The Vertical City, Nar Shaddaa. They call it the Smuggler's Moon—an apt description based on the myriad of sentients shuffling back and forth with their illegal wares and hidden weapons. The narrow streets below criss-cross endlessly, soaring miles above the planet's surface. Exposed and uncovered, the streets offer a nearly perfect setting for someone with some skills with ranged weapons. A vantage point on the ledge of a towering structure of glass and steel offers a dizzying view of the cityscape.

Simple shops and merchants peddle both legitimate and illegitimate wares. Storefronts are just as plentiful as open-market pop-up tents, and the cantina's adapt the same lowlife air as the rest of the Smuggler's Moon. Enemies could be hidden in plain sight, whether one of the Hutts’ gangsters or mercenaries-for-hire looking to earn some credits. The streets are plagued with violent gangs and the general riff raff of the poor and destitute. They may be an ideal place for blasters, but the winding streets are difficult to disappear from. An opponent would be easily boxed in and simple to finish with a few quick slashes of a lightsaber. The moon is dangerous—even for one gifted in the Force.

—The Rimmer’s Rest - Naar Shada—

“And that’s when the newbie accidentally released the karking k'lor'slugs.” The large pale iridonian’s barking laughter cut through the crowded cantina. “We were finding those karkers all over the ship for a standard cycle!” he continued speaking around his cigar as he led the way to an occupied table. “This is my table,” he growled to the occupants who wasted no time fleeing the area. Juda Graves straightened his suit as he and his klatoonian contact sat in the newly vacated chairs. Servers clamored to clear the table and bring fresh appetizers and refreshments.

“You certainly get first class service here,” the klatoonian remarked. He grabbed a tankard of some rank smelling libation while the band played a lively tune.

Juda chuckled. “Well, if you do business with us, you can get used—“

Clink

For a long second, the servers and nearby patrons went deathly silent as a bright red liquid cascaded from the spilled carafe all over the Syndicate boss’ pants. “I’m so s-sorry, s-sir,” the fear stricken human server stuttered out as he backed away but not nearly quick enough. The last thing the offending waiter saw was the ‘13’ tattooed on the back of Juda’s knuckles.

“Ow! Hey, watch it, e’chut’a kung!” a diminutive blue Rylothian chastised Juda as the server tumbled into her. At this point, the jizzwailers stopped playing and everyone started to scatter. The hulking zabrak leapt to his feet. His red eyes boring imaginary holes into the impertinent twi’lek.

“You little peedunky tailhead should have minded your own business. Now you farkled the correllian hound!”

As Sinya’ni pushed the unconscious waiter off herself and stood, Mr Graves grabbed his chair and swung it at her. The attack was easily sidestepped by the nimble female, but she didn’t need the Force to see this wasn’t over. Untamed violence was written all over Juda’s inked face. She focused on a large gamorean that was sitting at the bar while she tried to outpace her opponent towards the exit.

“I guarantee I can run faster mad than you can scared!” Juda called after her as the gammorean suddenly stood up and swung his big meaty hands at him.

CRACK

The attack took Juda off guard and he took the punch right in the face. Sinya’ni paused her flight to look back, however her amused smirk faded as the irritated iridonian turned on the green pig man and pummeled his face into an unrecognizable bloody lump. She fled out the door, not wanting to be killed or worse…horribly disfigured.