Jace Wester
Character
Melf's Outpost was a place of ill repute; a place of cigarette smoke and broken noses, where the floor was stained with equal parts alcohol and blood. It was a tavern where last night's brawl still hadn't been fully cleaned up, and where the swill being served from behind the counter laughed louder than the whores at the corner table. It was the place one went to spend the last credits to their name on death sticks; a haven for dancing neon beams and bad fever dreams. It was a place where nothing good could possibly happen, because no one good ever came here. On the other hand, it was most certainly a place to find people who were good at not being found. Among the hazy, smoke-filled crowd that called themselves patrons of Melf's Outpost on Nar Shaddaa that evening, one of those people was the stranger in the black duster.
The stranger saddled up to a bar stool, sandwiched between two different crowds speaking two completely different languages. Over the cacophony of foreign babble he ordered a spice beer and, when it was delivered, cradled his drink and took it to the only remaining corner seat in the place. It was a good vantage point from which he could observe the goings-on of the evening. Groups of aliens were still by the bar, where neon lights fanned out onto the ceiling and walls and cast geometric patterns of blue and purple. A few tables were being occupied by a sabacc tournament, where the players' masked expressions made it difficult to tell who was winning. On the other side of the sabacc tournament, human and Twi'Lek prostitutes congregated. And every so often, the shadow of an inebriated patron would stumble by and momentarily obscure his view of the bar, the sabacc game, and the women.
Yet, the stranger in the black duster wasn't here for any of that. He was just here for a drink. With his black, wide-brimmed hat set on the table after his matted brown hair cascaded out of it, he finally felt free enough to lean back and take a sip. Not the best spice beer he'd ever had, but also not the worst. It would do in a pinch, when all he needed was a beverage to warm his bones tonight and keep the shakes away. Everything else beyond the beer at his table was of no concern tonight. At least, that was the plan.
Helena Cross
The stranger saddled up to a bar stool, sandwiched between two different crowds speaking two completely different languages. Over the cacophony of foreign babble he ordered a spice beer and, when it was delivered, cradled his drink and took it to the only remaining corner seat in the place. It was a good vantage point from which he could observe the goings-on of the evening. Groups of aliens were still by the bar, where neon lights fanned out onto the ceiling and walls and cast geometric patterns of blue and purple. A few tables were being occupied by a sabacc tournament, where the players' masked expressions made it difficult to tell who was winning. On the other side of the sabacc tournament, human and Twi'Lek prostitutes congregated. And every so often, the shadow of an inebriated patron would stumble by and momentarily obscure his view of the bar, the sabacc game, and the women.
Yet, the stranger in the black duster wasn't here for any of that. He was just here for a drink. With his black, wide-brimmed hat set on the table after his matted brown hair cascaded out of it, he finally felt free enough to lean back and take a sip. Not the best spice beer he'd ever had, but also not the worst. It would do in a pinch, when all he needed was a beverage to warm his bones tonight and keep the shakes away. Everything else beyond the beer at his table was of no concern tonight. At least, that was the plan.
Helena Cross
