Prince of Parrlay
The rain on Keren's streets wasn't the gentle kind. It fell like a warning, hard, relentless, and indifferent. Aurelian Veruna stepped out of the speeder with the kind of deliberate grace that suggested he had never been rained on in his life. His boots met the puddled ground without so much as a splash, his tailored coat catching the wind like it had been stitched to do so. Two House Guards followed behind, less graceful, more armed.
Merrick's stood like a stubborn memory near the spaceport: unimpressive on the outside, the kind of place you pass unless you know better. Aurelian, naturally, knew better.
He didn't hesitate. The door opened with the low hiss of tired hydraulics, and the smell of fried protein, engine oil, and bad decisions met him like an old friend. The interior was dim but warm - wood, real or otherwise, wrapped the place in a sort of rugged elegance, the kind that tried to forget the world outside. Men in grease-stained uniforms played sabacc with half-smuggled cards. A mercenary with a cybernetic jaw laughed like a speeder engine misfiring. Somewhere, a slow, bluesy tune hummed from the wall speakers.
Aurelian fit in about as well as a crown jewel in a toolbox.
He walked to the bar with his usual confidence - a smile sharp enough to cut glass, posture relaxed like he owned the place, or at least would within the year. His guards flanked him, their presence as subtle as a declaration of intent.
He leaned a hand on the bar, ignoring the sidelong glances from the patrons who hadn't expected nobility with their midday ale. His rings caught the light as he gestured to the bartender.
"I sent word ahead. I'm here to see Joran Del-Finn. A business matter. Malastarian fuel contracts, diplomatic handshakes, all that noble rot. But tell him this one smells like opportunity." he said, voice smooth with just the right amount of danger curling beneath the words.
He tapped once on the bartop. "Also, I hear the Corellian black label here doesn't taste like engine coolant. I'd like to find out."
He smiled again - too charming, too clean, too amused - and waited to see if the smuggler-turned-senator would bite.
It wasn't every day a prince walked into a smugglers's bar. But then again, Aurelian Veruna had never liked waiting for invitations.
