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It would seem her quest for information hit a roadblock. While again, the bearded man's answer didn't satisfy what she desired to know, she sensed he was, for once, being completely honest. After a moment's consideration, still watching Aluria and, more specifically, Aluria's weapon, she decided to drop her hostility. It would only end badly for all involved and was no longer accomplishing anything. Besides that, she was still sore and tired; even a rush of adrenaline and liquor couldn't stave off her body's desire to take it easy and rest after the excitement of the day.

Slowly and quite carefully, she relinquished her grasp on Tiresias' jaw, her headtails loosening and slipping down and off of his arms, freeing him. Finally, the blade retreated and she edged back away from the man, arms held up as she moved to demonstrate her surrender. The xiphos was calmly returned to the scrap of fabric which wrapped and cushioned it, as if it had never left. She returned to her idle seated position, grabbing the glass of spirits she poured before pressing the threat of injury or death onto the agent, but resting now with her back against the bar so that she could face Aluria and his companion. She had no fight left in her for the day, it was time to relax and return to getting drunk. Her circi, however, continued clacking softly, dangling down toward the floor behind her stool. It would take a while for the adrenaline in her bloodstream to dissipate and allow her to settle down fully again.

She closed her eyes as she drank, emptying the glass as if it held mere water. She remained like that, still and silent sans a few deep breaths, for a few seconds to center herself before attempting to rejoin the “conversation” as such. Once she felt calmed enough, she still watched Aluria and his weapon, shifting her gaze back to Tiresias briefly before smiling sardonically at the man with the “stun gun”.

Steady there, sport. See? No harm done. Just working out some kinks in our communication channels is all. Not that I see how it matters to you. What, you want us to kiss and make up now?

Despite no longer intending to partake in any violent activities, or even those that only hinted at violence, the critical suspicion that so gracefully peppered her demeanor was unaltered. Her voice was no longer razor edged, but her tongue was sharp as ever.

She didn't move, opting to remain almost lounging against the bar itself, empty liquor glass still in hand. The elixir did its job quickly, she had to hand it to those native brewers of Thebvae, as she already felt loosened up again... perhaps even more so, now that Tiresias had relieved some of the reasons in her mind to suspect him of being an assassin or worse. He was still a tough one to breech, that much was sure. A man like him didn't strike her as the type who would go off and do something without a good reason behind it. This unknown vortex of motivation made the puzzle one she wanted that much more to solve. She directed her musings to no one in particular when she spoke up again, her gaze idly lingering around the area immediately in front of her.

Civilized, eh? Even the most civilized people sometimes require a show of force to get what they want or need. I'm sure an Eudemonian can back that up. So, let's get down to settling this, gentlemen.

Tiresias followed the woman’s movements as he adjusted his dull brown jacket, narrow eyes shifting from the woman and then to Aluria, utterly suspicious of the man despite his noble attempt to save his life. Letting a few awkward moments of silence pass between them, he spoke up once more, his voice changing into the calm one so typical of his affect

Well, there is something.

He added now that the hostilities had defused, he did indeed have some sort of plan or goal in meeting up with the woman at this location, Skogul demonstrating some sort of cooperation with Eudemonia’s motives due to her reconsideration of the hostile action

As you know, things are tense within the western reaches of space. Trantor is engaged in a state of war with The Commonwealth, and the hostilities between our peoples are likely not to end in the foreseeable future. As such, we need “neutral” vessels and personnel to transport certain elements into Tranorian territory. My employer was going to use you as the contact for such, seeing as the Hub is in such close proximity to Trantorian space, with the Salvager’s Guild HQ only a stone throw away.

We did, however, expect things to go a bit slower. But such is the fate of best laid plans, yes?

"Mission." He didn't say it with the inflection of a question, but Graven was asking. He wasn't directly asking her, like a demand for information, but rather simply making a self-directed inquiry, a generalized statement, solidifying the truth that he wasn't quite sure what kind of missions someone like her would partake of. The vague and exciting possibility that she were some sort of ace pilot looking for bigger and better business was somewhere in the depths of his mind, but he wasn't one to bring the subject out in a haste. That wasn't who the Mavericks were, in his vision, and a pretentious old man with nothing but his little dreams to look forward to had no intention of betraying them.

