Skip to content

High Class Roadhouse (*RP HUB*)

Located smack-dab in the void between Scatterhome, the Song Dominion, and the Celestine Ascendancy, the High Class Roadhouse sits tucked away in the old sector of Rendar Spaceport. Filled with rest stops, shopping centers, and nightclubs, the station itself is always bustling with travelers of every race, vocation, and walk of life. The High Class Roadhouse, however, seems to always harbor a slow but steady trickle of space-farers in search of a different sort of amenities: cheap drinks, edible food, and the promise of anonymity for those who require it.

Inside, the main point of interest is a large wooden bar made of natural oak, its surface scarred with deep gashes and dents from years of abuse. A large Krona stands behind the bar, haphazardly swiping at a recent spill with a rag. He grunts his acknowledgement of the empty mug at the end of the bar and leaves the rag in the puddle of beer as he goes to replenish it. The tables scattered throughout the center of the room are accompanied by a rowdy group of patrons playing various holo-card games, their drinks closely monitored by an orbiting server bot. An Amaian waitress carries a tray of various bar snacks and begins placing dishes on one of the tables, careful not to disturb their game. Dimly-lit booths line the far walls of the establishment, providing a more peaceful experience for the customers occupying them.


(( This thread is meant as a hub for RP, a place where characters can interact with NPCs and each other. Feel free to join in conversations, create NPCs, control existing NPCs, and just doing whatever your character would do in a place like this.

PLEASE NOTE: if your character or a group of characters leaves the bar to continue their RPing elsewhere, please create another thread for that RP adventure. It will help keep the thread contained to this specific area.

And, of course, please be cool to each other! ))



  • Sorry, I'm not great at story writing, but I wanted to give it a shot!

    A diminutive Elgan enters through the automatic door, heading for the bar. His crimson, knee-length robe has an almost too shiny appearance, obviously a poor imitation of the costly shimmerweave material only worn by the upper crust. Three gold chains hang around his neck, along with, oddly, a very small and plain medallion on a thin black chain.

    A little bot skitters along behind him, like a black spider, its head turning from side to side as it seems to scan the room and the people in it.

    He struts over to the bar, swinging up onto one of the bar stools and says in a loud, abrasive voice, "Got any Flaming Maverick here?" He smirks contemptuously at the barkeeper, as if expecting the answer to be no.

  • edited March 2018
    The bartender grunts dismissively and grabs an unlabeled bottle of neon-red liquid that definitely is not Flaming Maverick. He fills a double shot glass and slides it at the Elgan, then resumes wiping down the bar with his rag. He motions to the Elgan's spidery companion, "If that thing's got any weapons in it, you need to put it into safety mode or leave it outside."
  • edited March 2018
    Amity Waymire has been coming to the Roadhouse for a long, long time. Sometimes she comes as freight hand. Sometimes she's cheap security for the almost rich. Other periods of her life she's not been doing anything she'd like to admit to. Today she's here as a salvage operator, grease-smudged and tattered coveralls, fresh off a clunker by way of Inkke IV by way of Ishbi by way of D'haren VI (and don't ask her what she was doing out there). She's as thirsty as an Amaian in a desert, and she settles into her usual seat, orders up her usual drink.

    Once again, as the cheap artificial gravity of her clunker wears off and the pull of the planet kicks in, Amity wonders how the Roadhouse managed to get a wooden bar. A wooden bar, of all the things, all the way out here in the lint-filled navel of the sector. It isn't synthwood. It isn't fabricated. She runs a ragged fingernail along the edge of what's familiar and strange, marveling at the way it catches on a genuine, honest-to-Earth splinter. Incredible. This thing was a tree once. And now it's here, spinning through the black with the rest of Rendar, a barely habitable rock that's grown from rest stop to bloated destination for those without the marks to spare for a vacation in the Diamond Belt or the Singing Citadel or even Marle, for Khan's sake. The Jersey Shore of space. 

    Her grav-drunk philosophical ruminations are interrupted by two things. First her mug, plonked down in front of her with half of what's in it splashing over the rim. "Rude," she tells the bartender, who ignores her. She thinks his name is Anshur. Or Shuran. One of those weird Krona names.

    Second thing, and decidedly more pleasant, is the pretty bit of shine sauntering in around the neck of the newest arrival. She eyes those triple necklaces adorning the Elgan stranger with a magpie's greed, disguising the expressiveness of her human features by taking a deep gulp of her lapteth. Only then does her gaze drop to the cheap fabric of his robe, too shiny and too stiff to be genuine, and her face falls. "Hey, that thing your bodyguard or something?" she asks him, just the hint, just the suggestion, of a caustic edge in her raspy smoker's voice. Lifting her chin to point it at the bot, all skittery and disconcerting, she goes on, "You ain't afraid someone'll step on it?" 
  • edited March 2018
    ***post moved (Traveler and I posted at the same time!)
  • Spider was Tabaq’s favorite bot. In some ways, it was the only friend he had - unless you count Zneer. And no one counts Zneer as anything like a friend.

