Private Cold Metal, Warm Spirits

[Veyla Krinn]

Concordia's cantinas were never loud in the way outsiders expected. The moon didn't do excess very well. Sound here stayed low, pressed into stone and metal the same way everything else was, shaped by a culture that valued listening more than boasting.

Veyla Krinn stepped inside without ceremony, the door sealing behind her with a muted hiss. Cold clung to her armor from the walk-in, a thin layer of frost melting slowly along the edges of her boots. She paused just long enough to let her eyes adjust, to take in the room without drawing attention to herself.

Low light. Recycled warmth. The smell of oil, strong liquor, and iron dust that never quite left Concordia, no matter how many times it was scrubbed down. A few locals occupied the outer tables, helmets close at hand, conversations carried in half-murmurs and nods rather than laughter. No one looked twice at her. Exactly as she preferred.

She moved toward the bar and rested one forearm against its scarred surface, ordering something strong and unremarkable. This was a stop for information, not indulgence. A place to listen, to think, to let the day settle before moving on.

It was only when she shifted her stance slightly, angling to give herself a better view of the room, that she felt it.

Not the Force. Not danger.

Recognition.

Her gaze slid to the side, slow and controlled, landing on another woman seated a short distance away. Armor that was worn differently from most. Not careless. Not ceremonial. Lived-in, adjusted for movement rather than display. The posture was what caught her first. Relaxed, but not loose. The kind of stillness that came from someone who knew exactly how fast they could stand if they needed to.

Veyla did not stare. She never did.

But something about the woman's presence tugged at old instincts, the kind honed in corridors and on drop ramps, in places where Mandalorians crossed paths without meaning to, and history had a habit of intruding.

Her drink arrived. Veyla took it, nodded once to the bartender, then waited a beat longer than necessary.

Unexpected meetings were rarely accidents on Concordia.

She turned slightly on the stool, enough to bring the other woman into her peripheral vision without forcing the moment.

"If this is your idea of keeping a low profile," Veyla said evenly, voice pitched just loud enough to carry across the space between them, "you picked the right moon and the wrong cantina."

She lifted her glass in a small, acknowledging gesture. Not a challenge. Not an invitation.

"Mind if I ask what brings you here?"

The question hung there, calm and open, the way things did when neither party was in a hurry to decide whether this meeting would end in conversation or silence.

Korra Kast

 

[Korra Kast]

Korra didn't look up right away. She let the cantina breathe around the words—let the low hum of generators and the soft scrape of metal on metal carry them to their natural end. Only then did she turn her head, just enough for the light to catch the edge of her visor where it rested on the table beside her.

Her eyes were sharp. Assessing. Not unfriendly—just practiced.

"If I were trying to keep a low profile," she said, voice calm, roughened by cold air and disuse rather than drink, "I wouldn't be on Concordia at all."

She shifted in her seat, one boot hooking the rung beneath the table, posture still relaxed but now openly oriented toward Veyla. The armor she wore bore the marks of travel—micro-scratches, heat scoring that had been polished down instead of replaced. Not a showpiece. A tool.

"I'm not hiding," Korra continued, lifting her glass in a mirrored gesture before taking a measured sip. "Just not advertising."

Her gaze flicked briefly to the bartender, then back—lingering now, meeting Veyla's eyes without tension.

"As for why I'm here," she said, setting the glass down with a soft clink, "that depends on who's asking. Concordia's good for resupply, and better for answers that don't want to be found in open space."

A pause. Not a test—an allowance.

"Korra Kast...of House Kast." She gave her name. "You are?"

Veyla Krinn

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla did not rush to answer. She let Korra's words settle into the space between them the same way the cantina's noise had, unforced and unclaimed, as if this exchange had simply found its moment rather than been initiated.

She lifted her glass only after Korra set hers down, the gesture unhurried, thoughtful. Her gaze stayed steady, open, without attempting to measure or corner.

"That makes sense," Veyla said quietly. "Concordia has a way of letting people exist without demanding explanations from them. It is close enough to matter, and far enough away that most eyes look past it."

She took a small sip, then rested the glass against the table again, fingers loose around it. The faint clink of metal and durasteel carried between them, familiar, grounding.

"I am not here to question your reasons," she continued, tone even and sincere. "Only to acknowledge them. I have spent a long time away from places like this, and longer still away from my own people. I have learned that survival takes many shapes, and not all of them need to be announced."

