Shade
The Shadow of Csilla
The cantina sat where most establishments in the Academy district eventually found themselves: somewhere between respectability and necessity. Its walls had once belonged to a warehouse before being converted into a drinking establishment decades ago, with layers of passing ownership leaving behind a patchwork of mismatched plating, repaired flooring, and tables acquired from places that no longer existed. It was neither elegant nor particularly inviting, but it was warm, served strong drinks, and was conveniently located between the Academy and the surrounding city. Outside, the evening winds pushed red dust through the streets in slow currents that hissed softly against the windows, a constant reminder of the harsh world populated by acolytes, merchants, and opportunists building livelihoods in the long shadow of the Sith.
Shade paid little attention to the city beyond, choosing instead to occupy a table near the rear wall where she could observe both the entrance and the majority of the room without appearing to do either. A half-finished glass rested before her alongside another that had already been emptied, though neither had been consumed quickly; she was not here to drink, but to wait. Her crimson eyes drifted briefly toward the bundle resting against the empty chair beside her: a collection of dark, irregular Wraith-Wyrm hides carefully wrapped in durable cloth and secured with leather straps to conceal their true nature from casual observation.
Three hides meant three distinct kills, a memory that surfaced unbidden in the quiet of the room. The first encounter had nearly ended badly when she underestimated how silently the creature could move through the canyons; the second had taught her patience; and the third had never realized it was even being hunted until it was already dying. They had proven exactly what the old stories claimed: intelligent enough to be dangerous, and dangerous enough that intelligence alone was not always sufficient to survive them. Soon, they would become armor rather than trophies or decoration, giving them a purpose that would ensure her own survival.
The thought faded as the door opened once more, allowing another gust of red dust and evening air to cut through the cantina's warmth. Shade did not immediately look up, knowing there was no need; Varin had asked to meet her here, and he would arrive when he arrived. Until then, she remained exactly as she was. One hand resting lightly against her glass, the wrapped hides waiting beside the table, and her posture settled into the patient stillness of a predator who had long ago learned that not every hunt required movement.
Varin Mortifer
Shade paid little attention to the city beyond, choosing instead to occupy a table near the rear wall where she could observe both the entrance and the majority of the room without appearing to do either. A half-finished glass rested before her alongside another that had already been emptied, though neither had been consumed quickly; she was not here to drink, but to wait. Her crimson eyes drifted briefly toward the bundle resting against the empty chair beside her: a collection of dark, irregular Wraith-Wyrm hides carefully wrapped in durable cloth and secured with leather straps to conceal their true nature from casual observation.
Three hides meant three distinct kills, a memory that surfaced unbidden in the quiet of the room. The first encounter had nearly ended badly when she underestimated how silently the creature could move through the canyons; the second had taught her patience; and the third had never realized it was even being hunted until it was already dying. They had proven exactly what the old stories claimed: intelligent enough to be dangerous, and dangerous enough that intelligence alone was not always sufficient to survive them. Soon, they would become armor rather than trophies or decoration, giving them a purpose that would ensure her own survival.
The thought faded as the door opened once more, allowing another gust of red dust and evening air to cut through the cantina's warmth. Shade did not immediately look up, knowing there was no need; Varin had asked to meet her here, and he would arrive when he arrived. Until then, she remained exactly as she was. One hand resting lightly against her glass, the wrapped hides waiting beside the table, and her posture settled into the patient stillness of a predator who had long ago learned that not every hunt required movement.