THE MARKET
The Ember Market, complimenting the festival grounds, glimmered with fiery lanterns strung between stalls brimming with exotic goods. The air was thick with the scent of revelry and the crackling warmth of burning wood. The rustic atmosphere was punctuated by the hum of lively trade and the soft murmur of conversation around and within the stalls.
Drystan Creed sat at a barstool in one of the many festive stands, this one serving alcohol. He wore a sharp, tailored suit, complemented by a thick overcoat serving as adequate contingencies against the snowy cold. A glass of amber whiskey rested in his left hand, its contents a lazy swirl half what its original amount, nursing it against the evening chill. His right arm was immobilized in a sling. Bandages peeked out from the edges of his attire, their presence betraying the superficial burns and cuts on his form.
In his free hand, a cigarette burned steadily, its soft orange glow contrasting against the icy night. He held it effortlessly between his fingers, taking a measured drag now and then. There was a rhythm to his movements—sip, drag, exhale, repeat—the practiced pattern keeping him steady in both his thoughts and the aches across his body.
This was supposed to be down time, a way to recover and balance out the long sleepless nights of late. Nights spent out in the field, the underbelly of seedy slums, the darkened crevices where only the wicked dwelled and the shadows that snapped at their heels. He was the latter. But ever the dedicated knight, Drystan took his downtime as serious as his work, not even bothering to take time in a bacta tank to fully heal from his recently sustained injuries, the wounds on his body barely a day old.
Before him, a holopad produced a blue hologram of what looked to be a suit of armor. Blinking red lights marked critical failures in several sections of the suit, testing Drystan's patience. His dark eyes narrowed as he scrolled through the damage report, muttering under his breath. The analysis given to him was anything but relaxing, the diagnosis giving weeks at best before his suit could be marked as fully repaired He tapped the holopad impatiently as if pressing harder would garner more desirable results; the device beeped in response as more errors surfaced. Frustration boiled over, and he let out a sharp exclamation.
"Kark!"
The sudden outburst shot jolts of pain through his wounded arm, through his bandage-wrapped chest and deep into bruised ribs. Drystan winced and coughed loudly, his composure cracking momentarily as the pain rippled across his features. He raised the glass of whiskey, taking a prolonged sip as if the warmth of the drink could soothe both his body and his mounting aggravation. The tinkering with his holopad had taken up most of his time at the festival, already threatening to break his self imposed promise to truly relax himself for the first time in months.
