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Here, still interested, but it's Saturday, so back shortly.

NVM, apparently I enjoy writing at ungodly hours.

Posting here so that any feedback can be informative for us all (learn from my mistakes, friends).

Victorian vibes are pretty wonderful.

Interested.
Noname - Beck's Skiff, Jundland Wastes
Interacting with: @vFear



Noname had barely managed to palm one of the cigarras that the droid had offered her before the shooting started. She didn't smoke, but on backwater planets like Tatooine death sticks were always a valuable trading commodity.

Dancing to the side, Noname smiled beneath her bandana as the familiar whistle of bullets raced past her. In one fluid, well-practiced motion, Noname drew the heavy slugthrower that she carried on her right hip and adopted a low, crouched stance. Sand People were not worth wasting a blaster on. They didn't wear armor thick enough to stop a good slug.

Drawing a deep breath, Noname waited and peered down her sights until she saw movement in the rock formation. With two gentle pulls of her finger she sent two heavy slugrounds into a large rock that let out a low scream before it fell towards the reddish sand beneath them.

Offering the briefest of nods towards the strange droid Noname squeezed off another round before raising her voice, "Aim for the heart, Tin Man."

The brief statement was more than Noname had ever said to the droid before. Shootouts always brought out the best in her. The smell of cordite and blaster fuel was sweet, oh so sweet. And the thunder of gunfire and shrill screams of bullets as they hurtled towards their targets was an unmatched symphony of sound. Adrenaline surged through her system and Noname felt unabashed joy at the thrill of dancing with death once again. Gunfights gave her life. They allowed her to remember. They gave her peace. They were all that she had.

She heard a scream next to her and ignored the mercenary that slumped beside cradling what had just been his hand. There was no time to spare for the wounded when there was still shooting to be done. He knew the risks of the job. They all did.

A mercenary who couldn't fight was not worth saving.
Noname - Beck's Skiff, Jundland Wastes




The sky above the skiff was the color of blood, painted with a soft brush.

The sandstorm was rapidly approaching and visibility would not last much longer. Staring out at the charming wasteland that was Tatooine Noname did not need the gift of her people to sense the impending danger. Trouble was imminent. Violence was unavoidable. It would not be long before the sand ran red with blood. Czerka blood and Czerka bodies. If Noname had any say in the matter. And she did. She always did.

Noname had heard the rumors about Doga the Prospector that swirled through every dusty tavern of Tatooine. The Mayor of Mos Vaada. The newest enemy of the Czerka Corporation. He was a Hutt with fresh ambition. He was a Hutt with a plan. And he was a Hutt with a mercenary named Beck standing at his side. She did not trust the Hutt. She did not trust Beck. She did not trust the other mercenaries. They were weak men of little skill and ambition, almost to a man. But she shared a common enemy with the Hutt. She shared his hatred. She had felt it rolling off of him, a dark cloud of calculated fury, when they had first met. She trusted hatred. She believed in anger. She had signed up to protect the water caravan in Anchorhead. Tam had mentioned that Beck was looking to hire mercenaries for a big job. A rush job. Exactly the sort of job that wouldn't ask any questions. The other hired guns kept their distance. They knew enough. They had heard the stories about the unnamed gunslinger wandering the wastelands. They knew what she had done. They knew what she could do.

She had killed. And she had fled. She had fled halfway across the Outer Rims killing along the way. Criminals, cutthroats, and pirate scum. It made no difference. The dead did not weep for murdered villains. No matter what the Jedi said. Corporate killers did not deserve a trial. They did not merit mercy. Hatred was power. Anger was fuel. Violence was the true language of the galaxy. To deliver death to the guilty was righteous. To bring destruction to the corrupt corporations was divine. Justice had no need for politics or politicians. Noname was not done. She had just started. Her revenge had only begun. She would purify the galaxy by fire. One evil, one villain, at a time.

Thoughts did not dull her awareness. Memories did not hamper her focus. Recollections of her purpose did not distract her. Her lavender eyes scanned the horizon, watchful of any motion. Her left hand grasped the guard rail of the skiff and she moved expertly with each motion of the ship keeping a stable base. Her free right hand rested on the butt of her heavy slugthrower. Not idly waiting, but constantly moving. Shifting, stretching, and tapping a familiar pattern on the metal frame. Noname was ready to draw the ancient firearm at a moment's notice. She was prepared to put large holes into anything that threatened the safety of the water-laden hover train.

Noname readjusted the bandana that covered most of her face. She knew who she was. She was nobody. She had no name. She had no past. And she had no future.

She had no name.
Name: Noname

Occupation and Affiliation: Freelance Bounty Hunter

Description: Noname possesses a lithe, agile build, and moves with an elfin grace that is distinctly inhuman. She has dusky brown skin marred with scars and lavender eyes that smoulder with cold anger drawn from a deep reservoir. Her hair is the color of midnight streaked with stripes of gunmetal grey, and shorn just past her shoulders.

