On March 5, 2013, Wing Commander: New Horizon MUSH was shut down due to lack of activity. Thanks to the staff and players for your support. We had a good run and created some amazing memories. Keep in touch on the Facebook page for the game, which will be preserved.
The entire game's codebase and database (minus player information) has been open-sourced and released to the public, and the game itself is back up to help support the code at wcmush.com 2199!
"Oi! The fuck?! You know who I am? Get the hell out of my way! Christ." Calls a voice, the accent a bastardization of an English one as if it originated there a long while back. Now it just sounds like a cross between South African, Australian and where it originated - joys of the galaxy. The man shoves his way into the bar, wedging himself between a few people standing at the entrance that seem to be debating about whether or not they wanted to go to this bar, or maybe the hotel or perhaps that place down the street? The man pulls at the bottom of the jacket, his neck arching for a second as if he was straightening it in an exaggerated manner. "Fack..." Dyre turns to glare back for a second, but it's short lived as he instead makes his way toward the bar. It's not too packed at the moment, still somewhat early in the evening. The bustle had begun its up-swing, but the waitresses still looked bored. Of the two bartenders the female one was getting more of the attention, probably giving into the fact that her button-up shirt wasn't fully buttoned up - and her copious smiling. There's a few people who are smoking at the bar, but they lend themselves more toward the farther end in an area that is more designated(with ventilation to try and keep it that way).
"Sanders, did you ever consider speech therapy? Or did the person teaching you to speak go to a therapist instead?" Chrys retorts as she comes in after him, hands stuffed into the pockets of her denim jacket, gnawing on her cigarette's filter. It's unlit at the moment, and she's happy about that, finally back on one of her favourite drugs after a long hiatus. The mescaline is actually doing its job again, the built-up tolerance having faded, and making the world sing around her... Or, more accurately, breathe. Everything seemed to pulse with life when she was on mescaline, and the colours of the world were vibrant and beautiful. So, yeah, she's high out of her gourd. Somewhere, the heart of the universe is beating, and she can feel the pulse, having a profound philosophical moment while Dyre stares at someone's cleavage. She joins him at the bar, a stool away, and orders a Bedrock immediately. She may not be from Inferno, but she did like their beer. Too bad the price was going up until they could finish the reactivation of the brewery.
Of course, a crowd. Diana is small enough to slip in without much fanfare, particularly since her aggressive, hulking Kilrathi bodyguard is not around. She waits for one person to vacate before stepping up to the bar to flag down the male bartender. Noticing who the petite woman is, he asks, "The usual?" Diana shakes her head. "Not today, Dave. A simple cabernet should do." Simple is, of course, relative, for he pulls out a pricey bottle and pours it into a deep wineglass. She lifts it and inhales, swirling the drink around. The scent alone seems to allow her shoulders to relax, just a touch. The journalist is not yet noticed, but it is only a matter of time.
"You ever consider eating more than pills, Flowers?" Dyre(Sanders) responds without missing a beat. He snaps his fingers a few times and taps at the bar top as if to signal he wanted his usual. The bartender gave him a confused, and mildly bewildered, look at this person they've never seen. "Oh for FUCKS SAKES! What the fuck, in the fuckin' hell, do I have to fuck to get a fuckin', fuck to get me a god damn whiskey?! Fuck!" He turns his head and back toward Chrys. His eyebrows raising a little as his other hand, not on the bar top drops and holds out toward her. Dyre's voice drops and he adds in quickly, "Hit me?" A not-so-subtle way of asking for a bit of whatever she's on, and the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth says that he's well inclined to join her on the ride. His eyes dart around for a fast moment, checking to see who's around and resting on the lady who's ordering her 'usual' for an extra moment. His eyes give her a once over before giving a slight shrug and looking back to Chrys.
Chrys does stand out in a crowd. She also still reeks of arakh, as she's been suppoing the tea regularly, and even on days she doesn't. the smell seems to want to cling to everything she owns near the tea at any given time. It's not like it's a horrible smell, it's just akin to the smell underneath a lawnmower, with some little sweet and spicy notes attached to it. But oddly enough, she does stand out less... than /usual/. She is, after all, not wearing a hawaiian shirt, but rather the dress version of it, though it's a bit more tasteful and a bit less loud... Though it does look like she nicked it from a thrift store. Hell, she even has makeup on! She's not wearing her sunglasses! She looks like a skinny, but otherwise normal woman! ... Well, if you ignore the bloodshot eyes. Or the mild twitchiness. To be honest, for once, there's someone more loud and annoying than she is, and that's okay with her. She's trying to center her vibes and get all zen about her situation, /feel/ the universe around her. Setting down a ten-cred chit for the inflated price of her Infernal beer, she rolls her shoulders at Dyre's demand to be hit. "Too late for that," she prompts quietly. The security guards were watching him for being a loud bastard, most likely, and even then, good mescaline can take a few hours before you /feeeeel/ it. Which is why Chrys popped her pills a good hour and a half ago.
