Rodia stands in stark contrast to Tatooine. It has wide-open expanses of blue sea, but even more noteworthy are sprawling jungles and swamps in all shades of green. It's no secret that the Rodians are a species with a proud hunting tradition. For millennia they've established their reputations as skilled stalkers who can handle all kinds of prey. What isn't so well known, however, is that one clan, the Oonta family, has recently become involved in some additional business. The older son of that family, Moxo Oonta, has enhanced the hunting lodge offerings to entice wealthy but bored Core Worlders who are looking for exotic thrills.
With the homing beacon still transmitting, the crew finds that it is close to the Oonta Hunting Lodge, some distance outside Anyetta, one of the main cities on the Anyettu Islands in the Wessessa Sea. The crew decides that the best tactic is to pose as wannabe hunters looking for a thrill, and thus to contact the camp and arrange a visit, rather than trudge through the swamps directly. It is relatively easy to find a comm frequency for the camp, and they are told that it costs 100 credits per individual per day. The PC's are instructed to land their ship at one of the docking platforms, and the Rodians will send a skiff to retrieve them. Without their own ship, the crew takes a transport to the indicated docking platform and waits for the Rodian escort.
Soon enough, a battered skiff arrives, piloted by two Rodians, one of whom is wearing the distinctive tattoo markings of the Oonta Clan. There are six more sent to guard the ship, but with no ship there, it is a crowdeed ride back to the lodge. The tattooed Rodian introduces himself as Varoo Gask and welcomes them aboard, telling them about the upcoming activities at the hunting lodge. As they traverse the swamp, Varoo points out the local wildlife and tells them that the hunting lodge has been upgraded to accommodate off-worlders. "Our clients love it," he says proudly. "We give them a real taste of Rodian hunting tradition."
The landing is dominated by a broad docking platform on its front side, which juts out over the swamp. This is built against a small structure containing an office in the middle, with a weapons locker on its west side, and a communications station and refresher to the east. The comm station provides communications with ships in orbit and nearby settlements. Varoo indicates that blaster rifles or pistols are available to rent for a fee and grenades can be purchased for use during a hunt. While the front doors of the building remain unlocked, the locker and comm station are sealed.
After disembarking, Varoo directs them to follow him inside. The team is first directed to the dormitories. They are split into male and female buildings, with the males being closer to the landing area and the female further to the east. Inside, the air is humid and thick with the scent of preserved hides and something richer—spiced meat roasting somewhere deeper in the compound.
There is a simple map available which shows the lodge itself, Goova's home, temporary landing pads, the workers and guards dormitories and the infirmary.
Spanner's fingers twitched toward his belt pouch the moment Varoo left them in the dormitory. The scanner was a small hand-held piece of gear designed for field use by explorers and scouts. This model was directional and could be used to identify the nearby presence of life forms, heat fonts, radiation sources or acoustic emissions. It also had the ability to detect commlink signals and so could indicate if they were under surveillance remotely. He flicked it on—the soft blue glow illuminating his face in the dim barracks—while Pron leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the hallway. No signal, it was safe to talk.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors dimmed as it processed the readings. "Observation: Structural density suggests sound-dampening materials in walls," the droid noted, running a metallic finger along the rough-hewn timber. "Conclusion: Either hospitality consideration—" its head tilted sharply "—or intentional privacy violation countermeasures."
Roona snorted, her Rodian snout wrinkling. "Both." She adjusted her belt and shot a glance toward the door. "Oonta clan didn't build this place for whispering sweet nothings. They want clients who pay to shoot things, not ask questions."
Once settled in the group decided to hit the lodge early. Food would be served in a bit but it was a chance to mingle with the other guests and try to find any information they could. The lodge was extravagant. A large ornate bar stocked with what appeared to be a wide range of exotic and expensive drinks. At least 30 tables filled the spacious area and there were a pair of private rooms as well.
Koraz made a beeline for the Trandoshan brooding at the bar. The hunter nursed a tumbler of something amber and volatile, his slit-pupiled gaze tracking Koraz's approach with reptilian disinterest. The Iktochi leaned against the polished wood, deliberately leaving his blaster within easy reach. "May the Scorekeeper favor you," he offered smoothly, signaling the bartender for two glasses of whatever the Trandoshan was drinking.