Graven surrendered to his curiosity all the same and asked, "What kind of mission?" He approached the question with a means of speaking that, if one understand his voice well enough, would come off with some genuine curiosity. The truth still stood, however, that Graven was simply making small talk and to the possibility that she could have any potential to his business ventures he paid no more attention than he had in the instant the twinge of it entered the back of his mind. This was small talk - if she would answer or not, it didn't bother him one bit.

Aluria pulled his arm back into his coat after Skogul had finished speaking to him. He gave a confused look from underneath the protection of his visor. He just didn't understand some of the reactions these people would have to threats of violence of any sort.

I don't think that will be necessary.

His tone was completely serious. He was familiar with the idea of using displays of affection as a form of apology but he didn't exactly understand why they would need to perform such an act. He turned his head back and forth to listen to the exchange between Skogul and Tiresias, deciding to stand back and just listen for now.

Laison covered his mouth with one of this thick gloved hands to do the best he could to smother a laugh. He turned to Aluria and used that same hand to slap him on the side of his arm with the back of his own hand.

Looks like someone should go home and get their sarcasm detector checked out.

He walked around Aluria and made his way over to the bar, sitting a stool away from Tiresias and leaning back to rest on one of his elbows on the counter. He turned to the side so he was looking out to the rest of the bar. He might as well hang out here, it wasn't like he had anything to do at the moment.

Professional. That was the word that came to mind as Tiresias maintained his composure, barely missing a beat, acting as if nothing had happened at all. Admirable. Although, as Skogul listened to his proposition, appearing to only be paying him sleepy-eyed half-attention as she studied more his manner than his words, she made a face at the idea of being used as a tool to further Eudemonia's interests. Despite her interest in their culture, and... in a certain way, their people, she was not very thrilled about the prospect of working for them. Particularly not after the rumors she had heard circulating amongst those in her information network regarding some of the practices within the state itself. However, given the same nature of her meetings so far with Tiresias regarding cooperation with the interests of the Commonwealth as a whole, it was unlikely her refusal would be taken well.

Those green eyes settled on the agent again, though they had lost most of their previous malice and distrust, they were not entirely passive. She shook her head lightly, a small, lazy smirk crossing her lips as she reached back with one hand, groping about the bartop before gaining purchase on the bottle of Thebvae liquor. After a minor inspection of the label, she took a large, deliberate swig and then replied casually.

Y'know... I fled my homeworld to avoid becoming an instrument of statecraft. What makes you think I'd want to do that for someone else's country now?

To most, it would likely appear she was turning him down flat. However, knowing that it wouldn't be so easy to get out of, she was moving for a delay tactic. Thanks to her background and experience with delicate business information, she knew the value of discretion. Speaking of such secretive things in the midst of strangers, no matter how innocuous looking, would be an extremely foolish thing to do in light of the circumstances at large. The last time they attempted to discuss such things, disaster struck soon after. One would be hard pressed to convince Skogul it was just coincidence. Unable to gauge whether or not the man was thinking along the same lines, she decided to slip into what small fluency of a sub-dialect of Eudemonian native tongue she was lucky enough to pick up from smugglers. It was muddled, slightly slurred from her intoxication and not a commonly used variety, but she figured the agent would be able to understand it well enough despite the crude grammar and vocabulary.

Slower might be the better way. Best not to talk of sensitive things with so many around.