Well, -now- they've caught Diana's -- and half the bar's -- attention. The CEO stares at Chrys for a moment, blinks once, then gently arches an eyebrow. Interesting. She lifts an index finger to regain Dave the Bartender's attention, motions with it toward the odd pair, then sets her finger down on the bar. Translation: put it on my tab. A moment later, she murmurs briefly to him. Although Dave looks at the diminutive woman as though she has lost her mind, he brings them each another round of whatever they are drinking and loudly announces, "Congratulations to the happy couple!"
Dyre gives a slight shake of his head in dismay, and his mouth pulls off to one side in a look of annoyance. Of course, not really directed at Chrys, just the general situation. His hand that was asking for some, flips over and he pats at Chry's thigh, leaving it there for the moment. He sighs and leans back as he looks about for the bartender he was asking for a drink. His hand that was tapping the bar top is already working to snag the soft pack from his inside pocket, the Blue Hornet symbol displayed on it in green and the word 'Menthol' proudly displayed upon it. "Congratulations to the happy Couple!" Bring Dyre around though, "What the... " He looks mildly bewildered for a moment, but as the bartender sets the drink down in front of Dyre he doesn't waste much time - fortune favor the bold! He takes a slug of the light-brown liquid and calls "Thank you, whoever's buyin'!" His mouth pulls into a wide, toothy grin that splays them in a fashion which would be intimidating if he was a Kilrathi, but looks mildly goofy on a human.
Chrys had been trying to find inner peace. Eyes half-lidded, staring at the beer in front of her like it contained all of the secrets of the universe, watching the patterns in the forming condensation, imagining each as a tiny little universe... And then there's yelling. Not from Dyre. And everyone's looking at her. And the world seems to break like glass, and her eyes are wide open and confused, shifting to mildly disturbed a few moments later. Her unlit cigarette falls from her lips, and she looks around quickly as it rolls slightly on the bartop, then goes still. It's even worse when Dyre starts playing it up, and the suddenly-cross journalist hisses at him. "D... Sanders! What the fuck!" she shouts, her vibes turning on her as she looks around once more, and... spots her nemesis! Cabrera! "Oh, you fucking whore." she spits out, pale cheeks flushing in indignation. It's one thing to make a fool out of herself in the middle of a high. It's another to have someone else do it for you.
Even as Dave points out the identity of the benefactor, the journalist does the same. More vocally and with significantly greater vulgarity, at that. Diana is simply watching the scene unfold before her as she takes a small sip of the dark red liquid. Switching her folded legs so that the left is now on top, she pushes against the bar with her hand to gently turn the barstool. A slow grin curves her lips as she fully faces the pair. "My dear Ms. Flowers, I am so glad to see you have found true happiness. When is the big day?"
"Oi! Who the hell do you think you are?! Talkin' to her like that." Dyre responds, patting at Chrys' leg once more before adding in, "She's always happy!" He flashes a toothy grin again, somewhere between having way too much fun with attempting to embarrass Chrys relishing just the mocking in general. His hand that fished the softpack out shakes out one of the smokes. He grabs the cylinder with his lips, his head moving back to pull it the rest of the way out. Mischief starts to peak at the edges of that look. "Me and my sweety-kins plan to take care of that soon. Isn't that right my smoozy-whoodle-cakes?" His eyes flick to Chrys for a moment, breaking away from Dy, and he starts to exchange the softpack for his silver butane lighter. His eyebrow arches up again, appraising Chrys and probably realizing that it was a bad idea.