The hunter's nostrils flared—a deliberate inhalation of scent—before his scaled lips peeled back in a grin of jagged teeth. "May the Scorekeeper favor you," he repeated, his Basic thick with phlegm. He tapped his claws against the glass. "Tes'serak of Clan Borsk." His tongue flicked out, tasting the air between them. "You're here to hunt."
Koraz indicated that was why he was here of course. The lie slid off his tongue as smoothly as the whiskey burned down his throat. "Hoping to track a rare specimen," he murmured, watching the Trandoshan's pupils dilate at the mention of rarity. He let the pause linger just long enough to seem conspiratorial. "Have you heard whispers of anything... unusual in these swamps."
Tes leaned in a whispered with a hiss that he's heard rumors of some "special hunts" involving more cunning and capable prey. Koraz quickly indicates that he too would be interested in such an escapade.
While Roona sat off to one side speaking to another female Rodian in their native language, Xander headed over to a group of Ubese sitting in the far corner trying to stick to themselves. Despite his best efforts, the group of five proved difficult to engage in conversation, as they only responded in their own language. At one point, FL-AR3 sauntered up with a glass of Rychelian Blue in his hand; the bartender impressed that a droid would know such a rare vintage.
As they departed to a distant table, Xander asked the droid what their parting words were. "Statement: The Ubese phrase translates as 'Big Lizard,'" FL-AR3 intoned, his vocoder flattening the words into clinical precision.
Xander blinked. "Big... lizard?" He glanced back at the Ubese hunters, now huddled in low conversation, their masked faces unreadable. "That's it? Just 'big lizard'?"
FL-AR3's photoreceptors pulsed blue as the droid accessed deeper linguistic subroutines. "Clarification: 'Big Lizard' is a direct translation," it stated, tilting its head slightly. "Contextual analysis suggests possible colloquial usage. Or perhaps it is some Ubese joke?"
Hunter and Hunted (Episode 20)
Moderator: GM Fang
Re: Hunter and Hunted (Episode 20)
More guests kept arriving, some less noticeable and some more so, like the human couple who stepped into the lodge like they were expecting to be honored guests. Talem Goll announce himself in trying to make small talk with whomever would listen. It was easy to overhear that he is from the Core Worlds and he seems to be looking for a thrill. Talem mentioned how the hunting camp is quaint and he's excited to be roughing it. Talking to a Rodian near Koraz and Tes'serak he mentioned that he has been waiting for this hunting experience.
Koraz asked him if he's an experienced hunter and Talen is quick to claim that he has hunted krayt dragons on Tatooine and rancors on Fellucia. His wife stepped away from the conversation, muttering that those hunts were only computer simulations, while rolling her eyes. "They were pretty darn realistic, though," he confidently said to her retreating form.
Talem adjusted his brand-new utility vest—the pockets still stiff with synth-leather sheen—and slid closer to Koraz and Tes'serak with the practiced ease of a man who'd bought his way into every club from Coruscant to Kessel. His fingers twitched toward his belt, where a holster housed a blaster so polished it reflected the lodge's firelight like a mirror.
"You gentlemen look like you've seen action," Talem said, flashing teeth whitened to Core World perfection. His gaze flicked between Koraz's scarred knuckles and Tes'serak's notched ear spines. "Real action, I mean. Not the holosuite kind."
Tes'serak's tongue slithered out, tasting the air between them—then retracted with a dismissive flick. "You smell like bacta spray and new leather," the Trandoshan rumbled, claws clicking against his cup.
Koraz didn't bother hiding his smirk as Talem's smile faltered. The Iktochi leaned back, knowing the stories either one could tell would cause a Core Worlder like this to soil their pressed trousers. "Action's easy to find," Koraz mused, swirling his drink. "Harder to walk away from. You looking for trophies?"