Her eyes flicked, briefly, to the armor Korra wore, not appraising its worth, but recognizing its use. Wear earned, not displayed.

"Veyla Krinn," she offered at last, inclining her head just slightly. "Clan Kryze."

No rank followed. No expectation.

"If you are here for answers that do not want to be spoken too loudly," Veyla added, a faint warmth threading through her voice, "then this seems like a reasonable place to sit for a while."

She held Korra's gaze, not challenging, not retreating, simply present.

"Mind if I stay?"

Korra Kast

 

[Korra Kast]

Korra's lips quirked just slightly, the barest hint of a smile that didn't quite soften her features. She shifted her stance, gesturing with a nod toward the empty seat across from her.

"Sit," she said, voice even, calm, but carrying the unspoken weight of habit—she was used to reading a room, reading people, and deciding quickly where space could be shared. "I don't mind if you stay."

Her eyes flicked briefly to the glass in front of Veyla, then back to her face. "As long as you're willing to pay for more than the first round." A dry edge of humor threaded her tone, but it wasn't a challenge.

She leaned back slightly, letting the seat settle under her, letting the quiet of the cantina stretch between them. "Concordia's cheap that way, but even cheap drinks run out."

Then she lifted her glass in a small, half-mocking salute, waiting for Veyla's answer.

Veyla Krinn

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla's mouth curved, just enough to acknowledge the humor without trying to claim it. She accepted the invitation with an ease that suggested she had never intended to hover for long anyway, moving into the empty seat across from Korra and settling there as if the space had always been meant to be shared.

"Fair terms," she said lightly, resting her forearms against the edge of the table. "I would not trust anyone who let the drinks run dry and called it hospitality."

She glanced toward the bar, lifting two fingers in a small, economical gesture to the bartender. Another round. The same. No spectacle made of it. When her attention returned to Korra, it stayed there, steady and unguarded.

"Besides," Veyla added, her tone warming just a touch, "I did not come here to leave after one conversation or one glass. Concordia rewards patience more than haste."

The cantina noise filled the brief pause that followed, the low thrum of generators and distant voices folding back in around them.

"You are right," she went on, lifting her own glass in return once the drinks arrived. "Places like this are good for answers that do not want an audience. Sometimes they surface only when no one is pushing them."

She tipped her glass slightly toward Korra in a quiet toast.

"To shared space," Veyla said. "And to letting the night take its time."

Then she drank, unhurried, eyes still on Korra, waiting to see where the conversation chose to go next.

Korra Kast

 

[Korra Kast]

Korra accepted the fresh glass with a nod, fingers wrapping around it like it belonged there. The faintest sound escaped her—something between a breath and a chuckle—at Veyla's toast.

"Shared space," she echoed, lifting her drink just enough to acknowledge it before taking a slow pull. The liquor burned clean. Honest. She approved.

She set the glass down and leaned forward a fraction, forearms resting on the table now, posture still easy but more engaged. The kind of shift that said the conversation had earned its next step.

"You're not wrong," Korra said. "Nights like this don't like being rushed. Push too hard and they shut down on you." Her gaze stayed on Veyla, thoughtful rather than probing, but there was curiosity there now—earned curiosity.

"So," she continued, tilting her head slightly, "What brought you to Concordia, Veyla Krinn of Clan Kryze?" Not accusatory. Not prying.

Veyla Krinn

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla's expression softened into a small, genuine smile, the kind that sat comfortably rather than performing for effect. She rolled the glass once between her fingers before lifting her hand and making a broad, unhurried gesture that took in the cantina, the durasteel walls, the faint vibration of Concordia beneath their boots.

"This," she said simply, her hand completing the arc. "All of it."

Her gaze stayed on Korra as her hand lowered back to the table, fingers resting easily near her glass.

"Concordia is home," Veyla continued, her tone quiet but certain. "Not just the forges, though they have their pull. The valleys where the wind never quite settles. The workshops that are tucked into places no one bothers to map. Even rooms like this, where people pass through and leave pieces of themselves behind."

She took a measured sip, then set the glass down again, shoulders relaxed.

"I spent a long time away," she admitted, not heavy, just honest. "Long enough that coming back stopped feeling like a visit and started feeling like breathing again. So I stay. I build. I learn. I let the planet remind me who I am when things get noisy elsewhere."

