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The doors of the bar opening catches Laison's attention, and he shields his eyes with his hands, jokingly pretending he's been blinded. Christ, if that man excreted anything it was some serious homobeams. He leaned to the side and slapped Aluria on the shoulder, as if he needed to get his attention to notice someone like that.

He couldn't help but overhear what he had said to the bartender, this guy was just asking for a fist through down his throat. Laison's face contorted as his train of thought carried him down a tunnel of horrible mental imagery. This guy probably wanted something down his throat alright. Laison had to cover his mouth with the back of his hand closed into a fist to keep from laughing out loud. His eyes were open just enough to look at Aluria. His voice was muffled as he talked through his hand, talking through his chuckling.

Get a load of Nathan Newtech loveless version over here.

Synjyn paused as he observed the tavern before him, he glanced out from the deeply cast shadows towards the streets that surrounded the building. The brilliant blue energies in his eye sockets swirled and the tendrils wisped upward and dissipated in the gloom. His gloved hand rested easily on the ornate handle of his long crystallized war sword. With a precise motion Synjyn flipped the heavy cowl up over his head, the dusky cloak settled upon his armored form.

Stepping away from the shadows, Synjyn warped and directed the light away from his form so he would cross the street and reach the bar with nary a glace from those around him. Lady Drake had tasked Synjyn to observe the populace of this world, to frame and understand their social structure. Even as General Dalran made contact with the Aiden knights, so would Synjyn observe the peoples of this world.

Pushing the door open slowly, he allowed the bending of light to slowly fade away, as he did so he would slowly seem to materialize into view. As he did so he stepped forward and into the room, allowing the door to close behind him. The dusky cloak reaching nearly to the floor, the onyx and crimson armor, the brilliant blue whorl of energies where eyes should be flared as the Xindhi glanced about the room. Each moment, each passing second, each reaction was caught recorded and stored for the dreaming queen to study and glean knowledge from.

Even as he studied the room, Synjyn was keenly aware he was being studied. The Xindhi had known their presence would be difficult for most people to comprehend, even correlate with religious or scientific beliefs that would not fully account for the skeletal beings walking about. That was the reason Synjyn was here, to gauge the reaction of the people to the presence of Xindhi.

Seeing a small circular table with a solitary chair, Synjyn walked towards it, as he passed people he judged their reactions to him. Some gasped in disbelief, others merely watched agog at the presence of the being moving deftly past them towards the table. There were some drunken mutterings about abominations and monsters walking among them. All were framed in the resonance of the holon, all stored and ready to be observed by the sleeping queen.

Reaching the table finally Synjyn pulled the seat from its resting place and sat down, only to have the chair creak and protest the weight of the armor placed atop it. Thrumming the Darshan, Synjyn tapped into the structure of the chair and infused it, changing the weak wooden object to heavier steel to better support him. After a moment he glanced about the room again, several sets of eyes averted his gaze, others stared defiantly at him, and some became visibly ill.

Allowing the blue energies to flare slightly, give the area in front of him an eerie blue glow, the light reflecting off the polished table, and the glasses and mugs, diffusing as they passed through the material. Synjyn merely watched those around him.

Huh what? Nathan who?

Aluria was wrapped up in his data studies and hadn't noticed the appearance of anyone. He turned his head to the side and looked at the man who Laison was pointing out to him. He paused for a moment as he overlooked the being and stood from his stool. His visor clicked shut completely and he began running a series of checks against some of the data he had gathered recently. It was impossible, this man's appearance just couldn't be right.

Could Aluria seriously be this lucky? Someone with such a powerful connection with Aetherial abilities just wandering about on his own? This seemed rather suspicious. This guy was either extremely powerful or incredibly dumb. Aluria suddenly sat back down, and pulled one of his arms in to be hidden back under his coat. Something was strange here, he looked down at the floor and realized he wasn't on his stool anymore, but simply hovering in a sitting position. He quickly shifted his body so he was actually on his chair proper, and then brought up a leg to rest the ankle on his opposite knee. He rested his elbow on his crossed knee and put his chin his palm. He was getting too excited, he couldn't afford any mistakes now. His eyes narrowed under the cover of his visor as he seemed to stare across the bar at some invisible enemy. He quietly mumbled to Laison. He had to fight to get the words out in a somewhat calm tone.

