Lord-Captain Horatio Drake - maligned and recently ostracised scion of House Drake - squatted like some grotesque upon his command-throne, his pale and aristocratic features fixed in an expression of extreme pensiveness, while his mind roamed hither and thither; even now he could still recall, all those months ago, the joyous moment when his father had announced that he would become the recipient of his very own Warrant of Trade. That moment had swiftly passed as soon as he had departed holy Terra, given a single vessel from his families miniature armada of ships, enough wealth to show that he was not completely destitute, and once drifting through the empty black of space he had only then fully understood why he been given the Warrant...and how final his exile was. It was true, he had never believed that his hedonistic ways and lack of interest in family matters would amount to anything, but as the twelfth son he soon discovered that he had been termed 'expendable' by his progenitor and selected to spread the honour of his House or die in the attempt - for the House of Drake it was a situation in which they could not lose!

Even the chariot which would allow him to make his way through the cosmos was of the lowest quality, at least in terms of what his father may have been able to gift him. It was a Cobra-class Destroyer, one of the most common ships in the Imperium, one that could accurately be termed as 'mass produced' by shipyards galaxy-wide, five-point-seven megatons of Terran craftsmanship and equipped with a crew of some fifteen-thousand. For ease of use, and to lessen expense, at least ten-thousand of those crew were servitors - blank minded fusions of man and machine, thoughtless slaves to his every whim - the remainder being living beings who made up up his closest advisors, a cadre of Armsmen who bore his family crest on their uniforms, and many he could truthfully not care less about. Perhaps the only advantage of the ship, that he had named the Golden Aquila, was the speed with which it could travel and manoeuvre, and the torpedo tubes that he had removed to make room for larger cargo holds.

Eyes half closed, he listened intently to the soft humming of the ships engine, the vibrations moving from the deafening epicentre of origin and up to his ears; he enjoyed listening to them, for they soothed his constantly frayed nerves and eased his troubled mind. This was because, deep down in his heart and soul, he knew that he was no explorer...no Rogue Trader...he was just some shaving from the block of wood that was his family, whittled away with a knife and thrown onto the fire that was his current state.

"My lord," spoke a voice, seemingly far away but actually right before him, the gruff First Mate of the ship causing him to tumble back into the world of blinking lights and shifting figures, of sights, sounds and Astropath choirs.

"Mister Briggs," acknowledged the slender man in his clipped Terran accent, one slender hand adjusting his deep green uniform while his other brushed the jet-black hair back against his skull, "what is it, that you must disturb me in the middle of my musings?"

First Mate Briggs sighed inwardly, looking at the figure that was his master and sighing again, "forgive me lord, but we have come into orbit of Escalon Seven; I thought you might like to know." Briggs had the air of a former Naval officer, straight-backed and straight-talking, and never yet had he failed House Drake or its offspring.

"Quite right," agreed the attentive noble, "please, let me see it."

Buttons were pressed, and the command-throne whirred about to look directly out of the viewing window, Drake narrowing his eyes into no more than slits as he rested an elbow on a knee. For moments that seemed to last forever he observed the slowly turning planet, a mass of colour that formed into all manner of continents of varying size, a civilised planet of the Emperor's Imperium that was both without law and prime hunting-grounds for the more...unscrupulous inhabitants of the galaxies fringes. Briefly he pondered, would the Imperium ever try to reclaim this planet from the clutches of corruption and vice? Why, it was only a few light-years from Port Wander, and he had seen first hand the efficiency of the Imperial Navy.

"Lord?"

He had known this moment would come, the moment when he was required to leave his ship and descend to the planets largest landmass, but it was not as easy as he had imagined it would be to remove himself from the relative safety of his floating fortress and the protectors aboard; he knew he must go though, for he did not know the Koronus Expanse - into which he intended to travel - and knew full well that most of his bridge crew, as handy as they were with a ship, would not be able to assist him with those duties he could not do himself. Finances for example, one of the greatest joys for many Rogue Traders, was something completely alien to him - Horatio Drake spent currency, he did not study it! Then there was protection from raiders and pirates, networks of contacts to form across the Expanse, as well as issues of not entirely legal nature, and so forth. All these things could go smoother, faster and with greater efficiency if he could find personages more capable than he to work for him; in order to do this he had been directed to Escalon Seven, for he was told that in all the sector there was no more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

"Have my shuttle prepared, Mr Briggs, and tell Missionary Barkov and to meet me in the hangar."

"Aye lord, as you wish."

It took half an hour for Drake to fully prepare himself, giving his resident religious fanatic time to ready his things and head toward the hangar bay, a small shuttle - able to carry Drake, Barkov and a dozen Armsmen - would be waiting there, bedecked in his House crest and their colours of black and white. Now, bedecked in his deep green uniform, trimmed with black at the epaulettes and lacing - one in the style of a Colonel of the Imperial Guard no less - and his fine trousers with there broad central stripe of crimson, he took long strides through the corridors of his ship; beneath this uniform he wore carapace armour, an auto-stubber on one hip, his family chain-axe, an heirloom handed down from the times before the Horus Heresy, on his other.

Upon entering the hangar, a vast expanse the size of a cathedral, he noticed not for the first time just how small he and the multitude of servitors seemed in comparison. "Indeed," he quipped to himself as he moved, "the Emperor does like to make us feel small..." in the distance he could pick out the shuttle and at least a dozen figures around the open ramp at the rear, one that would be his three-eyed passenger, his steps echoing loudly as his boots clanged against the metal grating of the floor, noise blocked out by the sheer amount of activity taking place around them; here some servitors were lifting and moving empty storage crates, others making snap repairs on otherwise functioning pieces of venerable technology, and above all the all-pervading thrum of the engine.

Picking out the Missionary as he made his presence felt - the Armsmen moving aside to flank their superior, salutes thrown up by every man of them, each then forming the sign of the Aquila - Horatio greeted the former Drill-Abbot with a smile, one hand gesturing to the shuttle, the other resting on the butt of his stubber.

"Tell me Artyom, are we ready to go? Are you ready to go?"

Despite their small size and manoeuvrability, Cobra-Class destroyers were lacking in bulk and fire power. They had speed and grace, but never amounted to much more than a pretty tin bucket in a real firefight.

In plainer words, they were the antithesis of Lithalia Blissponis.