The smile returned, faint but warm.

"So if it seems like I am not in a hurry to leave," Veyla added, "that is why. Concordia has a way of keeping those who listen."

She tipped her head slightly, turning the question back without pressure.

"What about you, Korra Kast?" she asked. "Is this a stop along the way, or one of those places that refuses to let go once it has your attention?"

Korra Kast

 

[Korra Kast]

Korra listened without interrupting, eyes steady, tracking not just the words but the spaces between them. When Veyla finished, she let a quiet moment pass—long enough to show the answer mattered.

Then she exhaled, slow, and one shoulder lifted in a small, honest shrug. "Stop along the way," Korra said. "At least… that's what I told myself." She turned her glass slightly on the table, watching the liquid shift before taking another drink.

"I was running a job in the sector. Escort work that turned into cleanup, like it always does. Concordia was close, quiet, and reliable—good place to let the armor cool and the mind catch up." Her tone stayed practical, but there was no pretense in it. "Needed rest. Needed parts. Ammo. Food that doesn't come out of a ration tube."

Her gaze lifted back to Veyla, a trace of something wry in it. "And this moon doesn't ask many questions. That counts for a lot when you've been in places where everyone wants a story." She leaned back again, letting the chair take her weight.

"So I came here to resupply, sleep somewhere solid, and remind myself I'm not always in transit." Korra raised her glass slightly, not quite a toast this time—more an acknowledgment. "For now, it's enough to sit."

Veyla Krinn

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla nodded as Korra spoke, not rushing to fill the quiet, letting the cadence of her words settle the way heat settles into metal after it leaves the forge. When Korra finished, Veyla's mouth curved into a small, knowing smile, more understanding than amusement.

"That sounds familiar," she said gently. "Telling yourself it's just a stop. Just long enough to fix what's worn down, patch what cracked, get moving again."

She lifted her glass, turning it slightly as well, mirroring Korra's earlier motion before taking a measured sip.

"Concordia's good for that," Veyla continued. "It doesn't press. Doesn't demand explanations. It lets you exist without needing a reason, and sometimes that's rarer than safe hyperspace lanes."

Her gaze stayed on Korra, steady and open.

"I think that's why people end up staying longer than they plan," she added. "Not because they mean to put roots down, but because the ground doesn't push them away."

She leaned back slightly, shoulders relaxed, voice quiet but warm.

"If all you need right now is a place to sit, cool your armor, and remember you're solid," Veyla said, "then you picked the right moon."

A faint, almost playful edge slipped in at the end.

"And for what it's worth," she added, lifting her glass just a fraction, "you're welcome to the quiet as long as you need it."

Korra Kast

 

[Korra Kast]

"You're right, though," Korra admitted. "Most places feel like they're waiting for you to justify being there. Concordia doesn't." Her gaze flicked briefly to the walls, the low light, the quiet conversations. "It just… lets you be."

She set the glass down and leaned forward a touch, forearms resting on the table again.

"I don't know how long I'll stay," she said honestly. "Jobs don't usually give that kind of luxury. But for tonight?" A small, genuine curve touched her mouth. "Tonight, I'm not in a hurry."

She lifted her glass once more, this time meeting Veyla's gesture fully. "I'll take the quiet," Korra said. "And the company—if the offer still stands. I'll even buy the next round."

Veyla Krinn

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla's smile lingered this time, a little warmer, a little less guarded, as Korra spoke. She watched the way her gaze moved, the way her posture eased just enough to admit the truth of what she was saying. That honesty mattered.

"It still stands," she replied, lifting her glass to meet Korra's without hesitation. "Quiet doesn't mind being shared, and neither do I."

She took a slow sip, then set the glass down with an easy exhale, shoulders relaxing as if the cantina itself had given permission to let the night unfold naturally.

"Not being in a hurry is a luxury," Veyla continued softly. "Most of us forget how to recognize until it's right in front of us."

Her eyes flicked briefly around the room again, the muted light, the low conversations, the steady rhythm of a place that existed without urgency.

"Tonight's a good night to take it," she said, looking back to Korra. "No plans, no expectations. Just being where you are."

A faint, amused note slipped into her voice at the last part.

"And if you're buying the next round," Veyla added, lifting her glass again, "I'd be a fool to rush anywhere."

She held Korra's gaze, calm and present.

"To quiet nights," she said simply.

