First Reply Cheap Thrill

[Zronware Ydrevinyc]

|| CHEAP THRILL ||

White Wolf - Chapter 1

TAG: Open
​

DRESSEL

The bustling atmosphere of the cantina mixed well with the smell of recycled oxygen, burnt grease, and the sour tang of spilled synth-ale. It was the kind of place where a man could disappear into the background noise of binary chirps and drunken boasting, at least usually.

Zronware Ydrevinyc didn't exactly have a "blend-in" kind of face.

Sitting in a corner booth, his frame cramped by the narrow table. He just finished a bounty run for the local government. His travel-worn duster was still draped over his shoulders, partially obscuring the utility belt and the various tracking fobs scattered across the scuffed metal surface. One fob blinked a steady, rhythmic crimson, signaling a target that was close; perhaps too close for a peaceful meal.

With a sigh, Zronware reached up to push a lock of shock-silver hair out of his eyes. He just wanted a bowl of stew and twenty minutes of silence to mourn his Master in peace. The Force, however, had other plans.

The noise of the cantina dipped. A shadow fell over his table.

"You've got the look," a gravelly voice rang out, loud enough to draw eyes from the neighboring booths. A trio of local enforcers, dressed in mismatched blast vests and smelling of spice, had surrounded the booth. The leader, a scarred Near-Human, pointed a greasy finger at the hilt peeking out from Zronware's duster. "Silver hair, tall, looking down at everyone. You're one of those Peacekeepers from the core, aren't you? Coming to tell us how to run our sector?"

Zronware took a slow sip of his lukewarm drink, his mind could feel the weight of his cyan lightsaber against his hip.

"I'm just a traveler," Zronware replied, his voice calm but carrying a dangerous edge.

The enforcer laughed and reached for the hilt on Zronware's belt. "Let's see if this glow-stick actually works, Master Jedi."

Zronware looked up, unfazed by the threatening laughter of the thug. His sharp eyes locking onto theirs with a gaze that had stared down Sith Lords and Outer Rim monsters alike. The air around the table seemed to drop a few degrees.

"I wouldn't touch that if I were you," he murmured. "It's a very expensive mistake to make."

The cantina went silent. Heads turned. Somewhere in the back, a droid stopped beeping. The tension stretched to the breaking point, waiting for someone, anyone, to cut it.​

 

[Raxus Sennin]

​

The silence didn't last.
It never did.
A slow, deliberate clap broke it—one, then another—echoing just enough to carry without shouting. It came from the bar, where a figure leaned back on a stool like he'd been watching the whole thing unfold for a while now.

"Careful," Raxus drawled, voice smooth with something just shy of amusement. "You're about three seconds away from turning a bad decision into your last one."
He didn't rush. Didn't stand immediately. Just took another sip from his glass like this was all mildly entertaining rather than moments from bloodshed.
Then he stood.
Tall, relaxed, unbothered.
The kind of presence that didn't demand attention—but got it anyway.
His coat hung open, nothing flashy, nothing ceremonial. No armor. No badge. Just a man who looked like he'd been in enough fights to stop advertising it.

His eyes flicked once to Zronware, quick assessment—posture, breathing, the weight in the room around him.
Yeah, Raxus thought. Not just a rumor. That one's the real thing.

Then his attention shifted to the enforcers.
"You boys always grab things you don't understand," he continued, stepping closer now, boots quiet against the durasteel floor. "Or is this a special occasion?"

The scarred Near-Human sneered, though there was hesitation in it now. "Stay out of this."
Raxus stopped just off the table's edge, glancing down briefly at the blinking fob before looking back up.
"See, that's the problem," he said lightly. "I was out of it. Then you made it everyone's problem."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—but it didn't reach his eyes.

"And now I'm curious."
His gaze dropped to the enforcer's hand hovering near the lightsaber hilt.
"Go on," Raxus said, almost inviting. "Touch it."
A beat.
"I'd like to see how that works out for you."
The room held its breath again—but this time, the tension had shifted.

It wasn't just centered on Zronware anymore.
Now it had edges.
Sharp ones.
Raxus tilted his head slightly, voice lowering just enough to carry weight.
"Or," he added, casual as ever, "you could walk away, keep your fingers, and let the man eat his stew."
Another sip from his glass.
"Your call."
He didn't reach for a weapon.
Didn't need to.
The message was already clear.
Whatever happened next—
Raxus Sennin wasn't just a bystander anymore.

Zronware Ydrevinyc

 

[Zronware Ydrevinyc]

|| CHEAP THRILL ||

White Wolf - Chapter 1

TAG: Raxus Sennin
​

DRESSEL

The scarred leader looked between Raxus and Zronware, his fingers twitching inches from the lightsaber hilt. The invitation, to him, felt less like a dare and more like a death sentence. He looked at Zronware's silver hair, then at the calm stillness of the man at the bar. The math wasn't adding up in his favor.

"Tch. This place is going to the hells," the leader spat, finally drawing his hand back as if the hilt had suddenly turned white-hot. He motioned to his companions, his bravado crumbling into a shelled retreat. "Come on. We don't get paid enough to deal with 'em."

The trio backed away, knocking over a stool in their haste to disappear into the smoky shadows of the cantina's far side.

"Most people around here prefer to fuck off when the thugs are involved," Zronware said, breaking the silent as he shifted in the booth, granting Raxus a nod that was more of a judgement than a greeting.

"Either way, the stew is cold. If you're looking for a seat, the chair is free. If you're looking for the bounty... you're late."​