Huxy
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Of All the Cantinas, Why Here?
Location: Mos-Isley, Tattoine, Mid-day
A chorus of loud cheers of laughter and defeat constantly filled the Cantina rooted within Mos-Isley. By day and by night, the sounds of cheerful and sorrowful drunks and friends filled the room of the Cantina. On any other world, the sight and sounds and curses from the Cantina would've been seen as rude, other-worldly, and certainty criminal. However on Tattoine, it was just another day in Mos-Isley. The city was run by members of the Hutt crime lords, always had been, always will be. They held the power here, they didn't let criminals run rampant per say though their still was a great deal of smugglers and thieves and criminals who took refuge and drowned their sorrows away in Mos-Isley. Mos-Isley was where someone went looking for someone, or somebody. Whether they be the famous scoundrel Han Solo from centuries ago, or just some outcast Jedi who has nothing left to fight for, who had ran from everything they knew and loved because they were a coward.
Furor wasn't looking for someone, he wasn't looking for anybody or anything. He had just been passing through and had heard that Tattoine was a nice place to stop by and pass the time. Furor wasn't one to listen to what people said, having been ridiculed and mocked his entire life. Though their was no harm in it now. He was away from those savages who posed as sophisticated miners on Crait, from his father's grave who haunted him by day and by night.
Furor twiddled his thumbs as he sat at the bar counter, his back hunched and his eyes narrowed like he were focusing on something far in the distance. He stared absentmindedly at the brown, swirling drink in front of him. The drink smelt of thick alcohol that had been opened decades ago...and it tasted terrible. Furor had no idea how these scoundrels could even accept whatever this drink was, he had never had it before but even a taste had set him off. Though to be fair, all he had ever had his entire life was nutrient packs and moisture water from moisture farms. The drink was just foreign to him, that was all. Furor's hand laid against his right thigh, his fingers stroking the cool blade of his crossguard saber which was tucked away under a black trenchcoat. He found the saber calming, strange enough. Like it were calling to him. Boy, something exciting better happen...he was getting on edge from all of the 'quiet' around him and no action going on.