C R U E L
Zharrfo had claimed the entire corner of the bar as if it were territory won in battle. Plates piled high with half-gnawed meat surrounded him, and empty glasses lined the table like trophies. He tore through a roasted bird with the single-minded focus of a starving rancor, grease slicking the fur around his jaw until it stuck out in wild, uneven clumps. At his feet, HX-7 stood stiffly, trying and failing to avoid splatters from the carnage.
The other patrons had long since learned to give the Wookiee a wide berth. His presence was a stormcloud in the dim light: heavy and unpredictable, promising violence for anyone foolish enough to drift close. Every so often he punctuated a mouthful with a low, simmering growl, which felt more like habit than a direct threat.
Then a distinctive scent cut through the haze of spice liquor and charred meat. It was bright, sharp, and unmistakable: the defiant little human from the meeting.
Zharrfo's ears twitched. His jaw stilled mid-chew. Slowly, he leaned back into his chair, broad shoulders rolling as he settled into a posture that was half readiness, half annoyance. A deep, expectant rumble rolled out of him. Let her come. Let her try something. He was absolutely in the mood to swat at problems.