The former arms dealer had grown used to the dull thumping of the Golden Aquila’s engines, to the point that it had become a sort of soothing mechanical melody in her day-to-day life. Much like quitting Lho-sticks, it had been difficult for Lithalia to ease into her new role as a member of Horatio Drake’s crew, but it was becoming easier and easier as the days crept by. The dull monotony of life had always rubbed Lithalia the wrong way, so she’d persisted in doing everything she could to keep pushing the limits. Including signing up with a Rouge Trader.

Why would an upstanding member of the Imperium of man take a career criminal with him on his adventures through the dark beyond? Lithalia knew the answer. The God Emperor might protect, but even his holy reach didn’t extend to the Koronus Expanse. You needed more than faith to survive in the xenos-ridden badlands of the 41st Millennium.

Letting out a grunt as spine cracked, Lithalia steadily eased her enormous bulk out of her bunk, the metal piercings which adorned her body jangling with each movement.

The claustrophobic hovel she’d been provided with would have been taxing on someone of a lithe stature, but when it came to someone Lithalia’s size she barely had room to shuffle about the place. Dressing took longer than it should have, as bumped and banged into cold metal walls, hissing in frustration with each painful knock.

It's like living in a cramped little cupboard. She frowned inwardly.

Moving through the Golden Aquila’s sprawling metal corridors was considerably easier. If Lithalia’s room was a cramped little cupboard, then the rest of the ship was a city of polished metal, with the void of space serving as the limitless skies above.

It didn’t take her long to cross the hanger’s hard metal grated floor, and to arrive at Drake’s shuttle.

“My lord,” She greeted the nobleman with a smile, and a slight nod of her head “Ready when you are.”

Artyom sighed a little as he carefully got what little of his equipment he had together in order to head planet side with his new lord and master. While he had always been devote and dedicated to serving the Emperor in all things, Artyom had always assumed that he would serve planet side in some capacity; Serving the Emperor inside what amounted to little more then a flying tin can in a chapel that was barely the size of a two storied house was not what he had in mind but compared to what might have happened if he had stayed where he was in the past this was no doubt both a blessing and a trail to earn said blessing at the same time.

Gathering his equipment didn't take long; He tended to have his laz pistol and his mace on him at all times anyway and there wasn't much else that he required. In truth most of his half hour until he reached the hanger was finding the correct path there. The ship might not have been all that big, but with all the hassle and bustle of the crew and the lay out of the ship it took a little while for Artyom to find the path to the bloody hanger.

Still, he managed to get there before Lord Drake did, allowing him to fall in line with the man with his mace resting on his shoulder and his pistol holstered by his side. "I am more then ready to go my lord. Though might I suggest we have a word in private once we return to the ship?" Offering a respectful nod to Miss Blissponis as she hopped on board, Artyom politely added "Don't worry. It isn't because you both missed the last sermon or to complain about the size of the chapel. It's more just an informal visit to see how you're going."

Lucius toiled away gleefully in the makeshift mobile workshop that had been put together for him. A band of gentlemen of questionable morals had put it together at his request after they'd noted his myriad of mechanical talents. He was technically working for free right now, but in return, they covered any costs he might incur. Plus, when he got to play with weapons all day, the heretek wasn't going to argue. The only problem with a mobile workshop was that it tended to move around a lot. A binary shriek left his vox caster as they hit yet another pothole, causing a vicious lurch that had probably thrown off his latest adjustments to the heavy stubber clamped to the workbench in front of him. Someone had decided it was a brilliant idea to flee at top speed for Nab's Holdout when a rival group of similar gentlemen had caught up with Chroam's band for a little overly violent competition. Lucky for whoever that had been, the heavy stubber was actually perfectly adjusted now, and having been rebuilt, it should be good for another ten thousand rounds or so, before it needed to be refitted once more. Unfortunately, it was about to get a head start on those numbers.

He hefted the weapon with his servo-arm, positioning it so he could snap the barrel into place, and attach a box of ammunition to the side. His binary chitters were meaningless to the mercenaries waiting for his latest engineering feat, however, and they ignored the nonsensical noises, much to their detriment. "Em-gee up." he barked crudely across all frequencies after he realized he wasn't using the right language. That got their attention. The hatch in the ceiling popped open almost immediately, and the largest of the mercenaries, one he'd mistaken for a gun-servitor the first time they'd met, reached down with his own massive servo arm to accept the much-needed heavy stubber. Another unexpected pothole delayed the weapon's activation, but their lurching about also caused the latest volley of rocket fire to miss, so that was a bonus. The tech-priest just hoped they wouldn't ruin that poor machine gun. The first burst he heard immediately shattered any hope he might have had.

The servo-armed mercenary emptied the entire belt with a single squeeze of the trigger. The massive, custom-designed slugs obviously had the desired effect, as Lucius could feel his workshop slowing after the gun fell silent. But he knew exactly what was going to happen next. The hatch opened again, and the warrior that really should have been a servitor started grumbling at him. Something about the gun not working again. A swarm of mechadendrites lashed out at the man, seizing the heavy stubber as the heretek screamed in binary. He hurled every insult he could think of at the man before slamming the hatch shut in his face. He supposed now was as good a time as any to begin work on the poor girl. Whispering his binary love-song to the gun, he set to work. He had no plans of letting it fall into that fool's hands again.

The weapon's unsurprisingly primitive machine spirit relented quickly under the heretek's dirge, and he managed to save most of it without any trouble. The only problem was the distinct lack of a serviceable barrel. The deliciously simple heavy weapon only needed a few precision parts, and the barrel was one of them. After firing two hundred and fifty hot-loaded rounds in a single burst, the current barrel, which had been iffy to begin with, was now beyond saving. He supposed he had the time, though, since obviously the other mercenaries had been driven off, and the tech-priest employed a few unapproved techniques to set up a plasma kiln and a lathe just precise enough to do the job. Of course, he wasn't about to start cutting out a barrel in a moving workshop, but they had to be almost there by now. A little patience, and the task of moulding a new barrel from the old one and some scrap metal took up the rest of the trip, and once they rolled to a halt, he began the delicate task of machining rifling into the fresh blank immediately.

