OOC: This is open to any N.E.A.R. member nation. Just jump in, but keep things relatively civil. The Argonian Empire has no presence here, for the most part.
On the far edge of the once-mighty Argonian Empire, on the edge of the vast expanse once charted as the 'Shakran Rift', orbited the desolate planet once called 'Thraska', an ancient Argonian word for 'indecisive'. It was a rather apt title for the pathetic excuse for a planet. Medium-sized by terrestrial standards, it orbited a bit too close to it's star, and thus one side was constantly baking in the intense heat, the other shrouded in darkness. While not far enough away from the sun to have a true ice-side, the sunless face of Thraska was a cold desert of chilly sands and blowing dirt.
The equatorial strip was the most habitable region on the planet, but Argonians being the tenacious lot they are, cities dotted the planet. While most were centered in the habitable median between night and day zones, a few hardy souls had forged settlements out in the respective wastes on either side of the tidally-locked planet. Like most planets on the outer edge of former Argonian space, it held many secrets, secrets hidden by its former masters. Secrets hidden in rather inconvenient places and guarded by all manner of automated death.
Also in tune with former Argonian fringe worlds, it was host to the usual population of mercenaries, frontiersmen, rogue traders, deserters, criminals, and the like. Most tended to congregate in the major spaceport towns along the temperate band, but especially so in the bustling star-port of 'Cryota', named for one of the planet's first explorers. Like any spaceport worth it's salt, it was host to plenty of cantinas, arms dealers, merchants of every stripe, the typical denizens one would expect on a fringe world. Laws, what there were of them, were enforced by local mayors with groups of hired muscle.
Cryota was home to the largest mercenary contracting office on the planet, and also one of the best places for passing pirates to off-load some of their hard-won loot. The two seemed to go hand-in-hand, with mercs signing on for sorties with pirate bands and those returning looking to sell their spoils and spend their earnings in the taverns and bordellos near the landing pads. It was in one of these cantinas that a small band of former Guardsmen had encamped themselves for the evening, drinking away the profits from a successful contract providing extra muscle for a warlord a system over. Kanak Shazt, formerly Sergeant Shazt, 57th Stormtrooper Regiment, headed a small band of professional soldiers of fortune that included former riflemen, tech-specialists, scouts, and even a marshlander sharpshooter.
They were rather unique in that they would only work as a unit, and didn't work for rogue elements, terrorists outfits, or pirates. They fought other soldiers, or more often, other mercs, as much as possible. It was cleaner that way. The 'law' such as it was, was something Shazt respected, and wouldn't tarnish his own sense of honor harming innocents. Pirates usually hit merchant vessels, and typically merchants employed guards, those that didn't usually had the crew protecting the items, the resulting fire-fights usually ended up with the crew being slaughtered. In his mind, that was unacceptable. Warriors didn't pillage and loot from innocents.
Still, that limited his options for work most of the time. His little group performed a myriad of services, most of which didn't come cheaply. They weren't bullet-sponges, but typically most legitimate groups staffed their front-lines with cheap mercenary labor. The dead didn't get paid. Kanak was ruminating over this ultimate and final of truths over a wooden mug of ale, a local brew he didn't particularly enjoy, but it was the best the town had to offer in terms of brews. The off-world stuff was expensive, and they were drinking on a budget. He was particularly well-built for an Argonian, situated at the head of a table that held all his men. He knew each by name, their backgrounds, and their quirks, their troubles.
His old carapace vest was pitted and scarred with a hundred battles, and the hand that wasn't gripping the wooden tankard was drumming absently on the worn wooden table-top, the faint clicking and whirring of the augmentic limb lost among the background. He'd lost his left arm below the elbow during a battle when he was still a Stormtrooper, removed by an alien on a distant planet he couldn't recall the name of with a blade of some kind in the heat of battle. It had been a clean loss, but they'd been unable to re-attach the limb after six hours of continued fighting. His kind were bred to be tough, the bulging sinew and muscle tissue on the remaining portion of his arm a testament to that fact. He'd killed the being that took his arm, but the blade had been taken for study, and all he'd received as a trophy was the dull-gray augmentic limb.
Kanak had become fond of tattoos once he'd come in contact with the marshlander culture, and sported several in the form of former regimental crest and related symbols. His 'injured' arm sported a pattern that continued down into his augmentic, the limb decorated with engraving to enhance the effect. Between the scars on his face and neck, and the ceramite replacement canines in his mouth, he looked every inch the vicious mercenary captain he was, and it was at odds with his personable demeanor.
While the lads carried on with their rabble-rousing, spilling as much ale as they were downing, Kanak Shazt cast his grey-colored gaze out into the perpetual twilight and noticed a ship coming in to land, a design he didn't recognize. He didn't pay it much mind, though. There were always new ships coming and going, and he still couldn't name half the species that inhabited the space-port...
