Zelroga
Sor-Jan Xantha
The lithe Bothan, demure, reserved and meek compared to the few aliens that were with her awaiting seating at one of Coruscant's many, many restaurants, was relaxed and leaning against a corner by the door, unlike the remainder of the patrons who were crammed around the vicinity and otherwise rather busy in appearance and mannerism, each engaged in the ordeals that kept Coruscant functioning, or at the very least their own personal lives. A family of Devaronians took up the bench to the far side of the entrance, at least six children clamoring for their moustached, athletic father's attention (one couldn't tell how many there were, as most younglings could move rather quickly), while his furred, pale, pudgy middle-aged wife in business attire hissed angrily into a handheld comlink; a rare blue Gamorrean, tuxedo-clad and rotund, lacking the well-kept, toned muscles most males of his species were known for, kept his hand firmly wrapped around one buttock of a petite Vor female, clad in an expensive, gem-encrusted dress that hung perhaps a bit too loosely from her scrawny frame; cut at the hips (much to the hog's delight, surely), her reptilian tail dragging to and fro, and rather noisily at that, over the floor of the entrance - she probably would lose the dress if she were to so much as sneeze. An aged, cane-bearing Weequay rested his wrists and his weight on his gnarled, oiled wooden crutch, his dark, wrinkled and ashen skin trembling with decrepitude as the hunchbacked old man surveyed the restaurant with squinty ice-blue eyes, his bald head shifting to and fro with purposeful resolve.
In stark contrast to all of these finery-clad folks, the youthful Bothan teen was far less impressively dressed and appeared out of place, comically so. Her fiery red hair was cut short, adding to her petite, boyish appearance, and hidden beneath the fabric of a well-kept, unadorned blue bandana, while the rest of her clothing further fueled the illusion (from a distance, anyway): baggy, knee-less breeches hugged her bird-like, thin legs, the tan fur of her exposed knees visible, while a zipped, navy blue hoodie obscured her torso and whatever shirt she happened to wear beneath it - what little of that fabric that was visible below her neck was black. With her hood drawn up over her head and her tired eyes surveying the restaurant's occupants in a placid, bored manner, the teen stuck out like a sore thumb. It was with a wry, crooked, left-sided smile at the hostess (droid or organic?) that the Bothan spoke her first words since entering the restaurant, not even bothering to look directly at the host that approached her.
"You know, if that Gamorrean is head of one of the planet's many fire departments, that scrawny ptero-form is going to find out a new meaning for the phrase 'Getting hosed down' this evening..." The Chandrilan-accented Bothan snickered, then turned her hood-clad noggin towards the host, "Table for one, please..."
