Vexar Brunok
Cantina Owner
The starport never stopped. Ships came and went, cargo exchanged hands, and deals were struck over hurried conversations in docking bays. But here, nestled just off one of the main landing corridors, was a cantina that had long fallen silent.
Its doors had been closed for longer than anyone cared to remember. Time had left its mark—the neon sign outside was faded, barely readable, and the entrance had accumulated a thin layer of dust, untouched by the regular bustle of travelers. The transparisteel windows overlooking the docks were streaked, dulled by grime and neglect, though they still framed the steady movement of starships beyond—potential customers for a business that no longer existed.
Inside, the place was still standing, though it bore the signs of abandonment—and of conflict. The bar remained sturdy, but deep grooves ran along its surface where blades had met durasteel, scarring the counter with silent remnants of old disputes. Along one wall, a faint scorch mark told the story of a blaster discharged at close range, the singed edges blending into the surrounding age-worn panels. The booths carried their own histories—fabric torn in places, some seats stiffened with old stains that time had never quite erased.
The lighting was dim, but not intentionally—several overhead fixtures flickered weakly, their power cells on the verge of failure. The cantina had seen its fair share of clashes before its doors closed for good, its battered surfaces whispering of old tempers and broken deals. But beneath the neglect, the cantina had promise.
It was a space waiting for new life. A fresh start. Whatever had caused it to fail in the past, whatever ghosts lingered in its walls, that was all history now. The future was unwritten.
Vexar Brunok stood framed in the doorway, his tall, muscular form casting a distinct silhouette against the soft flicker of the failing neon outside. Brown fur, thick and well-kept, caught the ambient glow, its lighter tones around his face giving him a presence both commanding and approachable. His piercing yellow eyes scanned the space with an unwavering intensity, tracking every detail—the dust gathering in abandoned corners, the worn-down booths, the bar marked by past altercations. His ears twitched, attuned to the faint hum of old circuitry, the struggling ventilation system pushing stale air into the room.
He took a slow step forward, boots pressing against the scuffed flooring with deliberate weight. The cantina had seen conflict—scorch marks marred the walls, deep grooves cut across the bar from blades that had once threatened harsher resolutions. Yet, despite its history, the space wasn't doomed. Vexar ran a hand over the bar's surface, his fingers tracing old battle-worn imperfections, considering what could be salvaged, what could be built anew.
The lighting would need to be adjusted. The fixtures overhead sputtered in uncertain bursts, some too dim to be useful, others flickering in erratic pulses that made the space feel more unstable than inviting. Too many of them cast sharp, unforgiving light—a problem Vexar wouldn't ignore. That would have to change. Softer lighting, controlled and deliberate, enough to make the place feel welcoming without leaving him squinting beneath its glare.
The booths would need to be repaired. Right now, they carried the wear of years—fabric torn in places, padding stiffened with age, a few seats unsettlingly sticky from past spills that had never been properly cleaned. If he wanted people to sit, stay, spend credits, the booths had to be comfortable, not just functional. Replacing the worst of them, fixing the rest, ensuring that when someone sank into a seat, they wouldn't feel like they were sinking into a mistake.
The bar, sturdy but scarred, needed attention. The deep grooves where blades had met durasteel told stories no one needed to remember, at least not in the way they were now—visible, etched, lingering. He didn't mind imperfections, but there was a difference between character and carelessness. He'd smooth out the worst of it, polish the surface, make it something worth leaning against when conversations started and deals were struck.
The windows, streaked with dirt and neglect, blocked more than just the view of the docking bays. Right now, they made the place feel sealed away, forgotten. That would change. A clean view would allow patrons to sit and watch the steady arrival of ships, giving them a reason to linger, to sip their drinks just a little longer as they watched the galaxy move past them.
It wasn't just about fixing what was broken. It was about making the place feel like it was meant to be here—not another failed venture, not another doomed investment. The whole place was a mess and would be its own project, but... it was his mess. There mere thought made him smile faintly as he let the thought linger.