Talem chuckled nervously, fingers drumming the bar. "Heard whispers about an upcoming hunt. Something about Renn making a special delivery?" His gaze flicked toward the western corridor—the direction of Moxo's barracks—where two Rodian guards stood sentry.
Koraz's fingers tightened around his glass. "What kind of delivery?" The question came out smooth, but Tes'serak's nostrils flared..
Talem shrugged, his pristine vest creaking. "Just whispers in the lounge. Something about a shipment from Renn's contacts—special stock for a hunt." He leaned in, Corellian whiskey sour on his breath. "You didn't hear it from me."
Loren Goll perched lazily on a well-carved chair at a table near the center of the lodge, swirling a glass of something too sweet for her palate. Her fingers—manicured, perfumed, utterly out of place—drummed against the wood in a rhythm that matched her rising irritation. Across the lodge, Talem was now enthusiastically demonstrating his "hunting stance" to a Rodian whose flattened ears betrayed his disdain. Loren exhaled through her nose, her gaze drifting around the room.
Xander slid smoothly into the seat opposite her, flashing a grin that had worked on bartenders and bounty hunters alike. "You look like someone who'd rather be anywhere else," he said, tilting his head toward Talem. "And frankly, I don’t blame you." His voice was low, conspiratorial—just enough to make her lean in slightly.
Loren’s fingers stilled, her gaze flicking over Xander’s scuffed boots and worn jacket. Not wealthy, then. Interesting. "You’re not wrong," she admitted, her lips quirking in a half-smile. "Though ‘anywhere else’ is a bit vague. Corellian wine bars, for instance, don’t smell like swamp and roasted... whatever that is." She nodded toward the karstag cooking in the kitchen.
Xander leaned back, stretching his arms along the chair’s spine with practiced nonchalance. "Corellia’s overrated. Too many people pretending they’ve got something to prove." He flicked a glance at Talem, now attempting to arm-wrestle a bemused Rodian hunter. "Present company excluded, obviously."
Loren’s laughter was sharp, unexpected—like ice cracking underfoot. "Oh, he’s proving something alright. Mostly that he shouldn’t be allowed near live weapons." She swirled her drink again, studying Xander over the rim. "You’re here for the hunting, are you?"
"With friends," Xander confirmed, nodding first toward the table he just vacated with FL-AR3 and then Koraz and Tes'serak, where the Trandoshan was now demonstrating how to skin a kill with one claw. Loren’s nose wrinkled. He nudged his chair closer, the legs scraping against the floor just loud enough to make her glance up. "And you? Didn’t peg you as the ‘roughing it’ type."
Loren tousled her hair a bit. "I married stability," she said flatly, watching Talem fumble with a vibroknife he’d bought just for this trip. "Turns out, stability wears pressed slacks and talks about his ‘holosuite conquests’ at dinner parties." Her gaze flicked back to Xander, lingering on the scar that peeked above his eyebrow. "But the unknown is... messy."
Xander mirrored her posture, elbows on the table, close enough to catch the floral notes of her perfume—Corellian, expensive—underneath the lodge’s musk. "Messy’s underrated," he murmured, tapping his glass in a lazy rhythm. "Clean makes for boring stories." His knee brushed hers beneath the table, deliberate but deniable. Loren didn’t pull away.
She arched a sculpted brow, lips curling around the rim of her glass. "Careful," she breathed, the word warm with promise. "I might take that as an invitation." Her sandaled foot trailed up his calf before withdrawing just as sudden raucous laughter erupted nearby. Rodian arm-wrestling had broken out in a full competition. Loren’s gaze lingered on the spectacle before flicking back to Xander. "You should find me later. When the... *hunting* starts." Her wink was all Corellian coyness.
Meanwhile, Spanner was nursing a surprisingly decent Corellian ale when the Twi'lek slid onto the bench opposite him with the grace of someone who'd navigated a thousand cantinas. Mimana Ree's lekku bore the faint scars of Hutt service—thin white lines where jewelry chains had dug too deep. His smile didn't reach his eyes as he leaned forward, the scent of Ryloth spiceleaf clinging to his tunic. "Greetings friends, what brings you to these exotic hunting grounds?"
