Nomad
Not much can be said for the cantina. There has been no necessity for more, barely a waystation in the previous decade. Steady increase in patronage affords all the expected amenities for a wide variety of species and a barely maintained but cozy ambience. It's a decent dive for old spacers and passthroughs but somewhat crowded on occasion. Leather stools and booths are worn but not unpleasant. There's room to stretch and relax on this particular occasion. Band holos alternate every few songs so one might enjoy themself for a time; live entertainment is either voluntary or reserved for specials.
The board for local news hangs luminous to the side. One contract is outdated but still displayed. Not a good sign, but then charting new hyperspace routes, even short ones like this, is highly dangerous. The client apparently was looking for a shortcut through asteroids and nebulae in the Bajic Sector near Drexel. A slow and throaty, metallic voice-box, "Not many takers. Most came back. Few did not. Of course, may have simply moved on." Looking up, the Ithorian bartender is staring at him, or maybe just in his general direction, while wiping the counter. That explains the translator, a cheap one by the sound, and subtle optimism. "Either way, best watch yourself."
That goes without saying. The free trader is up for the challenge, and he could certainly haggle for a larger payout on the back end for the trouble. The dark mirialan tilts back his drink. Shoulder-length russet hair veils half his face and cardinal, geometric tattoos. The plastene cup slides across the bar with a cred-chip right behind. "Lotta traffic around here. Change has been good to ya?" A knowing brow quirks, accenting its natural, quizzical curlicue. "Surely you can tell me more." He leans forward and grabs the refilled mug, a second chip appearing atop the last.
The Ithorian quietly scoops the chips and rolls them around its palm thoughtfully. The patron can't tell if the alien is male or female, humps hidden by baggy clothing and thoughts too foreign to divide. "Hmm. Fine." The bartender leans down on the counter and continues to scrub. Four throats make for an eerie, casual whisper. "Enclave. Imperium. League. Space between. Credits flow swiftly as traffic." The crooked, flat head and spaced eyes move away.
Lurid yellow eyes hang almost deadpan on the counter. A low grumble ensues, "That wasn't much help. Things left unsaid. Still..." He leans back while pocketing a chip, holding something of his own taken back. He relaxes, pulls out a holopad, and falls into contemplation. He could use the action, the venture into things unknown. Phases without direction tend to lead to unhealthy complacency and inaction. There's plenty of time. The contract isn't going anywhere.
Raphael Gallustrade