    Spider was mostly for recon. It had an array of sensors that it used to scan an area, sending data about the surrounding people and items to Tabaq's mindsim. The grin frequently spread across Tabaq's face made him seem jovial, but usually it was just him laughing at Zneer’s snarky comments about the people around him.

    The spindly legs of the spider bot could retract and it could zoom around in the air, if necessary, but Tabaq much preferred the quiet clicking of its feet to an annoying buzz around his head.


    Tabaq grins at the woman, slightly mocking. "Much you know about bots!" he says cheerfully. "Just TRY stepping on it." He throws back his shot glass, coughing a little.

  • edited March 2018

    As if on cue, a drunken Nuszrisa stumbles up to the bar from one of the gaming tables and staggers to avoid stepping on the bot, failing to do so with any grace. He glares at its owner, his glassy eyes trying to take in as much information on the Elgan’s appearance as his under-powered brain will allow. He tries to think of a witty insult but instead defaults to a string of terrible slurs. Before he is able to vocalize them he notices the woman beside him, his unfocused eyes drifting between looking at her, and looking through her, assessing her with the subtlety of a supernova.

    “Oh....well, here I thought nothing good ever washes up into this gutter,” he croons, leaning a feathered elbow on the bar. He turns his head to the bartender, “Nurash, I believe the lady wants to buy me one of what she’s having...?”

  • There is a man off in his corner. His lone corner, the one he can always be found in when he's there. He's a quiet man. He keeps to himself. He's a Decheeran, covered in Iriil tattoos. He always orders the same thing, some grassy looking plant with cooked squash shoved in it. His cold eyes occasionally look up from his food, watching as the Elgan slams down some alcohol, the oak tree looking man then gazing back to his food. Eating quietly. Keeping to himself.
  • Amity gives the Elgan and his spidery little bot a side-eye at such a cheerful mockery, and seems to be giving the gauntlet he threw down some serious consideration. "Maybe I wi-" she begins to retort, when the challenge of bot-stepping is taken up by some other complete stranger. At the sight of the Nusriza's foot nearly going through the skittery critter, she snorts in laughter, accidentally inhaling a quantity of the bitter Tukkav beer she favors.

    The next few seconds are taken up by an uncomfortable, messy coughing fit, with a fist banging on the chest of her greasy jumpsuit and droplets of lapteth gently misting the Elgan. Mid-cough, she realizes she is being propositioned. Too busy trying to clear her lungs to respond verbally, she directs a hand gesture at the Nusriza interloper that is far from being a graceful, elegant shift of her fingers to inflect subtle meaning into her words. No, this bit of sign language is rude, crude, and boorish. It apparently means something awful in the Nusriza language, but the nuance escapes Amity, who picked up the non-verbal curse who knows where. She flings it in his face regardless, with a wicked smirk twisting her cough-grimaced lips.

  • edited March 2018

    Of all the places he would ever expect to see such vulgarity in his own native sign, it wasn’t here, and definitely not from a human! He was certainly used to being turned-down, but the string of gestures this woman was hurling at him was so demeaning, so crass, so downright nasty that if a Nusriza could blush, this one would be radioactive. It also didn’t help that she had spit beer into his face.

    The bartender betrays his effort of seeming disinterested with an amused smirk. “I don’t think she’s interested, pal,” he chuckled, “-and for the hundredth time, it’s Rushan. Now stop bothering paying customers or I’m throwing your ass out again.”

    Speechless and appalled, the Nusriza stumbles backwards, tripping over the firmly-planted spider bot and fumbles away toward his table.

  • The Dechereen watches as all of this unfolds, silent and calm as the woman pretty much flips off the Nusriza in his own language. He watches impassively as the hand gestures are made. As the man nearly trips on the spider bot. There's a muttering underneath his breath, the words completely emotionless. Decheeran for... something along the lines of... fool.
  • Tabaq, now feeling the effects of his drink, snarls an epithet at the clumsy Nusrizan, and kneels down to examine his bot with groggy concern.

    Spider normally did not ever get tripped over. The bot moved faster than any creature's foot could possibly, except for perhaps Bushraki - but they weren't normal creatures. Of course, it had been a long time since he'd run diagnostics on Spider and given him a nice tuning up.

    He jerks his hand toward Spider quickly, and the bot does swerve out of the way, but much slower than it should.