Korra Kast

 

[Korra Kast]

Korra's answering smile came easier this time, unguarded in a way it hadn't been when the night started. She raised her glass to meet Veyla's, the soft clink between them carrying more meaning than ceremony ever did.

"To quiet nights," she echoed. She took a drink, longer than the last, then set the glass down and waved two fingers toward the bar without looking—an efficient, practiced motion.

"My round," she said, glancing back to Veyla. "If we're doing this properly, I'm not about to let you carry all the weight."

When the bartender acknowledged, Korra leaned back in her chair, armor settling with a faint creak. For the first time since she'd arrived, she looked like someone who had actually stopped moving.

"You're right about the luxury," she added, voice lower now, more reflective. "Most jobs don't leave space for nights like this. They're all endpoints and exits." Her eyes met Veyla's again. "This feels… in between. In a good way."

A beat passed. Comfortable. Earned. "So," Korra continued, a hint of curiosity threading back in, "If tonight's about being where we are—no plans, no expectations—what does that usually look like for you on Concordia?"

Her tone was easy, open. No pressure.

Veyla Krinn

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla lifted her glass again when Korra did, the gesture unhurried, and this time her smile stayed a fraction longer before she drank. When she set the glass down, she did not rush to fill the space. She let the cantina hum around them, let the pause become part of the answer rather than something to escape.

"It depends on the night," she said at last, her voice calm, warm without being indulgent. "Concordia gives you room to choose who you are when no one is asking anything of you, and I learned a long time ago not to waste that."

Her gaze drifted briefly, not scanning the room for threats but for texture: the worn floor, the low light, the familiar way people occupied their space without needing to prove it.

"Some nights it looks like this," Veyla continued, "a quiet table, a shared drink, conversation that doesn't need to justify itself. Other nights it's the forges, staying late because metal doesn't care about the hour, and neither do I. Sometimes it's the valleys, walking until the noise in my head finally decides to settle."

She turned her attention fully back to Korra then, blue-green eyes steady, present.

"Mostly, it looks like staying still long enough to remember that I live here, not just pass through," she said. "That I am allowed to exist without being useful, dangerous, or on my way to something else."

A faint, knowing curve touched her mouth.

"Nights like this are rare because we don't often let them happen," Veyla added. "But when they do, I don't rush them. I let the space do what it's meant to do."

She lifted her glass again, not quite a toast this time, more an invitation to remain in the moment.

"And tonight," she finished gently, "it looks like staying right here."

Korra Kast

 

[Korra Kast]

Korra listened the way she always had when something mattered—still, attentive, letting the words land without interrupting them. When Veyla finished, she didn't answer right away. She turned her glass once on the table, the faint scrape of metal grounding her, then looked back up. "That… makes sense," she said quietly. Not as agreement, but recognition.

"I don't do still very well," Korra admitted. "Most of my nights look like charts, routes, timers in the back of my head. Even when I'm sitting, I'm already thinking about the next jump." Her mouth curved, a little wry. "Being useful is easy. Being dangerous is easier. Existing without either of those? That takes practice."

Her gaze met Veyla's again, steady, unguarded. "But I like the way you describe it," she continued. "Staying long enough to remember you live somewhere. Not just pass through it. I don't know if Concordia will ever be that for me."

"Tonight, though?" Korra said. "I can manage this. Sitting. Drinking. Letting the noise shut up for a while." A faint, genuine smile touched her lips. "And staying right here sounds like a damn good start."

Veyla Krinn

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla listened to Korra the same way Korra had listened to her: without interrupting, without rushing to fill the quiet. She let the cadence of her words settle, the honesty in them lingering between the clink of glasses and the low murmur of the cantina.

When Korra finished, Veyla's mouth curved into a small, genuine smile. Not amused. Not teasing. Understanding.

She lifted her glass, turned it once in her fingers, then set it back down without drinking, as if choosing her words mattered more than the ritual.

"You know," she said softly, "most people who live the way you do think stillness is the absence of purpose."

Her gaze stayed on Korra's, warm but steady.

"It isn't," she continued. "It's just a different kind of work. Letting yourself exist without measuring every second. Letting a place hold you for a moment instead of the other way around."

Veyla leaned back slightly in her chair, armor settling with a quiet sound, posture relaxed in a way that showed she was choosing to be present, not merely passing time.

