I’m editing another Tales of the Starbound story, so you know what that means? Yep - another Heroforge remake.
Meet Devon Parker, a Lunar Miner recently transferred to the core of Beta61 Vir 4657Ia. The Heroforge pose is him in action, during the Erchius Horror event.
Universe: Starbound CW: Romance, hand kisses, alcohol & intoxication, gambling Words: 3,200 Context: This was written during NaNoWriMo 2015, part of a collection of short stories called “Tales of the Starbound”. I decided to re-write each story individually. Note: When this was written, Starbound was still in Beta (Pleased Giraffe). There are mentions of items that no longer exist in the game as it is today, such as nanostoves. These were accurate to the game as it was; please don’t come at me. Read on AO3
Lynx stood behind the bar, wooden countertop as gold as honey, sorting through the hutch of alcohol. Her blue glow reflected off the glass bottles as she stood, datapad in hand, taking stock of the hooch available. Late afternoon sun streamed through the windows, the fire growling away to itself in the grate as Lynx scribbled onto the pad. She knew, without a doubt, that Paris would be the first one through her door, same as every night. She’d transfer the list over to him when he showed, and he’d send it on over to the same guy he got his tuck from. It was a sound system, even if it felt underhanded at times. But Paris served good food at his canteen over the way, and her beer was never flat. Lynx shook her head as she adjusted her belt and braces. She wasn’t one to look at a gift horse when one opened its mouth.
Taking a cloth, Lynx moved around her joint, polishing things up. She paused on her way up to the mezzanine, giving the old honkytonk a good scrub until it shone with a light all its own. Lynx couldn’t resist tickling the ivories once she was done. She played, sure, but not as well as Gleary, Paris’ sous-chef. When the old apex was done at Currie’s Canteen, he’d shuffle into the bar for a tipple and give the honkytonk the attention it deserved.
As Lynx finished setting the baize card tables to rights – not that they needed much; her patrons were a neat kind, and she appreciated it – moonglow took the place of daylight. The electric lamps flickered on, casting their warm glow over her bar. As Lynx sauntered down the mezzanine steps, she caught sight of the familiar long human frame of her good friend and supplier.
He looked up at her steps, knocking his trilby back in greeting, smoothing the green hair underneath as he replaced it. “Evening, Lynx.” “Evening, Paris.” She gave him a nod, sliding around the bar. “What can I get an old coyote like you?” Paris smiled, eyes twinkling as he swivelled on the stool. “Same as usual, dearest star.”. Lynx inclined her head, mercury-blue glow dancing off the tumbler she pulled from under the bar. From the hutch, she took a bottle of green liquor, the label proclaiming it ‘FutzFluff’ surrounded by kiwi and chillies, pouring a measure over frozen milk cubes. He’d been drinking this rot-gut as long as she’d known him, and Lynx never could figure why he subjected himself to the scald of the liquor, even tempered as it was by the milk cubes. Paris swirled the drink and knocked it back, pulling a face. “You know, I tried to make one of these myself?” he said when his face had returned from puce to his usual olive complexion. “Tasted like crap in a glass. I swear it must be that blue light of yours. Does something that makes it taste way better.” Lynx snorted. “You got backwards there, pardner. It always tastes like crap in a glass. It just happens that you don’t care so much by the time you get here.” Paris gave her a soft lopsided smile. “Maybe. In any case, it tastes better when you make it, star-stuff.” Lynx snorted again as Paris scooped her datapad off the bar, looking over the list as he sucked on a milk cube. She backed up, under the pretence of putting the bottle of Futz back on the shelf, and watched him in the mirror.
Paris Currie – owner of Currie’s Cafe and member of the Solar Groceries franchise, was a hard man to peg. He’d mentioned once he’d been a Starbounder, horsetrading his way across the galaxy. Humans age funny in space – between that and the green caterpillar on his lip, Paris could be anywhere between 30 or 50, Sol Standard. Word was he would’ve spent his remaining days on the Outpost, pissing away any remaining pix, if not for the Lady of this world. Lynx shook her head; Caseswing was a damned funny name for a novakid. But the Lady was one of the good ones. Once she saw he could barter the hind legs off a donkey, Caseswing had hauled Paris down to Beta61 Vir4657Ia. Lynx’s brand shimmered. Paris sure made for a lively trading partner, and sure as socks, she was glad the Lady had brought him on down.
