Wayward Drift
Character
There was a band tucked away on a shadowed stage, half hidden behind thick curtains of rich velvet. They were paid well for being glorified background noise, but the low lighting of the lounge was as much to help hide them as it was to provide some privacy to the occupants. In the tradition of all Obsidian's, this particular lounge was a safe haven from the often shocking moments of violence common in the underbelly of societies.
This was a place not just for criminals with a code, but for those with wealth who preferred to associate with a more dangerous sort. Or, had wealth but were also oblivious. It wouldn't be the first time an occupant had left wondering why they'd gotten chills talking to some of the other guests. A Dejarik table provided a periodic flash from behind a short dividing wall. Just visible from the landing onto which patrons arrived, it lay at the base of the righthand set of steps that fed into the den.
At a sabaac game near the back, 'Derek' was plying his trade while waiting to meet with a contact the following day. His unassuming face, lined with a touch of dark scruff, blended perfectly with the hodge-podge of both alien and human occupants. Most wore fine clothes, but all went without ostentation, as if afraid of drawing attention to the fact they wore expensive suits, dresses, or armor.
Studying his hand, he realized he had little chance of winning the game, and so opted to 'stand.'
"You don't look so good, Weei."
The Rodian across from him hooted and exchanged a card. Smiling vaguely, he continued to relax in the chair, scratching his sternum through his vest. His suit jacket was hanging on the back of the chair.
"You say that every time." The Rodian hooted again.
Derek was eager for the day Weei booked passage on the wrong ship. That would be a good day for him.
This was a place not just for criminals with a code, but for those with wealth who preferred to associate with a more dangerous sort. Or, had wealth but were also oblivious. It wouldn't be the first time an occupant had left wondering why they'd gotten chills talking to some of the other guests. A Dejarik table provided a periodic flash from behind a short dividing wall. Just visible from the landing onto which patrons arrived, it lay at the base of the righthand set of steps that fed into the den.
At a sabaac game near the back, 'Derek' was plying his trade while waiting to meet with a contact the following day. His unassuming face, lined with a touch of dark scruff, blended perfectly with the hodge-podge of both alien and human occupants. Most wore fine clothes, but all went without ostentation, as if afraid of drawing attention to the fact they wore expensive suits, dresses, or armor.
Studying his hand, he realized he had little chance of winning the game, and so opted to 'stand.'
"You don't look so good, Weei."
The Rodian across from him hooted and exchanged a card. Smiling vaguely, he continued to relax in the chair, scratching his sternum through his vest. His suit jacket was hanging on the back of the chair.
"You say that every time." The Rodian hooted again.
Derek was eager for the day Weei booked passage on the wrong ship. That would be a good day for him.