It was a simple enough statement, completely free of hidden meaning or veiled intent. What the words did not say, her shifting gaze would imply. Besides, she was weary of discussing business and the happenings of military powers of late. She had come to the bar with a mind to relax and unwind, and she wholly intended to follow through with that plan. Not to mention, she was interested in probing the man for tidbits of information again. He had shown he was not completely adverse to being truthful, so she wondered if she could get more without having to pull a blade on him again and dropped the dialect in favor of the more common language of the Hub to re-engage in a more casual and impartial topic: the Eudemonian himself, completely bypassing the lack of humor from Aluria and the rebuke of his accomplice. As she spoke, she stared again at the label on the significantly emptied bottle of Thebvae spirit, admiring the landscape she was unsure even existed.

Maybe it's hard for you to imagine being unhappy with that lot in life. Do you enjoy your job? Being sent off to the underbelly of a city to follow people in shadows, loiter in crappy bars and get shot at in dark alleys all to support the virtues of your government?

Tiresias slowly nodded as he cut through the woman’s rather rough dialect of Eudemonian, filtering through enough of the messy nonsense enough to get a good idea of what she was saying. Admittedly, he spoke a rather “high” form of the language due to his birth on Thebvae, a trait one could easily spot when he spoke in the Eudemonian tongue due to the fast, yet melodic tone it took. For many years he had simply relied upon raw data transmission with those cybernetically equipped agents who hadn’t the graces of the Eudemonian language for casual communication. As such, many forms of the Selekusion tongue that had spread across a good deal of humanity were somewhat difficult to decipher, though more a product of neglect than ignorance.

Yes, excuse my rudeness. I was unaware.

Tiresias said as he shifted his attention back to his drink, doing his best to act the part of the rebuffed contact. Staring into the drink and fully ignoring the people around him, he was stirred by the voice of the woman once more, questioning his reasons for even being here. He didn’t respond, however, merely grunting and taking another sip of his drink. If the woman found it suitable to use some esoteric dialect of Eudemonian, then what surveillance, or other sorts of trouble was she worried about? Discussing his reasons for being here and his history would be as fatal a mistake as displaying the plans of Eudemonian for Trantor, though with far more devastating consequences for the man himself. And so he merely gave a rude grunt, sipping on the drink and retreating to one of his old friends: the bottle

A pang of disappointment struck Skogul as Tiresias retreated from the conversation and her expression showed it. He got her message, but apparently decided it more prudent to go silent than to even offer encrypted tidbits. She had figured it would not be easy. To her, it would seem as though perhaps her probing went a little too deep and he was shying away from topics he wished to not discuss. Fair enough, she would leave him be for now.

That avenue of discussion having run its course, Skogul took another drink of the Thebvae liquor and returned the bottle to the bar, not far from Tiresias' glass as he stared deep into it. Carefully and rather deliberately, she began to slip off of her stool, testing the floor of the bar with her sandaled feet as if worried it would pitch and roll like the deck of a ship in the open sea. Her legs were not the most steady, but they should hold out well enough for her to stand and walk, she decided. She smiled as she stood up straight, probably feeling a bit of drunken pride at her ability to keep from staggering and was about to set off for the man engaging the Annora woman in conversation on the other end of the bar before stopping herself and looking back at the agent who was doing his best to detach himself from the happenings inside the building. No doubt he was still fully aware of her and what she was doing, despite his appearance.

She focused on the xiphos, the very object she had used to threaten the man, for several seconds. She reached for it, grabbing it again by the time worn handle and turned it in her hand a couple of times before shifting it in her grasp, driving it point down into the bar right in front of Tiresias' liquor glass. The force was enough so that the blade sank in to stand freely on its own and its proud vergina sun crest positioned just right to virtually stare at the man if it were possible. As she was again close to the agent, she adopted the crude smuggler dialect one more time, uttering a single word that was pretty much constant in all Eudemonian language, one with multiple meanings. Some would define it as meaning luck, others would lean more toward the binding nature of fate. The true message was nebulous, often left open to interpretation based on the context. In this case, both applied and Skogul was more than sure he would understand what she meant by it as she left the xiphos, despite its monetary and cultural worth, to him.

