controlled thrill, sampling drinks and food with the careful curiosity of people who believe themselves safe.

Two Aslan sit apart, deep in conversation with sharply dressed humans. They lean forward, voices low. Negotiation posture. Elsewhere, two Drones stand at separate points in the room, unmoving. They drink nothing. They speak to no one. They watch everything.

Only about twenty Vargr are present—but that number carries weight. This is not a casual gathering. This is a place where Vargr choose to be.

A hostess approaches—red-dyed fur along her shoulders, movements economical. She does not ask questions that matter. She leads you to a long table positioned where you can see the room without becoming its focus.
Present, but not displayed.

Drinks arrive quickly. Food follows in dense, frequent courses—meant to be consumed steadily, not savored. The music deepens. The dance floor fills and thins in cycles, bodies moving close, then separating, then reforming in new patterns.

Conversations brush past you in fragments. Shipping delays. Crew gossip. Names mentioned without context. Nothing offered. Nothing hidden.

The Red Howl House does not reward curiosity.

It rewards patience.

A Vargr hostess, fur marked with red-dyed patterns along the shoulders, guides the group to a long table positioned for visibility without spotlight. Present, but not scrutinized.

Drinks arrive quickly:
• Heated Adwuj, bitter-sweet and smoky
• Transparent blue Altmac, carbonated and deceptively strong
• Light, milky Vilnaf
• Bright, aromatic non-alcoholic fruit drinks

Food follows in frequent, dense courses—grilled and fermented meats, dense starches, sharp seasonings, fruit and juice meant to be consumed steadily rather than all at once.

The mood loosens naturally. Some drift onto the dance floor; others remain seated, listening. Nearby conversations pass in fragments—shipping delays, port gossip, rumors of crews hiring elsewhere. Nothing directed, nothing concealed. The Red Howl does not ask who belongs; it only notices who disrupts the flow. You do not.

---

+30 minutes after arrival

A subtle shift ripples through the Vargr patrons as Tsoukfaeks enters, accompanied by a Vargr male.

Ghuegfaerrgh Oulna is immediately noticeable—not because he demands attention, but because people orient toward him without realizing it. He is missing his right eye and right ear, the scars old and clean. His remaining eye is sharp and amused. His posture is relaxed, confident, and unmistakably gregarious. you all notice that he smiles easily. Laughs often. Greets Vargr and humans alike with practiced familiarity.

Tsoufaeks introduces him;
"This is my mate Ghuegfaerrgh Oulna."
She introduces each of you in turn. If asked what does he do, his explanation is simple.

"Just an old merchant trader. Retired. Met Tsoukfaeks not long ago."

Neither he nor Tsoukfaeks elaborates. They do not correct assumptions, but they do not invite questions either. He joins the table briefly, exchanges pleasantries, then drifts—never staying long, always listening more than he speaks.

---

By 2200 hours, the room has thickened and the music has edged heavier. The night is clearly deepening—for others.

For your group, this is a clean breakpoint. Drinks are finished or set aside. Final glances are taken at exits, faces, and the shape of the room now committed to memory.

No incidents.
No confrontations.
No obligations incurred.

Just a solid first stop on liberty.

2200 hours.

ACTIONS?

I am waiting on the responses from @TiffanyKorta, @Bullseyepsa, @Packratt66 at the moment to see if their characters have anything to add or points of interest. I will say that b/c of those characters unique background there are elements of information, but I have to understand those characters point of view.

---

Since this was asked, you all see or notice the Grav Tube is like most Starports
Note this is the map of the Pautho 'Tube'


When Ghuegfaerrgh Oulna greets everyone, the Vargr responds warmly—but precisely:

"Ghar Oulna. My full name does not roll easily from human tongues."

No defensiveness. No pride. Just practicality. Most of you understand this as someone accustomed to navigating mixed-species spaces—and doing so deliberately.

All notice that;
the Red Howl Vargr Food as a Deliberate Signal

• The food is not humanized.
• No effort is made to soften flavors, textures, or preparation for Terran palates.
• Raw, fermented, heavy protein dishes are presented as-is.

Everyone concludes this is branding as the Red Howl is known as the Vargr place. That’s the draw for Pautho’s young business class—controlled exposure to the "exotic" without real danger.

---

At 2200, the energy in the Red Howl has shifted again—denser, louder, less forgiving of fatigue.

Dr. Shone remains upright and composed, his movements still precise, his attention present. But the edge has softened. A half-beat delay when he turns. A longer pause before he speaks. Nothing dramatic—just enough to be noticeable to those who know how to look. He adjusts his jacket, exhales once through his nose, and gives the group a small, apologetic smile.

