Information


Grel has a minion!

Beware the Hunter




Grel
Legacy Name: Writes


The Bloodred Cadogre
Owner: Pureflower

Age: 6 years, 2 months, 1 day

Born: January 26th, 2018

Adopted: 6 years, 2 months, 1 day ago

Adopted: January 26th, 2018

Statistics


  • Level: 44
     
  • Strength: 80
     
  • Defense: 10
     
  • Speed: 10
     
  • Health: 10
     
  • HP: 10/10
     
  • Intelligence: 84
     
  • Books Read: 65
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Pawnbroker


The Exiled Mercenary

"Triple sour black hole. No ice."

The bartender gave him a look. Who in their right mind ordered the most acidic drink in the galaxy and didn't have the sense to cut it with at least a hint of water?

Grel made an impatient gesture and flashed a few coins that earned him a shrug. His funeral.

He liked the burn as the tarry black liquid trickled down his throat. It was almost a distraction from all the red marks on his skin.

Intricate tattoos that gave pain instead of prestige. The ultimate humiliation for a Naskan.

His skin was almost more red than blue without so much as a single black mark.

A lifetime of failures on full display. Not one success.

Another patron hunkered down on the stool to his left. The guy had pale yellow skin and triangular ears that folded forward into little tents.

"Say, Stranger. You're one of them Naskans, right?"

Grel gave a noncommittal shrug and downed half his glass. The room spun pleasantly.

"C'mon, friend. Don't be modest. I got my share of battle scars and the stories to go with them. Take this one here. Three thousand zyglor gnats went after a few drops of honey I spilled on my hand. Went down to the bone, they did. I had to get an artificial skin patch. They never can get an exact match on color with those things."

Grel snorted and pointed to a tattoo roughly shaped like a rocket. "My first. I was thirteen. Tried to impress the governor's daughter by taking a three-zillion-cred cruiser for a joy ride. Parking in a narrow port lane is harder than it looks...especially when your feet barely reach the pedals."

The guy whistled. "Not bad but I can top it." He wriggled the boot off his left foot to reveal a mass of scar tissue. "Ten seconds free-floating in open space with my boot blown off."

Grel tapped a crouching tiger on the side of his neck. "I tried to steal the heart of a female who had declared for another male. When she mocked me, I stole everything not bolted down from her raid vault. Her security was better than I thought and she still holds a grudge."

"Girl problems, is it?" The guy stood, pulling up his shirt. "My last girlfriend thought she was a tiger."

He sat back down, taking a pull of his own drink. Grel drained his glass.

"How about that sunburst on your chest? I'll bet that's a story worth hearing."

Grel pitched the rest of what he owed and stalked out of the bar, ignoring the guy's half-hearted protests. He went directly to the cabin of his one-man ship and locked himself inside.

The memory of his greatest humiliation started playing like some crappy movie stuck on loop in an old viewing machine that stubbornly refused to die.

The job was simple, on the surface. Snatch a fifteen-year-old girl with only her washed-up father and kid sister for protection.

Her name was Deza. She had a platinum spine and the heart of a long-dead Naskan warrior. He normally saw the Snatched as just another type of cargo.

Not this girl. He had liked her.

Enough to feign ignorance when her father showed up under the guise of a Naskan General just home from the Deep Space Colonies. Grel knew the smell of humans all too well. He recognized the man-stink under the General's manufactured scent.

He'd looked the other way when the escape pod launched them beyond the research facility's retrieval range.

They couldn't prove he'd known the General was a phony - not when they'd been fooled themselves - but there was footage of lax security, even a small kindness in the form of a package of peanut butter cookies. His peers were convinced he'd gone soft. He'd put the comforts of a human ahead of the needs of the Naskan people.

Unforgivable.

He gunned his engines, as if a high enough speed would allow him to outrun the memories.

He imagined the bar igniting, its pesky occupant going up in a glorious flaming mushroom.

In reality, his boosters didn't even scorch the launch pad.

credits:

profile template by piers.
story by Pureflower.
background image from Here.

Pet Treasure


Right Arm Flamered Hells Fire Tattoo Sheet

Dirty Matty Tattoo Sheet

Pet Friends