Location: The Vault, Coruscant Lower Levels
Tag: [member="Tava Del Nove"]
How much longer would they have?
The ebb and flow of the Galaxy was the definition of dynamic. One moment, a place called home could be thriving in more ways than one. The next, one could be picking their loved ones up out of the ashes of what was. When it came to the underbelly of society, the expectation was to roll with the tide of life however it churned. With every government under the Sun out to get you, it made laying down roots something that was done sparingly. If ever. Most "vermin" were able to pick up and be gone when the first dark clouds started to brew - but some...well, they'd stick around until the last minute. Ephraim deWinter had come to find one of the latter. In very recent history, war had dominated the Galaxy. His employers had seen fit to pick fights wherever they went for one.
For two, a couple nations caved in whilst a couple others started out. Dynamic. Thus, all the hidey-holes that he used to prowl for Intel were on high alert. Some of them had straight closed up shop and moved to another planet entirely. Whilst others dug in, stubbornly, and would only move once the first raid took place. Personally, Ephrain wasn't the type to wait until there were droids or Stormtroopers kicking in the door to cover his ass, but you do you booboo. In particular, a seemingly basic antique shop located in Coruscant's lower levels kept its doors open. Though a literal Imperial government had moved in, the owners remained undeterred. In fact, they were devoted to keeping up appearances so much that the missus could be found sweeping the front entrance everyday at noon.
If only the authorities knew what she could do to a person with that broom. Anyway. Ephraim regarded the elderly Atrisian with a polite nod and strolled confidently inside. His path was very intentional - walk to the left, examine the dragon statue, offhandedly mention the weather, and inquire if there are any old end tables. Simple enough - but the sequence was his passcode into the Vault. Upon uttering this, the husbando motioned for Ephraim to follow him into the back, where he would be greeted to the sight of a dim stairwell. By descending these steps, the Ghost of Endelaan would be greeted to the dull thump of music - a fact that made the man chuckle. Coruscanti scum were bold that's for certain.
Pushing open the heavy door of the Vault exposed him first to the pungent stench of burning spice and liquor. A bemused huff escaped him as he strode confidently inside, keeping to himself as he headed towards the rearmost bar. Like any decent watering hole, if one needed information, you went to the barkeep. The Vault was no exception. Thus, Ephraim seated himself one stool away from an excessively pretty little thing and waited for the barkeep to speak first. You never flagged down the barkeep in these spots, that's how you lost a hand. When the Trandoshan did step over, the mercenary had a fistful of credits waiting for him. "Firewhiskey." he began. "And the word on the New Republic."
The Trandoshan took his money and turned, to procure his drink. And in the meantime, Ephraim offered a slight nod to the woman seated within arm's reach. When his shot glass was placed in front of him, he added a few more credits to the pile and motioned a thumb towards her own beverage. "And top hers off, will ya?"
Perhaps there was a little honor among thieves. Or perhaps he was looking to be her beverage later. Ephraim hadn't decided just yet.
