Maeve

“Credits you say?” Maeve commented, fastening the last part of her boot before setting it on the ground and testing it. “I like credits. Maybe you can tell me more over some grub? I’m starving.” Maeve grunted, limbering her shoulders and attempting to get out of bed. It wasn’t impossible. But every motion was accompanied by a chorus of snaps, pops, groans and winces. She shook her head to a mild pop and the looked at the space dandy with a light smile. “So whaddaya have to eat around here?”

"Well that's a relief," Maeve remarked. Oddly, there was a sense of disappointment in the aspect of not rolling around. But, again, a lady's got to have her standards. The blue alien mutt grumbled a little and sat up a bit more, letting her posture change as she made toward the edge of the bed. "Honestly, that was probably more due to pain than longing, fancy pants, but whatever floats your boat." And if Maeve wasn't already sitting, Germain's last comment would have sent her reeling to the covers with fierce laughter. As it was, Maeve grabbed her gut and began to laugh with a rough alto sound. "That's rich! Me, beautiful?" Maeve choked out between big guffaws. "I've seen Banthas with more charisma than me. But thanks for the compliment. I think I'll keep it on those long cold nights." Maeve scooted over to the edge of the comfortable bed, wincing as her side spiked with icy pain, and started to clothe herself with the bundle of washed stuff on the edge of the bed. "While you're at it though, tell me about this Black Sun. I've heard of 'em, but I ain't seen em. What are they all about?"

"Bless my, darlin... What game you playin' at?" Maeve grumbled in between large pulls of her freshly refilled gin and tonic. The watered-down blue and black zabrak leaned with a distinct lack of grace against the bedpost. Her legs were splayed on the bed and her left elbow naturally rest against the wood while her right arm was delivering yet another swig of burning tonic. Her eyes, bored and slightly sensitive, picked their way across the bedroom. It was undeniably posh and flashy. Either Germaine was fabulously wealthy, or he was getting some from a fanciful space dandy. She didn't really think herself a sophisticated palette when it came to interiors. But she had decent judgment when measuring wealth. The important stuff though, was what she focused on: there was only one exit, and it was right behind fancy pants and however many lackeys he had. Moof-milking son-of-a-Hutt, Nerfherding kriff bag... Her blue cheeks turned a slight shade of purple as her anger and the drink started to mix. And, when she was done with her interior storm of full-flavored awesomeness - otherwise known as 'swearing like a spacer' to the more affluent and well-mannered people that Germaine seemed to rub elbows with - Maeve's eyes fell on the curious symbol emblazoned on the cup in her hand. It was a target... kind of. It had spikes all around it. It was an appealing symbol, but Maeve had no idea what it was. Whatever it was though, it was emblazoned in gold-leaf, which screamed fancy. Ignoring her introspection and anything else that she might have realized, Germaine kept talking, as arrogant men often do. When the word 'slave' passed Germaine's scraggly mouth-hole, Maeve's eyes narrowed for the space of a second. She still felt like a spectator to a lot of what was going on. But, with alcohol, she often didn't care what was going on. So, when Germaine walked over to her and molested her forehead with his well-manicured hand, Maeve was able to stifle the urge to pop him in the face. She wasn't able to prevent her reaction completely, however. She still waved her drink hand frantically at him to ward him off, spilling a little of the drink on the sheets. Though it was clear, even as the feeling of wetness hit the tops of her thighs, she didn't really care about the blan--- WAI? Maeve removed the blanket a little and saw that she'd been disrobed... I... um... what? When did that happen? Kinky? ... maybe? Maeve shot a look at Germaine. "We didn't... Did we?" Her mind was slightly conflicted by the idea. On the one hand, she didn't mind getting rowdy. On another hand, she didn't like getting rowdy when she was unconscious... She couldn't enjoy it then. Also, there was the case of getting rowdy with someone who beat her. A lady's got to have her principles. "Regardless..." Maeve continued, in a futile attempt to redirect the conversation, "If I ain't-a slave, what are you keeping me around for. And, as a slightly... dif-ferent question, where did you get all this money?"

