- Joined
- Jan 5, 2012
- Messages
- 1,253
- Reaction score
- 93
Salvtore forgot where he found himself. Some speck of dust on the outer rim, inhabited by tongues both foreign and not; some hub of activity where the weary came to rest, where the rested sat to die. Recalling to oneself the weight of responsibility on the fringes of civilization came at a cost, and here credits rarely covered the sum. The eyes that settled on the bar, that fell in line behind the cantina's sliding durasteel doors sagged longingly. The illusion of respite, and one many indulged in gleefully.
A barbaric show—lights of neon doused in black holographic overlays, the skittering jump of a bassline that rattled the pulse and shook the ears of all but the most savvy species. The bar was ringed by chairs, chrome semi-circles lavished with faux plush and leather, gaudy a comely fashion. Monstrous as only the outer rim could accomplish. And it did so with its chest puffed out, pride bristling with the feathers of want swathing the cantina. Step after step, song after song, the establishment bustled.
Constant, the thrum hummed through Salvatore's veins. He felt it at his temples, his chest. He heard it through his nose, tasted it on his fingertips, and lost track of the colors passing him by. They came as imported figurines, porcelain dolls and ragged clothes cut from the cloth of eternity. The same faces as Coruscant, roughshod from the war. The same as Bastion, brimming with that cocksure arrogance so reminiscent of youth. The same as Nar Shaddaa, where few garnered the will to escape.
Separated by quantum infinity, yet they danced to the same tune. Puppets on marionette strings, and Salvtore? none the wiser. Bitterness choked him, counterbalanced the sting of whisky as he knocked back a tumbler. The taste of bile hung in his throat. Disturbed the queasy ambiance settling about his shoulders; he adopted a slump, a lazy slouch that fell into his wrinkled shirt. Off-white fabric, once pristine, crumbled around him. Flanked his collar, opened his flesh for all to see; but he dared them to look, beckoned their gazes.
For any bold enough to stare earned his respect. His smile said as much. That candid show of machismo, that slurried blush of dominion. Here was a man all too eager to die. Deep in his cups, weight shifting erratically (his center of balance was disturbed by the very air around him), he wore the cloak of a king. Intentionally. Intentionally in such a way that he bleared into the background. Slipped from the notice of passersby too consumed in their own avarice. Indeed, another clown on a street of jesters.
His very presence admonished him. And in those mocking spans, he grabbed another drink. Some blue-green concoction that glowed beneath the blacklight. Simmering with temptation, a coil of smoke trailing from the lip of its glass. He swirled it. Dashed it about his tongue with a soured touch. Swiveled in his chair.
There. A girl behind him, just adjacent. Passing by as all the rest, but acute even in her own oblivion. He followed the scent.
"Before the Force came the gods, before them came faith; but before faith, what impeded the progress of man?" His voice released a crooning hum. Matched the tempo of the music drowning his breath.
He asked of this woman the world, eyes sharp to the ways of frivolity. And in return, he wanted for naught. Nothing, not even the draught held daintly so against his wrist.
@Mocha
A barbaric show—lights of neon doused in black holographic overlays, the skittering jump of a bassline that rattled the pulse and shook the ears of all but the most savvy species. The bar was ringed by chairs, chrome semi-circles lavished with faux plush and leather, gaudy a comely fashion. Monstrous as only the outer rim could accomplish. And it did so with its chest puffed out, pride bristling with the feathers of want swathing the cantina. Step after step, song after song, the establishment bustled.
Constant, the thrum hummed through Salvatore's veins. He felt it at his temples, his chest. He heard it through his nose, tasted it on his fingertips, and lost track of the colors passing him by. They came as imported figurines, porcelain dolls and ragged clothes cut from the cloth of eternity. The same faces as Coruscant, roughshod from the war. The same as Bastion, brimming with that cocksure arrogance so reminiscent of youth. The same as Nar Shaddaa, where few garnered the will to escape.
Separated by quantum infinity, yet they danced to the same tune. Puppets on marionette strings, and Salvtore? none the wiser. Bitterness choked him, counterbalanced the sting of whisky as he knocked back a tumbler. The taste of bile hung in his throat. Disturbed the queasy ambiance settling about his shoulders; he adopted a slump, a lazy slouch that fell into his wrinkled shirt. Off-white fabric, once pristine, crumbled around him. Flanked his collar, opened his flesh for all to see; but he dared them to look, beckoned their gazes.
For any bold enough to stare earned his respect. His smile said as much. That candid show of machismo, that slurried blush of dominion. Here was a man all too eager to die. Deep in his cups, weight shifting erratically (his center of balance was disturbed by the very air around him), he wore the cloak of a king. Intentionally. Intentionally in such a way that he bleared into the background. Slipped from the notice of passersby too consumed in their own avarice. Indeed, another clown on a street of jesters.
His very presence admonished him. And in those mocking spans, he grabbed another drink. Some blue-green concoction that glowed beneath the blacklight. Simmering with temptation, a coil of smoke trailing from the lip of its glass. He swirled it. Dashed it about his tongue with a soured touch. Swiveled in his chair.
There. A girl behind him, just adjacent. Passing by as all the rest, but acute even in her own oblivion. He followed the scent.
"Before the Force came the gods, before them came faith; but before faith, what impeded the progress of man?" His voice released a crooning hum. Matched the tempo of the music drowning his breath.
He asked of this woman the world, eyes sharp to the ways of frivolity. And in return, he wanted for naught. Nothing, not even the draught held daintly so against his wrist.
@Mocha