#lando always asks about the dent in the cod piece

[scoundrvls]

𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐔𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒, an artificial sanctuary in the fore. the fatal vines wasn’t like other cantinas on nar shaddaa. sure, it was located in one of the more upstanding districts of new vertica, but even here it was one of a whimsical kind. the proprietor was a silverback wookiee; vorshyyrra was her name, if he was remembering all the rs correctly. she’d invested seven decades of bounty hunting into this place, growing a slice of her verdant homeplant between the oppressive fallout of the hutta skyslums.

      instead of windows that looked out into the city, the wookiee installed viewscreens that panned across first-person views of kashyyyk’s many wonders. what space was left unoccupied was levied with plant life, giving the lounge a soothing green cast. the lights were a tender, pale white that reminded lando of sunlight filtering through leaves. no uppity jizz band overtook the atmosphere, a recording of avian calls and humming streams hovered beneath quiet conversations.

      even the menu refused to clash with the ambiance. the hardest liquor on the list came with a sprig of something green. be it sip or guzzle, there was no insidious burn that coated the tongue. every drink was an aromatic experience.

      vorshyyrra herself looked out of place in her own establishment. she had a large, imposing frame even by wookiee standards. her dark fur was riddled with angry pink gashes. yet her enormous fists were shockingly delicate as she supplied her guests with their mixtures. she didn’t serve a smile with the offering, but still managed to be a doting host. cantankerous patrons weren’t thrown to the street to cause trouble, they received a one-armed wookiee hug until they wore themselves into a stupor. once out, they were flopped into a padded room somewhere in the back where they slept off their intake. once up and bombarded with a grueling headache, most were eager to fling a few extra credits at the towering barkeep for a medicinal cocktail.

      it the perfect place for a pair of scoundrels to kickback in their mischief without fear of doing harm.

i knew i was your type ! — @lionthought as 𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐎 / there's always a downside

      the smile calrissian brandished was worth a shell hutt’s weight in gold. teeth sunk playfully into his bottom lip as he considered the teetering flush in his companion’s cheeks. the debonair raised his glass by its thin waist and gave the contents a little swirl. a rosey fizzle tickled the surface.

      ❝ maybe after a few more of these, old friend. ❞