In a remote corner of the galaxy, removed from the usual hustle and bustle of interstellar trade and activity, there is a star. A thousand thousand government registers, guild maps, and a million more journals, personal messages, and navigational reference points call it by different names.
For the small colony of disparate stellar strays, castaways, exiles, and oddballs who call the system home, it is simply called referred to by a mangled remembrance of a long-dead pidgin trade language, itself calling back to a poorly pronounced title for the star used by a long-fallen empire which simply referred to a property deed which had fallen out of registry due to inactivity. In the trade lingua of the current era, this jumble of sounds was crudely sounded out as Estelore.
An unremarkable system with the typical assortment of bodies whizzing around its stellar top. A bloated layer of gas giants in a far orbit, with a handful of rocky smaller worlds whizzing about in a tighter circulation. Of particular note, and one of the few reasons it was ever sought out other than the solitude, was a micro blackhole zipping about in a remarkably close orbit to the sun itself with a diameter of just a meter. A perfect, smugly silent singularity which gave no answers on how it came to be, or why it did not dissolve from Hawking Radiation. Thousands of years of study by thousands of races had yet to yield anything, so it was for the most left alone now. Just a strange oddity that dragged cultists, desperate or bored scientists, mystics, and general weirdos to it to pry and beg for answers not forthcoming.
Travel a layer deeper. The second planetary orbit is occupied by a distinctly uninteresting blob of rock and primitive hydrocarbons. No one cares about poor, boring Trasente.
A few people do care about its moon. A habitable rock, with a broad belt stretching across its equator. A belt with warmth, complex life, the sweet song of possibility ringing in its air.
There are miscellaneous settlements sprinkled across it. People from various species, various walks of life, seeking their own meaning and fulfillment the best they can.
On a particularly quiet peninsula, near a cliffside which juts out over the smooth sea in this land of perpetual summer, is the bar. A weatherworn sign outsign outlines the symbols 'GESB'. Patrons argue over what it used to mean, but all agree its important it stays there.
The bar is a worn, but cared of, simple log building. A few landing pads for spacecraft ring it, scarred by centuries of thrusters and repulsors. A small patio with sunbleached chairs and tables sits outside. Within, there is nothing remarkable. A wooden interior with a score and ten tables with battered chairs in various states of squeakiness and wobble. Grafitti and marks in a hundred languages are carved across every surface of the fixtures, the walls, even the floor.
In contrast, the bar itself is polished and cared for. Behind its smooth surface, a wealth of bottles spanning the galaxy, always fully stocked even though no one ever see's deliveries being made. Behind the scenes is a kitchen which is remarkably able to do a pretty good job at producing most dishes in the galaxy - not the best, but pretty good.
As far as any patrons past or present could remember, the bar had always been there. A place to laugh. To meet. To cry. To fight. To scream and rage. To smile and reminisce. To pass out drunk in the corner. To sit alone, or together. Memory and life is embedded the fibers of the ancient wood of the place, that wood which never seems to decay no matter its age. Despite its remoteness, it always manages to attract just enough people to stay interesting.