His past didn't matter. His business partner's past didn't matter.
Only the future did.
And tonight, the work began.
Its doors had been closed for longer than anyone cared to remember. Time had left its mark—the neon sign outside was faded, barely readable, and the entrance had accumulated a thin layer of dust, untouched by the regular bustle of travelers. The transparisteel windows overlooking the docks were streaked, dulled by grime and neglect, though they still framed the steady movement of starships beyond—potential customers for a business that no longer existed.
Inside, the place was still standing, though it bore the signs of abandonment—and of conflict. The bar remained sturdy, but deep grooves ran along its surface where blades had met durasteel, scarring the counter with silent remnants of old disputes. Along one wall, a faint scorch mark told the story of a blaster discharged at close range, the singed edges blending into the surrounding age-worn panels. The booths carried their own histories—fabric torn in places, some seats stiffened with old stains that time had never quite erased.
The lighting was dim, but not intentionally—several overhead fixtures flickered weakly, their power cells on the verge of failure. The cantina had seen its fair share of clashes before its doors closed for good, its battered surfaces whispering of old tempers and broken deals. But beneath the neglect, the cantina had promise.
It was a space waiting for new life. A fresh start. Whatever had caused it to fail in the past, whatever ghosts lingered in its walls, that was all history now. The future was unwritten.
Vexar Brunok stood framed in the doorway, his tall, muscular form casting a distinct silhouette against the soft flicker of the failing neon outside. Brown fur, thick and well-kept, caught the ambient glow, its lighter tones around his face giving him a presence both commanding and approachable. His piercing yellow eyes scanned the space with an unwavering intensity, tracking every detail—the dust gathering in abandoned corners, the worn-down booths, the bar marked by past altercations. His ears twitched, attuned to the faint hum of old circuitry, the struggling ventilation system pushing stale air into the room.
He took a slow step forward, boots pressing against the scuffed flooring with deliberate weight. The cantina had seen conflict—scorch marks marred the walls, deep grooves cut across the bar from blades that had once threatened harsher resolutions. Yet, despite its history, the space wasn't doomed. Vexar ran a hand over the bar's surface, his fingers tracing old battle-worn imperfections, considering what could be salvaged, what could be built anew.
The lighting would need to be adjusted. The fixtures overhead sputtered in uncertain bursts, some too dim to be useful, others flickering in erratic pulses that made the space feel more unstable than inviting. Too many of them cast sharp, unforgiving light—a problem Vexar wouldn't ignore. That would have to change. Softer lighting, controlled and deliberate, enough to make the place feel welcoming without leaving him squinting beneath its glare.
The booths would need to be repaired. Right now, they carried the wear of years—fabric torn in places, padding stiffened with age, a few seats unsettlingly sticky from past spills that had never been properly cleaned. If he wanted people to sit, stay, spend credits, the booths had to be comfortable, not just functional. Replacing the worst of them, fixing the rest, ensuring that when someone sank into a seat, they wouldn't feel like they were sinking into a mistake.
The bar, sturdy but scarred, needed attention. The deep grooves where blades had met durasteel told stories no one needed to remember, at least not in the way they were now—visible, etched, lingering. He didn't mind imperfections, but there was a difference between character and carelessness. He'd smooth out the worst of it, polish the surface, make it something worth leaning against when conversations started and deals were struck.
The windows, streaked with dirt and neglect, blocked more than just the view of the docking bays. Right now, they made the place feel sealed away, forgotten. That would change. A clean view would allow patrons to sit and watch the steady arrival of ships, giving them a reason to linger, to sip their drinks just a little longer as they watched the galaxy move past them.
It wasn't just about fixing what was broken. It was about making the place feel like it was meant to be here—not another failed venture, not another doomed investment. The whole place was a mess and would be its own project, but... it was his mess. There mere thought made him smile faintly as he let the thought linger.
His past didn't matter. His business partner's past didn't matter.
Only the future did.
And tonight, the work began.