Chrys now has two bottles of Bedrock that she has yet to even touch. Her vibes are terrible now, and the world around her is thudding with her heartbeat, the edges tinted red. And Diana's just sitting there, /grinning/. "Shove off, Cabrera, at least my sexual interests stay in the human sector." she hisses in retort, before her eyebrows go up... and she suddenly sneers. "So tell me Cabrera, do you have to use peanut butter to get him to eat you out, or do you just have to make some flowery comment about the royal gutter needing to be cleaned?" yeah, she's going to go full bitch. This situation is personally embarrassing to her, and now she's just plain angry! Still, sharp comments of the highest vulgarity aside, she also prompts something else. "Don't you have something else to be done?" as if she's expecting Diana to be in some shady recon room somewhere, getting full status updates every minute from her trained bloodhounds. And then Dyre has to go and make it worse! A sudden impulse for sharp, physical violence is curbed by her brain putting on the brakes and going wait no Dyre's much more useful if he's /directed/... "/Dear/, this woman over here has a Kilrathi boyfriend. Don't you think that's /interesting/?" hint. Hint. HINT! FUCKING GET IT DYRE GODDAMNIT. Her eyes are wide and angry, and the look says to him, 'Redirect or I will make sure you regret opening your mouth, motherfucker.'
Diana inclines her head to Dyre, then listens to the other woman's tirade, amusement alighting her face. She checks her datapad several times as it chimes -- her shady updates are digital, apparently -- and texts back with her free hand. Thoroughly enjoying the wine, she sighs contentedly. Only once she is certain the caterwaulinging has ended does she speak. In a fully relaxed voice, with an easier smile than any can claim to have seen on the CEO, she simply replies, "As it so happens, Ms. Flowers, my boyfriend is human." That alone causes a bit of buzz in the bar, as she has never been linked with anyone -- save some rumors about her Kilrathi bodyguard -- and never admitted to dating anyone thus far.
"No. Way." Dyre says, looking at Chrys and his eyes widening. Of course, that was the initial reaction. The starting of the storm as it were. And his head starts tilting back upward, another grin on his face. One could swear that the movement was almost mechanical with little clicking noises as his head was turned to redirect toward Diana. The grin was something else though, something that says Christmas, Halloween and Easter all at once. Yes, Easter, because this was a moment of clarity on a religious scale. "No, no dear. She wouldn't use peanut butter, cat's like tuna, so I imagine she doesn't have to do anything to get a big, soft, lovable Kilrathi to find him way to her snatch." This is said in a pleasant tone, as if discussing the roses down the street. Then there was the cant to the head that said he was being innocent. After all, the discussion of inter-species relations seemed to be a topic of common knowledge.
Chrys feels better, now. She's still angry, but she's happily redirected Dyre to Diana, which now means Diana's life in Gordi's will be happily miserable until she leaves or Dyre is redirected again. "Hmnph." she sounds simply, trying to up her spirits by extending her claws a bit more. "I'm sure you try to tell him that, Cabrera, but we all know he only wants to wear that damn Kilrathi fursuit. Tell me, does he make you call him your 'lairmate'?" Finally seeming to notice her two beers, she pulls the older bottle to her first, taking a swig from it.
"Just because your lover smells like bad seafood when she opens her legs does not mean I don't know how to clean myself properly, sir," Diana replies lightly, that smile never fading. More messages to text, another sip of wine, and it all seems to flow over her like so much water. "Oh, and Khal'deeah --" She notes briefly to Dyre, "My bodyguard." Then back to Chrys. "Did tell me about you hitting on him the other day. Although I cannot imagine what you thought that would accomplish. You already admitted to knowing I was not sleeping with him, but -surely- a lady as refined as you would never try to seduce a felinoid. Not unless you had more of those pills, I suppose..."
"So, I'm curious though," Dyre continues, seeming to almost ignore her comments. Oh, yes, as Chrys said he needs to be redirected to stop this roll, "Does he get flees? Because I know that crabs could be bitch, but I can't even imagine the constant threat of fleas. Which brings up another point, does he prefer the hardwood or au natural? It would make sense that he would find it more at home in the jungle that would surely arise between your legs, but it would stop the flea problems." Dyre rests an elbow on the bar top, the lighter nestled away in the hand. He raises it up and depresses the button on the back of the silver device. It snaps open with a click, then another sharper click as the flint is struck and the hiss as the blue flame ignites. "Ooo! Or the shampoos! You know, I know a guy who could probably whip one up for your with catnip smell - so that way you don't lose your appeal when you rinse off." Dyre moves his head so that the blue and green banded cigarette meets with the flame. The tip ignites in an orange flame, complimenting the blue glow and fire of the lighter, and after a few quick puffs both go away to leave a cloud of gray and the orange ember on the tip.
