(no subject)
"No," a loud voice is saying through the open door.
"No, no--" Louder, and then Plourr Estillo is standing in the door, her back to the bar as she shouts at someone down the palace corridor. "Do you need me to say it in Huttese? Nobata! Noah! No! Cha scrunnie do pat, sleemo!"
The last sentence -- delivered effortlessly in the guttural, ugly language -- definitely, definitely does not mean 'no.' A clue: the sharp, rude hand gesture that accompanies it.
"Laserbrain," Plourr mutters ferociously, turning around -- and finding herself staring at Milliways.
Not only is it Milliways, but it's Milliways looking weird, even for Milliways.
"What, I leave a couple months and they redecorate?" she says, unimpressed, her hand on her hip.
She's wearing an eye-searingly orange flightsuit, unzipped to the waist with the sleeves loosely knotted around her hips, and a tank top that may have once started its life as white, but is now thoroughly covered in engine grease, dirt, and a number of unidentifiable stains. Her arms are bare (want tickets to the gun show? 'cause she's got 'em) and her red hair is loosely pulled back; plenty has escaped the ponytail to fly in her face.
Stomping across the bar and settling onto a stool at the Bar, Plourr snorts at the vidscreen that rises. "Just give me a lum," she says.
[Feel free to catch her at the door or at the bar!]
"No, no--" Louder, and then Plourr Estillo is standing in the door, her back to the bar as she shouts at someone down the palace corridor. "Do you need me to say it in Huttese? Nobata! Noah! No! Cha scrunnie do pat, sleemo!"
The last sentence -- delivered effortlessly in the guttural, ugly language -- definitely, definitely does not mean 'no.' A clue: the sharp, rude hand gesture that accompanies it.
"Laserbrain," Plourr mutters ferociously, turning around -- and finding herself staring at Milliways.
Not only is it Milliways, but it's Milliways looking weird, even for Milliways.
"What, I leave a couple months and they redecorate?" she says, unimpressed, her hand on her hip.
She's wearing an eye-searingly orange flightsuit, unzipped to the waist with the sleeves loosely knotted around her hips, and a tank top that may have once started its life as white, but is now thoroughly covered in engine grease, dirt, and a number of unidentifiable stains. Her arms are bare (want tickets to the gun show? 'cause she's got 'em) and her red hair is loosely pulled back; plenty has escaped the ponytail to fly in her face.
Stomping across the bar and settling onto a stool at the Bar, Plourr snorts at the vidscreen that rises. "Just give me a lum," she says.
[Feel free to catch her at the door or at the bar!]