MSNPC Eru Ghant - A Model of Decorum

[Justin Partridge]

((Interior. Razor's Edge. Deck 2, Captain's Cabin.))

Captain Ghant allowed herself one last, languishing look at her chosen attire and once again marveled at her literally disarming beauty.

The invitation had come across a few days ago, scurried very hush-hush along her own lightwave, person-to-person communication terminal hidden away behind the immaculate marble of the Andorian valease they had liberated from that transit convoy en route to The Spike not but a few months prior. 

The high and mighty Federation would NEVER have been seen or heard officially corresponding with the likes of her, so they sent her this...mewling, slightly dewy eyed Saurian, who tried and failed to project an authority over her, barking out a message from a "Ran-Dall Stane" and his First Mate a "Quemteen Collsams". Terran names always had too many Earth vowels for her taste.

The fussy, slightly clipped nature of the Intel Agent's missive brought another smile dancing predatorily across her green, slightly glossed lips and pointedly filed (as she liked to say "manicured") teeth. Her presence, along with a few others had been...requested by the new Fed tub that had blundered into her loot pool, for a sort of conference on the state of the area and how they could "contribute" to the larger "wellbeing" of the sector space.

Her senior hands, naturally, bade her ignore the missive. To just continue with "The Plan" and soon their coffers would be full to bursting and they could head wherever they so wished. The idea held a certain appeal to Ghant, especially after so many months of living from score to score. 

Her last stay in the loving embrace of an authority (a Breen black-site stationed on a star-blasted moon of Andoria that even the Andorians thought was too frigid) had cost them and the Edge precious armaments. Not to mention the repair costs and "hazard pay" for the ground team that actually did the springing. All of these had left her dangerously, worryingly skint (aside from her own personal stores ferreted away in her wardrobe...and weapons locker...and the emergency Latinium strips that always were housed in her knee-high boots). This kept them doing jobs, which then would generate more expenses, and so on and so forth and on and on and on into eternity.

Not that it got her COMPLETELY down, but still the life of a corsair usually didn't feel like this much busy work. Which was why Atlas seemed like such a perfect score. So many ships, so little real oversight and static protections. Not like the inner worlds and systems. Out here was, as the humans would like to say, The Wilder Wests. Heavy space just ready for the picking.

But then the Feds had come and then the landings had started and her crew worried if her "Plan" really was worth the effort. Then the Intel Officer had messaged them. And a "New Plan" started to form in her freshly shaved head, drifting like peted vines across her devious mind. And then she sold it to them. Which led her back here to this moment, standing in front of her body-length Vulcan crystal mirror (picked from the bones of Logic Extremists who thought the Razor easy prey), admiring her form and newly shorn deep emerald pate.

The chamber bell of her quarters rang and before she could answer, her Risian Ghast, Maksim Fount, shuffled into the room, a rare benefit of his position and her respect for him. He was in the middle of speaking something as he looked up and saw his Captain in her finery.

Despite his deep sunkiss, a burning embarrassment flowered across his face and neck, blending momentarily with the claret colored body armor and reddish worksuit underneath and he tried to shuffle back out into the corridor.

Fount: M-my apologies, Captain. I did not realize you were dressing.

She barked a laugh and motioned him back deeper into the cabin.

Ghant: Please, Fount, this is not the most scandalizing thing you have entered on me doing, we both know that. But I must ask your favor, is this suitable to meet the Feds?

She raised her toned arms slightly and gave a slowish turn, echoing the movements and presentation protocol she had fought and killed her way out of just a decade now previous. There was no hatred to the movements as there once were, nor was there the feeling of leering, unworthy eyes on her skin and dress. Now she moved for herself, allowed herself the momentary courtliness for her own amusement (and to further embarrass Fount, of course). 