"I think I’ve reached the point where the data quality begins to degrade," he says mildly. "One drink past optimal, by my own assessment."

He lifts his glass slightly, then sets it down untouched.

"I’m not impaired in any meaningful sense," he continues, conversational and calm, "but I am tired, and further participation would be… professionally unwise."

A brief shrug follows—more wry than regretful.

"If no one objects, I’d prefer to return to the Ironhand facility. A quiet environment and a horizontal surface are becoming increasingly attractive."

There is no urgency in his tone. No embarrassment. Just a clear, self-aware call made by someone used to knowing his limits—and respecting them. He looks at J.E.E.M. and responds
"I will accompany you back"

Actions?

Chaala’s ease in the room does not go unnoticed—but neither does it stand out.

In the Red Howl, comfort reads as competence. Those who belong do not scan too sharply, do not lean too far forward, do not overperform curiosity. Chaala threads that line cleanly. She moves, listens, drinks, eats—never rushing, never lingering. The fruit drink is replenished without comment; the Vilnaf diminishes at a pace that marks intention rather than indulgence.

The joke about doctor’s orders earns a flick of amusement from a nearby Vargr server. Not laughter—approval.

As she circulates, it becomes clear that observation here is reciprocal. People watch each other not to challenge, but to calibrate. Who notices what. Who misses what. Who reacts late. Who never reacts at all. When Chaala shares observations with the team—openly, casually—she is not giving anything away. This is a space where surface-level awareness is expected.

What matters is what remains unspoken.

She notes that the staff intervene without intervening. A server steps between a patron and an unwanted advance by simply arriving with a tray. Another exchange is cut short by a gentle redirection—new drink, new topic, new server. No embarrassment. No escalation. The room corrects itself.

When Tsoukfaeks arrives, Chaala clocks the shift as others do—but she feels it more than she sees it. A subtle tightening. A brief reorientation of attention that passes as quickly as it appears. The same thing happens again when Ghar Oulna follows her in.

It is not fear.

It is relevance.

Chaala greets him correctly—respectful without submission, warm without intimacy. The clipped, well-worn Gvegh phrases she uses are intentionally imperfect, Imperial in cadence, softened of growl.

The choice is appreciated.

Ghar Oulna’s response is easy, genial. His remaining eye lingers on her for half a beat longer than necessary—not scrutiny, but acknowledgment. He does not press. Neither does she? This is not a place for first questions.

---

As the night progresses, Chaala becomes increasingly aware of the Droyne.

They are not passive. They are not detached. They are learning.

Their attention sharpens during moments of social friction that resolve cleanly—when Vargr humor defuses human awkwardness, when a boundary is set without offense, when laughter bridges what could have been tension. They tilt, pause, confer briefly in low tones, then return to watching. Not people—but outcomes.

They are studying how equilibrium is maintained.
By the time 2200 approaches, the Red Howl has shifted again. Louder. Denser. Less forgiving of fatigue. When Dr. Shone makes his calm, self-aware decision to return to the Ironhand facility, it lands naturally—another example of knowing one’s limits and acting before the room demands it.

Chaala, knows now, with quiet certainty, is this: The Red Howl is not merely a Vargr establishment. It is a convergence point. Information here does not move loudly, but it does move. Ghar Oulna is permitted to drift because he is trusted to listen. The Droyne are here because this place teaches something worth carrying forward.

The terrain remains unscouted.

Actions?

No Worries! Have a Great Time!

Liberty — District 3 (Second Stop)

2242 hours

The grav tube doors part and the first wave of the evening peels away.

Ruiha, Gansay Trah Noh, Dr. Shone, JEEM, and Wilber step into the GravTube and head back to the TRC Base and eventully the Ironhand Facility inside the IISS base.
20 minutes later the doors open and Dr. Shone moves with practiced economy, fatigue acknowledged and accepted. The doors close again, and the tube glides on, carrying the city back into motion.

Chaala and Virel continue their night in District 3 Entertainment district.

---

District 3 scrolls across their wrist comms in clean, layered tiles—establishments ranked by proximity, noise profile, clientele density, and peak hours:

• The Glass Anchor
• Copperleaf
• North Current
• High Orbit Bistro
• Skyline & Cask
• Blue Horizon Izakaya
• Halo Apex
• Nightshift 13
• Gravline
• Low Orbit Lounge

Short descriptions flicker beside each name. Crowd mix. Acoustic levels. Drink focus. Social temperature.

They choose a place that promises conversation rather than spectacle.

---

The second venue opens outward instead of inward.

