"You've worked for us before," says Corliss flatly. "Reckon we've usually been pretty good on paying our dues. And all this has done is get us both scuffed up. I guess that doesn't matter, though, as long as some Imperial bigwig pays you?" He glances at the bartender, holding up a bloody hand. "Can I get a rag, mate?"
The bartender glares at him and does nothing.
"Oh, come off it, it'll heal itself, wonnit?" he replies indignantly, meaning of course the bar counter.
The bartender just stands there, glancing back at Keshin, and finally he tosses Corliss a dirty dish towel.
"Thanks," Corliss says gratefully, holding it down against his burnt arm. "****ing bloody 'ell..." he gasps, sitting down. Prying the cloth back, it looks like splinters are stuck in the wound. He carefully starts to pick the biggest of them out. "****ing dapsen neth ganar...gahn akka ae oris..."* He gives up and looks over at Keshin. "You wouldn't happen to 'ave any tweezers, would ya? Don't ever get splinters in a burn wound." Corliss wipes tears of pain from his eyes. "****."
((*[expletive deleted]...this is not a good day.))