Don't be rude now, this is a place of peace and relaxation after all.

Aluria looked at Michel through the output windows on the inside of his visor, observing him without actually having to turn his head. He did his best to hide an insidious grin. Aluria let his hand slid a little from under his chin and clenched it into a fist. Let's hope his luck keeps up.

Graven gave a wary scan of his surroundings before following her and it wasn't unlike those scenarios he had just been reminded of in his flash back. Like rats in their tunnels he and his old accomplices traversed the alleyways, knowing every route better than most wives know their own men. He didn't quite know the Hub as well as he once did, but the reminder was there just the same. Even despite all of this he still didn't ever feel at home in those dark passages between structures, as that is where all the mischief happened. The underworld always exists in the darkest places and that is where evil thrives, except for political evil but that is a-whole-nother level of evil than what his mind was set on. Still, the alley ways even in this more industrial region of the Hub were no where near as bad as it had once been, and the commercial districts in the less classy areas were generally much more of concern to those not involved in the business either way. The worst he would encounter that was characteristic of one of these such locations were some drunk dockworkers looking to make trouble or a homeless person who's hunger has driven him desperate, if the homeless even still exist in the Hub.

When they came upon the storage shed that Skogul had apparently decided to store her goods, he wasn't even slightly thrown off. Surely she had some kind of ship or at least a more decent location to display goods than this, but all scoundrels had their checkpoints and their safe houses, as did Graven before business took a step forward on the ethical spectrum for him. Of course he was a bit disappointed that he wouldn't get to see the junker's no doubt fascinating ship, since Graven was one who certainly enjoyed any device capable of off-world travel. Particularly he enjoyed the ship of a scoundrel over some sort of official craft like a freighter or a luxury yacht. The real fun was inspecting and trying to decipher the roles of all the features he encountered on their decks. Hidden compartments for contraband during searches, sensor-proof crates, even escape routes other than the main hatch just in case a boarding could not be avoided. What Graven especially adored was speed - a fast ship over an armed and protected ship any day for him, and that was the plain and simple truth which needed no elaboration.

To Graven's wonder she had quite a stock - nothing fancy but definitely what sufficiently suited his current needs. He stepped into the shed and pulled from the inside of his duster a compact carrying device. It was like a fabric covered metal rod, and at the press of a button it extended and took on the shape of something like a sturdier nylon dufflebag. Skogul would see Graven's picks quite clearly - explosives. He took all kinds of charges, compact ones for doors and larger ones for the real fireworks, detonators and fuses, even some more combat usable explosives, which could inspire some questions as to just where the Mavericks were meant to go. In the process of loading up the luggage device, there were a few times where rather than loading the bag he would stick some kind of weapon into his belt under his duster - a heavy-duty belt against pressed pants and a black formfitting shirt. By the time he was done he had loaded a sufficient amount of explosives into the bag along with a small semi-automatic pistol and a sum of ammunition beyond count - and on his belt he had fastened maybe two revolvers. Finally, on his way out, seemingly set aside as of ill quality or importance was an old evolved build of the M79 - the old version of the weapon was put to use in riot control long before he was even born, and its more involved ancestors had met similar fates when they were deemed obsolete in the battlefield. Mercenaries, however, find the most primitive of tools more useful than the most advanced when doing work that required more knowhow, luck, and courage than training and money for good equipment. He took it and some shells for it, and put it in the carrier's top compartment. Then, with a final click he pressed a key that sealed the bag and proofed it from basic detectors. The grenade launcher he had found, while now hidden in his 'luggage,' never left his mind. He thought quickly on its hundreds of potential applications with great enthusiasm.

He had almost forgotten Skogul was there in the two minutes or so that he had been loading the back. He gave her a nod and glance as he walked to her side that was both apologetic for the delay and thankful for the goods, and after concealing his weapons under a closed duster and placing the heavy bag over his shoulder by a strap, he dug into his pocket and revealed the credit chip. Digging his finger into the key the device read his finger print and the sum within was validated as legal tender, deducted from his bank account. "That should be more than enough. You know how to reach me and feel free to drop in some time."