A croak from behind pulled her from her thoughts. Lynx turned to find another of her regulars patiently waiting at the bar. “Froggie,” Paris greeted the amphibian as it took a seat. The frögg nodded in greeting. Lynx fiddled with her sleeves, ducking her head away from the glance she’d given Paris. “Yuzi,” she said to the frögg. “Looking sharp as always. What’s your poison tonight, Big Bug?” From the front pocket of its waistcoat, the frögg pulled a short stack of cards, flipping through them until it gave a bright ribbit, handing the card over to Lynx. Lynx read it out, “'Creative Yuzuki would like a beer’. Well, alright then, let’s see what we’ve got.” “Man, you must have a stack of those, huh?” Paris asked as Lynx turned away. One hand supported her chin as she stared at the bottles in contemplation before selecting one, stumpy and dark. “It’s called Mountain Goat,” Lynx said as she poured the frothing liquid into a glass mug and slid it across to the frögg. “Don’t ask me why it’s blue. I’ve not a single inkling as for why.” Yuzuki shrugged and took a sip. The frögg’s face lit up; it slid a pile of pixels across the counter. “Cut and come again,” Lynx said. With a salute with the beer, the frögg moved away to a table near the honkytonk.
“Interesting fella that frögg,” Lynx said as she banked the pixels. “For sure.” Paris tapped the datapad. “I’ll get this over to my guy as soon as. Gotta make sure you keep up your stock. Wouldn’t want to go upsetting the Frog, would we?” He chuckled affectionately and drained the milky dregs of his glass. “Got good taste, though. Draw me up a Mountain Goat as well, would ya? Sure looked interesting.” “You got it, coyote.”
As Lynx pulled out another bottle and poured it into a fresh glass, the plink of piano keys sounded. Lynx slid Paris his beer and looked up to see a brown and yellow furred apex plonking out Chopsticks on the honkytonk. “Howdy, Gleary,” Lynx called. “What’ll it be?” “The usual please, oh ever-delightful barkeep,” Gleary called back. Lynx gave an ironic tip of her head to Paris, her version of an affectionate eye roll. “One cyanider, coming up.” From under the counter, Lynx pulled out a nanostove and a ceramic bowl. Setting the bowl on the stove, she poured a measure of cerise liquor into it, letting it sit until faint wisps of steam rose. Removing it from the heat, she nudged it over to Paris. “You mind?” she asked, nodding towards Gleary. “What am I, your waiter now?” Paris asked, grinning. Lynx gave him a wry tilt of the head. “If you like. Bet I pay better than that fella across the way.” Paris huffed a chuckle as he took his and Gleary’s drinks over to the honkytonk. “Cute new waiter you’ve got,” Gleary called, raising his drinking vessel. “My compliments to the establishment!”
Lynx chuckled at their shenanigans, pulling more glasses down as she spotted more of her regulars drifting in. Corey McCully, a tall human with an attitude to match her penal colony jumpsuit, ordered an adult reefshake. Her friend, Tisa Arrowcress, a light-footed floran whose blue hues never matched her mood, wanted a Meatequita. That concoction mixed and the ladies happy, up came the gallant inventor, Domecatch the Steam, for a bottle of Strawberry Duck – a pale pink avian brew, oddly popular with the civilian glitch.
As Gleary switched up his tinkling into a more contemporary jam, Tisa moved to the dance floor, and Corey filtered up to the mezzanine to shuffle the cards ahead of the inevitable card game. Lynx banked their pix and wiped down the bar, glancing at Domacatch looking out of a window, watching the rise of Virla’s sister planets. Clanking from the door caught her attention as three off-duty glitch guards and Count Goldweld entered the establishment. “Boy-howdy,” Lynx murmured, pulling out more glasses. “It sure is gonna be a busy one tonight.”