"See, there's the difference between you and I, Cabrera. I grew up in Kilrathi space, so there's no sexual mystique to a Kilrathi to me." Chrys starts, waving a hand dismissively. "But you? Poor, lonely little mining colony girl? Ignore your fetish with people calling you 'your highness', and shit like that, you probably spent most of your teenage years imagining some big, strong, Kilrathi warrior carting you off to reenact the execution of Devereaux with his dick." Her mood's coming back, at least. She's still openly pissed off, but the insulting banter has given her a distraction from her earlier embarrassment. And while her cigarette lies forgotten on the bar, she has a beer, and she has the vibration of the world around her, and that's something for now.
"My you two -are- perfect for one another," Diana says happily. "Do send me an invitation to the wedding, will you? And, Ms. Flowers, you look so much better in a dress. Almost as if you were more than a skeleton. I suppose my alleged sexual activities are no worse than your fiance's obvious necrophilia." She finishes her wine, sets the glass down, and slides off the stool. "Well, this was fun, was it not? But now I have people to save by giving them food and jobs. Enjoy your illegal substance abuse." She says the last rather loudly, certainly enough for the bartenders and security to hear.
Dyre takes a drag on the cigarette, causing the end to flare into a brilliant orange before disappearing behind the ash. His eyebrows arch and he lets out the plume of smoke in Diana's direction as he continues. "But let's forget about that for a moment, I think the real question on everyone's mind is - is it barbed? I mean, it would bring a whole new meaning to 'Once you go cat, you aint going back'. Not to mention, must her like a bitch." His hand waves around a little, as he tacks on in a tone dripping with sarcasm, "Not that you'd have any experience with being a bitch." The orange light on the tip of the Blue Hornet seems to be writing something as it moves around in the bar, "How about conditioners? For him of course. I mean, he can't /possibly/ clean himself in front of you right? Just imagine the furballs he would hack up after that mess... oh wait, after you he'd probably be used to that much hair. Hey! Wait! Don't go, I really need to find out about this! What if things don't work out? Think we could have a thee-some? I don't mind teeth and nails, but so we're clear, I'm only willing to run a train on you. I don't like hacking up hair."
"Oh, fuck off, Cabrera." Chrys replies sharply, before adding, "By the way, you'd better step on it. Pathfinder is competing for it now." she says vaguely, not going into detail. It's a message meant for Diana only. "It's not a competition to me, but let's say that I'll laugh my ass off if you two end up fighting over it." After that, she just shrugs and takes a swig of her beer. The allegations of illegal drug use were things she'd endured before, why would she get worked up now? No, the fact Dyre is being fingered as her fiance is more teeth-grindingly frustrating to her, and she does look annoyed quite sharply still.
"So long as that pervert is out of commission, Ms. Flowers, I don't care which company does it. Although I would like a crack at him myself." Diana's smile turns predatory, something almost sadistic in the expresssion. Shaking out of it, she grins to Dyre. "Unlike your fiance there, I haven't been ridden by every male willing to give so much as a hint of Audrey. But if I ever do decide to have sex, I'll be sure to let you both know." With that, she turns and starts for the door.
Dyre shook his head from side-to-side, in a mildly annoyed fashion. His hand sans-cigarette tries to rub along Chrys' back in a way to reassure, or at least give her senses something else, as he offers the cigarette to her with the other. "Fucking bitch." He says under his breath. He looks over his shoulder to watch Diana go. He watches her carefully, as if analyzing her a bit more carefully. His mouth pulls a bit to the side for a moment and then he looks back toward Chrys. Dyre arches his eyebrows as he looks toward the sail-away-on-the-breeze girl for a quick moment, then back to Diana, as if asking if she wanted him to do anything about all this.
"That'd be a headline of the century. News Flash, Cabrera finally gets laid!" Chrys retorts sharply, sneering again and baring her teeth. "Though with how uptight you are, he'd probably provide enough profit to a lube company to fund the Confed's wartime military five times over." Ouch. /Ouch/. Nothing more is said about the 'pervert', since Chrys has already said her piece about it. She's worked up about enough right now without thinking about him at length. "Don't be a stranger, Cabrera!" she shouts, as the businesswoman begins to leave. "I admit I'm not as fun to be around as the local gloryholes, but at least I won't glue your eyes shut!"