Warm lighting spills across polished surfaces. Glass and brushed metal frame an open floor plan where tables are arranged to invite overlap rather than separation. Conversations braid together and separate again without friction. Music plays low—present enough to shape rhythm, never loud enough to compete.

This is a place for voices.

Young professionals dominate the room. Jackets loosened. Sleeves rolled. The energy is buoyant but contained—the kind that comes from people who know they’ve survived the day and expect tomorrow to still belong to them. A small cluster of TRC Academy cadets occupies a corner table, uniforms partially obscured by casual layers, laughing too loudly and then correcting themselves with practiced restraint.

Drinks arrive quickly. Bright, aromatic cocktails balanced for flavor rather than impact.

Chaala’s glass catches the light as she lifts it for the first sip.

That is when it lands. The Gvegh words she heard when after Ghar Oulna entered the Red Howl

Not as a sound—but as structure.

The word surfaces whole this time, no longer fragmented by noise or motion.

Rokghiok.

Blade. meaning: Something that cuts clean.

The second half follows immediately, uninvited.

Zoukhin.

Presence. or is it Charisma? But the meaning is the same: The gravity that bends others toward alignment.

Chaala does not stop moving. Does not still her hand or change her expression. But something settles behind her eyes with quiet certainty.

Across the table, Virel is still working.

He leans back slightly, gaze unfocused—not on the room, but through it. His fingers trace the condensation on his glass as he tests the shape of the word under his breath.

"…Rok-ghiok," he says softly, the syllables slightly wrong.

Not a question. A hypothesis.

Chaala meets his eyes then. Just briefly. Enough to tell him that the word matters—and that the room is not where the explanation will finish assembling.

To Virel it is not the word that troubles him — it is who used it, and who did not.

Around them, laughter rises. A toast is made at the cadet table. Someone mispronounces a local drink and is corrected gently. The night carries on, unaware that anything has shifted.

But for the two of them, the name has stopped being a sound.

It has become a description.

And somewhere back along the line—at a different stop, in a different room—a Vargr with one eye and an easy smile continues to drift exactly as he always does.

2358 hours.

Actions? comments? Questions?

Red Howl House — Bohdie

Bohdie’s arrival does not register as an intrusion. It registers as alignment. The Red Howl absorbs him easily—the cut of his clothing, the confidence of his stride, the way he carries himself without advertising awareness. To Vargr eyes, he does not read as decorative. He reads as intentional.

As his eyes move, the room resolves cleanly. Roughly a hundred sophonts tonight: about twenty Vargr—a high number by local standards and enough to represent the bulk of the enclave present—while the rest are overwhelmingly human, split between ship crews in utility wear and younger professionals treating the place like a controlled indulgence. Two Droyne sit apart, small and still, observing more than participating. The ratios hold steady; no clustering suggests tension. No pocket feels closed.

The staff move with quiet competence. Vargr and human servers rotate naturally, redirecting attention where needed, smoothing moments before they sharpen. No bouncers. No posturing. The room self-regulates. Behind the bar, Bohdie notices what others might not: hands move too often, inputs too frequent. Drink orders alone don’t explain it. The bar is busy—but it is also working.

The food arrives dense and unapologetic. Akanarzh, rich and fermented, paired with starch and gravy that carries the weight properly. Adwuj, heated and bitter-sweet, settles into the chest like a remembered thing. This is not novelty cuisine. This is sustenance served honestly.

When Tsoukfaeks enters, Bohdie feels the shift before he sees it—attention realigning without anyone turning fully. When her mate follows, the change is sharper. This one does not simply enter the room. The room makes space.

When Chaala greets him in Gvegh, Bohdie only smiles and gives a small shrug. He doesn’t need the language to understand what the room is doing.

Ghar Oulna’s remaining eye finds Bohdie shortly after. There is the briefest hesitation—no more than a heartbeat—before he steps closer to the table.

"…Forgive me," Ghar Oulna says mildly, voice warm. "For a moment, I thought I knew you." His gaze sharpens—not searching, but confirming. "What name do you use now?"

If Bohdie answers with his current name, the Vargr studies his face—really studies it—then smiles. Not broadly. Precisely. As if the face doesn’t match the memory, but the presence does.

"Ah," Ghar Oulna says, amused. "Faces change. Presence does not."

Nothing more is said. Nothing needs to be. They part easily, the way professionals do when acknowledging a shared past that does not belong to the present.

As the evening wears on, Bohdie continues to observe—not hunting for contacts, not pressing advantage. Just measuring potential. Gauging which Vargr speak to whom, which humans are listened to rather than merely tolerated. Where information might pass later, if needed. When the group rises to leave, Bohdie falls naturally into step with Chaala and Virel.