The Count waited, his hands folded patiently, as she served the guards a bottle of Oil Slick each before she moved to where he stood. “Count.” “Greetings, Ms Lynx. Confirming: You are aware of my beverage preference?” “Yessir, that I am. One measure or two tonight?” The Count bowed his head, the beak of his plague mask tapping on the bar top as he thought. “Relaxed. One shall be sufficient.” “Right you are, hoss.” Lynx put down her cleaning rag and called out to Paris, motioning for him to watch the bar. Satisfied he was on his way, Lynx pushed open the heavy door to the backroom, making a beeline for the safe at the back of the tight, dimly lit space. Unlocking the safe, she drew from it a brandy sniffer and a bulbous bottle made of thick frosted glass. Placing them on the table to one side, Lynx paused with the bottle open, wafting the vapours to her brand. She gave a gusty sigh, carefully pouring the caramel liquor into the glass. With caution, Lynx stoppered the bottle and replaced it in the safe. She paused again, letting her glow turn the liquor a faint teal as she considered this rare and expensive brandy. Quite how the Count had happened across it, he never said, but it was the only thing he would drink and only doled out by her practised hand. Lynx doubted there was anything like it in the whole 'verse, and it would be a damned shame when it finally ran out.
“Here you are, hoss,” Lynx said, placing the brandy sniffer in front of the Count. The Count included his head. “Grateful. You take such good care of our property, and we know you have reservations about our arrangement.” “Our deal don’t bother me none,” Lynx told him. “Not since you paid the corkage, and I got my snifter. Gonna treasure that all my days.” The Count raised the glass in salute. “Social. We thank you for allowing us to drink with company – the preferred method, we assume you agree?” Lynx dipped her head. “You sure got that right, hoss.” “Hesitant. How full is the bottle?” Lynx made a snapping sound. “'Fraid to say it, hoss, but you’re almost out.” “Confirmed.” The Count lowered the glass. “Petitioning. Might you procure us another?” “I don’t know, hoss. That there hooch is rare as Bluebacks and ain’t gonna come cheap.” “Cautious. If we passed you the capital, do you think it could be found?” Lynx glanced down the bar at Paris as he served another patron. “I think I might know a fella can help.” She turned back to the Count. “Leave it with me, hoss. I’ll let you know what we scrounge up.” “Joyus. This is a most excellent outcome. We shall enjoy this evening with gusto thanks to this happy news.” “Happy to help, hoss,” Lynx said as the Count stood and moved away into the growing crowd of patrons.
The party fell into full swing then, keeping Lynx on her toes, clearing away the empties and filling new glasses. Gleary and Domecatch took turns on the honkytonk, filling the air with strains of fast-paced music. Lynx had to dance out of Tisa’s way as the floran undulated and twisted in serpentine forms as she moved to the music. Up on the mezzanine, Corey was busy fleecing the glitch guards. A stern tap on her shoulder was enough to remind the human to reign in her cardsharp tendencies, drawing an amused croak from Creative Yuzuki, watching the game.
As Lynx loaded the dishwasher with dirty glasses, the honkytonk changed pitch - stepping the fast pace up a notch. She didn’t think much of it until the chocolate-rich tone of a saxophone filled the air. She turned to see Paris in the centre of the dance floor, playing a nuevo-fusion counter-melody to Gleary’s swinging piano. Lynx leant on the bar, watching Paris play – eyes closed, putting his all into the song – and tilted her head in affection. Man of many talents, that old coyote was, some of them well hidden. His eyes opened briefly, flicking around as he sought something out. Then they found Lynx and halted, crinkling at the edges. She ducked her head, her blue aura brightening. “Apologetic. Forgive me for interrupting, but may I have another Oil Slick?” Lynx started upright. A glitch guard was standing at the end of the bar, his empty bottle in hand. Lynx cleared her throat and adjusted her braces. “No problem at all, pardner.”
The night picked up again briefly, as though cued by the pace of the performance. Behind Lynx, the hutch emptied, prompting her to duck into the backroom to restock. As she returned, crate in hand, Gleary and Paris finished their song to resounding applause. She heard the piano start up again a few moments later, a slower tune this round, and glanced towards it. Domecatch had taken over the upright, Paris carrying the melody for a while until it was taken up by a magenta novakid. She sang a low, bluesy tune with nonsensical lyrics, the firelight glinting off the brass buttons and gold frogging of her fine coat. Paris’ saxophone followed her lead for a while, wandering off to embellish the middle before returning for the triumphant final – the performers rising in a crescendo that had everyone applauding. The trio gave a bow, and as Domecatch relinquished the honkytonk back to Gleary and Paris stowed his sax, the novakid glided over to the bar.
