Rheyla Tann
Character
Denon – Lower Spire District
The Lower Spires of Denon pressed in like a vice.
Air recyclers wheezed overhead, doing their best to move heat and grit from one level to the next—ancient machines groaning against centuries of neglect. They pushed stale air through ducts lined with soot and rust, just enough to keep the stink of ozone and engine coolant from choking anyone who still cared to breathe through their nose.
Neon signs flickered against corroded bulkheads—half in Basic, half in some spliced dialects no translator could fully untangle. Words like Fuel • Credit Exchange • No Refunds • Firearms Welcome. A pipe somewhere overhead vented a burst of white steam with a scream like a dying droid. Across the narrow street, a swoop bike rumbled low, engine whining like a caged beast as it coasted past a vendor stall lit by flickering strips of blue light. The vendor didn’t look up. He was too busy slicing something vaguely animal on a heat plate slick with old grease.
Street rats darted through crowds—kids or maybe just short scavengers—hands fast, eyes faster. A Dug barked curses as a power cell vanished from his satchel. No one stopped walking. No one cared.
This part of Denon didn’t bother with security patrols anymore. If you got shot, it was your fault. If you shot back, it was business.
The Blue Drift squatted at the end of a short alleyway, wedged between two lopsided tenement towers that leaned like tired drunks. Its entrance glowed faintly behind a rust-stained curtain of hanging wires and a broken holosign that buzzed louder than the conversation inside. The smell hit first—old smoke, cheap synthspice, oil, liquor, and sweat ground into every inch of the place.
Inside, the smoke was thick enough to chew. The kind of place where the drinks were cold, the eyes colder, and nobody asked why your blaster was still warm. A sabacc table rattled in the corner with half a leg missing. Someone cleaned a vibroblade slowly, letting it hum in warning over the dull thrum of a wall-mounted sound system playing something low and rhythmic—bass-heavy and bitter, like it was made to match the mood of the room.
At the back, half-shadowed by a cracked glowlamp and the greasy haze of the room, sat Rheyla Tann, one boot resting on the edge of a dented chair leg, a lazy smile tugging at her lips as she watched her opponents pretend not to sweat.
Four players remained at the Pazaak table.
A twitchy Rodian whose tells were louder than his breathing. A thick-jawed Weequay who hadn’t blinked in ten minutes. A Duros in a coat too nice for this level. And across from her—Burn-Neck. Human, scowl carved permanent, scar like a melted line down his throat.
Rheyla didn’t trust any of them.
She liked that.
The pot wasn’t huge—yet—but the stakes felt heavier than credits. Pride. Grudges. Reputation. That unspoken tension that clung to the cards like static.
She tossed her next card onto the table with two fingers and leaned back, expression unreadable. “Six.”
The Rodian cursed in Huttese.
Burn-Neck’s jaw tightened. His gaze flicked to her, then to the discarded deck, then back again—calculating.
Rheyla said nothing. Just drummed her fingers on the table in a slow, steady rhythm. Her wrapped lekku shifted as she turned her head slightly, scanning the room behind the cover of a sip from her glass. Bitter. Cheap.
Exactly her kind of place.
She didn’t know how this hand would end.
Didn’t care, really.
But something about tonight—something about the way Burn-Neck gripped his cards like they owed him blood—told her this was more than just a game.
Acier Moonbound
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Pisti Caleida