With that he departed from the shed, his body language not betraying his desire to hurry as much as how fast he was walking - but she would be able to tell just the same knowing what load he carried. Graven resolved to take the goods to the storage complex where he kept some of his old belongings within the district, maybe a ten minute walk or a very short transit ride from his current location. Before he went anywhere however he made sure that Miss Eir had nothing else to say or ask of him, especially if she was skeptical of the numbers on the credit chip. Authentic, a down-payment for his upcoming job, but he wasn't sure how often in the past she had handled credit chips.

Mostly silent as Graven caught up again and began to stock up on what wares she had to offer him given such short notice and constraining circumstances, Skogul watched, anxious and uncomfortable. She had no particular tools with which to cut the drapery of Nyx's own dark robes that coated the alley, her eyes only being slightly more adapted to low-light conditions than a full-blooded human's, and her incessant scanning of the alley and all nooks and crannies it contained revealed far less than they hid. Nothing in peculiar stuck out at her, but this did not provide her any measure of solace.

Nodding as Graven finished loading up his bag, she took the chip once he validated it. Too much was happening to take the time to properly invoice the haul and do checks and rechecks on the legitimacy of the payment. She was holding him to his word now, and she knew where to find him should something come up. It wasn't the foremost issue on her mind and she was just glad to get it over with at this point. Money was money, and relations were maintained.

Pocketing the payment chip, she turned to the shed, reaching in to grab one of the rail pistols and a couple of slug magazines Graven either was not able to or willing to take. The cache was compromised and no more profit would come to her from it, so she decided to use a piece of the remaining stock for herself. Although she was comfortable with them for the most part, Skogul was not a fan of using guns; she did not like how unnatural they felt. A heavy sigh was directed through her nostrils as she loaded the weapon with one of the magazines, pocketing the spare as she looked to Graven again, her expression softening a little as she revealed remorse for not accommodating him as well as he had her when they first met. She did, as she stood there gripped with an overwhelming sense of being exposed to eyes she could not locate, regret the rushed, bordering on rude, informality of the deal. It could not be helped, and she hoped she would be able to do business with him again in improved environs.

I trust you. We should probably make ourselves scarce, though. Hopefully in the future our deals will be better planned.

That was something rarely heard in these kinds of business circles: trust. Sure, some would say it as a way to subdue suspicion and ease exchanges, but it was rarely earnest. In the world they lived in, their kind was a rarity; honor and trust were hard to find and probably more precious than any amount of illicit loot or contraband. With one last nod and a simple hand gesture, she bid the gruff man in the duster farewell and took the initiative in making her way quickly, albeit carefully, out of the alley with the intent to return to the bar and act as if she had simply stepped out for small talk and a change of scenery. Skogul would not be returning home due to recent developments, not tonight anyhow.

Tiresias kept his distance as the two said hardly a word; the focused optics built into the man’s eyes a far better judge of the transaction. Hurried actions and shady dealings often go hand in hand with a lack of communication, the Eudemonian thought to himself as the man greedily grabbed what appeared to be a selection o Eudemonian explosives and small arms, as well as an unidentified weapon of obviously ancient origin. Betrayal would be words Tiresias might use to describe the event from a personal angle, images of the wrath of the council once again entering his mind. Despite his stupidly altruistic actions regarding the woman, she had so callously done this, but such was the nature of junkers.

Quickly ducking into a sizeable alcove as the man approached, he huddled into the corner with just a small motion, pressing a button on his jacket that instantly mimicked the exact pattern of the wall. Spotting him would be a difficult task, indeed, particularly if one was not looking for such things.

Once the man had made his way out of the area, most likely to partake of his illegal goods, Tiresias arose once more. Deftly pulling out a MILP S-2, a weapon of some renown amongst agents due to the fact it was a laser pistol and therefore emitted no sound, he briskly walked down the alley, still sticking to the shadows to provide some sort of element of surprise. He had got her, it seems, and this would be the perfect leverage against the junker. Seeing as she had betrayed his trust, he would (in an unprofessional manner) return the favor. The fact that his nation would benefit would provide only a small comfort for his actions.