Without another word, or even a glance, she crossed, bells and amulets jingling softly, the length of the bar before coming to stand just a few feet from the older, grizzled man in the duster. She thought she recognized him, but until now her mind was too busy with other, more pressing matters to set an identity to the visual and auditory cues. This one had dealings with her, established previously, but left open to future negotiations. Although she had already told herself she was no longer conducting deals for the day, the distraction would serve more purpose than business alone.

Not waiting for Graven to notice her standing near him and turn to face her, she spoke to him, thumbs hooked into her trouser pockets like she had done so many times before. She was never one to adopt formalities, but probably due to her blood alcohol level, she was far more casual than the last time she had met with this man.

Well, seems I'm running into familiar faces all over the place tonight. Imagine that.

Graven was leaning forward with his elbows well on the table and his forearms laid so that the hands met under his chin, but he didn't rest his head on them. His shoulders were stiff as he contemplated both whether or not he wanted to partake of more liquor and Annora's perhaps impending answer to his non-persistent query. It was then that Skogul's voice pulled his attention span wide open. Something more fascinating could not have happened other than that, except maybe some kind of physical conflict or pistol fight, and in the instant he was turning his head over his shoulder to see her he decided on no drinks unless she offered him one - and even then he'd take it slow (or rather that is what he promised to himself, but he hadn't quite that force of will when it came down to it.) The truth was, after his little chat with Orestes he had need for some special attention from a very special junker. Her approaching out of the blue (or rather that dull brown of the drinking establishment) could quite simply be characterized as serendipity.

Graven's old eyes, always in a minor state of wince, met hers in a brief instant as he scanned her visage. "Yeah, imagine that," and he would turn away only for a half second as if to end the sentence but found himself caught looking back at her again, continuing it like a fish that snagged a baited hook. "Course, I'm meeting some familiar faces of my own if they show." He turned his stool a bit and gave a gesture of the hand to the bar stool to his immediate left. "Have a seat Miss Eir."

If it weren't for his veiling mustache, black as ash rubbed across the skin and bushy as an aged dog's back fur, she would had seen his lip twitch a bit upwards as if he were going to continue, but he caught himself and stopped. He was about to offer her a drink, and though his demeanor did little to betray it, somewhere in his mind he expressed indignant awe at just how much sway liquor held over his no-doubt saggy and worn gray matter.

In any case he finished his barely crisp gesture and his friendly verbal recommendation, and then given she accepted it would turn again to face the bar.

Though she more than likely should have, Skogul did not expect the man Graven to be awaiting company. Although she herself did not have a low opinion of the person, on the contrary, she respected him as a peer from the brief exposure she had with him thus far, she wondered of the type of people he would associate with. She nodded lightly, lazy smirk still adorning her face as she took the offered seat. The salvager had hoped to take to a private table somewhere toward the back wall to converse, but she saw no harm in staying at the bar for a bit of small talk. If serious matters should come up, the option to relocate was quite open.

As she settled on the new barstool, she knew she was out of earshot of the cranky Eudemonian agent, thanks to the din of the bar crowd's socializing, but she had a strong feeling that would not remain the case for long. He was observing her, after all, by his own admission. Her actions said nothing of the incessant workings of her mind, mulling over possibilities and various paths of action and speech. Even with the fog of alcohol working over her senses and motor skills, her mind was still relatively keen. Her line of work behaved as a good inhibitor to allowing herself to fall victim to a proper stupor unless she was in a safe situation, of which she experienced few. Her arms folded in front of her, she turned her head only half toward Graven, keeping her gaze mostly trained on the various nicks, scratches and dents in the wooden bartop they all faced. With this passive appearance, she spoke up again, not looking up as she did.

Going to have a night on the town, or is business before pleasure?

It seemed a straightforward enough question to those unaware of the nature of their previous meeting. She was essentially asking if he was ready to make a purchase from her cache of “goods”, as one could call them if so inclined. It was a most fortuitous occasion, being that the bar itself was just a few meager blocks from the very dock where her ship, and most of her stock, were stationed. It would take a bit of doing, she silently admitted to herself, to pull off such a transaction without earning the attention of Tiresias, who would most assuredly look down on her dealing illegally in equipment collected from his nation's own derelicts. It was a hurdle that would have to be dealt with when and if it came up.