Ouch? Chrys's words are a compliment! Diana would not have announced her chastity if she were not proud of it, after all. In fact, the journalist's comment earns the first genuine smile from the CEO all day. "Why, thank you, Ms. Flowers!" And is that... sincerity in the gratitude offered? "You are too kind." Finally, she heads out the door, seeming almost happy.
Chrys just offers the parting Cabrera parting two-finger salute, and swigs from her beer again. "Fucking Cabrera. No wonder she's got a stick up her ass." she mutters, before glancing over to Dyre. "She's Queen Bitch. Her Kilrathi manservant fucking calls her 'your grace', like she's some kind of royalty. Leave her be, she's working on something that benefits everyone, right now. So is Pathfinder, but I want as many people on it as I can get."
Khal'deeah Kurutak enters from Recreation Level.
Khal'deeah had left the interior of the Enigma Sector in order to spend some time with his hrai. There was much that he had learned and experienced since leaving a somewhat segregated kilrathi home life, and his kind had been quite eager to lap up all of the wonderful tales that he had to share. It was a lovely return to his family, but the trip was over now and it was back to business. Of course a recent tightbeam message received almost as soon as he'd arrived on New Zurich would spoil almost all of the rest and relaxation that had given his nerves a break this past month. The young kilrathi steps through the entrance to Gordi's bar with a stern expression, his maw twitching ever so slightly in order to keep his fangs (and his intentions) concealed. Green eyes darted around the establishment searching.... One thing that the kilrathi could not keep hidden was the fury that was made evident by the tight press of his ears against his head.
Chrys is sipping at a bottle of Bedrock, an Infernal brand or beer which has gone up in price since the planet was evacuated. It would likely still be a week or two before the prices dropped again, once production was back into swing. There's actually a second bottle in front of her, but she hasn't even touched it yet. Sitting at the bar, she looks annoyed and mildly frustrated, a mild facial tic making her cheek on the right side twitch subtly.
"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, crazy shit and wicked bitch. Chill, it's over." Dyre responds as he turns his attention, finally, to his own drink. The hand with the lit Blue Hornet reaches out and snag the sweating glass, pulling it up towards his mouth. It falters for a second and he adds in quickly, "Can't get any worse." Then the glass lifts the rest of the way. He tilts it gently and takes a sip of the liquid, a nice sweet whiskey reminiscent to the stuff made on Sting in the back woods - but more harsh.
Khal'deeah can't even keep his fangs hidden once he lays eyes on Chrys, and a couple of nearby patrons of Gordi's actually get up and leave the bar altogether. Chrys Parsons had insulted him according to Diana, and she and her friend were going to pay for it... Claws dig into the bar as the kilarthi's form comes to loom over the journalist from behind with one large arm draped over her shoulder. "You have insulted me for the last time..." he snaps, his fangs bared for the world to see. "You trample on my honor. You disrespect my Lady and myself openly. You comment on things you know nothing about, and for this my entire hrai suffers... In the old days you would alraedy be dead! This last warning... This ends NOW! Or I vow to open your throat with my claws, Elena Flowers!" Dyre seems to be pretty lucky, as Khal hasn't even looked at the man yet.
As Khal goes on a rampage, Chrys winces and shrinks, not turning around. "Apparently fucking not..." she mutters softly, her body starting to shake as her instinctual flight-or-fight tells her to get the fuck out. Moving at this point, however, would be very bad. Especially with a bit, furry Kilrathi arm on top of you. "Actually, most of the time was spent insulting Cabrera. You weren't specifically named..." she offers uneasily, clenching her teeth. This is great. Cabrera sent her pet lion. She's trying to think of more to say to deflect him, to defend her position, but words are failing her at this particular moment. The vibes are bad, and she's starting to get the fear.
"Oh holy shit." Says Dyre, seemingly jarred a bit from his current fascination with his drink, "Is that? no..." He turns his head and looks at Khal, his eyes widen and he calls out, "Holy shit! It is you! Oh em gee! I never thought I'd actually meet you in person." He's trying to pat the Kilrathi gently on the shoulder, to get his attention and in the least threatening way possible. I mean, heck, if the Kilrathi turned to look at him before he tried to touch his shoulder he'd pull his hand back and hold it up in an almost surrendering way. "Hey, look, I'm sure this is all just a misunderstanding. I mean, of course she would see you as her big fluffy-kitty-kitty." His smile is gentle in a way, smooth his his mouth and overall attempting to look pleasant and non-threatening. The hand with the cigarette ways well away from the Kilrathi, no reason to get smoke in his face not to mention singe his fur! "Really though, can I have your autograph?"
