Drek hated Cantinas. He loved tending to the bar, and most of all; money. The rest of it irritated him to no end. From the obnoxious patrons to the putrid smog that permeated the air. Smog wasn't quite the right term, but he wasn't sure what else to call it. It was a swirling mix of the inhalants various species enjoyed, some of it more than toxic, only made more pungent by their collective filth.
Tending bar in Tatooine was a different experience than he had expected. From Nar Shaddaa to Coruscant, Drek had bounced and poured drinks for the most dangerous of criminals and most prestigious of public officials, whispering their dealings beneath hooded faces. Drek presumed no smaller amount of crime was dealt under the stone tables here, but it would be hard to spot as this was both the loudest and most crowded establishment he had ever been in.
Every Cantina had some sort of music as an ambient backdrop to the dull clamor of voices, typically some underpaid second-rate band. Here, however, the crowd made such a din, that the group of little Oortolans, but were barely audible over the roar of the patrons; despite their best efforts. The assorted species were all milling about, drunkenly laughing and shouting, many of them far beyond what could be considered 'safe'.
Normally, Drek would have thrown half of them out by this point, but this Cantina had special rules. He had only met his proprietor once, and was happy to keep it that way. The man was human, short, with a pointed nose and cleanly slicked hair. He had questioned the rules that day, and had one of the spurs on his left jaw cut from his face in reward. He never saw the blade, and he barely saw the man move. Drek was big, even for a Weequay, but that human terrified him. He still absently scratched at it, a reminder to keep his mouth shut. In his opinion, he was lucky to get a warning, and was fairly certain there would not be another.
The first rule was 'Louder is better'. Catinas always had eyes in them, and Drek's best guess was additional chaos made it difficult to report and any of the establishment's goings on. Therefore, any patron adding to the ruckus was welcome. Drek was only allowed to intervene if fights broke out.
"Water."
Drek looked up from the glass he was polishing. Like the eye of a storm, a silent figure sat at the bar, waiting patiently. The second rule was that water was to be served free. Tatooine being what it was, nothing was free, so Drek would have expected a much larger portion of the clientele to take advantage. Very few did; maybe they knew something he didn't.
Taking the glass in hand, he turned to one of the many curled golden spigots spouting from the complicated stills, and placed the small glass in front of the figure before moving down the bar to give them privacy.
He had seen this individual many times, and just like today, they had managed to practically sneak up on him. He briefly stole glances at them as he pretended to care very intently about polishing glasses. The third rule was to never interact with the patrons outside of serving drinks and breaking up fights. No matter how drunk, so long as they were still bellowing and laughing, they were welcome to more. There were however, several regulars like this one. Calm, silent save asking for water, then leaving as quickly as they came. For all of the rules and warnings stating the less he knew the better, he couldn't help his curiosity.
This individual frequented the Cantina every month or so. From what he could tell, they were a human female, but much else escaped him. Every inch of her was covered, excepting her face when she drank. She wore a wide brimmed hat that drooped slightly in the front, secured by a thick strap under her chin. Her goggles and scarf, typically obscuring her eyes and lower face, hung loosely about her neck as she sipped at the water. In that small window, he could tell her skin was a lightly-browned olive. Her eyes were dark, but in the ruddy lighting of the cantina it was hard to say anything other than 'brown' with confidence. The scarf was large, draping over her shoulders, under which she wore a well-fitting jacket. Her hands were gloved, tucking into her cinched sleeves to keep the sand out. Her trousers tucked into flat-soled boots that she was lightly tapping on the floor. Everything she wore was varied shades of brown, likely allowing her to blend with the sand and rocks that made up almost all of the landscape.
Without a word, the silent patron stood from the bar, and deftly made her way through the raucous crowd. Drek peeked up again as she made for the door. Something about these odd patrons and the discretion he was sworn to, both unsettled and fascinated him.
She stopped for a moment in the arched doorway, and turned, making eye contact with him. Drek quickly returned to polishing his glass with newfound interest. A moment later he looked up, and she was gone.