Graven turned on his stool to face forward again, propping his right elbow and forearm up on the table so that his hand could reach up and scratch the back of his head, perhaps fiddle with the wiry tufts of hair that he made constant note needed to be trimmed. Not even this, however, would make him put the fedora back on - he was very big on table (or in this case bar) manners, perhaps by habit beaten into him by parents rather than actually preference, or possibly a rather simple amalgamation of both. In any case, he searched for a way to open a conversation as his other arm reached up to rest half of his hand on the counter. In his indecision she had made the question instead for him, and while he was aware there was a dyad of meanings to the statement, between the two of them the level of difference between the 'two questions' was probably a bit different. Perhaps she was asking if he'd like to make a purchase now. He only thought she was asking if he'd rather talk business or have some small talk with her - perhaps the same question, in retrospect, but different priorities?

The question wasn't something to dwell on too long. He had already looked to the counter in thoughtful silence for a large enough amount of seconds to show he didn't exactly plan out the meeting. He looked up at her, more moving his eyes than turning his head, and with a vague nod gave a reply.

"Little of both, but business 's always first."

It was a simple response, but could be received in a multitude of ways. The actual meaning and she was probably bright enough to pick it out, was that he wanted to make a purchase and could maybe use some time to talk to her on another matter afterwards. The fact stood either way that Graven needed some things that she had - nothing that was appropriate to mention out loud, a client has a responsibility to silence for the sake of his dealer's image, reputation, perhaps safety. In his duster he could feel the strap of his leather sidearm holster, taut on his torso to keep the slug pistol in just the right spot when it was needed. It was the gun he would carry around now, one of the best gifts he could be given since his thirty-sixth birthday when one of his buddies brought him some of the best whiskey he had ever had, in addition to some young ladies who knew how to treat a man well enough that he forgot he was closer, not further, from dying on that very day.

"Probably we should step outside so I can get a smoke," Graven promptly followed with. Again, double-meanings came forward as Graven seemingly forgot all about Annora in a fitting use of the phrase 'business before pleasure.' He wanted to get out now and soon, hopefully to beat his crew to the pub on the way back in with good news on what he had scored.

Despite her her occasional distaste for the lingo of the underworld and all of its double or even triple meanings carried on seemingly harmless phrases and terms, she had a respectful value for its properly applied use. There was a sort of comfort in the nigh invulnerable privacy conveying information in such coded vectors provided. Graven, she thought, was one of those honorable sorts of scoundrels she didn't mind conversing with via such encryption, though she would choose to do without it entirely if she could. Unfortunately, in such a place and time, one could not do without unless they cared to lose business, reputation or even health and life.

She raised her gaze to study Graven's face. Her healthy respect for the man as a peer and colleague sometimes almost pained her that their individual paths in life should cause them to meet in such dismal settings. Noting the weariness about him, she felt could relate, although not necessarily with the effects of his greater age. Her own fatigue took a center position on the stage of her mind and for a moment she almost wished to put off the negotiations and return to her ship to bathe and sleep for several days.

Sure, I could use some fresh air.

Skogul nodded to the moustached man as he suggested they find a cone of silence outside of the bar itself, apparently they were on the same page. With a final visual sweep of the bar, the salvager woman stood, this time without the careful testing of her own bipedal stability, and made her way to the door, pushing past it without a word and wandered some ways down the street from the entrance, where the almost omnipresent loitering mafiosos, punks and hobos were absent.

A lone streetlight was close to the location, casting enough light for her to remain visible, but not in full illumination. It seemed a decent place for the moment, though a private office would suit the situation much better. There, in the brisk air of evening, she would wait for Graven to join her so that they could at least begin whatever sales would be manageable at this point. She most certainly was not going to lead him directly to her ship with the great possibility of having the Eudemonian shadowing them both. Placid as she may have appeared standing there, she was ever vigilant, senses straining in the night's cloak of dim luminance for signs of trouble.

