Zorish finishes his glass and considers the bottle of redin. He senses that Tamora is right, it would be wise to stop drinking. And why should I listen to what the human has to say? he scolds himself. He pours again.
A battered Bug Fighter slides out of Zero-Space and slowly begins to circle down towards the bar. The ship has clearly seen better days; it is so dented and scarred and covered over with mismatched metal sheeting that it scarcely resembles its original ****roach-like form. Instead, it looks more similar to a tin can that has been kicked around a bit.
The ship seems to work well enough, though. It thrums, straining slightly as it decelerates in the atmosphere, coming to nearly a complete stop as the ground rushes up. Landing gear extends creakily and the ship settles comfortably onto the gravel, looking as though it will not be lifting off again for quite some time.
The hatch hisses open and a ramp extends. A young man in his mid-twenties steps out, descends the ramp, and orders his ship to close up once more. A second order activates the cloaking device, and the battered Bug disappears.
Running a shaking hand through his shaggy, strawberry blonde hair, the young man turns and begins making for the bar. His ship is clearly not the only thing that has seen better days. His jeans are coated with dark stains and fraying in several places. His shirt was once a neat button-down, but it is wrinkled and rumpled, as though he has slept in it for several nights. The only thing that appears shiny and well-kept about him is the Dracon holstered at his hip.
As he crunches over the gravel, the young man shoves his hands deep into their pockets to hide the trembling there. He takes in the activity outside of the bar, making careful note of everyone he sees and storing the information away silently.
