@[member="Oron"], @[member="Dharma Vessia"], @[member="T:N1:LDR"], @[member="Vault"], @[member="Sophia Walsh"]
Flynn reclined on the cushioned floor, his back against the wall with a small pillow behind him for comfort. One leg stretch out, the other bent up, in one hand he held a glass with whiskey and ice, the other a lit death stick, which now rested on his bent knee, the green smoke spiraling up releasing is alluring odour. He brought the smoke to his lips and took in a long draw from the drug followed by a large mouth full of whiskey, before he opened his mouth and let the green smoke waft out gently, not forcing it. His eyes slowly moved around the Spice Den, taking in the patrons of the place.
The Den, was like many he had visited before, music, dancers and those that partake in the addictive spice. No surprises at all. He shifted slightly in his position only to gain more comfort, his white shirt open slightly, black matte leather pants fitted him nicely around his form with pointed boots of the same leather. His weapons within easy reach if needed, but he had more than that at his beckon call, natural instinct and if he so desired it, his force abilities. But he prided himself on not use them.
His eyes fell on a beautiful girl, her purpose is to see that the patrons are accommodated with full glasses of alcohol and all the spice they could need, he watched her for a moment, as she moved around the space. His eyes lingering over her body, the growing hunger building up inside of him, he had not eaten in some time, and the call for soup stronger now, and he knew soon he would have to partake. But that would have to wait a little longer, he is here to help located a suspected underworld slave market, operating out of this Den. If that is the case, then the slavers might just become his next meal.
He waited for the signal from the others that are to join him here.