iTen years after the Siege of Borleias…/i
The bar is smoky and dark, the scent of alcohol and vomit, blood and sweat thick in the air. People come here to get drunk, not to have philosophical discussion. Oddly enough, however, that's exactly what's happening – a philosophical discussion in a bar.
"And I'm telling you, Voshav is an idealistic fool. He has no idea of the practicalities of life on the fringe." The speaker is a young Devaronian. If you could choose one word to describe him, you would use isharp/i.
An Ithorian stares passively back. "We should rise iabove/i our circumstances, not conform to them. Our souls-"
"Oh, don't give me that racket about the state of our immortal souls thing iagain/i. It gets repetitive after a while," says a young Bothan girl.
And then the argument goes off-tangent for a while. It's pulled back kicking and screaming when a Twi'leki man says, "Hey, Antilles. You haven't said anything yet – what do you think is the most important rule of living on the fringe?"
A blonde woman barely out of girlhood gets up and throws some creds down on the table to cover her tab. There's a sense of delicacy about her, a sort of innocence. Before she walks away, she smiles as the Twi'leki.
"Oh, that's simple. Don't get killed."
As she walks out the door, the double suns shine off the metal of the blasters.