"Concordia doesn't have to be home for you," she added. "Not forever. Not even long-term. Sometimes it's enough for a place to be…a pause. A place you remember because you were honest there."

Her smile deepened just a fraction.

"And tonight, you're being honest," she said. "About being tired. About wanting quiet. About not always wanting to be useful or dangerous."

She lifted her glass this time and finally took a sip, then set it down again.

"That takes more strength than most people realize."

A beat passed. Comfortable. Unforced.

Then, lightly, with a spark of warmth in her eyes:

"So… if tonight is practice," Veyla went on, "staying still, staying present, staying right here…"

She gestured gently between them, the table, the low-lit cantina.

"…then we're doing fine so far."

Her gaze softened, an invitation rather than pressure.

"Tell me about the last place that almost made you stop," she asked quietly. "The one that came closest."

Korra Kast

 

[Korra Kast]

Korra went quiet at that.

Not the guarded silence she'd worn earlier in the night. This one was different—thoughtful. She let her thumb trace the rim of her glass, eyes lowering briefly before lifting back to Veyla.

"You don't ask small questions," she said, but there was no edge to it. If anything, there was respect. She exhaled slowly through her nose.

"There was a world on the edge of the Mid Rim. Mining colony that had outlived its contracts. Most of the corporations pulled out, left the infrastructure to rot." Her jaw shifted slightly as she remembered it. "I took a security contract there. Supposed to be short-term. Protect shipments while the last of the equipment was hauled off."

Her gaze drifted past Veyla for a second—not unfocused, just seeing something else.

"It wasn't the contract that almost made me stop," Korra continued. "It was the people who stayed behind. Families who didn't have anywhere else to go. They'd patched the old barracks into homes. Turned landing pads into markets. It was rough. Cold at night. But they were… building something."

She looked back at Veyla, expression more open now. "They didn't see me as a weapon. Or a solution. I fixed a generator one evening because I knew how. Stayed for dinner after. No one asked about my armor. No one asked where I was headed next."

A faint smile touched her mouth. "I extended the contract twice," she admitted. "Told myself it was for the credits. It wasn't." Her fingers stilled against the glass. "In the end, I left because that's what I do."

Veyla Krinn

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla listened without interrupting, elbows resting lightly on the table, hands loosely around her glass. The cantina noise faded into something distant as Korra spoke. When she finished, Veyla stayed quiet for a few seconds longer than necessary, letting the story settle.

Then she looked down at her drink, watching the light ripple across it, before meeting Korra's eyes again.

"That sounds like a place that let you be human," Veyla said softly. "Not a contract. Not armor. Not a plan. Just… you. Fixing things because they needed fixing. Staying because it felt right."

A faint smile touched her lips.

"Places like that are rare," she continued. "They don't promise anything. They don't announce themselves. They just exist. And if you're lucky, you find one before you forget how to recognize it."

She took a small sip, then set the glass down.

"It stayed with you because you didn't have to perform there," Veyla said. "You weren't the armored problem-solver. You weren't the one passing through. You were just…Korra."

Her gaze was steady, understanding.

"And part of you didn't want to leave."

Not judgment. Just truth.

"I've had moments like that too," she admitted. "Places where I thought, if I stop now, I could build something real. And every time, I told myself, 'not yet.' Maybe that's how we make leaving hurt less."

Her fingers brushed the rim of her glass.

"But you learned what staying feels like," Veyla went on. "That changes everything after. Every job. Every stop. Every quiet night."

She lifted her glass slightly.

"You didn't lose that place," she finished gently. "You carry it with you. That's why nights like this matter. You're not just passing through life."

A small, sincere smile.

"You're collecting reasons to someday stop."

Korra Kast

 

[Korra Kast]

Her jaw tightened faintly at the word human, then eased again—not rejection, just the habit of someone who wasn't used to being described that way. She held Veyla's gaze as she spoke, and something in it shifted. Less guarded. Less braced.

"Maybe," Korra said quietly. She leaned back, but not away—just enough to breathe. The cantina's low hum filled the space around them, steady and unobtrusive. "I didn't think of it like that," she admitted. "Collecting reasons."

Her thumb tapped once against the side of her glass, thoughtful. "I always told myself I left because I wasn't built for staying. That if I stopped too long, I'd… rust." A faint, crooked smile touched her mouth. "Funny, considering I spend half my life maintaining metal."