Khal'deeah doesn't seem to be very open to hearing excuses of any kind. This business about him laying with a human has always grated on his nerves tremendously; a source of most of his irritation over the past couple of months, and in fact the very reason that he took some time off to return to his hrai. A fist slams against the bar, the kilrathi angered by what he views as Chrys' attempts to shirk responsibility for the damage that her words have caused. He says nothing, but allows the resounding slam to speak for him as his eyes glare upon her with the murderous intent of a warrior whose honor has not only been questioned, but completely denied... When Khal'deeah actually says that he will 'kill you', apparently the big cat is quite serious.
Perhaps lucky for Chrys Dyre was at the right place at the right time with the right thing to say...for her sake anyway. "Touch me, Terran and I will feast upon your entrails!" the kilrathi barks at Dyre, in no mood what so ever to play games. The man is appraised with a slow head to toe gaze, which eventually settles fully on the other man's eyes. "You will wait your turn... Do not think that I have not heard of the friend that shared in making these lewd comments. If I find that it was you...." The kilrathi growls, a booming sound from deep within his chest and throat as his gaze snaps back to look down upon Parsons. "I do not threaten, Journalist... I WILL kill you. The rumors end now. You comment again, you make any believe that I am involved in such nonsense I will hunt you down. I will devour you. I promise you that."
This is a bad situation, this is a bad situation, this is a bad situation... Chrys keeps telling herself that, and as Khal slams his fist down at the bar, she jumps visible. "God fucking DAMNIT!" she shouts out, eyes clenched shut and body shaking. She doesn't have a recourse in this, this is not fucking fair, and she can't be cornered like this! She's freaking out, but she's trying so desperately to get a handle on things as the Kilrathi threatens death and dismemberment. "I DIDN'T FUCKING START IT!" she shouts out in her defense, on the verge of tears. It's a regression moment, where she's put in a sharp corner and her mind just retreats to a corner for cover.
"WOH!" Dyre calls out as the Kilrathi, probably, just put a dent in the bar top. "WOW! Hey wait, wait, wait. I gotta record this!" Dyre says, it seems that his fear has flipped about into a different side of things. Ahhh fear and the fun things it can do to a person. He pulls his hands back and starts patting at his jacket pockets fervently. He nails the bar top with the cherry of the Blue Hornet, the ember falling down onto his leg, "Fuck!" Both his hands come down, smacking the ember vigorously until it's out, but some further smacking of his leg he finally finds what he's looking for and pulls out the recorder. "I can't be! It just can't be! There's no way! He's dead but... that voice! Seriously. Seriously, say that again!" he presses the record button on it and continues, "I mean, c'mon! That was perfect! I haven't heard an impression that perfect of Prince Thrakhath since... since school! Oh my god! That's... AMAZING!" His arms are flailing a little, the recorder still held in one of them moving meat-sickles.
Khal'deeah snaps his jaws at Chrys, ignoring her outbursts. He knows that she's frightened, that the woman is likely terrified and could offer up little to no resistance if he chose to slay her, and that is exactly the way that he wants it. "As long as we are clear..." he hisses, and finally withdraws his clawed hand from the bar top in time to react to Dyre. The kilrathi stares at the human, and brushes past Chrys roughly to potentially throw her body into the bar if he'd done it just right. "Prince... Thrakhath?" Khal snarls, and swipes his claws toward the hand that holds onto the recording device. Such names should never be uttered in jest. The Prince lost the war for his people, and even if many kilrathi recognized that it was necessary that they change their ways and that it was meant to be that they surrendered to the humans it was still a point of dishonor for them all. "Are you trying to have your blood spilled, Terran? You're insane... The lot of you. The BOTH of you!" he growls and turns toward the bartender. "Apologies for the bar. It will be paid for... Vak'qu, please," he orders his drink before moving between the two humans. "The two of you should leave.."
Chrys is about to say something else when she receives the push. Mind, she's been pushed into bars before, but usually not by big, super-strong catmen. The unexpected force finds its focus as the ribs on her right side hit the corner of the bar. There's a sharp lurch as she recoils as if she's been punched by said bar... And then she falls off of her barstool, clutching her side and wheezing, obviously in pain. The wheezing intake of breath just sets off a fit of coughing, which turns into a strangled, sputting cry of pain, mixed with a curse, with a touch of whimpering.
