The cantina stank with the miasma of sweaty exhalations from a dozen different species, their blood, fear, hate and lust mingled with the odors of various intoxicants, stale perfumes and enhanced pheremones, dirty armor, ozone and hydraulic oil. It was a nauseating reek, relieved intermittently as new bodies filtered inside, bringing with them the brief glare of desert sunlight and a gust of hot, dry air.

For all the furtively idealistic and smelly presence of Rebels, today Mos Eisley was a beacon for the Dark side of the Force.

Dawnstar, a twi?lek of improbable height and a dancer?s curves, slouched against the bar, wedged in between a freelance pilot and some sort of bounty hunter. She looked around casually, searching for the omnipresent stony-faced Imperial watchdogs who trailed the Bestine clones from time to time, and she felt a tiny frisson of fear when she spotted one conversing with a thin, hawkish dancer on the other side of the cantina.

Squinting against the everpresent, dull pain in her temples and lekku, she held up her index finger, pointed to another patron?s drink, dropped a dec of credits in front of her. At her expectant stare, Wuher, the bartender, glowered and grudgingly prepared something in a tall glass.

Dawn just as grudgingly offered her thanks, stepped away, and gulped half the numbing drink, nearly choking on the burning fumes as she spied a singularly petite twi?lek quietly observing the crowd. Explains the headache. . . , she thought, wryly.