It went without saying that Lucius' "employers" tried to interrupt him part-way through his work. They'd done it before, and he was not at all surprised that they hadn't learned. This time he didn't bother with a warning, and immediately opened fire with his combat-capable mechadendrites. Whoever it was had the sense to slam the door and leave him in peace. Once the obvious sounds of him working away stopped, though, they kicked in the door in and stormed the tiny shop. There were four of them. The big one, their leader, and two goons he had trouble differentiating. They were staring down the chrome heretek with shocking composure. All of his mechadendrites were out, hovering in the air as if waiting for a reason to do something horrific. He turned slowly to face the quartet, wondering why they always insisted on such inane chicanery. He made for an intimidating sight in the dim lighting of the trailer, but that didn't seem to phase the mercenaries, yet. In his left hand was the custom barrel he'd just finished. It was shorter than a normal heavy stubber barrel, but heavier in profile, and fluted for improved cooling. In his right was the icon of his office, why he was holding it wasn't quite clear. Then he let go of the symbol of the Adeptus Mechanicus. It descended two feet, and he tightened his grip once more, this time on the shaft attached to the icon. Energy crackled down from his potentia coils into the icon, and the mercenaries took a step back. In such close quarters, a single swing of such a weapon could end all of them.

"I believe our contract is fulfilled?" it sounded like a question, but it really wasn't. The leader nodded slowly in agreement, but the look on his face wasn't what Lucius was expecting. He was pretty sure that one was called confusion. "I will be keeping the heavy stubber as payment for improving your workshop." he stated when no one else had anything to say. The leader frowned at that. He was pretty sure it was called a frown. It was the expression that got made before things got unpleasant for people not made of metal. When the leader opened his mouth, Chroam sent another crackle of energy down the length of his arm, and got the head of his weapon glowing with the power contained by it. His opposition made their exit then, and he would have smiled, if he still had a face. Lucky for him, he didn't have such mundane concerns any more. "It was a pleasure working for you." he voxed at their backs, but they obviously weren't listening. The door closed behind them, and he took that as a sign to take his time. The heretek wasn't done rebuilding his machine gun, after all.

Headspacing it on the masterwork barrel he'd created was easy enough. Then he timed it as slow as was practical, mostly out of personal preference. Once it was set up properly, he field-stripped it and packed it neatly into a container designed just for such a purpose. The gentlemen he'd been working for weren't going to need it, since they didn't have a heavy stubber any more. And as a final warning against the practice of abusing venerable weapons, he made sure anything he left behind would be worse than useless to anyone who thought they could use it. Lucius was careful to keep this inconspicuous, however, as he'd been told that the surprise was the best part. Once he was satisfied, he slung the last belt of ammunition he'd reloaded for the mercenary band over his shoulder, and headed out. He had no intention of ever using the heavy machine gun he'd just saved from a short lifetime of abuse, but neither did he even consider parting with it. The ammunition, on the other hand, was going to have to pay for whatever it could, at which point he supposed it would be back to working for disreputable folks unable to care for their own weapons. He figured he could get at least a week of "easy living" in, though. Anyone who knew the value of frangible armour piercing ammunition would happily pay whatever price he could come up with, especially on this backwater. Then again, he wasn't sure anyone else on this backwater had a heavy stubber to call their own. Nab's Holdout wasn't exactly the pinnacle of security. He supposed there was no harm in trying though. Maybe things had improved in the short weeks he'd been gone...

Incense burned on a small plinth, smoke coiling away from the source to wreath the room in an aromatic haze. The faint light of the candles set alight the dull plating of gold of the object above them, gleaming as well off the polished stygian wood which formed the majority of the Simulacrum Imperialis. Vellum sheets hung from the temple-like structure, inscribed with inks of red and black for their entire length and attached to the Simulacrum by waxen seals bearing the iconography of the Adepta Sororitas. Faint burn streaks and projectile wounds were visible to any with a trained eye and close enough to see, stitching across the sides of the sturdy wood or forming as a slight discoloration on the front facing, any blatant markings having been repaired by the caretakers of the Simulacrum. An old and experienced symbol it was, and any who saw it would never discount the battles in which the relic had fought.

Kneeling in front of the makeshift shrine were two figures, greatly distinguished in height and form. On the right knelt a shaven child, limbs thin and scarred and eyes aged beyond their years yet filled with a fervor contrasting his simple tunic of rough-spun brown cloth. To the lift, towering above the boy was an armored figure, broader and bulkier by far even without the protective covering. Brown hair, cleaned recently of grime, shimmered as it hung loosely about the woman's shoulders, framing a rugged face with a prodigious scar cutting across the left side. A glow of bionics emanated from the shadows of her left eye, a pinprick of muted red and blue. In unison did the two pray, voices mixing before the weight of the air consumed the sound, leaving only a lingering quiet as the two bowed their heads one last time.

Signing the Imperial Aquila with her hands, Mycandra stood to her full height, one which, even without power armor, would have topped many normal men by a not insignificant amount. Some foresight granted her by the Emperor had told her of the approaching emergence from the Warp and as such Mycandra had prepared for the arrival at the planet of Escalon Seven, gear pre-selected and laid out on the bed. No window into the void of space occupied her chamber, no announcement of Drake’s had alerted her, nothing but an intuition told her that the moment of arrival was now, their position above the planet steady. That and her learning the time of travel to the planet after warp transition.

Having completed her ablutions and various other rites of service across the span of the past couple of hours, Mycandra found her religious and physical duties completed to the fullest extent possible on this ship. Thinking as to her meager possessions made Mycandra recall the flight from Outpost 57, accumulating as much of her own personal equipment before the unfortunate station suffered critical existence failure. She could not say she grieved the loss of life but her sensibilities would have much preferred to have acquired passage on a more reputable or at least provisioned vessel. Nothing to be done for it.

Extinguishing the candles, Mycandra took the small Simulacrum, attaching the piece to her waist as was her custom, a reminder of her vows and an inspiration in times of darkness. Bolt pistol and hand flamer magnetized to the legs, Medicus Ministorum below the power pack of her armor, and the litanies of faith attached by cord to the Simulacrum Imperialis. Near the entirety of her worldly possessions excluding a few necessities within the storage units at the feet of the bed. Followed by the boy, she exited the room assigned to her, muttering as she went, “Our Emperor, protect thy faithful servants as we pursue your will.” The trip to the hangar itself was of no consequence for she had learned the layout of much of the ship during her daily regimen of exercise. She had no indication as to the length of time she would wait until they gathered but she knew it would not be long. Stepping into the expansive bay, she sighted the Rogue Trader with his retinue at the opposite end of the hall. Placing her helmet on her head and hoisting the boy in virtue of speed, she crossed the expanse quickly, reaching the group after the lady Blissponis had already made her greetings. Halting two meters from the Rogue Trader, she released the boy from her grasp and removed the helmet subsequently, face impassive yet instilled with an underlying determination to not be refused. “Lord Drake, I shall require passage for myself and my page to the surface of this planet to replace the stock of supplies I have lost. I am certain you would be willing to oblige.” Calm and loose she was, but her body was ready to react to any form of violent action, although she did not suppose the situation would come to that unless the man was truly foolish.