---

District 3 — Second Venue (Bohdie)

The second venue feels different immediately. Where the Red Howl watched itself, this place talks. Voices overlap freely. Laughter rolls without caution. Young professionals dominate the floor, the tension of the day already spent. A handful of TRC Academy cadets occupy a corner table—loud enough to draw glances, disciplined enough to correct themselves when they do.

This is not a place of secrets. It is a place where truths slip out sideways.

Bohdie’s eyes move continuously, never settling. He watches reflections more than faces—windows, polished surfaces, the curve of a glass—tracking conversations without appearing to listen. He maps clusters, notes who speaks and who others defer to without realizing it. Food arrives fried and indulgent; it disappears at a rate that would surprise anyone watching closely. Drinks stay light, steady. Bohdie seems to take it all in stride.

Then he hears it. Not clearly. Not fully. But clearly enough. A fragment of Gvegh, drifting through laughter and glassware—two words that carry weight even without the rest of the sentence.

Rokghiok…

The intonation is wrong for casual speech. Too precise. Too careful.

Bohdie does not react outwardly. His face remains passive. His eyes continue their lazy circuit of the room as he tracks the speaker by reflected movement alone. Across from him, Virel is still circling the meaning, testing the sound of it. Chaala’s realization has already settled; Bohdie can see that much.

For himself, Bohdie doesn’t need the translation. He knows what the word means. And more importantly, he knows who it describes.

The room keeps laughing and talking over itself, unaware that anything has shifted. But for Bohdie, the night has quietly confirmed something important:

Rokghiok Zoukhin is not a rumor.

He is here.

And he is still cutting cleanly.

[GM Comment] Any more actions once the Trio returns back to the Ironhand facility? Discussions or pulling of old data from your personal files?

More importantly.... how much of the information you learned is shared with the other members of the team?

No worries Brother! I am also waiting on the others to see what they post.

Ironhand Facility — Mess Hall

0600 hours

The Ironhand mess hall is already awake.

Lights are set to early-cycle brightness—enough to work by, not enough to pretend it’s later than it is. The smell of hot food hangs in the air: protein-heavy breakfasts, breads, oils, and something sharper that doesn’t register as Terran.

Tsoufaeks is already seated when the doors open for the morning rush.

She eats with the easy efficiency of habit, posture relaxed but alert, one boot hooked lightly under the bench. Her tray holds a Vargr-style breakfast—dense cuts of meat, grain mash, and a steaming metal mug filled with something closer to broth than coffee. Whatever it is, it smells faintly of roasted fat and bitterness. She drinks it without hesitation.

Across the hall, automated service units move in practiced paths, trays sliding into place, surfaces cleaned almost before they’re used. The kitchen staff—human and non-human—work with quiet precision. No chatter. Just the sound of preparation.

Wilbur arrives right on schedule.

He looks rested. Clean. The faint tightness of someone already well into the day’s rhythm rather than just starting it. He acknowledges the cooks and service units with a firm nod and a clear, respectful greeting before moving down the line. Routine matters here, and he treats it as such.

Others filter in more gradually.

Chaala arrives composed, expression neutral, eyes already taking in the room. Virel follows not long after, unhurried, scanning out of habit rather than concern. Bohdie appears as if he’s been awake longer than anyone else, demeanor unchanged, appetite clearly intact.

Dr. Shone makes it as far as the entrance before pausing.

He doesn’t say anything about it, but the hall is too bright, the air too sharp. His movements are careful, deliberate—the unmistakable sensation of a hangover kept just below the threshold of complaint. He selects food conservatively and sits where the light is less direct.

Gansay Trah Noh, JEEM and Ruiha enter afterwards.


Tsoufaeks glances up as the group gathers, ears flicking once in acknowledgment.

"Morning," she says evenly, already halfway through her meal. No briefing tone. Just presence.

The mess hall continues its quiet work around them. Trays clink softly. The smell of food deepens as more stations come online.

Whatever was learned the night before hasn’t surfaced yet.

But it hasn’t gone anywhere either.

0600 hours.

Actions?

[quote="Packratt66"]
Bohdie staying up and doing his research.....his eyes get blurry and the he is now unsure of what he read.
It is about this time he hears Wilber familiar humming and his door opens
He looks at his watch,
0430! I thougth it was 0330! ....will he run, or walk....or do yoga or Darrian Ta Chi?
Then at 0431 he hears JEEM's door open.
Then the thought occurs to hmm, he could go on a run with these two and actually update them on what the trio learned.