    The Elgan's large, round eyes lose their cocky good-natured expression, as he grimaces in annoyance. Getting to his feet and turning to the barkeeper - whatever his name really was, Tabaq didn't care - he says, "Where'sss th' neares repair bay?" As he sways a bit, he puts his hand on the nearby stool to steady himself.
  • The door opens, and brings in - of all things - a swirl of smoke, along with a young, pale-haired woman. She's wearing a coverall that has been folded down and tied around her waist with the sleeves. Underneath is a somewhat grease-spotted, sleeve-less top, which exposes the iriil tattoos along one of her arms. The same hand is currently an angry red hue. It is the glove in the other hand, however, that seems to be the main source of all the smoke.

    The woman takes several steps inside and towards the bar before even taking notice of the rest of the people, all but stumbling into the Elgan. "Oi, so sorry," she says, then coughs due to having inhaled some of the smoke she brought with her. She waves her reddened hand to disperse the offensive wisps, side-steps the man, hop-skips to not accidentally crush the bot, and has to steady herself against the oaken bar to not fall flat on her ass. 

    Wincing, she looks for the bartender and asks, "Ah, do you have an ice-tray or something?" There's an embarrassed look on her face as she holds up her hand.
  • The emotionless Decheeran looks towards the woman and her iriil tattoos for a moment or two. Watching as she tumbles into the short creature. Watching as she steadies herself against the bar, and as she blushes. The perhaps more experienced- how experienced- Nanoseer utters in an unimpressed voice. "Young ones."
  • Tabaq, worried about his pet bot, and inflamed by the alcohol coursing through his system, did not react well to being nearly toppled over by the new arrival. 

    "Watch where you're going!" he yelled at her, swinging an arm out in an ill-tempered but not violent blow. Completely missing, he staggered, regained his balance, and headed for the door, as Spider retracted its legs and rose into the air after him, safe - hopefully - from any more clumsy customers who might be stumbling around. 

    "I'll fin' 'pair bay myself," he muttered, glowering, as he went out.
  • The bartender raises an eyebrow at the Elgar's outburst and watches him storm out the door, then turns his attention to the newcomer with the injury, which warrants raising the other eyebrow. He scoops a fistful of ice out of the bin under the bar and, unsure where to put it, just places it on the bar in front of her.

    He catches the attention of the orbiting server bot and motions toward the Decheeran in the corner. The bot swiftly hovers toward the booth to scan the Decheeran's dish and analyze how much is left. "Do you require more squash?" it chirps at him.

  • Near the back of the room, a leathery old Ry'nari snores next to a half-full plate of zhu noodles and several very empty bottles. His clothes are stained but serviceable, much like the tools that hang from his belt. He is quite evidently not waking up soon.
  • The Decheeran looks up, towards the robot. Thinking. "Pumpkin and corn." Is his answer, nodding towards the service bot thing. His beady eyes look all around the room once again.
  • The young woman with the burnt arm scoops up the ice in a piece of cloth and shuffles over to the side of the bar, pushing the still-smoking glove along. Once there, she rests the improvised ice-pack on top of her arm, letting out a hiss of discomfort mixed with relief. The look of pure disgust she directs towards the piece of technology next to her is impossible to miss, and she grumbles something unintelligible while tending to her wounds.
  • edited March 2018
    Once again, the door hisses open, and a figure enters the popular bar room. The tall, slender Jin pauses just inside, quietly scanning the room as she looks for a place to sit. Her black hair is woven in intricate braids at the top of her head, then gathered into a ponytail which is secured by a black ribbon nearly indistinguishable as it blends in with her hair. Her long, black robe is sleeveless, displaying the iriil tattoos on her dark purple arms. The top part of her clothing is more of a shirt than a robe, secured tightly around her torso, then flaring and draping softly around her legs, parted in the front to reveal black leggings and boots.

    Her gaze pauses a moment as her attention is caught by the young woman, whose glove is still sending curling wisps of smoke into the air. Slowly, she approaches the table, and regards the young woman coolly, her expression neither hostile nor open.

    She looks over at the bar, and raises her voice just enough to be heard by the barkeeper. “I shall require your lunch special,” she says, “ and moh tea.”

    Turning back to the young woman, she says in a soft, low-pitched voice, "My name is S'kaa. Do you need assistance?"