'I'd like to order another bottle of wine. Your best again, if you don't mind.'

'I hate to be rude, sir, but you've already ordered and drunk two such bottles without any food to accompany them. Are you sure you wouldn't like at least a starter to go with-'

'But I haven't had enough yet. How can I expect to enjoy myself without an appropriate amount of wine to treat myself upon?'

'Ah... with all due respect-'

The hooded man's cold, colourless gaze fell upon the unfortunate waiter with the most momentary, millimeter-scale snkt of metal shifting over itself, silencing him before the inevitable warning could emerge. Seconds passed, and though the restaurant was quite warm, a fell chill settled upon the young man's shoulders, as though some ethereal spectre was passing through him. Not a moment later, a second snkt made itself known, and the Navigator repeated his request. This time, the waiter left without complaint.

With his order made, Galga'roth returned to his depressive brooding. It was rare of him to engage in any other meaningful activities nowadays; many high-class restaurants (and some less classy establishments to boot) knew him as a regular customer, if only of their better alcohols, and only the newest of waiters nowadays dared question him about his presence, of what exactly he was drowning and why.

Four and a half years, he thought to himself. I've been stuck in this Emperor-damned place for four and a half years now. Give or take a couple hundred yearfractions. He'd long since taken to counting the passage of time in only the most vague of terms, in part as a coping mechanism for ensuring he didn't go completely stir-crazy. There was, after all, only so much to do in a city of this size, and travel to other cities on the landmass might be facilitated only when he finally decided to up stakes, likely with little to no benefit to the available sights. In other words, he was in a rut, and it required quite copious amounts of alcohol to let him forget that fact.

As the Navigator's third bottle of wine was presented to him and opened accordingly, he found himself drawn to the gossip of another table, one containing two women in local dress with local accents. Rarely did such gossip actually interest him, but for starters, it was one of the louder tables near to him, and as a main course, they were discussing rumours about a rogue trader. Focusing in on their conversation, he tapped the waiter's side as he started to walk off, encouraging the man to remain as Galga'roth listened in:

'Ah dare say, that is a mighty impressive tale ah'm hearin', Jianne! Y'all're sure he's headin' fer Nab's Holdout, then?'

'Well, of course ah'm sure. When have ah ever been wrong, Mariah?'

'Ah mean, there was that time with the haunted doll house, the time with the giant sandsnake, the time with the fire-'

'Aaaalright, no need ta embellish... aside from the times ah was wrong, when have ah been wrong?'

'Well, don't that just limit mah options...'

'No need ta be snippy with me, Mariah, I've got this from good sources, ya know!'

'Like that hunk Dwight Hennson?'

'Hah, ah wish. He is very attractive, though...'

It was about this time that Galga'roth's patience wore out, and another slight snkt might have been heard to those listening out for it. For the second time in as many minutes, he scanned the souls of his targets, seeking the knowledge he needed in the very fabric of their being where before he had merely been snooping for the sake of dissuasion. However, it seemed that Jianne had no relevant information beyond "I heard there was a rogue trader coming to Nab's Holdout", and Mariah even less than this. Nothing he hadn't already heard from them.

He had intended to return to his state of despair either way, but something in him, some drunk and irrational part of his mind, decided now was the time to react poorly to this despondence. Why not give it a try? it said to him through a bleary, boozy haze. You only need one success to get back in the game, and even if this isn't the one, there's always the next time, and the next time, and the next time...

He was quite sure this sudden determination would vanish as quickly as his hangover arrived, but nevertheless, he stood up, screwing the cap back on to the wine bottle and making to leave with it, only to cease abruptly when the waiter reminded him that he needed to pay for what he'd bought. After a moment's thought, he put the bottle on the table, retrieved his wallet, and drew a couple of crumpled notes from it, pushing them into the waiter's hands. When told, as he put the wallet away again, that this was far more money than what his purchases were worth, he waved back dismissively at the waiter, told him to keep the change, then grabbed the third bottle and left the establishment, stumbling more than once on his way out.

Everyone in the city knew where Nab's Holdout was, and it could be easily navigated to even in a state of moderate drunkenness. Named after a famous outlaw, supposedly, and from what Galga'roth had seen of it, undeservingly famous for the quality of sustenance it provided. Nevertheless, on the off-chance that a rogue trader really had made planetfall, little miss Jianne would likely be right: it was the most likely place for any offworlder to turn up, especially if they were looking to hire locals for their line of work. If he was lucky, this "rogue trader" would turn out instead to be an Inquisitor, or better yet one of the fabled Space Marine chapters, seeking only the best of pilots to... who was he kidding? If he was lucky, the rogue trader would exist, period. Sighing, he began to trudge to the holdout in question, before he changed his mind about the whole thing.

It was called the Last Chance Saloon, and Jean-Luc didn't like it at all.

The bawdy-house was thick with the scum of a thousand worlds, the air resinous with smoke and the stench of low-grade alcohol. Voices hollered, scowled and swore in a multitude of tongues, from threadbare couches and wooden tables piled with drinks, tarot cards, thirteen different kinds of money and glowing, polyhedral dice. A quick, raucously off-key honky-tonk tune rang through the building from the far wall, where the establishment's illegally modified servitor hung bolted to the piano, a battered top hat fixed to its metal skull.

Malcontents and killers hung over the sticky bartop, bathed in irritating neon blue. Here, a quorum of wasteland thugs took turns throwing knives into a vandalized Wanted poster. There, a lissome young woman wrapped with serpentine tattoos and a squeaking, violet rubber dress was writhing in the lap of a leering local gun runner. And by the far banister, three men at a card table leapt to their feet over a legal dispute, drawing crudely modified guns, their disagreement interrupted by the barman firing a deafening blast from a Volg Scattergun into the roof. Several of the whores screamed, one in apparent delight, wood and plaster raining down from above. The men reluctantly eased back into their seats, eyeing each other bitterly, the guns never leaving their hands. And the tempo of the establishment never wavered.

It was all so monumentally tedious.

Jean-Luc Bauta de la Mare sat alone in a shadowy and isolated corner, sipping a barely-acceptable blend of Cyprian tea and watching with the barest interest. He whiled away his time calculating his chances of getting out of this sector in an acceptable frame of time and finding them grim. Escalon Seven was not a place people went. It was a place people ended up.

