Her path carried her past a darkened corner of the market, where Glasya Ren stood lingering before a vendor's stall. The vendor was, of course, an informant; her ales and ciders were of secondary importance, eclipsed by the far greater value of her keen observations. She had been talking, as she usually was, when the refugee girl passed by. Glasya's eyes rose from the lip of his cup. He tracked her path like a narglatch watching a veldeer.
It was beyond curious, the way the world warped around her. She was a place the Force did not touch, instead distorting itself as though in defiance of her existence. She was a walking black hole. An utter void. Glasya's hand curled tighter around his mug, and he took a long pull from his ale.
"Did you hear me?" the vendor woman growled. She swiped at Glasya's arm with a dirty dish rag. "I said order another drink or shove off. You're taking up valuable counter space."
"Fine," Glasya answered, though his eyes never left the girl.