Phantom of Pain
A Not So Soft Underbelly
Location: Arcadia-N-30, Aries District
Thread Status: Open to Sith Order
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The hustle and bustle of the outer District of Arcadia-N-30 was a fun yet dangerous distraction to some, and a stark reminder of the dangers of the world to most others. With a large percent of the inter-galactic trade in the south-eastern quadrant of the galaxy coming through Arcadia-N-30 it saw people of all walks of life coming through. Innocent travelers, ship captains and ship crewmen were stuffed right alongside the shifty-eyed crooks and criminals looking to swindle the rest out of their hard earned credits. It was not through lack of trying that the outer district of Arcadia had devolved into such debauchery. The local militia had little sway outside of the center dome, even less outside of the middle dome, but that was not to say that the outer dome was lawless. Gangs of varying sizes and influence controlled different sections of the district, and in some cases even had a chokehold on certain activities in totality. What these gangs said was considered an iron law in the outermost district of Arcadia, and it was typically a fool's folly to disobey.
Yet that was precisely why Evor was here. It had been many years since the Ravens had any sort of influence on Nar Shaddaa. Truth be told he missed the influence that they once had. It was a unique feeling, having sway over an entire city and populace. Perhaps that is what drew him to Reverance and the Sith originally. Compared to Nar Shaddaa the outer district of Arcadia was as dangerous as a Sunday brunch, or at least so he thought. That was the reason for his visit really, to test his mettle against the underbelly of the sprawling urban rock. To succeed meant control and influence, but to fail meant many more lessons learned: lessons that would be learned in pain and blood.
The stool beneath him squeaked softly as he looked around with a sigh, his bloodshot eyes faintly illuminated under his shaggy mane of hair by the red hot tip of a lit cigarette. His fingers drummed idly, brump brump brump, on the bartop that seemed like it was made from little more than corrugated metal sheets. He looked up, moving a stand of hair out of his face so that he could make direct eye contact with the Zabrak behind the bar.
“Malt,” he states flatly, placing what he felt to be a fair amount of credits upon the table.
The Zabrak pauses for a moment, and simply grunts before turning around and grabbing a murky brown bottle and a single dirty glass from the counter. He places both down before Evor and fills the cup up halfway, scooping the credits off the table and tossing them into a metal jar behind him. Evor grabs the cup and takes a whiff, his face turning to a scowl. He reaches out and grabs the barkeeps wrist, “The hell kind of Malt is this.”
The Zabrak pulls his wrist back, merely laughing at the man before him. “The only karking kind you’ll find in the outer district, get used to it boy,” he retorts before just walking off to attend to his next customer.
Evor sighs to himself again, making a slight face of disgust as he takes a sip of what he can only assume to be Jet Juice at this point. He turns in his chair so that he is facing outwards, his eyes scanning the crowded street before him…