#pheli

Tray’ju Estinoch, smuggler and moko connoisseur, felt his right hand shaking as he put the smoking joint between his lips. The past bell had been tense.  He and Haname had illegally entered Pheli’s apartment and tried to find something to reveal why she’d been acting so strange lately.  But Pheli had returned home and it had taken every bit of Tray’s silver-tongue to lie his way out.  He’d navigated what had felt like a verbal reef eager to consume him.  But it hadn’t.  He’d manage distract Pheli long enough for Haname to escape before he’d managed his own departure.  And now...the deep, twisted feeling of something wrong that hung in his guts was worse.  He looked over at Haname.

“Maybe she had good reasons for it, Pops. I mean-” Yimir tried to say. “No.  There is no justification for doin’ what she did.” Tray growled, cutting off his son. He shoved his revolver into his belt before throwing a bandolier of grenades over his right shoulder.  He grabbed several sheathed knives and slipped them into various locations on his body before he grabbed a satchel of ammunition and threw it over his other shoulder.  Tray paused to adjust his magitek face mask and goggles.

“Pops, what are ye gonna-” “I’mma have a little chat with Pheli.” “Pops, yer dressed for war!” “It’s a chat I expect to end violently.”