Darth_Yuthura

hey, would you mind reading over this and telling me if it's a good start to a fanfiction, I'm working on? if you can't be bothered, just say

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They say that there were an assortment of credits to be made on the smugglers moon, if you knew what you were doing. The thing was, seventeen-year-old Mandalorian refugees were the hindmost thing any 'employer' wanted to hear, and word spread swift on Nar Shaddaa.

To be frank, these last few years had taken quite the toll on me, due to the consequences of these struggles, and where ever I trod, people knew - somehow, everyone had knowledge of where I had come from and what I stood for. Even presently, as I was slouched against the Cantina bar, my fair complexioned face and red haired head balancing somewhat comfortably on a half-hearted hand, eyes jittered my way, as if I was about to suddenly reveal that I was a Sith Lord and had come to annihilate the moon and everyone on it. I hated it - I wasn't a uselessly broken droid, and I sure as hell wasn't a sight for sore eyes... not these days at least.

So here I was, ordering a favourable Ithorian Mist, to ease the toils of living life as Mira. I observed as the male bartender fumbled about with several murky pint glasses, underneath the bar, possibly attempting to conceal the vulgar condition of his glassware - and doing a terrible job of it, at that. At last, he jolted up, as if shocked with a Droid Electric Arm, and instantaneously slapped down a lever, the beautifully brewed Ithorian beverage drifting out into a chosen container. With an intriguingly feminine flick of his greying locks, and a wink of his wrinkled eyes, the bartender handed the drink over, in exchange for the last of my credits.

Fantastic. I was back to square one.

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