The crude wooden doors swung open, dust and bright, shimmering heat blowing into the merry din along with another cadre of disreputables. They looked angry about something. Volatile. Spoiling for a fight. They glowered, looking around the saloon, and the largest, a weathered hulk of a man, pointed to La Mare with a heavy, whining servo arm. They drew near.

"Our table, you long-haired sack of grox shit," barked the apparent leader, "Piss off or die!"



Amateurs, all of them.

"Very well," sighed the career killer, standing and sipping the last of the barely-adequate tea, "I was largely finished with it in any case."

"You mouthin' off t' me, freak?"

"Not at all," he gestured, half-bowing, deadpan, "Your table, sirs."

"Grox shit knows his place." snickered one of the hangers-on.

"Fethin' right," growled the leader, "Beat it, freak. Crawl back in yer fethin' hole before I change my fethin' mind!"

La Mare bowed again, and left.

---

"Gideon." He signalled the barman, setting the teacup down on the damp wooden surface. The grizzled, hairless old enforcer nodded, shouldering the scattergun and taking down a fresh pot of water. Jean-Luc eased himself into a standing-room gap at the bar.

Someone grabbed his shoulder. A wiry ex-guardsman, one flickering bionic eye glowing in a bristly, gap-toothed face. He thumbed to his companion, a hammer-nosed Ogryn who looked more like a side of beef than a thinking being.

"He doesn't like you." he sneered.

Jean-Luc sighed.

"I don't like you either!" he continued. "You better watch yourself! I have--"

"Must we do this again, LaChance?"

"--I have the terminatus sentence on twelve--"

"Gideon. A round of plox for each of these men, s'il vous plaît."

The drinks were duly served. The pair snickered, LaChance digging a bony finger into La Mare's breastbone. "You get off this time." he said, thickly, "But next time you maybe won't be so lucky."

"Can we please...?"

The two withdrew to the far corner of the bar, the man cackling after him, "Maybe you'll be dead!"

The barman set down the teacup with a clink, regarding Jean-Luc with some scrutiny.

"Don't rightly know why y'all let them boys push y' round like that, drifter." he said at last, nodding, "If'n I read that brand on yer head proper, wouldn't be yer first time seein' a little blood."

"Mn." Jean-Luc lifted the cup, breathing in the aroma, "Well. What's the point?" He sipped, swallowed. "Dilletentes and savages. It would prove nothing, achieve nothing. Only spoil my digestion and ruin this... carefully-cultivated ambience."

"Hn." the barkeep was noncommittal. "Hear the news?"

"I have not."

"Shuttle's a-comin down."

"Mm?"

"Rogue trader." Gideon sniffed, "Name of Drake. Lookin' for crew."

Time froze in La Mare's mind. The saloon was no longer a regrettable waystation. It was now a battlefield. It was a mass grave waiting to happen. Rough voices sounded from along the bar, spreading throughout the revelry.

"Good pickings on a trader's crew, I'm in on that for sure--"

"Needs a point man I hear--"

"Like to be some fierce competition--"

La Mare pushed away from the bar as the rumor spread, his tea untouched and unpaid for, striding purposefully to the padded couches where the arms merchant and his rubber-clad doxy were entwining themselves.

"Markus," he said briskly, "Do you have what I asked for?"

"That I do, pardner." The man chuckled, his grin bright over a trimmed golden beard. He tugged on the woman's charcoal hair, yanking her head back and eliciting a practiced gasp of pleasure. She squirmed out of his lap obediently, draping herself over his shoulder. The gunrunner slid a small black case the size of a shoebox from under the couch, setting it on the glass-piled table. La Mare watched intently as he flipped the lid.

"Gen-you-whine Imperial-issue bolt rounds." grinned the smuggler, "Not easy to get here under the table on ol' number Seven, Johnny boy, not easy at all. Trust you're, ah, ready to deal?"

"I am." He nodded, quickly, firmly.

"Course you are." Markus smirked under his breath. He pointed to Jean-Luc, reaching around the woman's neck with his free hand to give the front of her dress a squeeze, "Well to that, Johnny, I got a kind o' revised offer for you. See my girl here," squeeze, "Says that necklace of yours is real pretty..."

La Mare regarded the girl flatly. She stared back at him with smoldering turquiose eyes and licked her lips.

"How interesting that she can tell." he murmured.

"Women, yeah?" The man chuckled. "And I do like to keep my baby happy, don't I honeysuckle?" He pulled her in for a kiss, and she reciprocated enthusiastically, twisting her hips and moaning like an addict.

Her eyes never left La Mare's, nor his hers. She ran her hand down her hip, deliberately.

"So how about it, John-o?" Markus grinned and wiped his mouth, disengaging, "Can't say that ain't a fair price. One little ol' trinket for a boxful of the Emperor's own special herbs n' spices. Come on, man." the dealer spread his hands with a corrupt, winning smile, "Whad'you say?"

"An interesting arrangement," agreed Jean-Luc, folding his hands behind his back, "However, I have a counteroffer. All the Imperial Scrip I have on my person. And eight seconds in which to leave this place with your lives."

The girl untangled herself, flattening her back against the couch with a faint hiss of breath. The arms dealer slowly lifted his head, regarding Jean-Luc the way a cat regards a mouse.

"Well now," he said with deadly softness, pushing aside a stack of tatty pillows to reveal the muzzle of a fully-powered hellgun, "Didn't have you figured for the suicidal type, Johnny."

"These are extraordinary circumstances." replied La Mare, "Four seconds."

"Boys!" shouted Markus, dragging the hellgun out of its covering, "Looks like we got us another out-of-town hard case!"

The most dangerous men in the Holdout were getting to their feet. Weapons were drawn, everyone glancing from one to another, opportunism glinting in every eye. The heavy-set thug threw aside his table with that massively engineered limb. The Ogryn heaved a spike-encrusted ripper rifle from its sling. Gideon racked the scattergun. The servitor just kept playing. Jean-Luc drew in a breath, thumbing open something in his hand. It was just like coming home.

"C'est la guerre," he said, and dropped the flashbang.

---

From outside, one could see the windows explode outward in a burst of blinding white, a second before the air erupted with a cacophony of gunfire, profanity and breaking wood.

@Kingfisher@Bright_Ops@Sarpedon@Durandal@BCTheEntity@Culluket

Drake was halfway up the boarding ramp of the shuttle when, much to his surprise and very real annoyance, he was accosted by numerous members of his 'bridge crew' that he had actually almost forgotten completely about. The incident at Outpost 57, though still seared into his mind and memory for all time, was something he had tried extremely hard to forget...but he could not forget, not with at least several of his crew members being survivors from that doomed port. It vexed him greatly that one of those surviviors had to be Lithalia Blissponis, the last living member of a once-great criminal family, now a constant pain in his arse.

