Skursir had looked away to have a sip and upon turning back found Jylan sprawling on the floor with a couple of Twi'leks crowded round. Skursir watched in silent intrest as the Zabrak was pulled to his feet and then another Twi'lek defiantly swooped in to claim his chair. Was this some party prank? The Trandoshan decided not to get involved and steadily walked away. He whispered to Jylan "I'll be right back..." but the words must have just meshed into noise to his friend's deaf ears for Jylan proceeded to yank one of the Twi'leks off his chair. Definately time to go.

Skursir licked his lips, the residue of some drink had found it's way onto his scales. It tasted like Lum. Perhaps he should order up another? He scanned the room. Instead of finding a serving droid, his eyes locked in on a Ubese person, wearing the helmet and all. Quite a rariety, Skursir remembered challenging one for a Bounty - they were apparently very good hunters. The Trandoshan decided to stay in the shadows, lest this person be of a violent nature, he was in no mood for a fight.

Drazzak paid the barman leaving only the exact amount of credits on the bar. One could argue it was greedy from her but it was the ubese version of politeness, she would have tried to bargain the price otherweise.

"You should leave a tip, you know?"

Drazzak turned around slowly and theatrically, facing the patron who dared talk to her. Whatever that creature was, it was trying to hide a certain disdain for the nice ubese and an as certain discomfort from her smell.

"Oh! You don't have extra-money to tip, right?"

Drazzak slowly tilted her head, her helmet showing nothing about how bored she was. For a second or two, she hesitated between feeding the guy with his teeth or with the counter. She finally decide to let him in one piece. She was here for business not for the fun. So Drazzak moved to the stage ignoring the idiot. He would probably brag around about how he defied one of those stinky and stupid ubese.

Drazzak was not one to like crowded places and she decided to get to a more shadowy and quiet place... That's how she almost ended up in the arms of some kind of giant lizard. She stepped back a few mubling an excuse in ubese to the... the thing. She needed just one more secoond to realise it was not a lizard but a trandoshan and that the creature was probably not understanding ubese.

Everybody appreciates the importance of arriving late. Late wasn't the word, though, as the uniformed man who stood at the entrance hall had gone unnoticed. Lively as ever, the Hyperion welcomed the clean cut Imperial with not so much as a glance. It was too much to hope that he would be picked up upon by a patron's peripheral vision. Unlikely for a man of his profession, he was alone and in an effort to maintain his unnoticed state, he did not at first approach any of the others. Instead, the scene was silently surveyed; he breathed in the colours and felt the stench of sweat, heat and good drink. A cap obscured the man's character, though the bandage that had been wrapped tightly across his eyes peeked through occasionally.

Weak from years of service, his bones creaked; the skin that hung to his muscle flagged and waned, decorated with an assortment of scars. His earliest memory, he would remember once more, was of being taken to a bar similar to The Hyperion. He held onto the image of his old man flirting with the waitress as his wife was across the room. The waitress’ words: “Oh, charming!” haunted him as he approached the bartender. Foregoing formal manners, the medic allowed his shoulders to reach across the bar; his knees buckled, his back arched. A particularly observational patron would regard him a weak target - easy credit chips. The more keen eyed may notice that he attracted the wrong kind of crowd for a reason.

With the attention of those who prey on the weak drawn, the medic's display of limp ability would allow potential threats to make themselves known early. As yet, none had appeared. His bandage peered from under the medic's cap, it was stained; "Dorian Quill, if you have it," he croaked with a cough. A handkerchief was brought to his mouth with one hand, whilst the other remained free, poised ready to strike; the cloth was allowed to rest on the bar while his drink was purchased and brought to the medic's nose. Pleasant and horrid smells are a matter of perception, they can conjure memories; the Dorian Quill never failed to force a shudder, though its taste more than outweighed its stench. He apologized for refusing to tip, though assured the bartender he would make up for it in returned visits.

Gently nursing his drink, the medic stood with his back to the bar, patiently waiting for somebody curious enough to ask his name.

"A medic and an actor. Impressive, Mr. Rooj."

Sco tilted his head in the direction of the speaker, a fellow patron at the bar. Jokoro did not bother to look up from his own drink; what purpose does eye contact serve with a Miraluka? With dark eyes and dark hair, an average height and an average build, Jokoro did not stand apart from any of the other humans around him at first glance. He was young, perhaps no more than twenty years old, yet he carried himself with authority... authority enhanced by the distinct design of his Neo-Crusader armor, though it was less recognizable without the signature helmet.

"Daring the unsuspecting fool to try his luck?" Jokoro chuckled. "Though I suppose if you do cut him into pieces, you at least have the knowledge to patch him back together."