The blue scrawny mutt of a woman had been confined to bed-rest for the past couple of days. Despite her best efforts, she wasn’t able to leave her comfortable confinement. The amazing fibers of her billowy cell beckoned to her. It was a divine sleeping experience that defied the depths of her imagination. Every effort ended in a disappointing bout of exhausted wrestling and awkward sleepwalking. Eventually, she resigned to her slumber. That is until Germaine entered the room and the smell of liquor burned the hairs of her nostrils. Maeve’s purple-yellow eyes lit up. And, like a flash, she was propped on her elbow and downed the gin and tonic like it had gone out of style. Seconds later, defying any sense of decorum, feigned or otherwise, Maeve let out a large and unapologetic belch. Then, ignoring the possible side-effects of taking pain tablets with alcohol, she washed them down with the dregs of her drink and grunted, wiping the remnants of drool from her face and fiddled with her messy short white hair. “I’m good.” Maeve lied, feeling a burn deep in the base of her spine and sore pangs all up and down her body. “However, before I get carried away and ask for another delicious G and T, why have you brought me here? You won the fight. Why did you take me to your house?”

Ow… The sound of blankets smashed against her ears. The dull push of her heartbeat as it thundered in her chest, pounded at every corner of her body. And painful throbbing, coupled with a bunch of tingles, spread up and down her body. The darkened room around her, even with zero to no visibility, swam, as she tried to take stock of her surroundings. Instinctively, Maeve reached her left hand up to her forehead to try and push away the pain. But a hot white lance shot through her side, causing her to gasp and fall back to the bed. A small man came to her bedside with a small light and bowed politely. His face was a little pinched and his demeanor seemed undeniably posh. “Sorry madame, your injuries are quite severe. You will not die. But you may wish to stay in bed a little while longer to let your body heal. I have a glass of water here for you and a few pills of pain-relieving chems to keep you level… Is there anything else you need?” The man said cleanly, and professionally. Maeve thought she could see the attendant, but resigned to leave her neck alone until spikes stopped stabbing into her backside. “Where am I?” Maeve rasped her throat a bit hoarse and torn. “You are currently at the Corun estate, madame.” Estate? Oi… What have you gotten into now? “Well… Okay. Do you have any idea when I’ll be able to leave?” Maeve asked. The attendant’s lip quivered into a small sarcastic smile. “Well, miss, you could leave right now if you truly wanted to. But, to adequately assess and treat your injuries we will need a few days.” A few days… well kriff...

It became real clear, real fast that he was going all out. When Maeve took a step to recover from her collision with Germaine, her hesitation bought her a black eye and a bludgeoned nose. She managed to dodge the sweep but caught his fists full on in the chest. Maeve whuffed and groused at the cheap shot. Her chest throbbed with sore, lingering pain. And, her left nostril began to bleed. She could feel her left eye beginning to swell and slowly started to count down the moments until her left eye would be unusable. Her limbs felt heavy. Her head was spinning. She was starting to lose feeling in her right arm. But, despite it all, the adrenaline flowing hot through her veins was keeping her along, like a marionette on strings of fire. His roundhouse kick scuffed her abdomen. And, as he swung his body, the momentum from his blow brought him right toward her. He was coming in hot. Maeve stuck up her palm and moved it into the path of his attack, placing the butt of her left hand against his scalp and the top of his nose. Then, trying to push her advantage, she jabbed roughly at his exposed abdomen. ((3 - Nice duel ))

The blow of her right fist against the man’s head, coupled with the pop of his shoulder as she attempted to double up on her advantage, sent spikes of sensation tiptoeing across her scalp. If it wasn’t for the armbar she’d set up to protect her left side, his knife hand would have landed squarely on her exposed nape. But she wasn’t going to let him have an easy victory. If she was going down, he was going to hurt. That much was written all over her endorphin filled face. The cheers of people littering the open steelyard of New Haven battered her delirium. When Maeve reeled around and spotted the man’s foot, it was almost too late. Instinctively, the half-breed lept to avoid it. The assailant’s boot caught her right foot and shin, sending her body into a tumble. A brief shock of neon panic slammed across her dizzy mind as the steelyard began to spin. But, gravity, it seemed, had an ironic sense of humor. Maeve’s tumble took her straight into her opponent's center-of-mass. And, although the move was uncoordinated, it was heavy and fast. To add a little spice to her unexpected strike, Maeve threw up an arm and readied herself for the collision. ((2))