When his request was appreciated, he rose after her and followed her out of the door, but not before he took his own glance around the pub interior, trying and failing to find what she had been checking on with her sweep. Something about her comment of fresh air came off as a little ironic to him. Graven had said that he wanted to go outside for a 'smoke,' and yet Skogul made the interesting reply that she would go outside to seek fresh air, which seemed like a most dreadful contradiction, but it wasn't of much consequence. It was just like Graven to detect strange little irrelevant details such as this and dwell on them for longer than the instant that in and of itself was less than necessary. When they were outside, he paused as she approached her apparently premeditated location of loitering and discussion.

There he stood, scanning the evening streets, and a strange sensation washed over him, perhaps nostalgia, or perhaps the exact opposite. Deeply he pondered on it standing there, and as soon as he nearly concluded it was nothing but a coincidence that this sensation came over him, suddenly his mind lapsed into a vivid flashback.

He recalled standing outside the very same pub, and he was younger by quite a number of years, but the truth was he aged fast the last couple of years so it probably was half as long as would be a viable guess based on perspective of human aging. Stress and the rigors of smoking hadn't done much to his lifespan but put it on fast forward. Graven was waiting outside of the Pub, or perhaps another structure that was so similar to it or in the same district that it was just about the same. He couldn't bring himself to remember, but in the memory there was a certain urgency. Just as soon as he sought to light a cigarette and pass the moment, he realized exactly what he was doing.

A loud bell rang and it occurred to him he was standing in front of a bank - the alarm system had gone off just as soon as he had his bearings and he stood there for a full two minutes simply waiting. Something paralyzed him in place - perhaps a fear to act, a fear that forfeiting some commitment would come back and bite him in the future. The front doors of the bank shot open as several men toting thick sacks of currency ran out past him. There was a rush, and his memory could not create much interpretable information for his senses - he simply remembered flashing red lights, loud bangs and screeching noises, and next he knew he was back in front of the Pilot's Bar in the Hub.

He had only been lost for maybe twenty, thirty seconds that he could estimate, and frantically sought to find Skogul for fear he had been gone too long for her patience. When he found she was none too distant, he followed her down to a less illuminated area and, like the foolish man he was, delved too deeply into contemplating the flashback to plan what he was going to say when they stopped at a sufficient spot.

An awkward stretch of silence fell over both as Graven finally met up with her near the isolated streetlight, out of the immediate hearing range of those who wandered the evening streets or lingered near doorways and alleys for whatever dark purpose they were given for the particular hour. In the midst of such shady characters, the two were not particularly conspicuous. A man and a woman talking casually on the sidewalk was hardly an unusual sight in any city, and peoples' perceptions could range from simple friendly chatter to more intimate exchanges. Perhaps more exciting than the former, but far more dull than the latter, the delayed topic at hand would be of interest to quite a few parties, which is why it was best to speak of it quickly and efficiently, avoiding the burning ears of those who would eavesdrop.

Skogul shifted her weight a bit before she spoke, eyes and their now dialated alien pupils darting about rapidly to watch for suspicious shadows on the dimly lit backdrop of the street. Primarily, she was watching for the agent she left in the bar. Despite him basically telling her plainly what he was doing, she doubted he would simply give up so quickly. What sly augmentations he possessed, she had no idea, and her imagination ran wild with the conceptual tools he could have on, or more likely, embedded within him. Despite their distance from other humans, their spot on the street was not remotely safe. However, out here, away from the crush of those who would listen in, she could at least divulge more than she could in the bar, particularly on the odd Eudemonian with whom she seemed to be linked to by fate.

She kept her voice low, tone calm and casual. If not for the topic, one would think she were discussing the weather.

We can't talk much here. Seems I've a shadow I don't cast myself.