Pron's jowls twitched—the Sullustan could smell bullshit from three systems away—but Spanner straightened up with the eager clumsiness of youth. "Heard the Oontas run premier hunts," he lied, fingers drumming the tabletop. "Wanted to bag something worth bragging about."
Mimana's lekku coiled slightly—calculating. "Bragging rights?" The Twi'lek chuckled, plucking an ice chip from Pron's abandoned drink and letting it melt on his tongue. "Or perhaps..." His gaze flicked to FL-AR3 looming behind them, then to Koraz's tense shoulders across the room. "...something more personal?" The question hung between them like a vibroblade balanced on its edge. "Have you been to Ryloth recently?"
Spanner's grip tightened around his ale glass, condensation dripping onto the worn wooden table. "We're hunters," he lied again, forcing a grin that felt brittle. "Personal doesn't pay the docking fees."
Mimana's gaze lingered on FL-AR3's scorched chassis sitting at a further table, his lekku twitching in a way that suggested recognition. "Hunters," he echoed, fingertips tracing the rim of Pron's abandoned drink. He leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur that carried the sticky-sweet threat of Ryloth's spice dens. "You reek of trouble. The kind that follows men who poke the wrong nests."
He pushed back from the bench with deliberate slowness, the hem of his tunic catching on a warped floorboard as he stood. The Twi'lek didn't bother disguising his appraisal—counting blasters, noting Spanner's twitchy fingers, Pron's too-casual slump. "Enjoy your hunt," he said, the words dripping with false cheer. "The swamps have been... lively lately."
The tension shattered as the lodge doors burst open with a gust of swamp-scented air. Goova Oonta swept in like a monsoon, her emerald-green hide glistening with decorative oil that caught the firelight in prismatic streaks. The Rodian matriarch's narrow mouth curved into a welcoming grin as she spread her arms—the left one bearing the ritual scars of a huntress who'd faced a juvenile krayt dragon and lived to tell the tale. "Welcome, welcome!" Her Basic carried the melodic lilt of someone who'd practiced Core World pleasantries between spear hunts. "Varoo tells me we have fresh meat—I mean guests!" Her laughter boomed through the lodge, genuine and disarming.
She moved through the crowd with practiced ease, clasping forearms with the Trandoshans, pressing foreheads briefly with the Ubese hunters, and—when she reached Spanner's table—snatching Mimana's unfinished drink to drain it in one gulp. "Bah!" She slammed the empty glass down, her dark eyes swiveling toward the Twi'lek. "No spice in this one! You're slipping, Ree." Her tone carried the weight of old familiarity, but her gaze sharpened when she noticed FL-AR3's scorched chassis. "And you brought toys!" The droid's photoreceptors flickered rapidly as Goova poked at its shoulder plating with a suction-tipped finger. "Better not let Moxo see this one—he'll want to take it apart."
Servers emerged from the kitchen alcoves bearing steaming platters of roasted karstag, the meat glazed in a glossy, caramelized crust that crackled audibly as they passed. The scent alone was intoxicating—rich marrow mingling with the earthy tang of algae bread stuffing, all underscored by the sharp herbal bite of freshly picked greens.
Spanner watched as his portion slid onto the chipped but immaculately polished pewter plate before him, the karstag’s juices pooling around the stuffing in a way that made his stomach growl despite the lingering tension. Across the table, Pron’s jowls quivered with barely suppressed delight as he inhaled deeply, his Sullustan nose twitching at the layers of spice—garlic-root, firepepper, and something that hinted at Rodian hunting preserves.
Meanwhile, Koraz tore into his own meal with Tes the Trandoshan, their table littered with gnawed bones and the remnants of a second bottle of something that smelled like engine coolant. The Iktochi'spaused eating whenever Tes leaned in to whisper—each hissed word carrying fragments of intel wrapped in reptilian bravado. "Special hunts," Tes repeated, his claws tearing apart bits of karstag meat, eschewing utensils. "Not for credits. For trophies." His tongue flicked out, tasting the air between them again. "Moxo's got new stock."