Pistol in hand, though lowered by his side, he emerged from the shadow with something of a blank expression, gesturing with his head to the collection of highly illegal equipment the woman had apparently collected

You have choices, Junker. Hands up, no tricks, and I’ll give you the luxury of deciding.

Fucking Euds. It was the first phrase that entered Skogul's mind as the retreating form of her client and, in some obscure way, friend gave way to only a few moments of silent darkness before Tiresias emerged with nary a sound to give him away before he spoke. She should have known, and cursed herself for not deigning to postpone business relations with the Mavericks leader, but in light of recent events she was unsure if her contact with him would survive whatever was going to be happening following all the talk of war and whatnot on the Hub.

Her mouth drew into a tight line as she stood there, gun still in hand, facing him. She could only make him out just barely, but it was more than obvious he had his own gun, which he seemed to be so eager to pull out at a moment's notice, trained on her. She didn't raise her arms immediately out of pure spite and obstinance. She was testing him, inviting him to temper his own mettle against hers. Perhaps it was stupid and the product of the stubborn rebelliousness that so often made itself present in her behavior and manner of speaking, but she did it anyhow. In the back of her mind, she wondered of the efficacy of the myriad of amulets, trinkets, bells and ritualistic scars and tattoos which adorned her body; wards, all of them, against ill fortune and malevolent energies. Hell of a lot of good they'd done her so far since first encountering this uncanny example of an Eudemonian. It caused her to guess at the terrible purpose fate had in store for both of them.

Staring at him hard for several drawn out moments, she finally addressed him verbally. Her voice was quite obviously tinged with a good amount of anger, but there was a prominent lack of surprise, perhaps even a hint of amusement.

Haah! Aren't you the high and mighty one! You knew what I was and that I dealt in this crap before and you did nothing. What's changed in that short time, Tiresias?

She gesticulated wildly as she spoke, arms and headtails at once, the pistol still in her grip. As she settled from her tirade, she tossed it out in front of her with no specific target in mind, then held her arms open, straight out to either side as if asking him to fire on her. As the man surely felt his trust betrayed, so too did the salvager woman. For a brief moment, she regretted not driving that ceremonial sword into the back of his neck and ending him back in the bar. It was fleeting thought, however, even as he aimed his weapon at her.

Here's your chance to do what you could have done before. You talk of choices and decisions, yet I know you're just going to waste me anyhow. I'd wager my only luxury is choosing a quick death instead of a slow one.

Tiresias had a particularly severe look about him as he held his position, allowing the woman to speak with only a small sign of exasperation on his part. The woman had made a grievous mistake, it would seem, in thinking a Eudemonian would let an opportunity like thus pass by without any attempt at benefiting from it. A practical, though usually fair people, it would seem they still maintained something of a merchant’s sense of timing long preserved from the true days of Selekus himself, despite trade going largely extinct in those lands.

Tiresias would give the woman a chance, despite her illegal actions. The weapons were insignificant, really, just a collection of dated small arms, hardly the thing that posed any real threat to Eudemonia. As such, it was more the thought of possible retribution that would serve as the mechanism for his ploy, instead of any real danger. Nevertheless, Tiresias would attempt to use it and use it well. Raising the weapon at about her midsection, he continued staring through her, expressing no joy in this bittersweet moment of victory for his employer

Don’t move; this thing can liquefy flesh in a second.

He informed her quite accurately, attempting to intimidate the woman some amount with the weapon, if only to prevent him having to use the thing

Your choices are not so barbaric as to choose between two forms of your demise, I wouldn’t waste either of our time with such an empty proposal.

He stated, trying to relieve some of the tension in the stand-off in his own way. He wasn’t here to kill her, no, that’d be silly, and he was no assassin, anyway. He was more the persuasive type, the kind of man who gathers information and uses it to the best of his ability. In other words: a true spy. He wouldn’t dare killing the woman, if only for the interesting opportunities it would provide his employer, though perhaps he harbored some personal affections for the woman somewhere in the back of his mind. Gesturing to her with the pistol to have a seat, he continued on in a slightly less severe tone.

