>>6144510Thanks for counting the votes.>>Yes (Coral Ship).>>Joke (Icebreaker).The table isn’t quite tucked away in a shadowy corner where you could brood theatrically, nor is it in the bright, exposed center where every twitch of your expressions would be on display. Instead, it occupies a spot of deliberate neutrality – a table halfway between obscurity and prominence, ringed by a modest railing and situated just far away enough from the bar to avoid the clamor of the taps.
There’s a certain boldness in choosing a spot like this. It’s a statement that says <span class="mu-i">we have nothing to hide</span>, neither inviting nor discouraging scrutiny. Pip seems like the sort of man who’d appreciate the balancing act—open enough to hold a drink aloft without apology, but careful not to spill the deeper truths in one clumsy toast.
Not that you aren’t passively cataloging the cantina’s every quirk and detail. The lighting here is just dim enough to obscure a patron’s face if they chose the right angle, but not so murky as to conceal the dubious stains on the floor. The air is thick with a cocktail of scents: spiced liquor, fried foods, and just the faintest hint of industrial cleaner. If there were an assassin among the patrons, they’d have a clear shot at your table—provided they weren’t too distracted by the steaming plates of exotic meats coming from the kitchen.
Pip spots you before you can fully evaluate the drink specials, waving you over with a casual enthusiasm that feels entirely at odds with the tension you’ve been carrying. He sets down a dataslate as you approach, a smile tugging at his lips. The man radiates a blend of eccentric charm and cunning—a shipwright who’s seen both the stars and the shadows that lurk between them.
As you settle into the booth, the shipwright raises a brow. “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered ahead. House special—nothing poisoned, I promise. Unless you count the cholesterol.”
Paranoia isn’t going to stop you from eating, but you’ve only just recovered from being poisoned by the snake-weapon of the Coral Warrior. You’d rather not spend another weekend in a bacta tank. At least not until Sia-Lan Wezz’s shipment of peko-peko albatross feathers come in the mail.
“Thanks for accepting my invitation.” You settle into your chair with a quiet huff, scanning the offered. “I hope that I’m not taking you away from anything important.”
Pip grins, shaking his head. “Quite the opposite. Depending on the stage of construction, I’m either critically needed, or completely superfluous. Right now, it’s one of those rare moments where everything’s running smoothly without me breathing down anyone’s necks.”
“The pitfall of middle management, I fear,” you quip with a faint smirk.
(cont.)
