No music. No people. No noise. There was nothing to compete with the voices in her head, or the visions that ran on repeat every time she closed her eyes. Arden was alone in every sense of the word - save for the strange man across the bar, dutifully polishing his drinking glasses - and it was awful. Forearms resting on the bar, the Inquisitor's posture was hunched, head bowed; as if the rapidly melting ice in her drink might reveal the future somehow, bringing far-flung truths to light. But there was no clarity to be found, no hope, no light. Only her reflection, distorted in the curve of the glass, further shadowed by the darkness that enveloped her. There was nothing to do but sit and drink and think and wait. Eventually, the misery would pass. (Or would it? Arden wasn't so sure.) Fingers wrapping around the tumbler, she raised it to her lips and closed her eyes - first mistake - coaxing the last dregs of liquor down her throat. The images were instant: the golden glow of her saber, bright as any star, disappearing briefly - lost in the mess of coat and robe and clothes that enveloped him - only to emerge, no longer eclipsed, victorious. The blow had been fatal, but death claimed him slowly, bifurcated but still breathing, albeit barely. But it wasn't the sensation of the kill that tormented her, or the memory of his passing as he simply disappeared, no longer a gentle thrumming in the infinite web of the Force. It was the smell of his skin as he burned, the rank bouquet of singed hair and flesh and synthetic fibers mixed with the heady aroma of blazing ozone. It overwhelmed her as she drank, filling her mouth with memory. Better than the trash they served on Mos Espa, anyway. With nothing left to dull her mind, Arden raised her head, made a vague gesture toward the barkeep, and watched as he lazily retrieved her glass, refilled her drink, and tallied her ever-growing tab. The whole place was empty: it was mid-morning (maybe? time seemed so ephemeral when whiskey was involved) and somewhere she registered it was both very hot and too early to be drinking heavily. But the cantina seemed to fit the stereotypical description of a miserable little hole in the wall with it's limited seating, broken everything, chipped cups and negligent staff. It was exactly the kind of place one went to to drown one's sorrows, and Arden certainly had the motivation - and the credits - to do just that.