Ryla Relvinian
Feb 23rd, 2005, 01:05:44 AM
She wandered into the familiar bar - Amazed at the way it hadn't changed from her memories. She hadn't really been gone that long, but it felt like a lifetime. Twice now she had left, and twice, returned. But this time she honestly didn't know why.
Familiarity?
It tends to breed contempt.
Wasn't that how the saying went? She sighed, drawing the hood of her cloak over her face, heading towards the front bar rather than one of the many darkened corner tables. Darkened tables were pointless, she mused to herself, casting one last glance around at the unique mix of Jedi of all ranks and the usual smugglers, low-lifes, and other random personages who had no real business in a Jedi bar.
But then again, did she?
These days, she didn't even know anymore. She felt old - hopelessly old - and weary. She had seen so much hatred, so much violence, so much death... and the pain if it lay heavily on her chest.
She ordered a hard drink with a wry smile, fully aware of what it would do to her, or rather, what it would have done to her, had she not had an opportunity to build up some sort of tolerance for it. From a pocket of her cloak she withdrew a cigarette, the old-fashioned, hand-rolled kind. She lit it, inhaling the thick, heavy fumes, and blew out. It tasted of sand and memories. She knew they were bad for her, but she didn't really care.
She smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes.
Familiarity?
It tends to breed contempt.
Wasn't that how the saying went? She sighed, drawing the hood of her cloak over her face, heading towards the front bar rather than one of the many darkened corner tables. Darkened tables were pointless, she mused to herself, casting one last glance around at the unique mix of Jedi of all ranks and the usual smugglers, low-lifes, and other random personages who had no real business in a Jedi bar.
But then again, did she?
These days, she didn't even know anymore. She felt old - hopelessly old - and weary. She had seen so much hatred, so much violence, so much death... and the pain if it lay heavily on her chest.
She ordered a hard drink with a wry smile, fully aware of what it would do to her, or rather, what it would have done to her, had she not had an opportunity to build up some sort of tolerance for it. From a pocket of her cloak she withdrew a cigarette, the old-fashioned, hand-rolled kind. She lit it, inhaling the thick, heavy fumes, and blew out. It tasted of sand and memories. She knew they were bad for her, but she didn't really care.
She smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes.