The Fynch
Lost a Planet
Batuu was one armpit of thousands in the galaxy.
It was a good place to let off some steam. With his home ablaze and being left in a state of exile, Fynch needed to find purpose. A part of him could really only fall back into familiarity. He had spent his life defending Lothal from the delinquents of the Outer Rim, so that's what he began to look for. It didn't take long before word spread of a man with a blazing sword cutting his way through the underbelly of Batuu. Not that he much cared about rumors. Fynch just needed the satisfaction of vindication. He couldn't exactly wage war against an entire Empire alone, so what else could he do?
He had been there for about a week now, frequenting a local bar on the planet. Fynch had always been a drinker, but now it was one of the few things that reminded him of home. It seemed like there was always more trouble every time he arrived, however. Yesterday it was one thug, today it was three. The former Commander in Chief of the Lothal Protectorate, of course, wasted no time kicking the snot out of them. It only took three movements. He'd strike them across the head with the scabbard of his blade, weaving past one's panicked blaster bolt. Fynch would move on almost immediately, leaving their concussed bodies on the floor as he found himself a seat at the bar. The large man would slide a few credits to the bartender.
"Corellian Whiskey," he stated. "And extra for the mess..."
Fynch had been making a lot of messes as of late. A part of him cared... but most of him didn't.
He was past that point now.
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