Private Teeth, Fire, and Cheap Liquor

[Zharrfo]

Smuggler's Basin, Dandoran
Post: Friends in Low Places
Scherezade deWinter

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.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Zharrfo

---

Scherezade was not a person who often respected personal space. Well, she did, but only that of the people she loved and cared for. Or when she estimated the breaking of any such conventions would land her in more trouble than she could put up with before endangering herself too much. That had mostly been her MO about being at places since the beginning, but the fact that as the years passed, the number of things she felt could endanger herself seemed to magically shrink from day to day had not gone unnoticed by the Sithling.

Today had not been entirely different. She had set at that meeting thing with the rest of the higher ups of the Black Sun Syndicate. Invited, treated normally, and even somewhat antagonized a Wookie that had made comments about having her as a slave. All in all, it had been a good day. She already knew her next steps too. Once she was off this planet, she was going to fly herself straight into Diarchy space just to see what might happen.

But first, she absolutely needed to eat. The meeting hadn't offered foodism in a way that could satisfy her ravenous hunger, so she'd found this bar, confirmed they had food and specifically had bantha wings, and decided to install her butt in there until her hunger was satiated.

Naturally, the first thing she smelled when she walked in was that Wookie from the meeting. Someone had probably said his name during said meeting, but the memory of it escaped her now. She grinned from ear to ear, pretending not to know he was there despite the fact that she could smell him with her human nose as well as scent him through her blood hound abilities. Oh, that was going to be fun.

Order placed and first basket of wings in her hands, Scherezade walked over. The big guy was posturing, looking like he couldn't decide whether to devour her or just kill her and let her rot on the ground.

A moment later, she took her seat right opposite of him, facing him in full. She noticed the meat leftovers on the table and shook her head. What a waste. When she'd been fresh out of the pebble, she'd learned how to preserve meat because she had no credits and liked to eat. So she hunted. And made sure to stretch every gram she killed to the literal maximum.

She leaned back in her seat, picking up a wing. It went smoothly into her mouth, her lips closing around it, and a moment later she pulled it out. An entire wing had gone into her mouth but all that left it were some glistening bones, clean of meat and cartilage.

And then she did a second time.

And a third.

Her glowing green eyes never leaving the Wookie's as she did so.

 

[Zharrfo]

Smuggler's Basin, Dandoran
Post: Friends in Low Places
Scherezade deWinter

Zharrfo didn't blink when she sat across from him. He just stared, unbroken, unamused, a slow curl of irritation rising like heat off coals. The little human made a spectacle of her eating, stripping wings to bone with deliberate efficiency, matching his stare with that glowing predator's glare. Most beings avoided his eyes. She clearly wanted the opposite.

Fine. He reached for another slab of meat, tore a chunk free with a wet rip, and chewed loud enough to drown nearby conversations. Grease dripped into the fur of his chest. His belch afterward rattled the table. Then he seized his drink, tipped it back in one long gulp, and let the empty mug crash down hard enough to make plates jump.

When one of his slaves hurried around the table to attend him, Zharrfo stopped the woman with a single raised, clawed hand. Not yet. Instead, he shoved the empty mug across the table toward Scherezade. It slid through bones and scraps, knocking several to the floor. His lip curled in a rumbling warning that was half challenge, half invitation to make a mistake.

HX-7 floated forward, servos whirring, voice amplifiers crisp and cold. "The Vigo commands you," the droid translated, tone perfectly polite despite the insult. "Fetch him a refill. Consider it an opportunity to learn your place."

Zharrfo leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing, his growl reverberating through the metal floor. HX-7 continued, unwavering. "Service to a Vigo of the Black Sun is a privilege. You would be far happier under his authority than wasting yourself on insolence." Zharrfo watched her closely now, waiting for the spark, the snap, the mistake. Let her spit fire. Let her bare teeth. He was in the mood to be entertained.