“Howdy, Barkeep,” she greeted Lynx. “M'lady Caseswing,” Lynx replied. “What’s your pleasure tonight, ma'am?” “Ah, Lynx, darling. No need for that froufrou with me.” Lynx shrugged. “Can’t blame a gal for wanting to show respect.” Caseswing put her hands on the counter. “And it’s appreciated. But we’re pals – you don’t need to pull out that yammer. Not betwixt us.” Lynx looked away, sighed and looked back. “I ain’t making any promises.” Caseswing inclined her head. “Guess that’ll do. As for drink… I dunno. Give me what’s good tonight.” Lynx pulled a bottle from the hutch and poured it out. “Alright, try this. Mountain Goat. Been going down a storm.” Caseswing lifted the glass, examining the frothing liquid. “Huh. It’s blue. How 'bout that.” She raised the glass to the radiating lines of her brand, murmuring with appreciation as she took a swig. Checking they weren’t going to be interrupted, Caseswing twisted on her stool, looking out at the press of bodies. “So how’re tricks?” she asked, taking another swig. “Looks like it’s all apple pie in here. You turning good pix?” “Yes’m, we’re right as a trivet here,” Lynx said. “And Currie?” “Doing a brisk line, much as can be gotten.” “Good, good.” Caseswing soaked up a little more of her booze. “Mean sax player, that one. Didn’t know he was so good.” Lynx ducked her head. “Ain’t he, though? You’re no caterwauler yourself, ma'am. How long you been keeping that under your hat?” Caseswing snorted. “Ah, y'know. Sometime 'twixt then and now. Weren’t till Domecatch caught the tune that I remembered the words to go with it. It, ah, ain’t summint comes up much, out in the black.” Lynx murmured in reply, and the two fell silent, twin calm points in the maelstrom of partying until the bartender was called away to serve another round. When she looked back, a pile of pixels next to an empty glass was the only evidence Caseswing had been around.
The night drew on, the stars turned, and Virla’s sister planets took themselves below the horizon. The glitch guard staggered off to their barracks, and Corey packed up her winnings. Tisa had one more for the road, and the pair, giggling and swaying, tottered on home. Count Goldweld vanished soon after, while Paris, Gleary and the frögg sat around, shooting the breeze. The sky lightened further, and Domecatch drained his neonmelon schnapps, heading to the door. “Delighted,” the glitch said, pausing to doff his hat to Paris. “It was a pleasure to play with you. We should do it again sometime.” Paris stood unevenly, catching Domecatch’s hand, slurring as he said, “For sure, brother. For sure. Just name the time, and I’ll join you.” Domecatch staggered under the sudden weight. “Perturbed. My internal counterweights seem to be malfunctioning… Polite. We have had a delightful evening, dearest companions, but I must bid you goodnight.” Paris clapped Domecatch on the shoulder, stumbling backwards as he let go. “’S an excellent night. Get well charged.” Yuzuki yawned, running a tongue over its flat lips and ribbited. “You are so right, Froggie,” Gleary said, blinking owlishly and yawning himself. He stood and helped the frögg up. “Some of us have day jobs to attend to in the morning,” Gleary said. “See you later, Boss. Bright and early?” The apex laughed, and Paris snorted. “Get on with you,” Paris told him. Yuzuki rased its fez in salutation as Gleary inclined his head. “Good night, charming bar mistress.” “Cut and come again,” Lynx called as the two staggered out.