An unusual way to put it, but the message was fairly clear to anyone with even the slightest modicum of imagination. Her increasingly bizarre relationship with Tiresias prevented her from revealing the identity of the one stalking her to Graven, for fear the older man would take direct and most probably violent action against the agent. She had no idea of the deal proposed to the Maverick leader by Orestes previously, and therefore no concept of his connection to Eudemonia or its agendas.

A moment's pause; she did it on purpose, as if testing for any kind of indication someone was listening, either aided or not. Her expression darkened. Things were not going in her favor lately and, understandably, she was none too pleased about it. Pesky Eudemonian, as provocative and, truthfully, rather visually fetching as she considered him, was making her life harder as of late. A decidedly unappreciated effect. The wicked circi took up their all too familiar rhythm yet again, signalling her uneasiness. The stress was definitely starting to get to her.

As she spoke again, her tone had lost much of its previous carefree nature, adopting a more terse air.

Do you know what you need? This is going to be tricky to pull off without attracting the wrong type of attention. We're pressed for time.

Graven really didn't need to say anything. He followed her words and her actions clearly, and was certainly right on the same page. His hand rose into his duster and he felt the slug pistol, but before he made any action he withdrew his hand, part due to a decision that it would not be necessary to employ such force, part based on the assumption that she would probably not call for such a lack of subtlety, and most because he didn't much intend to draw the firearm at all - he just wanted to, in performing the action, prove to her that he had the item. She would know.

He hadn't quite picked up his night vision yet. For ordinary humans it was perhaps a half hour ordeal that one is unable to clearly see in the darkness before they adjust appropriately, and for Graven it was even longer. Years of spending an hour or more on his laptop in the evening (the more white collar aspect of his work) while the room was dark and the only illumination was the shining monitor had done a number on his sight. It wasn't a healthy thing to do, but he didn't know better and probably wouldn't had much cared either. Little did he know how big a deal it would turn out to be in the long run. Graven's eyesight was once immaculate and now he can barely read a distant sign, or any sign in the wrong light for that matter.

"Yeah," replied he promptly and surely. The truth was he knew exactly what he needed and was in a definite hurry to get it with the suspicion Skogul cast at her surroundings. He felt his pocket very gently and probably not very visibly - the credit chip was there, a ready down-payment for the work ahead of him. He wanted to ask her just what the plan was, not quite aware of where her stock was, but figured it was best to keep silent on anything regarding her business, identity, or even the nature of their meeting. It was an act of courtesy, but also important to the preservation of his own reputation. Although, given his past, he had little more to fear than people seeing him with a comparatively young alien female in a dark alley in the evening, especially if he would find himself exchanging money. The last thing that the Mavericks needed was a grotesquely prurient image of its leadership, but it was an unfounded worry since most people in the Hub wouldn't even have any idea who the Mavericks were, or who Graven was.

A small wash of relief passed over her as Graven offered an affirmative response to her question. He seemed to understand her desire to be prompt and if not for the ever growing sensation of being watched, that alone would very likely have given her a feeling of security. She saw no sign of Tiresias, which bothered her that much more. He managed to follow her, drunk, to the bar without her notice as well. It would do her no good to take Graven to her ship, doing so would be inconceivably stupid. Fortunately, Skogul was the type who often kept at least one alternate safehouse for her hauls until she had the time and privacy to process them properly. There was one not far, down an alley that ran between the row of buildings that the pilot's bar was part of and the row that sat behind. As luck, or fate, would have it, this was where her most recent findings were held; exactly the sorts of things she presumed the Maverick leader was seeking, give or take some items.

This "plan B" could reduce the amount of trouble she would have to put up with, although she was entirely convinced there would be some no matter what she did, short of calling the entire thing off. She did consider just that, but such flighty actions would serve only to sour relations between her and her client. She looked at the man, up at him actually, due to the significant height difference, her expression strictly professional now, with no hint of the friendly warmth she greeted him with earlier.

Change of plans. We're taking a minor detour.