Your choices, as I figured you would suspect, are far better than you may imagine. You personally advocate and organize the junkers in their assistance of The Commonwealth’s wars, with Eudemonian support, material or otherwise…

Or I inform them of your deceit and you, and whomever you are affiliated with, suffers the wrath of Eudemonia and the Commonwealth. A simple choice, I think.

A match indeed, it seemed. Skogul marveled at the way of the agent; he was good, but she gave no external indication of her admiration. Despite the circumstances, her strange fondness seemed to increase just a bit. Admittedly, on her part, she had severely underestimated him and made a rather foolish move, but what good would it be to be bitter now? She knew she was beaten and it would simply be a waste of time and energy to be a sore loser. Being caught red-handed was unusual for her, so she was willing to sit it out for the simple novelty of the experience. That was really the kind of person she was, the nonchalant type of rogue who preferred to see how things would roll than to resist the current; even seemingly bad situations had their value.

Liquefying flesh did not appeal to the salvager woman much and, although she somewhat questioned the Eudemonian's resolve with his firearm, she complied with his instruction, keeping her gaze trained on him the entire time, completely unblinking. Taking a seat was easier a feat said than done, she thought to herself as she half-heartedly dusted off a supply crate of some sort to perch on. It was terribly uncomfortable, but it was better than subjecting her already dirty clothes to the horrors caking the floor of the alley. Even seated, she continued to stare at him in the gloom that surrounded them both, most of the irritation from being caught having dissolved to a degree, leaving her somewhat impassive as he put a new spin on his previous proposition.

Once Tiresias had finished speaking his piece, she shrugged at him, a smile crossing her lips as she laughed earnestly, complete with a genuine ring of mirth. Most people would be far from such behavior when pressed into accepting terms such as these – however, Skogul Eir was hardly most people.

Well played, Eudemonian, you got me. I guess you people aren't above blackmail, eh? Can't say your “choices” give me a whole lot to work around.

Still with a grin on her face, she thought of Graven. The terms were ones she would agree to not only to save her own ass, but his as well. Such was her obligation to a valued client and comrade in such shady circles. The woman hoped he had made a clean getaway to whatever safety he could find for himself. The man's age and relatively good constitution considering assured her he would survive to meet her another day, providing she were able to live that long.

All I can promise is that I'll do what I can. So, I'm in your pocket. Now what?

There was no deceit or hidden meaning in her statement. There was a very real possibility she would have absolutely no success in gaining the cooperation of any other salvager affiliated with the guild. She would, as she so often did, have to rely on her contacts and relationships with her fellow guildsmen moreso than any legislative influence.

As she sat there, she studied the murky silhouette of the man, what few features that stood out through the haze of the alley. It was more than obvious he didn't mean her harm, despite the transgressions of late, and she still wondered exactly why. There was something there and she figured it wasn't too far off from whatever caused her to refrain from killing him earlier. The strange dynamic between them kept getting stranger.

Tiresias smiled, lowering the weapon slowly, watching her for the slightest movement, still unsure as to whether her not her agreement was merely a ploy, and she would soon assault him with those dangerous looking snappers. Taking a few steps back, he eased up slightly, though there was obvious tension in his right arm, most likely ready to lift the weapon up at a seconds notice in case his paranoia be proven right

Well, I am glad you can be reasoned with, I suppose not /all/ foreigners are incapable of logical thought.

He said without a trace of smugness. He apparently earnestly believed non-Selekusions were a breed apart from those hailing from Selekus, non-humans worthy of distrust, if not contempt. A scary proposition, to be sure, but one the man apparently believed. Continuing on, he began to soften his tone as the threat was, presumably, now past

Now, we play nice and pretend like nothing happened. You’ll keep your business, of course, providing you stay within the realm of small arms and other such equipment. Hell, I may even be able to convince my employer to throw some older stuff your way, free of charge.

He spoke as he edged further away from the entrance of the alley, gesturing to her to leave the vicinity of the shed, presumably back to the bar

Your friend will also be unaffected, he has his own business with the Council.

