Varus Shatterstar
Finding Purpose
Coruscant
Bard and Baylor's Bar
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Alcohol...
One release that would always bring peace to a man like Varus, though with a temper like his it could always become something else. Something ugly and even violent. Something he'd chosen to not to indulge in for the last couple of years as he'd been gravitating to the light side of the force. He'd been drinking the night he'd met Kian Karr, a well read and considerably talented Kel Dor force user who'd ushered him down a different path from the one he'd been on. He'd been a darker and more selfish man in his youth, and despite his new direction and chose walk of life, he'd been regressing as of late.
Not a month ago he'd found himself going at other men's faces with cloth wrapped bare hands in an underground fighting ring based in that very city. He'd been going off on his own, training away from the Academy, and growing into a different man, one day at a time, and though he was still clinging to his root purpose in life, he was letting himself become something that he hadn't ever wanted to be.
All he wanted was to help people. He wanted to be around them, protect them, build them up or even carry them if he had to. He'd carry their weight if it was what was required of him. He'd bear their burdens if they couldn't themselves. He'd put himself upon the chopping block before, and he figured that it would only make sense for him to meet his end in the service of or for the better of someone weaker, but then again why would that be the case? What made them deserving of a protector? Why was his trouble even worth it?
There was nothing wrong with being a selfish man. There was nothing bad about being in life for your own benefit... was there?
The night was approaching fast as the sun slipped away behind a rain stricken, cloud covered sealine at the edge of Coruscant. It was just the type of night that was perfect for drinking, as foul weather seemed to keep most people comfortably posted up in their warm, dry homes. Others, like the kind Varus used to be, wouldn't miss the opportunity to go out to their favorite watering hole and share a drink with a few familiar faces.
That wasn't his aim that night, though, which was why he sat alone, leaning back in a chair on the back porch of a relatively empty bar. He was nursing a glass of whiskey in his hand, a water stricken hood hanging over his head and a deathstick resting next to his free hand which was attached to an arm propped up on the table next to him. He was three glasses of whiskey in, and on pace for a record that night. It was going to be an eventful evening, if he had to guess, but that was the best part about having a few drinks.
If you drank enough, even you wouldn't see what was coming next.