His hand moves out of the way of the claws, just barely and probably won't be able to dodge that sort of move again. "I mean, please! Seriously. Can you say, 'I will take your heart and rip it out, Terran!' Just like that, it was," Dyre's voice is excited, he seems simply amazed by this Kilrathi right next to him. His arms are still flailing about some, the recorder held in his right hand. The little light on it keeps blinking, showing that it is indeed recording what is being said. Dyre shakes his head from side to side, "Wohwohwoh." He seemed to finally just realized that the Kilrathi just tried to take the recorder from him. He started to move though, listening to what the Kilrathi was saying. "Hey, I'm serious! You Kilrathi are people too. I would no sooner insult Thrakhath than I would Tolwyn! They're heroes to their people. I'm serious! Your voice... it's amazing!" He's moving toward Chrys though while he says that, crouching down and trying to help her up. He hazards a quick glance toward Chrys for a moment before returning his gaze to the Kilrathi.
Khal'deeah shows tremendously little compassion for the woman whose ribs that he had likely just broken, and by now the man with the recorder is just another annoying part of the overly smokey bar's many hassles. The bartender's look is one to be noted, as the man on the other side of the bar gapes as he watches Khal'deeah, but prepares the glass of vak'qu none the less. "I did not mean to harm the female. I barely touched her," he notes matter of factly, and his ears flicker briefly as the drink is set before him. Dyre finds himself unaccosted as he moves to assist the Journalist, and Khal downs the first glass of vak'qu easily enough and returns the glass to the bar before gesturing for another. "Terran you would be wise to stop talking to me right now. I am in no mood... Your tongue offends me more than you know at this time."
Chrys is out of the conversation, by way of injury. She's too busy trading sobs for wheezing, and vice-versa, and it feels like someone has jabbed a knife inbetween her ribs. Each time she sucks in air, each time she cries out, it just feels like someone's twisting it, and tears flow freely in response to the pain. Well, one never said she was skilled at physical pursuits. A silver tongue does little when someone uses their fist. She's not eager to move right now, either, and Dyre's attempt to pull her up just results in another cry of pain.
"Hey, alright, alright." Dyre responds as he keeps the recorder going in the one hand. He does his best to avoid Chry's ribs as he continues to try and help her to her feet. "No need to get your hackles rai- your fur in a bu- err... Sorry, I mean no need to get upset. But if you are ever interested in a vid career." All the while he wears an easy smile that seems to say, 'Look, just a human, squishy, squishy human. No need to bother with me!'" He really is trying to be gentle about it all, and her cries make him wince a little at the sound. A standard reaction for most men at the sound of hearing a lady(hehe... Chrys, a lady) cry out in pain, even if they weren't close friends. He hazards another glance toward her, not lingering for long out of worry that the Kilrathi might take another swipe at either of them.
Khal listened to the whimpering cries of the fragile terran woman with nothing even slightly resembling remorse for having bumped her small frame into the bar, and a second drink is emptied and the glass returned to the bar. Rather silent for the time being, he listens to Dyre's words passively but does not respond. It takes him a moment to order a third drink, perfectly aware of those staring at him around the bar in horror, and the few that look on with interest and the smaller minority that appear to be somewhat amused. It isn't every day that you witness a kilrathi going apeshit on a couple of...apes.
After a while, Chrys stops crying out, the noise degenerating into a ragged, pained whimper and halting, stilted breathing. She's afraid to move, curled up into a ball and clutching at her side, as the pain stabs at her side. Even breathing is an exercise in agony, so what would moving do? She's just trying to shut it all out, but the mescaline in her system is making it all stand out in sharp relief, and she can almost feel the neat little seam in her ribs where the impact cracked them, so acutely aware of sensation as she is right now.
"Fuck Chryst, Flowers, ya bitch. Don't be so fragile, eh?" Dyre says more gently, the teasing tone still underneath it but in a soft way. He shoves the recorder into his jacket pocket, leaving it still running as he tries to use both arms. He's trying to avoid those ribs, but it's a right bitch to avoid that area when trying to help someone up. He goes with the next best thing, trying to pick her up, one arm under her shoulders/neck and the other under her knees. He attempts to keep an eye on the Kilrathi -- just in case, but it's a hindrance. So, with one final look. he casts the furry fuck a quick grimace before finally giving all his attention to pick up Chrys without injuring her further.
