https://www.posetteforever.com/viewtopic.php?f=25&t=4052&p=45661#p45661 ----------------------------------- Nik Friday, 03 September 2021, 05:08 PM The Vern... ----------------------------------- Some time ago, I began wondering what would happen if a Convention Settlement group's ferry side-swiped a Cosmic String, arrive in a galaxy long, long ago and far, far away... Here's one of the 'butterflies'... Dusk, rain sluicing side-ways, the port cantina's door flew open. A reptiloid Vern ducked the high lintel and, leaving a wake of run-off, limped to the bar. Six limbed, with peg teeth and hand-span tusks, a short, robustly spiked tail and thick, dark, natural armour plate, Vern were ill-tempered and very bad news. Usually bipedal, they could drop to four or six limbs, move even faster. Their upper pair of arms were thick, long and strong, the big hands' fixed claws like jack-hammers. The lower pair were shorter, almost gracile, with retractable, scalpel-sharp claws for dissecting still-squealing meals held by the upper pair. And, with those claws retracted, could wield hand-weapons well. Vern clutches were big, but the first six or eight hatchlings ate the rest. Clutch survivors stuck together like hull-fix cement. Solitary Vern were so rare, the cantina's customers expected a mob of grumpy sibs to loom from the storm. Several simply abandoned their drinks and/or business, fled. Other took precautions such as readying hand-weapons beneath cape-hems or their table-top. "Zyx Ale." The Vern's clatter of a few credits onto the bar sufficed. The bar-keep knew there could be trouble after a third or fourth, which was why only three stoppered jugs stood in plain sight. The Vern grasped this first with his lower-right hand, sank it in one draught. "Aaaah..." The other customers watched warily, all with half an eye on the doorway and other potential exits. Where else but a port cantina could you find windows with slam-bar handles ? "Again !" More credits clattered onto the bar. The bar-keep shakily opened the second, swept the money away, retreated towards the back-room's door. The Vern gulped at his jug, lowered it empty. He peered into the frothy dregs, snarled, "Again ! AGAIN !!" The bar-keep took the third and last jug from the shelf, paused beyond the Vern's reach to dust it. With that hint received, more credits clattered, the ale was opened. The Vern took one swig before, almost gently, setting it on the bar. Throwing his crocodilian head back, he roared, "I HATE HOOMINS !!" By the time its tectonics and echoes subsided, several more customers had fled. "Hoomins ?" The bar-keep ventured. "HOOMINS !!" The Vern roared, "Look what those Soft-Skins did !" He leaned forwards, waved his left hands, which were shorn by several digits. Pale nubs showed re-generation had begun, but would need three or four annual molts to mostly re-grow. He inclined his left leg, which was some-what thinner than his right, had a long, pale scar from hip to below the knee. He lashed his partly de-spiked tail, which also bore pale scars. And, the bar-keep could not help but notice, the Vern's torso bore pale patches. His eyes were very different sizes, the left much smaller than the right, crossed by a pale skull scar. Vern were as hard to kill as flat-worms, could regenerate from most injuries. But, clearly, this guy had been in the wars. "Worthy prey ?" "Worthy ? WORTHY ??" The Vern made a strange hacking noise, quenched it with a hasty swig from his jug, asked, "Do Hoomins drink here ?" "No." They frequented the 'Blue Star' on the quieter West Side of the port, which also served scary-spiced 'pissas', 'borger bops', 'dorg bunns', 'k-babs' and other bizarre Hoomin fare. "No Hoomins here." "Then you have not seen them fight." As the bar-keep's response to serious brawls was to grab for the stubby, twin-barreled hull-breacher beneath the bar, he shook his tendrilled head. Several more customers exchanged thoughtful glances, left quietly. "After this, I must face our Client. He gave us bad intel. And, for the honour of my Clan and our two lost Clutches, I must try to kill him." The bar-keep put two and three and one together, got five and change. "Sub-Lord Wirrant ?" "HOW--" "He's dead--" "WHAT ??" "Also his Lieutenants and Sargeants. And most of his Enforcers." "HOW ??" "Three, no, four eight-nights ago, there was a blue flash above his mansion. By dawn, all within were dead. Radiation poisoning." "A blue flash ?" "So said..." "A blue flash..." The Vern shuddered. "That-- That sounds like the Hoomin weapon which killed those eights of 'Star Destroyers'--" "Huh ?" The bar-keep felt like the cellar's steps had failed beneath his hooves. "We were told the Grand Fleet took sides and duelled during the Rebellion--" "They stayed loyal." The Vern took another swig. "Sub-Lord Wirrant told us some foolish Hoomins with a back-country land-grant were interfering with business... "Usual fee for 'Wet Work'... "Easy money, lots of blood and guts to splash, perhaps tech and treasure to pillage... "So, eight eights of days ago, our two Clutches went up there in air-trucks..." The Vern made that hacking noise again, drained his jug. Folding all four arms onto the bar, he lowered his head atop their nest. Closing his odd-sized eyes, he croaked, "Sub-Lord Wirrant did not tell us their land-grant was from Marshal Kenobi and Princess Leia, no less... "The Hoomins felled us like food-beasts, and only I survived..."