The Citadel Cantina is located on the second level of the Arcona Citadel. The bar itself is small on the surface, but possess an expansive selection thanks to a clever servos-operated storage system built into the underside of the bar. A bartender only need punch in what drink they require (other than the typical stock) and within a minute the bottle is distributed to transparisteel display panels. Relaxed, soothing music plays over the speakers, and a big-screen display terminal with access to the holonet sits across from a series of comfortable lounge chairs and stools.

The cantina is full-service and is manned by a gruff, one-eyed Rodian named Mick. Mick is a grumpy, former sergeant who served in the Arcona Armed Forces years and years ago. He goes about his business with a series of grunts, gestures, and monosyllabic dialogue. Though a man of few words, he is a genius of alcoholic beverages and mixology. Mick has a very strict rule about no fighting or brawling within the cantina. The mess hall, on the other hand, is a different story.

The cantina opens up into a dedicated mess-hall that can hold up to a hundred sentients before it starts to feel claustrophobic. Open at all hours, the mess-hall has been sanctioned as an acceptable area for members to settle aggression and other frustrations. The tables are all firmly bolted into the hall's floor to avoid being thrown over, and are crafted out of durable material that has held its own throughout the years. At the far end of the mess-hall there is a pair of double-doors that lead to the kitchen and storage area. The mess-hall is maintained by a full staff of droids, and occasionally a new recruit who has earned the ire of their superiors.

"Pardon me, good sir, but are you the one known as 'Strong'?" asked the young Human, his tone carefully neutral yet respectful.

The man he was addressing, who was nearly as broad as Cawthren was tall, turned in his chair to look at the Knight. Red eyes that faintly glowed took in his well-dressed form, dark eyebrows scrunching together in a search for familiarity through a light haze of alcohol. Light from one fo the signs above the nearby bar gave the Chiss's bald scalp a sheen of shifting colors, almost distracting the man from that crimson gaze.

"I am Stres'trong'armis!" boomed the man, finally. "And you are, my friend? Do you intend to sit with us?"

The Chiss gestured at the others at his table, an extremely short Falleen and a golden-skinned woman with tattoos on her face. The former looked content yet surly, the latter as if she was already three sheets to the wind and going for four, practically in the big man's lap.

"We do enjoy making new friends, and the recent safe return of the Shadow Lord does mean Mick is running half-off specials this eve! A perfect time to meet new people," rumbled Strong, holding a glass up towards Cawthren with one hand. His other seemed firmly on the other side of the Kiffar woman to his right, holding her up.

"Curious you should celebrate Lord Bleu's return so jovially, good sir, when it is said you are his personal guard," spoke Cawthren, ignoring the offered drink. He heard a groan from the small Falleen, who dropped out of his boosted seat to wander off towards the bar, shaking his head. "I must ask, good sir, how the Shadow Lord came to such grievous harm while under your oh-so lauded protection?"

Strong set his drink down with an ominous thud, his knuckles darkening to a purple around the glass. He leaned down to the woman grinning up at him, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek and give him a wink as he gently moved her to her seat. The Chiss slowly stood and turned to face the Human, who found himself face to chest with the large man.

"Young man, I would advise you choose your words carefully," spoke Garmis, his voice thick with intent and alcohol. "I have no obligation to explain to you the mission I was dispatched upon while my Master was on Thillon, and you would do well to not provoke a fight so hastily."

Cawthren craned his neck to look up at the man, shaking his head.

"So your failure of duty is explained away with an 'I can't talk about why I failed in my duty,' is that it? And it was said you were a man of culture and nobility, yet you sit her drinking away your failure. No wonder the Shadow Lord lies nearly dead in the medbay," spat the Human, his anger finally showing through.

The young man was seething inside; his duties had kept him far from the Consul while many were on the Lyra mission. Yet this man had been meant to be the Shadow Lord's protector, and nearly let him die. Now, he simply sat there with his posse, getting drunk and bringing further shame to the Clan.

Large blue hands closed on the front of his vest, lifting him up off the floor, feet dangling below him. Half squinted red eyes glared into blue, as the Chiss studied his face.

"I am not proud that my Master came to such harm, but I was not able to do anything about it, young man. Lessen your pride, he is your Consul, not your father or brother."

"Perhaps is you were a proper Shadesworn, you'd under—" Cawthren's eyes widened in alarm as his words were met with action. The world seemed to spin, the lights from the bar, the smoke hanging in the air, the table full of drinks surrounded by off duty nurses that he was suddenly crashing through. He groaned on the floor, covered in broken glass and wasted alcohol, looking up at a quartet of ladies in medward uniforms.

"Ladies," he said with a nod, dragging himself to his feet unsteadily. "Apologies, I'll see that your replacement round is put on my tab." He attempted a short bow of apologies, grimacing as a piece of glass dug into his side under their disapproving glares.

"You need to answer for your words," came the rumbling challenge from the Chiss. A meaty paw of a hand was reaching out to grasp Cawthren once more, and the Human had no desire to fly again. Striking out with the edge of his right palm, the Defender drove it into the inside of Strong's elbow, hoping to knock the arm away. He stepped into the Chiss's reach, pivoting to gain momentum and drove his elbow awkwardly up to where he hoped the man's solar plexus was, nearly head height for the Human.

It drew a grunt of annoyance from the big man, and a wince from the smaller, as if he'd just hit a fleshy wall.

"What are you made of?"

"The calisthenics and dietary routines of the Garmis bloodline have been passed down for generations, young man, to chisel this form," shouted Strong even as he wrapped his arms around the Human.

Oh no, thought Cawthren as his feet left the ground once more.