Third drink's the charm it seems. Khal'deeah rises from his seat at the bar and makes sure to remind the bartender of the lovely tab set up by his employer, and the kilrathi turns to make his exit, but not before paying the pair of humans that had made his stay oh so pleasant a visit. "My apologies, Elena Flowers... I take no pleasure in your pain. But it is only physical after all. Know that the words that you speak, and the rumors that you prop up do much much worse." One of the kilrathi's hands disappears beneath his boiled leather jerkin and from a pocket beneath he retrieves a few hard credit chips, which are allowed to drop onto Parsons' torso. "For your medical expenses.. Hopefully they are mild. I am not a wealthy kil." That said, Khal looks to Dyre briefly and his fur stands on end briefly before smoothing itself along the exposed parts of his body. "Do you need help?"
Chrys is not exactly heavy, and she doesn't have an inclination to flail heavily, but it hurts to move! Still, with some unintelligible protest on her part, she can be physically transported, though she's beyond words at the moment. She's aware, far too aware, and while she wants to argue her case all day with the Kilrath, each time she breathes, each time she cries out, it's more pain. Now's not the time.
'Not if she would stop squirming...' was Dyre's initial reaction, but he bit his tongue for the moment. He was more concerned getting Chrys out of here. Instead he looks up toward the Kilrathi and flashes a grin of all teeth, it looks pretty genuine as it reaches into his eyes as well. "Hey, you really do amazing impressions. I mean it! You should consider a career of it. With your size, I have to imagine that a few studios would jump at the opportunity!" With a final bit of effort, he finally gets her up, still careful to not touch the ribs as best he can. The side against him isn't the side that's injured for one - what a mess that would be. He gives Chrys another look as he starts toward the door, casting over his shoulder, "Oh, and don't worry at all. You've admitted your fault on the recorder more than a few times, and I'm sure that if you really want to pursue it we can find several people in the bar that will corroborate your employer as the original instigator."
The flashing of teeth coming from Dyre elicits a growl from Khal'deeah, as in kilrathi culture showing one's teeth is a sign of aggression or challenge... Luckily there would be no repeat of the scene from earlier, as he remembers quickly that for humans the 'smile' as they call it is quite different in its meaning. "I have no interest in such things... I am a warrior," he replies simply enough, and his gaze drops to the woman in Mr. Esbenson's arms. "Which is why I feel some remorse for the accidental damage to your companion. But only some... Sivar came to her in a vision once. Had you heard?" Mention of the recording device has Khal'deeah nodding in agreement as the pair take their leave from the bar, as the kilrathi follows. "Indeed."
One of Dyre's eyebrows lower for a moment and he turns his head slightly, "Sivar...?" His head turns back foward to watch where he was going. The question seemed less 'Who?' and more 'Wha-?' as his feet keep moving. He turns a little to help get her out the door without having to put any extra strain on the lady in his arms(hehe... lady). He leans down a little and says gently to her, "Hospital or place that I know? Say nothing if you don't give a shit, whine if you're gonna be a little bitch about it." It's of course said with that light undertone, yeah, he's still an ass.
"Whichever place that'll give me some /fucking pills/ for it..." Chrys hisses out in obvious distress, clutching at her side with regret that she had to say anything in the first place. "Fucker..." she mutters in addition, shaking her head weakly and trying not to breathe or talk anymore.
"Sivar... My Goddess. The kilarthi Goddess of war, the chief deity who devoured all others," Khal'deeah replies as he follows the two humans out of Gordi's bar. "She was aboard a kilrathi vessel and she saw her. She spoke of omens, of a new beginning, a great awakening... She spoke of death," the young kilrathi notes with a soft chortle. "And then that business with Inferno began shortly afterward. Then this business with inciting violence between kilrathi and terrans resumed... Yes, you hold in your arms a prophet of sorts." The kilrathi's ears twitch slightly, and he begins to part ways with the duo. "I would keep her away from any hospitals..."
Dyre shoots him a quick look, his head snapping a bito to look toward the Kilrathi who was still talking. The eyes speak differently from the light tone of his voice and simple smile that's upon his mouth. "Oh, don't worry, I'm sure the prophet will be fine." He turns his head back away and looks back down to Chrys once more and his mouth mimics more his facial features as they pinch a little to the side and annoyance creeps more into his words, "Yeah, yeah. You and your happy pills, god you're annoying when you're hurt."