Koraz's fingers tightened around his knife, the blade sinking into the meat with deliberate precision. "Live stock?"
Tesserack hissed laughter, amber eyes glinting. "Supposedly better," he murmured, leaning in until Koraz could smell the fermented tang of his breath. "Potentially sentient." The Trandoshan's claws tapped a staccato rhythm against the table—three beats, then two.
Meanwhile, Roona joined Xander and FL-AR3 at their isolated corner table, sliding onto the bench with the quiet precision of a predator settling into tall grass. Her Rodian snout twitched as she sniffed at FL-AR3's Rychelian blue.
"Statement: Consumption of alcoholic beverages by organics often correlates with lowered inhibitions and verbal indiscretion," FL-AR3 announced, swirling his drink with mechanical precision.
Roona snorted. "Yeah, well, no one told you to develop a taste for ion stabilizers." She leaned in, her large black eyes reflecting the droid's flickering thoracic array. "Ubese not joking about 'big lizard.' Clan Oonta importing more than just rich idiots." Her voice dropped to a hiss barely audible over the lodge's raucous chatter. "Big hunt coming. Plateena, Goova daughter not happy."
Xander's fingers tightened around his glass. "Plateena?"
Roona's snout twitched—an expression that might've been a Rodian smirk. "Oonta daughter. Hunter. Been arguing with Moxo for weeks. Says the hunts are"—she glanced toward FL-AR3—"against tradition."
The droid's photoreceptors pulsed blue, analyzing the subtext. "Clarification: 'Against tradition' implies ethical violation." Its head tilted sharply toward the Ubese hunters, now gathering their gear with focused intensity.
Goova's booming voice sliced through the lodge's chatter as she climbed onto a central table, her clawed feet denting the wood. "Tonight's hunt honors the Scorekeeper!" she declared, raising a tankard of something that smelled like fermented swamp gas. The Trandoshans roared approval while the Ubese merely inclined their masked heads, then spoke amongst themselves in their mechanically altered voices.
As the afternoon's festivities wore down, Koraz made a bet with Tes'serak about the hunt upcoming that night. He managed to get Mimana in on it as well. One hundred credits each to the winner.
Koraz asked him if he's an experienced hunter and Talen is quick to claim that he has hunted krayt dragons on Tatooine and rancors on Fellucia. His wife stepped away from the conversation, muttering that those hunts were only computer simulations, while rolling her eyes. "They were pretty darn realistic, though," he confidently said to her retreating form.
Talem adjusted his brand-new utility vest—the pockets still stiff with synth-leather sheen—and slid closer to Koraz and Tes'serak with the practiced ease of a man who'd bought his way into every club from Coruscant to Kessel. His fingers twitched toward his belt, where a holster housed a blaster so polished it reflected the lodge's firelight like a mirror.
"You gentlemen look like you've seen action," Talem said, flashing teeth whitened to Core World perfection. His gaze flicked between Koraz's scarred knuckles and Tes'serak's notched ear spines. "Real action, I mean. Not the holosuite kind."
Tes'serak's tongue slithered out, tasting the air between them—then retracted with a dismissive flick. "You smell like bacta spray and new leather," the Trandoshan rumbled, claws clicking against his cup.
Koraz didn't bother hiding his smirk as Talem's smile faltered. The Iktochi leaned back, knowing the stories either one could tell would cause a Core Worlder like this to soil their pressed trousers. "Action's easy to find," Koraz mused, swirling his drink. "Harder to walk away from. You looking for trophies?"
Talem chuckled nervously, fingers drumming the bar. "Heard whispers about an upcoming hunt. Something about Renn making a special delivery?" His gaze flicked toward the western corridor—the direction of Moxo's barracks—where two Rodian guards stood sentry.
Koraz's fingers tightened around his glass. "What kind of delivery?" The question came out smooth, but Tes'serak's nostrils flared..
Talem shrugged, his pristine vest creaking. "Just whispers in the lounge. Something about a shipment from Renn's contacts—special stock for a hunt." He leaned in, Corellian whiskey sour on his breath. "You didn't hear it from me."