Secure in her own abilities Noname eschews any and all armor, preferring to dance around the bullets of her opponents. She wears a battered brown hat with a telescope crown, a pale blue shirt, black pants, tan boots, and a priceless Tomuon cloth vest. She matches a green patterned poncho with a cloth bandana of the same color that hides much of her face. A leather gunbelt and two bandoliers stuffed to the brim with cartridges ensure that she is rarely out of ammunition.

On her hips Noname wears an ornate set of twin heavy slughthrowers of an unknown make and model. Beyond functional improvements, Noname has added wooden grips inlaid with silver and spent time meticulously engraving almost every visible inch of metal on each gun. She keeps a small palm-sized hold-out Czerka Arms slugthrower pistol concealed in her left sleeve and a vibrodagger tucked in her right boot.

Background: Noname is an enigmatic bounty hunter that has cut a bloody swath of unparalleled violence across the Outer Rims over the last couple of years. Targeting pirates and crime syndicates in equal measure, she has become a painful thorn in the side of Czerka Arms as they attempt to expand their influence in the Outer Rims. Beyond rumors, precious little is known about her, and the most reliable witnesses that corporate investigators have manged to dig up report that she is an average looking Vahla.
Teg (Cora)




Teg flashed a brief frown at the mention of the now wounded ship. Still, the ship could be repaired, a crew casualty was a much more troublesome problem. She knew that if anyone could fix the ship with duck tape and questionable jurry rigging it was Ansgar. The Judge's armor seemed to be made of enough metal if it came to that. Teg felt certain he could be persuaded to part with it if necessary and if not he was outnumbered and outgunned. She'd always wanted to rob a Judge. Not in a professional capacity of course, but just for fun. It would be one hell of a story.

Caught in plans of furthering her own reputation by pulling off yet another amazing act of daredevilry Teg almost didn't notice the nagging feeling that she was forgetting something or maybe someone as it jolted through her brain. Running through the chaotic web of lists that she kept in her head the young mercenary wondered if she had forgotten to remove the detonator from the plastic explosive in her cabin. Or maybe she'd left her journal in the dining room? What was the perfect mixture of chemicals to ensure that a thermal explosion would keep burning long after the metal of a vehicle was turned to ash? Where was the cat? When would Andrea and Ansgar finally give in to their passions? Why did the Judge always wear his helmet, did he have a gnarly scar? Did Maria ever sleep? Was Kev secretly a housekeeping robot? What would be the best way to distract Kai so that she could liberate some of his more potent herbs?

Kai. Kai! Teg muttered a low curse of irritation as she finally remembered. He said he was fine. Which he probably was. He was a doctor after all. But she'd seen the glass. And the blood. She wasn't sure how well Ithlo's handled head trauma. Maria wouldn't be too happy if she'd let the only ship doctor die. More importantly, had he complimented her? A concussion seemed likely.

"Right, well don't blow up the ship. I'll be back in a bit, I heard something from the medical bay. I have to go make sure we don't lose an alien doctor in addition to several meter of piping," Teg said, patting Ansgar good-naturedly on the shoulder. "And don't do too much digging without me, I want a look at whatever is left of the bomb that did this. Maybe they left us a note."

Turning back down the corridor Teg made her way back to the medical bay at a brisk pace. She didn't run, because running in space rarely ended well. Spaceship corridors were narrow and full of metal that would push back.

Stepping into the medical bay, she brew a loose strand of hair that had escaped her elaborate knot out of her face. "Doc, I told you not to call me Miss. How's your head?"
Sign me up.

If I can't think of anything more fun, I'll try to slam as many references to the Man with No Name as possible in a character.


Nemeia




The sight of the mutilated tiefling filled Nem with a dread and she sucked in a quiet gasp of air as she resisted the spark of electricity that coursed through her muscles. The decrepit building was not the place to lose her calm. She knew there were risks. She had known that there were risks since she'd been a small child. They had made sure of that. Not to adventuring, but merely to living. Drawing breath as a tiefling was a not always a certainty. Insults were to be expected and unprovoked violence was never far away. Humans were masters in the art of cruelty. She had seen that clearly.

But to lose your horns, to be crippled, to be butchered into a shadow of a human was too much. It hurt to see. Nem remembered. She remembered dark places long since banished to the corners of her mind.

Trapped by her thoughts, for a moment Nem even forgot that Ezlan was about to get them all killed. Nem didn't know what Dagston looked like, she knew him only by reputation and the words and rumors that had traveled to the Highland side of the Swamp Road. They were enough. What little Nem had heard about Dagston, suggested that he was not a man to be trifled with. It was too late to stop Ezlan though, so Nem took a discrete step to the side, trying to make it clear that the adventurer was not her responsibility. Keeping her hands visible and away from her weapons, Nem cast a quick glance towards Eomer certain that the adventurer shared her trepidations.


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