The casino was exploding tonight – waves upon waves of tourists, the elites, scum, and those looking to make a quick credit were all together tonight. Every where you looked, credits were being thrown on Pazaak tables or at the bar counter – if the resident musician played a note so beautifully, they would probably get an extra credit or two. The sounds of drinks being poured, cups clinking, and the barkeep cutting someone off for having a round too plenty really kept this cantina energized. The squeals of the drunken, rabid Chadra-Fan must have pierced the ears of the stubborn Twi’lek across the bar. The rustling, the howls, and the glasses being broken in between were all side effects of what was bound to arrive sooner or later. It was no business of mine to interfere, but a part of me wanted to step in between these two drunks before it escalated…but it isn’t my place. Within a matter of seconds, a group of Twi’leks approached the Chadra-Fan and encircled him – everyone knew, especially the poor little rodent, knew what was next in his evolving book of mistakes; unfortunately, his book may be coming to a close – the Twileks picked up the rodent by the scruffs, legs, and arms, and marched him out the door and that was the last we saw of him. But it was not the last we heard of him; squeals, shrieks, and fists being thrown broke the tension of the watering hole, leaving many guests to wonder if it their time for last call. I had a feeling that the poor rodent may not be coming back in to pay off his tab; the Twileks returned, blood and fur coated their jackets, fists, and boots. The barkeeps, guests, and even resident musician took a moment to gather their thoughts – or belongings – and stared at the group. The group recognized their position, perhaps even felt cautious as two of them begin putting their hands towards their blaster holster. My Twi’leki is a bit rough, but I think their leader just called for everyone to keep drinking and never mind what we had all witnessed and heard. You know it’s a rough night at the cantina when even the barkeeps are keeping themselves calm by indulging themselves on their own inventory. You couldn’t cut the tension with a vibroblade anymore – and the resident musician had left the stage to take a breather and perhaps wonder if their contract with the cantina was worth keeping if one shrill note could land him in the backseat of a speeder with a blaster bolt between their eyes.
As I'm writing this, I can see the bartender approaching - will try and write later.
Write in your Journal. These are IC for the writer, but OOC information for the reader. Share your personal adventures with others. Give them a peek inside the character they might not otherwise get to see.
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