Exile is tough. The few connections he had believed he was dead or, worse, suspected him of murder - no, returning to Cardia was not an option available to him. At least for the foreseeable future.
Quite why he had ended up on this godforsaken dust bowl of a planet he was unsure. Chet hated sand. Always had. Even as a child on trips to the beach with school he would meticulously clean every grain from his feet, his clothing and his toys before going home, only to spend the next month finding it everywhere anyway. It was the spice runner from whom he'd acquired his ship that had suggested that Tatooine was as good a place as any to ply his trade as an assassin. Even at the height of the Republic and the Empire Tatooine had remained lawless - well, lawless in the sense that it made and kept its own laws. Those of a criminal persuasion had flourished for millennia.
Walking through the space port, a mix of junk dealers, repair shops and bars he settled on a small establishment accessed through the back of a (stolen) droid merchant that he happened upon entirely by chance. Seating himself by what he assumed to be a window, though apparently three centuries of grease, grime and general muck left it defunct in its purpose of allowing those outside, or inside to see through it. Perhaps that was the point.
A protocol droid - probably from the shop below took his drink order. Water.
He sat, the cowl of his hood slightly obscuring his face - waiting, watching, listening.
OOC: Will probably self DM something here, but if anyone wants to jump in, just shout.
Quite why he had ended up on this godforsaken dust bowl of a planet he was unsure. Chet hated sand. Always had. Even as a child on trips to the beach with school he would meticulously clean every grain from his feet, his clothing and his toys before going home, only to spend the next month finding it everywhere anyway. It was the spice runner from whom he'd acquired his ship that had suggested that Tatooine was as good a place as any to ply his trade as an assassin. Even at the height of the Republic and the Empire Tatooine had remained lawless - well, lawless in the sense that it made and kept its own laws. Those of a criminal persuasion had flourished for millennia.
Walking through the space port, a mix of junk dealers, repair shops and bars he settled on a small establishment accessed through the back of a (stolen) droid merchant that he happened upon entirely by chance. Seating himself by what he assumed to be a window, though apparently three centuries of grease, grime and general muck left it defunct in its purpose of allowing those outside, or inside to see through it. Perhaps that was the point.
A protocol droid - probably from the shop below took his drink order. Water.
He sat, the cowl of his hood slightly obscuring his face - waiting, watching, listening.
OOC: Will probably self DM something here, but if anyone wants to jump in, just shout.