Jokoro tapped his fingers slowly across the bar as the medic remained silent. "Well, Mr. Rooj, I obviously know who you are. Would you like to try and guess who I am?"

Armour means very little to someone who can only see what the force permits them. Arming yourself in strong metals and shields is as much a threat to the enemy as it is a comfort to the wearer. Sco did not feel intimidated. He did not fear this man and this worried him; fear fuels adrenaline and should this man choose to strike, he would catch Sco vulnerable.

"I'll take a wild guess and say you're not who I was waiting to see."

The Imperial medic turned again, formally putting his back to the man and faced the bartender,
"Dorian quill. Make that two. He'll buy the next round."

Sco signalled that he did not see the man as a threat. Perhaps he was goading his acquaintance, challenging him. The intuitive judge character by placing others in awkward situations, forcing them to take their most primal approach. Through this, Sco would learn whether this man had earned his armour, or had simply caught a dimwitted Mandalorian off-guard.

Jokoro was neither Mandalorian nor dimwitted, though he could not resist smiling at the nonchalant nature of the medic. Jokoro knew he was testing him, and therefore he knew that Mr. Rooj, though not afraid of him, acknowledged him as a potential threat.

"I am glad to see chivilary and etiquette are not dead among the Miraluka, Mr. Rooj," The bartender returned with the drinks, but Jokoro did not move. Business came first; pleasure is always a luxury, an often dangerous one at that. "I may be of some interest to you, and hopefully some aid as well."

Jokoro could tell the medic repressed a scoff at his words. Regardless, he pressed on. "I believe we may be looking for the same person." He noticed Mr Rooj tense, though it was barely noticable. The medic hid his emotions well. "A certain... Jedi."

Skursir was looking towards a mandalorian in neo-crusader armour, when suddenly his instincts led him to catch a falling man, perhaps drunk. The person was Ubese, Skursir knew that much. It occured to him that this man may infact be female, but with the helmet and heavy clothing it was impossible to tell, even for his keen vision. The Ubese staggered out of his arms while he was contemplating it's gender and seemed to murmer some apologies, it was also quite impossible to tell what language the person was speaking with the muffling effect of the helmet.

"That'ss quite alright..." Skursir frowned at the Ubese. He quickly summed up if he should buy the person a drink or not, seeing as they had met by fortune. He then felt compelled to make some sort of continuation after his long pause, and so revealed his name. "I'm Sskurssir, friend..... It'ss nice to have company drop in."

By turning, Sco revealed that his uniform was shredded and torn. The once hopeful, caring medic had been at war with the Republic and had silently fought the Empire for far too long. One last mission had eluded him this entire time. A score to settle, nothing more; he was not driven by hate, nor revenge - a Jedi had to be removed from the Galaxy. This Jedi was a threat to all who opposed him and to the girl who depended on Sco for her continued survival. Trusting a man who bears heavy armament is no easy task, however and Sco made this clear.

"I have no need of a hired gun." Sco coughed and spluttered as his drink was finished quickly and set down upon the bar with a small splash. He clutched his chest and let out a groan of agony. His conscience was far from clear, his mind full of the faces of every man he had ever killed.

"Your business with Bastion doesn't concern me, mercenary." He turned to walk from the bar, though not forgetting his arrangement for a second round, he called over his shoulder, "He just has to die."

"Yes, he does," Jokoro agreed, nodding slowly his head. "But credits are no more my reason than your reason, Mr. Rooj." The medic was out of earshot, however...

The bounty hunter sighed. He did not want to judge Sco too quickly, though only fools tended to refuse a friendly gun. Then again, the medic had no reason to trust Jokoro. The bounty hunter could be, as Sco probably suspected now, a mercenary working for Bastion. It did not matter now, though. They were each a lone wolf chasing the same creature, and Jokoro could only hope he reached the Jedi before Sco did... before it was too late.

He finished his drink, stepped away from the bar, and disappeared into the crowd.

The hunt was starting.

Though it has already been statted that Drazzak was open-minded and she was not agreing or following the traditionnal xenophobic view of the ubese, Drazzak was stil an ubese. It might be seen as disdainful but she brushed off her dirty and smelly cloack where the scaly thingy touched her.

"I'm Sskurssir, friend..... It'ss nice to have company drop in."
"Drazzak", she said with the horrible voice of her being horribly distorded by her helmet. In the end it sounded like a droid being dragged on a highway.

We already agreed on the fact Drazzak was a less formal ubese yet she was stil a ubese and would only speak the words that were needed. She eyed the trandoshan up and down as if pondering who Sskussir was... a slaver? a big-time hunter? What could have bring him here on Coruscant?