Allowing his Armsmen to board the shuttle ahead of him, the refined gentleman who also happened to be a Rogue Trader turned back to look at the faces. Yes, they were all there! Lithalia Blissponis in all her flabby glory, Artyom Barkov the religious nut-job who was accused of something that Drake didn't entirely disapprove of, and the pious Sister Mycandra Castell (and the waif that made up the second part of that double act). In all honesty, he'd always wondered what it would be like to bed a member of the Sororitas, but he'd never attempted it because he valued his genitals being attached to his body too much.

"Don't worry. It isn't because you both missed the last sermon or to complain about the size of the chapel. It's more just an informal visit to see how you're going."

"Well then, praise the God-Emperor for small mercies, ey?" Chimed Drake with a chuckle, dutifully making the sign of the Aquila across his chest, now if he would only rid me of Blimponis over there he thought to himself, giving her his best 'I hate you but will pretend that I actually enjoy your company' expression.

"Lord Drake, I shall require passage for myself and my page to the surface of this planet to replace the stock of supplies I have lost. I am certain you would be willing to oblige.”

Looking over the heads of those already crowding him, he cast his gaze over the Sister of Battle and flashed her his best smile - not that he thought it would really have an effect on her, except showing her that he was a benevolent sort of leader - giving a curt nod of his head, "you are more than welcome to accompany us, Sister. You and your...companion there." Something about that boy gave him the willies, something just not right about him.

"If you'll all follow me, we shall soon get underway."

Once they were all aboard, the passenger section closed in with a hiss of the rising ramp and a loud thump as it sealed the shuttle, Drake took a moment to compose himself. Making sure that his weapons were within easy reach, his green and black jacket - taken from the stores of a Guard regiment he had never even been a part of, the Ninty-Sixth Sasan Rifles - free of creases and his trousers, a deep blue with a crimson stripe down the centre of the outer leg, held well in place by his belt. Lastly he checked his hair, tied in a top-knot on his head, his lips curving into a smile unseen within the darkness of the shuttle bay, devilish red light being the only thing illuminating the shuddering interior.

It was not long before they landed, setting down a mile or so outside of a settlement known planet wide for its less-than-savoury inhabitants. Some might well have seen the shuttle, some may even be on their way, but Drake was not really concerned about much at all...at least not until he exited the shuttle, his eyes looking toward Nab's Holdout, and had them widen somewhat when an explosion of white light and the sound of firearms exchanging shots could both be heard and seen coming from the settlement.

"Emperor's shrivelled bollocks," came the expletive, one hand already reaching for the chain-axe dangling from his hip, "form a line, loose spread, and keep pace with us," he ordered the Armsmen, "we're going in."

@Durandal@Kingfisher@Jbcool

It would seem that they would not be alone on the trip down to the planet's surface. Alongside his new lord, the armsmen and himself was Miss Blissponis and Sister Castell; Both of whom made Artyom uncomfortable but for completely different reasons. He hadn't seen what the situation on Outpost 57 was personally, but he had heard several rather distressing rumors about Miss Blissponis from some of those that had either survived the outpost as well or who were unfortunate enough to be close enough to the incident to know a lot about what happened.

Sister Castell made him uncomfortable for a completely different reason; Compared to her, he might has well have been an unenlightened heathen on an undiscovered world somewhere beyond the light of the Emperor. Sure he was knowledgeable enough in the Imperial Creed to be a missionary but he hadn't been trained to be a priest and there were stories about what happened when the Adepta Sororitas found someone wanting when it came to the Imperial Creed. The fact that her ward was kind of... weird didn't exactly help measures. Still, at least she tended to take her prayers in her own quarters so small mercies.

The ride to the planet was thankfully short, with the armsmen going out first to be followed (In theory at least) by their 'glorious' leader. Since Artyom himself didn't exactly have any plans for the planet, he calmly fell in line with Lord Drake as he politely asked with some good humor "So my Lord, did you come here looking with someone or something in mind to take on or are we just window shopping until something catches your eye?"

Lucius Chroam quickly discovered that he wasn't quite as close to Nab's Holdout as he'd thought. Indeed, he was still technically outside the town limits. Not that the settlement really deserved the title of "town" or even its own limits. As it was, though, there was enough space between him and the closest building, that a whole shuttle managed to land about a hundred metres in front of him. Now the techpriest was not a superstitious cyborg, when compared to his colleagues. But he was a little stitious. And when the wash from the shuttle's engines began throwing his robe around, he was inspired. He was going to turn this humble transport into a slightly more dangerous, slightly less humble transport. With no heed to the fact that it belonged wholly to someone else, he waltzed right up to it, set down his case full of heavy stubber parts, made his mechanicus axe-maul disappear into his robe, and set to work.

Lucky for him, an explosion and the sounds of gunfire drew the attention of the shuttle's inhabitants, and he heard some yelling about "forming a line" and "going in" whatever that meant. Beyond the fact that it meant he had plenty of time for inventing, of course. Using his servo-arm to boost himself up, the chromed-out tinkerer sicked his utility mechadendrites on the wing of the shuttle, while his optical mechadendrite kept him up to speed on the proceedings. The shuttle had rudimentary hard-points, likely intended for fire-and-forget munitions. A skilled enginseer could probably rig them up for other weapons, but Chroam had even bigger plans.

Carefully manipulating the surprising excess available to him in the form of auxiliary systems, he began rigging up the basis of what would certainly be the most firepower this ship had ever been in possession of. The whole time, he remained in careful communication with the shuttle's machine spirit. This spirit was surprisingly helpful, even doing what it could to direct him through systems that would balance the power draw that anyone inside would doubtless be monitoring. Of course, that wouldn't last forever. He was going to need some serious energy to fire the weapon he was designing. It did help, though. Even if those still inside the vessel were paying attention, they'd have to be incredibly bored and attentive to figure out that anything was going on outside based on their instruments. Most of the time, a look out the window wouldn't help them either, since Lucius was tucked away underneath the wing.