Her eyes met Veyla's again, steadier now. "But you're right about one thing," she said. "I didn't leave empty. I still remember the sound of that market at dusk. The way the lights flickered back on when the generator caught. The kid who kept following me around asking about my gauntlets."

A quiet breath. "I think part of me was afraid that if I stayed, I'd have something to lose."

There it was. Simple. Honest.

Korra lifted her glass, not quite a toast this time—more a grounding gesture. "Moving means you only lose places," she said. "Staying means you risk losing people."

She held Veyla's gaze, something unspoken there—recognition of the weight Veyla carried too. "But… maybe collecting reasons isn't the worst way to live," she conceded softly. "Maybe it's how you figure out when the risk's worth it."

A small pause, then a faint, almost teasing warmth returned. "You always talk like this or is that just what drinks do to you?"

Veyla Krinn

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla didn't answer right away.

She watched Korra over the rim of her glass, the way the low light caught in her eyes, the way her shoulders had loosened without her realizing it, the way her voice had softened when she stopped performing strength and just…spoke. There was something quietly brave in that. More than most battles ever demanded.

A slow breath left her, more of a sigh than anything else, and when she finally smiled, it was small and real.

"It's a bit of both," she admitted softly. "The drinks loosen the edges. The rest…I think it's just what happens when people stop pretending they're made of beskar."

She shifted slightly in her seat, resting one forearm on the table now, posture open, mirroring Korra's without even thinking about it.

"You're not wrong about rust," Veyla continued. "Staying still too long can eat at you. Makes you doubt whether you're still useful, still sharp." A faint, wry curve touched her mouth. "I've felt that myself."

Her gaze didn't waver when she spoke again.

"But running forever does something too," she said quietly. "It keeps you light. Untethered. Nothing to break, because nothing's anchored."

She lifted her glass slightly, then set it back down without drinking.

"Except memories," she added. "Markets at dusk. Flickering lights. Kids who ask too many questions. Those don't leave just because you do."

There was no pity in her eyes. Only understanding.

"You didn't stay because you were weak," Veyla said. "You left because you were protecting yourself. That's not cowardice. That's survival."

A brief pause.

"But the fact that you still carry all of that?" Her voice softened. "That means you were never as detached as you told yourself."

She tilted her head slightly, studying Korra with gentle curiosity.

"Collecting reasons isn't about convincing yourself to stay," Veyla went on. "It's about learning what matters enough to risk losing."

Then, a hint of warmth crept back into her tone.

"And maybe," she added, eyes glinting faintly, "it's also what happens when two tired women get honest over decent drinks on a quiet moon."

Her smile widened just a fraction.

"So yes," Veyla finished lightly, "I probably talk like this more than I should. The alcohol just makes me stop editing."

She lifted her glass toward Korra in a small, easy gesture.

"Your turn," she said gently. "What's the next reason you're collecting tonight?"

Korra Kast

 

[Korra Kast]

Korra let out a quiet huff of amusement, the kind that escaped before she could stop it. She rubbed a thumb along the edge of her glass again, eyes briefly dropping to the table before lifting back to Veyla.

"You're dangerous," she said, though there was no accusation in it—only a dry sort of respect. "Not with a blaster. With questions."

She leaned back in her chair a little farther, armor shifting softly as she settled. For a moment she looked around the cantina the way Veyla had earlier—taking in the low light, the quiet conversations, the steady hum of Concordia beneath the floor.

Then her gaze returned. "The next reason, huh?" Korra echoed. She considered it longer than she expected to. Finally, she lifted her glass and took a slow drink, setting it down again before answering.

"Honestly?" she said. "Probably this." Korra gestured faintly between them with two fingers, casual but sincere.

"A conversation that didn't feel like a negotiation. Or a contract briefing. Or someone trying to figure out how useful I might be." A small, crooked smile tugged at her mouth. "That's rarer than most bounties."

Her eyes stayed on Veyla now, steady and open. "Most places I stop, people either keep their distance or try to size me up. You just… sat down and talked." She shrugged one shoulder lightly. "That counts."

A brief pause followed, comfortable rather than uncertain. "So I guess tonight's reason is a quiet cantina," Korra said, voice softer now, "a decent drink… and meeting someone who knows how to sit still without making it awkward."

The corner of her mouth lifted again, a little more playful this time. "Not a bad addition to the collection."

Veyla Krinn