Maeve’s white hair broke under the humid air that closed in around them, splitting the ends of each strand like they were smooth butter. The sounds of crashing steel, welding torches and hammers filled the air behind the raucous bleats from people that came to watch as two slabs of meat pounded each other to a pulp. But they couldn’t help it. Maeve couldn’t help it. Thrill, excitement, and exhilaration were intoxicating. And, even if you weren’t part of the fight yourself, you could still feel the energy that built in the tips of Maeve’s toes and climbed all the way up her body. With pupils wide, teeth bared and the touch of a smile tugging at her face, Maeve closed the distance between herself and the Alderaanian devil. It wasn’t hard. His momentum suggested he wished to do the same. Maeve watched the man’s movement and saw as his hand came crashing down toward her head. Instead of dodging or flitting out of the way, Maeve charged forward and slammed the crown of her head at his fist at the early part of its momentum, breaking the fist’s solidity and interrupting the strike before it could complete its arc. The concussion of the strike rocked her a little, but she followed it up with a wide right hook to his exposed face that ended in a hammer fist of her own. There was no guarantee it would hit -- so she used her other arm as a forearm bar to prevent damage to the left side of her face -- but she would press on to get every advantage she could. The pounding sensation of his strike on her skull pushed at her, pushing at the lids of her eyes and the heels of her feet. But the smile never left. And her bright yellow and purple eyes never stopped their bleary stare. (((1) - 3-post duel. ))

Thunderous yells and pounding sounds; jeers, cheers, and cries. Feet pounding the dull concrete. The beat of a furious heart. These are things I live for; things I revel in. She took the time to wrap bandages around her wrists, rub powder onto her bluing knuckles and stretch her sore muscles. (I should think twice before clubbing before a match). She rubbed a little of the powder on her callused hands and tightened her fists, feeling the flow of life through the veins of her thin skin. Dried spots of red and brown still lingered on the tips of her knuckles. And they still smelled of victory. Here’s hoping it wasn’t short-lived. She bent her head toward her hands and took a deep breath through her nose. She smiled, dull white and yellow teeth glinting in the fading light of the dressing room. Time to go… _________________________ SCRUBS AND SCRUBETTES WELCOME TO NEW HAVEN’S STEELYARD. ARE YOU READY TO SEE TWO FLESHBAGS KICK THE CR#P OUT OF EACH OTHER?! Fanatic cheering filled the large open yard of sod, followed by rhythmic stomping and eager claps. ALRIGHT, ON THE ONE SIDE, A NEW HAVEN STEELYARD ORIGINAL, COMING IN AT A MODEST WEIGHT FOR HER HEIGHT AND BUILD, WE HAVE THE CRAVEN UNSHAVEN MAVEN FROM NEW HAVEN! AND, HER CHALLENGER, THE ALDERAANIAN DEVIL! More cheers erupted from the crowd that sat at the edge of the fenced industrial yard as the two fighters entered the circle of light at the center of the yard.

Identity 'Real' Name: Maeve A.K.A: M , << Fighter Pseudonym: TBA >> Homeworld: Nubia (Kind of) Species: Mix (Zabrak/Pantoran)(60% Z/40% P) Physical Description Age: 21 Height: 69 in (5'9") / 1.75 m Weight: 167lbs Hair: Her hair, cut into a longer and shaggier pixie cut, accenting the slightly off-white colored crown of small horns she has on her head, is stark white. Eyes: Maeve has deep purple eyes with a bright yellow ring around the iris. (Central heterochromia: when the eyes show various colors, such as a blue iris with a golden-brown ring around the pupil.) Skin: Her skin is principally black with patches of blue. (Generalized vitiligo: the most common pattern, wide and randomly distributed areas of depigmentation. (Father was black skinned Zabrak, and mother was a Pantoran - Her skin started black when she was a child but has started to lose pigment and shift to blue in patches across her body)) Sex: Female Equipment Clothing or Armor: Her everyday outfit consists of a torn gray tank top with a worn dark gray cloth vest, severely loved denim trousers or heavy duty cargo pants, tattered bantha-hide leather boots, and a pair of fingerless black leather gloves. Weapon: Fists… and maybe a shiv. Common Inventory: She carries maybe 100 credits at any given time, her shiv, heavy bandages for her hands, one broken pair of sunglasses, a defunct comm device, and a small pouch of hairpins. Faction Information Force Sensitive Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Current Faction Affiliation: N/A Current Faction Rank: N/A History Force Side: N/A Trained by: N/A Trained who: N/A Known Skills: Minor lockpicking proficiency; manual locks only. [Not skilled with slicing technical locks] Adept at bare-knuckle boxing. Background: For those who wish to read her background, it is in the spoiler. Other people, feel free to read and figure it out as time goes on.