Sʜᴀᴅᴏᴡ Lᴏʀᴅ
Braze had been looking forward to spending some time with Jasper, and one thing he had wanted to do for quite a while was go drinking with him.
He had chosen a battered little dive in one of Coronet City's older industrial districts, close enough to the spaceport that pilots, mechanics, and travelers crowded its tables. Its sign had lost several letters to age and blaster fire, leaving half the name glowing above a durasteel door scarred by decades of boots, fists, and poor decisions.
Music rolled through the open entrance, accompanied by laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional heated protest from the sabacc tables. Inside, the air carried the scent of engine grease and Corellian whiskey. Red and gold stripes decorated the dark walls in honor of the bloodstripes worn by Corellia's heroes.
Most of the patrons appeared to be veterans. Weathered unit patches hung alongside battered helmets, faded squadron banners, and holographs whose smiling subjects had never grown any older. Behind the bar, separate from the other decorations, a pair of genuine red Corellian bloodstripes had been framed without a name or explanation beneath them.
The owner stood below them, polishing a glass with one hand. Age had silvered his hair and stiffened one leg, though his posture retained the square-backed bearing of someone who had spent years answering to a rank. His gaze traveled over Braze, paused upon the slight weight beneath his coat, then returned to the glass without comment.
Braze glanced about the room, taking in the scuffed tables, the crowded bar, and the old service droid dispensing drinks with all the warmth of an ammunition counter.
"This seemed more interesting than somewhere respectable,"
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