It was stated simply, in a monotone that expressed her desire to get things over with as soon as possible. As soon as the final syllable was said, she pivoted sharply on her heel and walked several yards down the street before mechanically taking a path down an alley not far off. It was not large, nor particularly clogged with refuse, so she figured Graven would easily be able to catch up with her again. A sense of sudden urgency overtook her. She made record time to the steel utility shed sitting, worn and beaten, in a brick alcove near a cement locker situated somewhere in the vicinity of a freight door for some bar or other similar sort of establishment. It was not a large cache, but it was something. She bitterly realized she would not be able to re-use this drop point any longer now that it would be revealed to another person; such was the price she had to pay to maintain good network contacts.

That noted, she fished a ring of keys from one of her pockets, fiddling with the locks a bit in the sparse lighting before finally disarming the modest security measures, throwing open the doors to the shed to breathe a sigh of faint relief when she saw that her findings were still there. The shed, probably originally intended for dry goods or utility storage, now looked like a sad sort of munitions locker.

Once Graven would arrive in her general vicinity again, she would speak once more, uneasiness and urgency still ringing in her tone as she nodded in the direction of the shed and its contents.

Take the whole lot, I'll take a lump sum. Still cheaper and easier than trying to get half of this type of Eudemonian junk any other way. They're pretty jealous of their pea-shooters.

She was really just hoping to get her money and get out of there before someone significant might decide to come strolling down the alley, as far as she was concerned, it was only a matter of time.

Aluria nodded back to Tiresias as he made his way out of the bar and then walked over to Laison. He let his arms slip out of his coat and then sat down on the stool next to him. He folded his arms behind his head and his visor clicked open again, and he turned his head to the side to look at his friend.

Well that was an uneventful encounter wasn't it?

He stared at the ceiling of the bar for a moment before spinning around in the stool and resting his elbows on the counter, idly rubbing his hands together in thought as he wait patiently for a message from a friend of his. He couldn't wait to hear good news from Trace. He would have gone himself, but now that he had already asked ToS's leader to take care of it for him why bother.

He heard a beeping tone in his ear and Aluria realized he was receiving a message. One of the sides of his visor half clicked over his eye and he leaned forward from off of the bar counter. Soon after a few minutes were spent studying the received information, he placed his hand on his chin as if in deep thought. Trace's collected data meant good things for him. He couldn't wait for his next opportunity. He looked over to Laison with a bright grin on his face.

Trace sent me some data, things are looking on the up and up.

Something of a persistent, self satisfied sneer crosses upon the face of one Michel Sulla as, during his walk across the streets of the Hub, he finds numerous 'lesser' beings. Homeless, the poor, the sick, the weak. All are 'less' by virtue of being in those conditions. It is obvious to any but blind men that these are punishments sent forth by God to punish them for their inferior sense of virtue. Only the Kyrioi are truly saved. From even before birth, God already knows who and what they are and every action of every second they will make throughout their lives. This is the only reason why people are granted stronger bodies. Stronger minds. Superior heritage, or natural ability.All others exist to serve the Kyrioi, and this notion comes into reality with his attitude that everyone around him exists to strengthen or bask in his glory as he breaks himself from the shackles of society. Being a true 'free thinker' is what allows one to be saved, after all.

So, this same self satisfied attitude seems to ooze from his form as he parts the doors to the pilot's bar and eases his form in. The man's physical features remain quite attractive, another gift from God, albeit somewhat effeminate. Long, black hair contrasting sharply with the snappy looking grey suit he wears. Another feature seems to mark him as being distinctly different however. To those who can sense it, he oozes with raw aetherial power. He, like many of his kind, have a naturally hard time hiding this sheer power. The augmentations they pursue literally make them stand out amongst all the others like a brilliant lamp post in the middle of a dark, and dingy street.

It is obvious from the way which he interacts with the barkeep that he wouldn't want it any other way.

"Okay, we're going to play a game. I'm going to tell you what to do, and then you're going to do what I tell you. Then, if you do everything I ask like a good dog, I'll give you a treat in the form of some money, okay?"

That smirk is infuriating.