Thou Fount would never dare vocalize it, he seemed appropriately stunned at her choice, which was good as that was her intention. A powder blue, angle-shouldered doublet encased her leanly muscular torso. Tight black flight-suit trousers, hemmed at her thighs and belted at the waist, trailing a thin tool display of her colors (a deep purple and black) hung tucked into her belt, sectioned off at the knee by her highly shined dress boots. And the best part of all, a thin gauze underlayer of the doublet running directly down the middle of the garment and her languidly long chest, exposing just the barest minimum strip of flesh, but just enough to throw males off their guard.

She was happy at the chance to test her alterations. She knew all too well how even the slightest hint of skin or the promise of contact was enough to tip the scales in her favor and into her stores. Now she would have a chance to test it on the rest of the pack. She finally brought herself to a stop and into a comfortable stance, her smile bared in an almost frightening display as she did so.

Fount:  I-it is acceptable, my Captain.

Ghant: GOOD!

Fount: Though...if I may, Captain?

Ghant: Hm?

She turned fully to face him now, crossing a step closer in kind.

Fount: I mislike the idea of you arriving without escort nor shot. What if things go awry?

She laughed again, causing a momentary wince in fear from Fount. They never liked it when she laughed because that usually meant something insane or dangerous was to follow soon after. This meeting on a Fed ship was likely to be both.

Ghant: You underestimate me, First Mate! I am never without a weapon. Even when I am unarmed.

Fount grumbled an affirmation and Eru allowed herself one final look in the gleam of the crystal mirror. She looked to her sitee (pilfered from the villa of a Cardassian cartel boss) and the various millinery she had laid out. But she thought better of it as the cool of the recycled air from the guts of her lady sailed over her shaved head. She missed her hair, but she relished the cold and ease of movement when scrapping.

oO That is enough preening for one day. Oo

She turned and aimed to march from the room, talking as her bootheels clacked heavily on the deck plating.

Ghant: Signal the Feds I am enroute. I will beam aboard once we have a clean signal.

Fount: Aye, My Captain.

She stepped into the corridor and pointed herself toward the transport hub. She checked her person again with her slender fingers and hands. One of her weapons was "hidden" obviously to be caught by the incoming Security sweeps and pats down. But the other...they would have to be on the specific look out for. While also knowing what specifically they were looking for. Something told Eru that that wouldn't be standard operating procedure. Again a wolfish grin danced on her sharpened teeth.

((A Few Moments Later. Interior. U.S.S. Arrow, Transporter Room.))

The shimmering diamond effect of the transporter beam tickled her nose and sent faint shadows dancing across her eyes. But not enough to obscure her view of her surroundings. A standard Starfleet Transporter Room (albeit a bit smaller than she was used to seeing). A light guard was at the doorway, as well as a number of other Security officers ferrying around the other "delegates" who had arrived before her.

Someone who looked like they were in charge was discussing something with a Ferengi, who was also no doubt scanning the place for profits almost as hard and as thoroughly as she was. She held the moment, allowing a moment of stillness to settle over the Transporter compartment. 

At a moment's lull, she introduced herself into the "cast" assembled in the diminutive room.

Ghant: I do so hope I am not the last to arrive.

She stepped off the pads with a flourish.

Shayne: RESPONSE

Ghant: Captain Eru Ghant, as your service. I must admit...your invitation was...unexpected. Interesting, mind you, but also unexpected.

Shayne: RESPONSE

Ghant: I did not think Starfleet had anything to do with...privateers.

Wilde/R'Ariel: RESPONSE

Ghant: Quite. ::She said, only slightly baring her teeth.::

oO This is going to be...very, VERY fun. Oo

Any Crew/Delegate: RESPONSE

-- 

TAG/TBC

MSNPC Captain Eru Ghant

Corsair Captain of the Razor's Edge

Privateer-at-Large

As Simmed By

LIEUTENANT COMMANDER 

QUENTIN COLLINS III

FIRST OFFICER

U.S.S. ARROW NCC-69829

ID: E239512QC0

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