That's while glancing him down she realized her glass was now empty and her juice on the floor. As she was in a good mood -or at least in the ubese version of good mood- she pointed to the bar, she decided to spoke a couple more kind words.

"More drink?" No! Ubese definately weren't the talkative kind.

"Drazzak" That was at least one word that Skursir could make out clearly, most probably the person's name due to how it was spoken. The Ubese seemed to eye Skursir up and down in the same way as he had, leading him to believe that this Ubese didn't see many Trandoshans. Coupled with the fact that she wiped her cloak where she touched him, dispite him being clothed, Skursir would wager that he or she was slightly xenophobic.

"More drink?" The mechanised voiced person said, pointing towards the bar. Skursir raised a scaley eyebrow and looked towards Jylan who was still locked in with the Twi'leks. Why not? They were both strangers to this scene.
"Pleassse..." Skursir smirked at the Ubese and motioned over to the bar, ordering up two Lums, taking the sweet beverage as a catch all to tastes. The drinks arrived quickly and Skursir passed one over to Drazzak. "Do tell, why do you wear thiss garb?" He said, taking a sip of his Lum.

Was that a smirk or the doshan was showing out a good amount of sharp teeth? Probably his way to show he didn't like Ubeses and decided to stay because he had nothing else to do. Denial was not needed since we all know nobody likes ubeses... Except for Ubese themselves and depending on their native planet. So the doshan was strutting around in his own doshan way with his teeth but who cared 'bout that, huh?

Drazzak took the glass she was offered smelling it in a very suspicious way. The think was slighty alcoholic. No need to deny that too. The ubese laid the glass on the counter.

"No alcohol."

Drazzak was not drinking alcohol usually coming up with some stupid answer like alcohol being dangerous for Ubese and turning them into killing machine. Truth being she didn't want to slow down her reactions in case of an emergency situation like a bar fist-fight. She ordered herself another double rush with ice cubes and a smoke of nitrogen.

"Do tell, why do you wear thiss garb?"

Ow! A question! The lizard was existing and talking... How exciting! Hopefully she had no friend to ask what she did that evening and would never be forced to say she had an exciting evening talking to a lizard.

"Drazzak like. Ubese tradition. Gift from mother sister."

Dammit! She was really talking to a lizard... Almost having a philosophic discussion about traditions and clothings fashion.

"No alcohol" Skursir shrugged, a motion that had been rubbed off on him via interaction with too many humans. However, Skursir (and he was sure many others) enjoyed the frequent "dizzy-drink" and happily kept sipping at his Lum as the Ubese recieved his or her double rush.

"Drazzak like. Ubese tradition. Gift from mother sister." Came the answer to the question. Up until now, Skursir had believed that Drazzak was fluent in basic. That or he or she was mocking him. It was impossible to tell with a helmet on which allowed no facial expressions to be shown. Even the liquid was capable of entering through a special slit. Still, the clothing was tradition and being one to revel in his culture, Skursir did not take the matter up further.

"Ssso... What bringss you to the Hyperion?" Skursir followed up the question, guessing that it would be easy enough to reply to.

"Ssso... What bringss you to the Hyperion?"

Drazzak smirked but that was behind her hemet. It was not because she was seeing an idiot behind Skusir being dragged outside, completely drunk and wracked. Such a human shame! No Drazzak was smirking because she liked the way the lizard used to remove the useless talk from the discussion. Down to the business! That was something Drazzak liked.

"Came for rumors. Here purchasing valuable Art or information."

Of course, Drazzak could have made long sentences in Basic but she would not do so for a random trandoshan she walked into. Would the guy turn out to be more... interesting, she'd probably decide to make an exception and adress him or her or it as a real person.

"Came for rumors. Here purchasing valuable Art or information." Skursir was intrigued. More so at the fact that there were actual art sellers in the vicinity, but also that the Ubese had a purpose, which made him wonder why she would be talking to him? Perhaps she had time to spare? Perhaps she was just bored of business. Either way, Skursir had something to go on for light conversation. He had known several Trandoshan artists when he lived in the Capital, for a time. In comparison to other works, they seemed primitive, but they had a charm about them, and they almost all had hidden messages in them.

The Ubese however, probably knew nothing of Trandoshan culture, let alone the finer details of their artwork. No, Drazzak would probably be more into the works of modern greats housed in Coruscant. But he or she had also mentioned rumours. Being one who firmly believed that knowledge was power, Skursir decided to push that side of the conversation into his favour.

"Information is it?" Skursir gave a sly grin, stroking his scaley skin on his cheek in a very human gesture. "Well you've bumped into the right Trandoshan... I can tell you a bit about a couple of the people here and all it will cost you is another round of drinks..."