Until someone noticed and decided to do something about the fact that there was a chrome-plated techpriest chatting in binary with a shuttle wing and creating something obviously menacing from scratch, the explorator was just going to keep working. For the moment, he was working on getting the groundwork set for his project, but even after it was operational, he could already see optimizations he was going to need to complete. It had yet to occur to him that someone might own this shuttle, and that they might not want laser-based destruction strapped to a hardpoint under the left wing. On top of that, if his invention decided it didn't want to work, he might end up on the unpleasant end of a catastrophic failure, and someone might be out a shuttle. That remained to be seen, however, as he was hoping to finish the device completely before test-firing it, just in case it did decide it didn't want to cooperate for some strange reason...

Blind, deaf and disoriented in the teeth of an elemental barrage was a way of life on Samara. And having prepared, Jean-Luc was, unlike the rest of the room, not quite blind enough.

He had ten seconds of advantage. He took them.

The hellgun screamed, scorching a serpentine curve of hot ash from the bar to the chandeliers, sending one of them plummeting to the table below and felling one of Markus's thugs. La Mare felt the heat of it as he threw himself bodily into the arms dealer, sending both of them to the floor as the metal storm broke in earnest. The arms dealer had grown soft, confident, overreliant on superior firepower -- but he had still murdered his way up from the bottom through the worst scum of the Empire's underhives, and he fought back with vicious, underhanded strength, relinquishing his grip on the las weapon and instantly drawing a wicked Kroot blooding-knife from his vest.

Eight seconds.

The two men rolled end over end behind the couch in a life-or-death melee as fragments of wood and plaster exploded from the wall a foot above their heads, the near-silence of the scene surreal in the high-pitched, ear-ringing aftermath of the flashbang. Markus grinned like a man possessed as they tumbled, dragging the hellgun's battery pack along with them, shouting something neither of them could hear as the knife slowly struggled toward its target. Tufts of stuffing and colored fabric rained down on them as stubber rounds perforated the couch.

Five.

The gun runner stopped smiling as his airway abruptly cut off and he finally understood what was happening. In rolling, the cable of the hellgun had been wrapped around his throat like a garrote and was now choking the life out of him. Shock overtook his features, the knife abandoned as he groped airlessly at the unbreakable cord. La Mare planted his foot in his adversary's back and twisted, harder and harder and harder until he felt the familiar, tell-tale crack and the even more familiar slump of dead weight.

He dragged the munitions box toward his diminishing cover with his foot and put his back against the bannister, slotting bolt rounds into his pistol as quickly as humanly possible.

Two seconds, make them count. Hellgun powerful but will fatally betray position high ground a rational advantage but wooden balcony is a deathtrap bar bulletproof and scattergun predictable firing interim throwing knives near bannister wall servo arm is--

"--other FUCKER--"

Comme le temps passe.

He stood abruptly, the bolt pistol ringing three times with a noise like a ballpeen hammer against an anvil, a split second of surprise visible on the faces of three of the planet's most notorious slave traders before their heads and bodies exploded, coating the walls and furniture with a slick patina of blood. Everywhere, everyone was firing at everyone else. The fallen chandelier exploded into fragments of glass as gunfire raked every corner of the Last Chance saloon. La Mare kicked the hellgun into the center of the room, then spun and dove toward the near end of the bar, snatching one of the knives from its place embedded in the wanted poster, slicing open the throat of the man about to ambush him from the ice cabinet before sending it thudding into the stomach of an exposed gunslinger. Predictably, the less seasoned patrons lunged for the heavy weapon, and were cut down in a brutal crossfire, those who took to the balcony collapsing as rounds punched through the wood, taking their legs out from under them. The winnowing had begun in earnest.

LaChance and his Ogryn spotted him, the desiccated drunk firing unsteady shots from his laspistol, the abhuman giant swinging its ripper down and destroying a quarter of the bar. La Mare's power sword unsheathed with a hum, shearing through the weapon and cleanly through the giant's shoulder, severing the arm with a warping hiss. The Ogryn bellowed, staggering heavily into another holdout of desperate men. LaChance howled in lunatic rage, scuttling around the rear side of the bar trying to flank him, firing wildly and screaming bloody murder, while Gideon blew a hole through one of the upturned tables, sending the man behind it flying through the window in a gory arc. The bartender whirled furiously on Jean-Luc, both of them bathed in the hard blue light of the bar's recess.

"--bit off more than you can chew, boy--"

La Mare hit the floor and went temporarily deaf as the scattergun discharged above him, turning LaChance into a rain of giblets. He crouched, counted under his breath and stood, his open palm finding the barrel of the gun at the moment the Volg's firing mechanism recycled. There was a thunderous detonation and the grizzled barman's jaw exploded as the weapon fired with its barrel directly under his chin. Gideon collapsed, staring in mute, numb horror.

Another bolt round rang from the pistol as La Mare strode the length of the bar, followed by a second. He held the power sword bent behind his back, aiming like a duelist as his third target broke and ran. The shot punched through his back, sending him sprawling into the bright, dusty streets a second before--

"GROX SHIT!"

The piano servitor smashed hard against the mirrored drinks rack less than a meter away, showering broken glass. The hulking servo-armed thug that had thrown it, almost Orkish in his modification and bearing, had finished tearing the head off an old rival and bore down on his next victim, pointing, now wielding a stolen chain-axe in a free hand.

"YOU'RE DEAD FETHIN' MEAT, YOU FETHIN' FREAK!"

La Mare rounded the far end of the bar, pirouetting as the mechanical limb tore through the air, cracking into the floorboards. The power sword hummed with a muted song as it cut through the air, deflecting the motorized backswing of the roaring axe, once, again, the teeth of the weapon showering sparks against the shimmering blue power-field. Another impossibly heavy mechanical blow swung horizontally toward him, checked by the flat of the blade at the whirring joint of the servo-arm and sending the attacker hurtling. The saloon shook as the enormous, augmented killer went forcefully down onto his belly.

The thug rolled over, gasping, looking at his bloodied hand. The chainaxe had been caught between it and his chest as the counterblow had sent him sprawling, tearing off his fingers and rending a deep, red wound across his armored sternum. He struggled to right himself, heaving his way up the last table still standing and coating it with fresh blood.

"Momentum," observed a tired, familiar voice from above him, "Your counterweight was insufficient. I apologize for saying so, but with this sort of workmanship it's a miracle you're not dead already."

The raider looked up, incredulous and uncomprehending, sweat beading on his bloodstained face. La Mare drew out one of the chairs, sheathing his blade.

"I believe this is where we came in, non?" He lifted the chair, braced it over his shoulder. "Your table, sir."

The chair came down hard with a rushing of air and a sickening crack of wood and bone. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.

