As Velnir walks through the threshold, he pulls back his hood, sand falling out of the creases in the cloth. He scans the cantina, shafts of light ripping through the cracked roof, dividing the the dimly lit bar with a mean glare. A man roughly bumps into Velnir, almost causing him to stumble. There was no music, the band hadn't played in years, and the state of the stage showed it. Cracked wooden planks gave way to sand and nails, facing up, waiting, wishing for one of the drunken patrons to slip and impale themselves on the spikes. The patrons were divided as they usually are, humans stay away from aliens as much as possible, preferring to drink their sorrows away under the company of familiar faces. Another group was cheering, although the reason why was just missed a few seconds earlier. Velnir walked up to the bar, barely held together, perhaps by the ghosts of merriment that used to inhabit this place.