Member
Location: Outer Rim Territories
Moon: Rhun-Kai – industrial spill-off from a forgotten mining colony
Scene: Midnight at The Broken Comlink cantina
The cantina had no name on the outside—just a half-lit holosign with a broken comm symbol glitching in and out like it was dying slowly. Most didn’t notice. Most didn’t care. Rhun-Kai wasn’t a place people came to be found. It was where you ended up when you had nothing left to lose—or something you didn’t want anyone else to find.
Inside, the air was thick with recycled heat and the kind of silence that dared you to break it. A music droid in the corner struggled through an old Huttese blues loop, its speaker cracked just enough to distort the melody into something almost haunting. Tables were scattered and stained. Patrons kept their heads down. Everyone had scars, and no one asked about them.
And in the farthest booth, seated like a coiled weapon someone forgot to disarm, was Kael Varnok.
Jedi—technically. Knight of the Order, if you asked the brass. But nobody in the cantina had to ask. You could smell it on him. Something about the way he held still, how the light caught the tribal ink wrapping his arms and neck like warpaint. The way those two lightsabers sat on the table in front of him—unlit, but present, like fangs in a quiet predator’s mouth.
One orange. One yellow. Curved hilts, scarred from use. Custom-forged. Trophies in their own right.
His eyes—piercing blue, but not calm—flicked between the bar, the exit, and the mirror behind the shelves. Not paranoid. Just... tracking. Calculating. As if violence might walk through the door at any second, and he wanted to greet it properly.
The bar was watching him, even if they pretended not to. The bartender whispered something to a cloaked stranger who didn’t answer. A Weequay in the corner subtly undid the strap on a concealed blaster. Someone had made a call. Or maybe someone was coming.
And still, Kael didn’t move.
He sat in silence, arms folded, back straight—every inch the war-forged Droskari Knight whose legends always ended in scorched ground and silence. The Order might have leashed him, but out here, that leash was little more than myth.
Then, as the door hissed open behind him, he tilted his head slightly. Just enough to speak without turning.
His voice was low—hoarse from disuse and travel, but sharp-edged.
“You’re late. And louder than I expected.”
Was he expecting you?
The booth across from him is empty.
For now.
[OOC: Open to all characters and factions — Jedi, Sith, bounty hunters, smugglers, scoundrels, or total wildcards. My replies may not be as long as the starter, but I’ll always match energy. Let’s write something cool.]
Moon: Rhun-Kai – industrial spill-off from a forgotten mining colony
Scene: Midnight at The Broken Comlink cantina
The cantina had no name on the outside—just a half-lit holosign with a broken comm symbol glitching in and out like it was dying slowly. Most didn’t notice. Most didn’t care. Rhun-Kai wasn’t a place people came to be found. It was where you ended up when you had nothing left to lose—or something you didn’t want anyone else to find.
Inside, the air was thick with recycled heat and the kind of silence that dared you to break it. A music droid in the corner struggled through an old Huttese blues loop, its speaker cracked just enough to distort the melody into something almost haunting. Tables were scattered and stained. Patrons kept their heads down. Everyone had scars, and no one asked about them.
And in the farthest booth, seated like a coiled weapon someone forgot to disarm, was Kael Varnok.
Jedi—technically. Knight of the Order, if you asked the brass. But nobody in the cantina had to ask. You could smell it on him. Something about the way he held still, how the light caught the tribal ink wrapping his arms and neck like warpaint. The way those two lightsabers sat on the table in front of him—unlit, but present, like fangs in a quiet predator’s mouth.
One orange. One yellow. Curved hilts, scarred from use. Custom-forged. Trophies in their own right.
His eyes—piercing blue, but not calm—flicked between the bar, the exit, and the mirror behind the shelves. Not paranoid. Just... tracking. Calculating. As if violence might walk through the door at any second, and he wanted to greet it properly.
The bar was watching him, even if they pretended not to. The bartender whispered something to a cloaked stranger who didn’t answer. A Weequay in the corner subtly undid the strap on a concealed blaster. Someone had made a call. Or maybe someone was coming.
And still, Kael didn’t move.
He sat in silence, arms folded, back straight—every inch the war-forged Droskari Knight whose legends always ended in scorched ground and silence. The Order might have leashed him, but out here, that leash was little more than myth.
Then, as the door hissed open behind him, he tilted his head slightly. Just enough to speak without turning.
His voice was low—hoarse from disuse and travel, but sharp-edged.
“You’re late. And louder than I expected.”
Was he expecting you?
The booth across from him is empty.
For now.
[OOC: Open to all characters and factions — Jedi, Sith, bounty hunters, smugglers, scoundrels, or total wildcards. My replies may not be as long as the starter, but I’ll always match energy. Let’s write something cool.]