Paris gathered up the empties from his table, taking them up to the bar, where Lynx was wiping down the counter, now a deep caramel in the lower light. “Thanks, Paris,” Lynx said, putting the glasses in the dishwasher. “Good night tonight,” he said, leaning against the bar. “Good crowd.” With the dishwasher running, and the empty bottles in the recycler, Lynx leant against the bar opposite Paris. “It was that,” she said. “You did good with that set of yours. Been keeping secrets from me, though – since when did you play an instrument?” Paris grinned. “It’s a pretty new thing I got going on. Wanted to surprise you.” “Consider me acock then, coyote,” Lynx said, a yawn catching the end of her sentence. “Gee-e, that’s me sewn up good. C'mon. Up your sticks now, so I can get this place closed down.” She flapped her hands in Paris’ direction. He caught them up, planting a kiss on the back of each softly glowing hand. Lynx shook her head softly. “You’re so full of taffy,” she said, voice filled with affection. “C'mon now, get going.” “Yes, ma'am.” Paris tipped his hat and staggered towards the door, Lynx following to lock up behind him. At the door, Paris stopped. “I’ll see you tomorrow then, talk over this new project from the Count?” “For sure. I’ll swing by for lunch.” Paris ran his fingers lightly over the back of Lynx’s hand. “Pleasent dreams, shining one.” “Pleasent dreams yourself, coyote.”
She locked the door as he finally staggered away, flicking the lights off until she was the only light that remained. In the solitude and darkness, Lynx gave a longing sigh, brushing the back of her hand against her cheek as the furthest edges of the bar became suffused with blue light.
flops onto the floor. hello i have been. working. this took like 3-4 days but that’s bc i’m a coward and suffer low energy LMAO
anyway I MADE A FARM. barn, farm, same thing! i just wanted to hav lil animals to greet every so often ehe
to me it looks rather like. bland and boring but hey i’m proud of it and i don’t have to suffer with building it anymore so that’s enough for me
i’ve also slacked off on showing my other builds. I did a large storage room but its just a big ugly square building so y'all dont get to see that KDSFS
this was just an odd little place i made for storing things like accessories and outfits. its actually not big enough in terms of storage but shh it works for now and its jus a lil place
and with my survival character, i made a farm too! this was done before the big farm, actually
I’m editing an old Starbound fic, from when the game was still Beta, and kinda got stuck in the middle, so ofc my go-to is to make the main characters in Heroforge XD
Please meet Lynx, owner of the Desert Rose Saloon:
And Paris Currie, owner of Currie’s Canteen and Trading post.
Sadly these elderly screenshots are all I have left of them, as their world was wiped when Starbound was released as a full game, but these were their establishments, in the Fairview Court complex:
Starting with the great hall, the ground floor entrance to the castle and a perfect venue for social events. For a more modern event we have the bar just down the hall to the right with a stolen neon sign I needed to put somewhere. Yes the cat is the bartender just roll with it.
Above the bar is the kitchen, packed to the brim with goodies as usual. And above that is the dining hall, where two big cartoony rich person tables have been stuck end to end to create an even bigger, cartoonier rich person table, plus smaller tables as the drink and dessert bars. Kata, one of the “chefs,” has already come down for dinner.
East from the dining room is the greenhouse, on the other side of the farm (not pictured). I intentionally left a little bit of the bottom so that you can see it’s above the storehouse and armory, but like any other greenhouse it’s home to all sorts of weird and wonderful plants from across the universe.
An interesting continuation of my thoughts into Floran scent language: hylotl might actually be quite sensitive to the pheromones. In an evolutionary sense, it works from two angles. First, amphibians have thinner skin (they often breathe through it) so they’d pick up changes in the air over a much broader surface area than most other species. Second, they didget hunted by floran for a good portion of their past. However long ago that was, it would still make sense that hylotl who can realize there’s plant hunters gossiping nearby would be a hylotl who has a better chance to escape and pass their genes along.
In the modern day, we could put this to a new use: as floran and hylotl heal their relationship and reach out to each other in less hostile ways, certain hylotl (like our Koichi) might use the innate sensitivity to start understandingFloran language on a level thought impossible to anyone who isn’t floran. What finer way to break down the barriers between them? Combine that with Hylotl technology, and perhaps they could synthesize the scents themselves, for the galaxy’s first true Common-Floran translators, or even make it possible for the other species to understand Floran in its full context for the first time.
This could facilitate cultural exchange between all parties at an absolutely phenomenallevel. Those floran tribes that still hunt sentients would have a harder time doing so if their intended prey can understand their battle plans, forcing them to turn to less controversial prey, which in turn would help improve the Floran reputation overall. And tribes that are already friendly with the galaxy finally have a way to share their histories with the world, and share their new friends’ histories with the other floran.
That’s the most powerful step to loving and accepting strangers, I think. Realizing that they too have stories.