  • The sight of more idriil tattoos gets the Decheeran to lift his head up. But only momentarily, studying the Jin that came through. The emotionless slate on her face gets something close to approval in his eyes. And he's going back to poking at... whatever it is he ordered. A fork jabs and it stabs, lifting the veggie up to his mouth. Eating. Watching the events unfold in front of him.
  • Is there a limit to how many times you can edit? I may or may not have changed my mind 5 or so times after posting, and editted and re-editted to shuffle around details, and now my post is "waiting for approval"... Sorry Flemaq I didn't mean to make your character look like it was hallucinating >.<

  • @Tecton @Aurelius (I'm sorry, I don't know who moderates the forums or what are the proper channels...) Did I break it? Or is my comment in limbo somewhere? :(
  • (just put in a new post or ask on the discord server.
  • Dabbing an ice cube against the burns, the blond woman doesn't glance over when the door opens. It is not until the Jin comes up next to her that she looks up at her, eyes straying to the tattoos, then back up to her face. "Uuh," she lets out hesitantly, peering down at her glove, at the ice cube that keeps dripping water down on her arm, and then her shoulders slump. "Maybe, a little," she admits, voice containing a mixture of emotions, from resignation to embarrassment to anger. 

    Plopping the ice back into the wrap on top of part of her arm, she runs her damp fingers through her long hair, sweeping it back and revealing the shaved sides of her head. "That piece of crap tech keeps mis-firing," she growls towards the glove, then stops herself in a way that suggests she would have been able to let out a long stream of words about the glove's quality, or rather lack of it. "I'm Cen," she introduces herself, the 's'-sound of her name coming out as a hiss as she shifts her wounded arm.
  • S’kaa eases herself into a chair across from Cen, arranging her robe carefully. She removes her own glove, laying it gently on the table.

    “It is not a machine,” she begins. “We are not -” a flicker of annoyance passes over her features, and she pronounces the word as if it tastes bad - “Engineers.”

    From a pocket in her trousers, S'kaa takes out a sleek black metal rectangle, about as long and as thick as three of the Jin’s slender fingers. She presses a button, and several small tools flip out with a sibilant click.

    “It is kith,” she says, taking up her glove and gently prying open the panel that gives access to the internal workings. “Wires and metals, yes, but also kith. You must handle it with respect, as a living thing.”

    As she talks, S’kaa slowly and carefully takes apart her glove, making sure that all her actions are seen, and lays the pieces neatly on the table.

    Adjusting the indigo-colored goggles that rest atop her head, she pauses, glancing at Cen as though inviting comment.

  • The Decheeran finally speaks up. Loud enough to be heard from his spot. Speaking, without lifting his head. "And the way you handle yourself, the void kith will never allow itself to be controlled by you. Master your emotions." Says the male Decheeran listlessly. "Embody a void. It's emptiness. Otherwise you are better off as a Fury."
  • Cen watches S'kaa's glove, her eyes widening at the sight of it, mouth churning as if she's about to speak, but she doesn't. As the Jin begins picking the glove apart, she barely listens, intent as she is on the piece of technology. Eventually, however, when there is a lull, she blurts out, "Is that a Tacyx PDT swarmglove? I've heard of their latest model, the UM300 Rek. I hear it's supposed to be fantastic!" She sounds very excited, even as her eyes survey all the tiny parts laid out neatly on the table.

    At the shout from the Decheeran, she glances up and frowns. "Hey, I think you'd be quite frazzled too if your own tech fried your hand and sent jolts through your body for over twenty minutes practically without pause," she responds defensively. "I can't afford the good stuff, so I'm left tinkering with space junk, alright?" The last is said as much to the Decheeran as the woman seated across from her. She snatches up her own glove, which seems to be letting off less smoke now, and holds it close to her chest in a possessive way. "I'm not an Engineer, I just tinker enough to try to make what I have work."
  • S'kaa leans back in her chair, her eyes widening slightly before she regains her composure. "I will not touch your glove if you do not desire it," she says. She stares at Cen for a moment, as though not knowing what to make of her.

    A server droid approaches, bearing a plate of food and hot, steaming mug of tea. "The lunch special and moh tea," it announces in a monotone voice.

    S'kaa clears a spot for the plate on the table, and hurriedly begins to put her glove back together. "Yes, thank you," she says, as she waves a dismissive hand towards the droid.
  • If the Decheeran shouted, it probably would have said shouted. But no, it was a calm and level, emotionless voice. "No. No I don't think I would." Disagrees the tree-person with a small shake of the head.
  • The blond woman smirks at the Decheeran off in the corner of the room, though a hint of surprise is in her eyes at the way the voice carried over to her part of the room so effortlessly.

    Turning back to the Jin, she says, "I didn't think you would, but I worked hard to get my hands on this one." She gestures at the glove she's holding, and adds, "Just because it looks battered doesn't mean I don't treat it with respect. Well, most of the time anyway. I'm just trying to fix it, because it's broken." Once again she shoots a look towards the corner, muttering, "I'm angry because I've spent a long time fixing, and still end up in agony wherever I try to use it."
Sign In or Register to comment.