OOC: Please create a persona that lists your name/alias, faction, species, class, gender, and basic appearance.

Factions: Republic, Sith Empire, Hutt Cartel, or independent.

Common species: Human, cathar, chiss, miraluka, mirialan, nautolan, rattataki, rodian, selonian, sith pureblood, togruta, twi'lek, wookie, and zabrak.

Sample classes: Bounty hunter, mercenary, trooper, spy, smuggler, salvager, starfighter pilot, engineer, Sith apprentice, Sith inquisitor, Jedi knight, and Jedi consular.

Let's begin...

The air of Savroia hangs heavy with a mixture of ozone and despair, a potent cocktail that defines the dry, mountainous planet of Ord Mantell.

The Surly Sarlacc cantina is a dark and dingy place, thick with the smell of stale smoke and cheap revnog. The lights are dim, casting a sickly yellow glow over the patrons who sit at the tables and bar. The walls are covered in a layer of grime, and the floor is sticky with spilled drinks.

A few scrawny rodian musicians are playing a mournful tune in the corner, their instruments battered and out of tune. The patrons pay them little attention, more interested in their own drinks and conversations.

A group of rough-looking human mercenaries are sitting at the bar, their faces flushed with alcohol. They laugh and joke loudly, their voices echoing through the cantina. A trio of twi'lek women are sitting at a table, their faces painted with heavy makeup, their clothes revealing. They eye the men at the bar with predatory eyes.

A single bartender stands behind the bar, wiping a glass with a dirty cloth. He is a heavyset weequay with a long ponytail and a scar across his face. He looks at the patrons with a bored expression, as if he has seen it all before.

Finally, the man you're looking for arrives, a mid-ranking member of the Black Sun syndicate. He swaggers in with the confidence of a hundred dirty deals, a shock of black hair framing steel grey eyes that miss nothing. You notice the outline of a blaster beneath his leather duster.