La Mare took a moment to catch his breath, regarding his handiwork.

...Five.

---

The remains of the chair clattered against the bloodstained floorboards as Jean-Luc tossed it away, staring down wearily at the ruin of his final assailant. He strolled, unhurried, to retrieve the rest of his ammunition and made his way slowly back behind the bar, setting the metal box on the counter and dropping down on his haunches, searching. At last, there was a clink of glass, and he drew out a long, luminous bottle of Symic 930.M41, standing slowly and cradling it in his hands.

"Ahh, Gideon, Gideon," he chided, "You were holding out on me."

The bartender made a wet, rasping sound from somewhere near floor level. La Mare angled the scattergun without looking and fired, setting out a clean glass with his other hand. He cracked the bottle, pouring himself a modest sampling of the exquisite liquor. And then he lifted the glass indifferently, to the shattered, corpse-packed crater at large that was once the Last Chance saloon.

"To better days," he said.

As it happened, the Last Chance Saloon shootout was starting to reach its end just as Galga'roth passed by the place. He'd intended to ignore the noise of bullets and death and keep making his way to Nab's Holdout as quickly as he could, to make sure he didn't miss that rogue trader, if they even existed (and Emperor forbid that they did exist, only for Galga'roth to miss them completely); however, the sudden ping of a bullet ricocheting off of his carapace breastplate stopped him in his tracks. The Navigator himself was unharmed; however, he now had a hole in his finest robe (one of only a few, actually), and a combination of drunkenness and semi-falsified excess combined to produce very real anger as a result. How dare some thug ruin his best clothing? Or nearly kill him, as it were, but his best clothing!

The end of the shootout was punctuated with a single scattergun shot from within the building as Galga'roth approached, striding in what he hoped was an intimidating fashion. Oh, he was going to give whoever was left in there a piece of his mind, almost literally if he felt they deserved it! Reaching the bar doors at last, he swung them open dramatically, took three steps in, and slowed to a halt as he looked around at the carnage and remembered that, oh yes, gunfire is usually associated with huge quantities of blood and gore. After a few moments of slow turning to observe and evaluate the situation, the Navigator looked at the single standing patron left- possibly the bartender, though his appearance suggested otherwise- with what appeared to be quite a fine beverage in hand if the bottle it came from was anything to go by, and the scattergun from before lying on the bar near him.

An awkward moment passed, and Galga'roth eventually said to himself 'Well, okay, then,' before unscrewing the cap on his wine bottle and tipping the whole thing back, chugging a good quarter of it in one go without really tasting it before finally letting his arm hang by his side again. Unaware or uncaring that his hood had fallen back as a result, he trudged over to the bar, took a seat, roughly set the wine bottle down next to him, and stared at the man on the other side of the bar for a moment, only to ask 'I don't suppose you could spare some of that? For a weary traveller, of course.'

Though it may have seemed like blank disinterest, Jean-Luc was staring at the only other living patron of the Last Chance in mild surprise. With his hood fallen, there was no mistaking it: a Navigator, of all things, here, of all places. Here for the Trader, perhaps... Here with the Trader, potentially. Whatever the case, theirs was a non-overlapping expertise, and there was no cause to be ungentlemanly. Perhaps they might even pool their resources.

"Distinguished sir." He placed a hand to his chest and bowed slightly, turning, stepping over the ruined servitor and sweeping broken glasses noisily from the rear of the bar until he found an intact vessel. He wiped it clean with a thin towel and set it on the counter, holding the bottle up to the light. "But of course. I see little reason why not. To sample such a rarefied vintage alone, well..." he sighed lightly as the faintly glowing liquid trickled exquisitely into the glass. "...Even in a place without law, some things remain a crime. Salut." He clinked his glass against Galga'roth's, taking an only moderately disinterested sip. The liquor was magnificent beyond anything he had tasted in months, but alas, the pleasure never lingered long.

"Forgive the atmosphere." He indicated the ruined saloon as the maimed Ogryn suddenly gave a weak groan, its remaining arm twitching under one of the other bodies. "...Renovations. Excusez-moi, un petit moment..."

La Mare yanked one of the throwing knives out of the counter, arched forward and hurled it precisely into the creature's bulging carotid artery with a thunk. A thin mist of blood began piping up over the rubble of the piano. The abhuman giant made a deflated, wheezing sound and slowly stopped moving.

"...Unfortunate species. The brain frequently takes time to process the fact that it no longer lives. But I forget my manners: Jean-Luc Bauta de la Mare, at your service." He gave another half-bow, taking up the glass and swirling the contents, distantly. "If I might intrude on the business of so vital a personage, have you come down on the shuttle? Or..." He let the question hang, as small, smoking chunks of rubble collapsed from the las-ridden stairwell.

The Navigator swirled the glowing fluid in his glass before sipping it, humming in mild surprise at the flavour. Quite beyond the comparatively-pithy flavour of even the wine he had been chugging up until now... though maybe that had been him exhausting the best wines for months on end throughout the city.

A grim smirk crossed his features at this Jean-Luc's dry, dark humour. Or what the drunken Navigator perceived as such, at least. 'Galga'roth Brabazon, of House Brabazon,' he offered in turn, only to slowly frown as he processed fully what had just been said. 'Hold on a second, the tales of a shuttle are true?' he asked somewhat urgently. 'You mean to say there really is a rogue trader, here?'

He blinked a few times to consider this, then unceremoniously tipped his glass back and swallowed the entire beverage in a single gulp, quickly standing and throwing his hood back over his head, and grabbing the wine bottle in one hand. 'It's been nice sharing a drink with you, but I really do have to get going. I need to test my luck...'

He turned, and surveyed the carnage once again, and only now did the alcohol in his system allow him to realise how much murder and property destruction had actually been committed in this place. Enough that even a Navigator might be considered for something like servitor-dom, if the local law enforcement suspected them of pulling it off.

'...or as the case may be, improve my luck as much as possible by not being caught out here. I- ...oh shit, I shouldn't even have come in here. Okay, time to go.'

Galga'roth began half-power walking, half-stumbling to the doors, only to halt almost unwillingly at the threshold as a thought occurred to him. Half-turning back to Jean-Luc, he said 'I assume you have no wish to be criminalised either, good sir. Maybe we can both get lucky enough to avoid imprisonment and worse, and perhaps find ourselves new jobs in the process?' He pushed the doors apart without really paying attention to his short-time drinking companion's answer, moving out of the saloon and toward the other saloon. Holdout. Whatever, Nab's Place.