Skogul resisted the urge to burst into another chorus of laughter as the man spoke; the irony in his statement about the logic of “foreigners” proving to be highly entertaining to the salvager. Sure, she herself was not native to the Hub, or even the star system it was found in, but neither was this xenophobic citizen of the Selekusion Commonwealth. Besides, although it was unknown to her, Tiresias was more freshly arrived than she, the former only being assigned to this post recently whereas the latter had been working on and around the planet for nearly a decade at this point. She just kept that grin of hers, chuckling silently to herself in the back of her mind.

It did surprise her, however, that Graven should also be involved in some way with the agendas of Eudemonia. Fate certainly wove itself in mysterious ways, and the Hub seemed to become rather small in light of this revelation. Should she have the fortune of meeting up with the older man again, she would have to remind herself to ask him about his dealings with Selekusion powers.

As he finished explaining the plan of action they were to both take, she stood slowly. Although tensions between them seemed to be relaxed, she did not trust his jumpy gun arm enough to make sudden movements, especially in such darkness. Once standing, she took the time to stretch luxuriously and yawn before interjecting.

Always the gentleman, I see.

It was a mild, playful kind of scoff. While Tiresias may have had her at his mercy, she was not completely subservient to him and she would be quick to remind him of that. She approached the shed again, making some simple, reassuring remark about not reaching for a weapon as she rummaged in the tiny area of space between her shed and the stout cement locker it sat next to, finally producing a cloth sack that held the shape of a standard tall bottle of some sort. She held it up as she retreated carefully from the shed, mostly to avoid all of the junk littering the ground around it so as not to trip, and shook the parcel lightly to elicit a light sloshing noise that told her the contents were still in tact.

Satisfied, she turned toward Tiresias, holding the cloth-wrapped bottle out toward him as if to present it to him.

I was saving this for myself... but, what the hell? Buy you a drink, boss?

Without giving him time to respond, she tucked the parcel securely under her right arm and walked past him, heading down the same path in the alleyway they both took to get to the shed in the first place. Making her way back to the street, completely disregarding the growing swarms of nocturnal types, she returned to the bar, fully confident Tiresias would have no problem tracking her back there, though she did find herself stopping every so often to see if he was indeed following. As she re-entered, she took a seat not at the bar this time, which seemed a bit more crowded now than before, but at a table a short ways away from it.

As she removed her bottle of what appeared to be a fine, aged brandy of considerable caramel hue, she took notice of Aluria and his companion, still where they had been when she left, then the newcomer with attitude to spare. He was similar to those Aiden but not quite the same. She could detect the raw energy he oozed like the contempt he had for what seemed like everyone but himself. Her eyes narrowed at him; he could be trouble.

Once he gets the attention of the bar tender, he quickly raps his knuckles on the bartop while offering what he thinks is probably a terribly charming smile. All he really gets in response is a simple frown, which he seems to totally ignore.

"I'd ask for a nice, dry Normandien wine, but I doubt that much culture has spread to these lands."

As he speaks, he adopts something of a slow, overly annunciated speech pattern. It's unlikely that other beings around these parts are all that intelligent after all. It's best he dumbs down his own speech for the benefit of these lesser people. For an almost agonizing amount of time he mulls over his choices, before slapping his hand against the bartop smartly.

"Well, I suppose I should keep it a simple request for simple people. Water, with a twist of lemon. Got it? Wa-ter."

He explains in that same patronizingly slow manner which he seems to feel so compelled to use. He doesn't take long to simply lean down onto the bartop, while turning an appraising glance around him as the stunned barkeep goes to get his water.. Naturally, he finds them all to be of an inferior stock. None are Gifted like him, it is apparent. So, he simply offers an exasperated sigh. After all, it's quite frustrating to be so high above everyone else. Always being surrounded by filth. Always being surrounded by incompetence. It really wears on the nerves, a trait which he demonstrates when he finally receives that water.

"Tsk, the service here is atrocious..."

He states quite loudly, before moving to take a sip of that water. Naturally, he tosses it onto the bartop in a less than graceful manner which causes the glass to tip over and spill out.

"I asked for water! Not piss!"

He suddenly snaps while slamming a hand down onto the counter.