Loren Goll perched lazily on a well-carved chair at a table near the center of the lodge, swirling a glass of something too sweet for her palate. Her fingers—manicured, perfumed, utterly out of place—drummed against the wood in a rhythm that matched her rising irritation. Across the lodge, Talem was now enthusiastically demonstrating his "hunting stance" to a Rodian whose flattened ears betrayed his disdain. Loren exhaled through her nose, her gaze drifting around the room.
Xander slid smoothly into the seat opposite her, flashing a grin that had worked on bartenders and bounty hunters alike. "You look like someone who'd rather be anywhere else," he said, tilting his head toward Talem. "And frankly, I don’t blame you." His voice was low, conspiratorial—just enough to make her lean in slightly.
Loren’s fingers stilled, her gaze flicking over Xander’s scuffed boots and worn jacket. Not wealthy, then. Interesting. "You’re not wrong," she admitted, her lips quirking in a half-smile. "Though ‘anywhere else’ is a bit vague. Corellian wine bars, for instance, don’t smell like swamp and roasted... whatever that is." She nodded toward the karstag cooking in the kitchen.
Xander leaned back, stretching his arms along the chair’s spine with practiced nonchalance. "Corellia’s overrated. Too many people pretending they’ve got something to prove." He flicked a glance at Talem, now attempting to arm-wrestle a bemused Rodian hunter. "Present company excluded, obviously."
Loren’s laughter was sharp, unexpected—like ice cracking underfoot. "Oh, he’s proving something alright. Mostly that he shouldn’t be allowed near live weapons." She swirled her drink again, studying Xander over the rim. "You’re here for the hunting, are you?"
"With friends," Xander confirmed, nodding first toward the table he just vacated with FL-AR3 and then Koraz and Tes'serak, where the Trandoshan was now demonstrating how to skin a kill with one claw. Loren’s nose wrinkled. He nudged his chair closer, the legs scraping against the floor just loud enough to make her glance up. "And you? Didn’t peg you as the ‘roughing it’ type."
Loren tousled her hair a bit. "I married stability," she said flatly, watching Talem fumble with a vibroknife he’d bought just for this trip. "Turns out, stability wears pressed slacks and talks about his ‘holosuite conquests’ at dinner parties." Her gaze flicked back to Xander, lingering on the scar that peeked above his eyebrow. "But the unknown is... messy."
Xander mirrored her posture, elbows on the table, close enough to catch the floral notes of her perfume—Corellian, expensive—underneath the lodge’s musk. "Messy’s underrated," he murmured, tapping his glass in a lazy rhythm. "Clean makes for boring stories." His knee brushed hers beneath the table, deliberate but deniable. Loren didn’t pull away.
She arched a sculpted brow, lips curling around the rim of her glass. "Careful," she breathed, the word warm with promise. "I might take that as an invitation." Her sandaled foot trailed up his calf before withdrawing just as sudden raucous laughter erupted nearby. Rodian arm-wrestling had broken out in a full competition. Loren’s gaze lingered on the spectacle before flicking back to Xander. "You should find me later. When the... *hunting* starts." Her wink was all Corellian coyness.
Meanwhile, Spanner was nursing a surprisingly decent Corellian ale when the Twi'lek slid onto the bench opposite him with the grace of someone who'd navigated a thousand cantinas. Mimana Ree's lekku bore the faint scars of Hutt service—thin white lines where jewelry chains had dug too deep. His smile didn't reach his eyes as he leaned forward, the scent of Ryloth spiceleaf clinging to his tunic. "Greetings friends, what brings you to these exotic hunting grounds?"
Pron's jowls twitched—the Sullustan could smell bullshit from three systems away—but Spanner straightened up with the eager clumsiness of youth. "Heard the Oontas run premier hunts," he lied, fingers drumming the tabletop. "Wanted to bag something worth bragging about."
Mimana's lekku coiled slightly—calculating. "Bragging rights?" The Twi'lek chuckled, plucking an ice chip from Pron's abandoned drink and letting it melt on his tongue. "Or perhaps..." His gaze flicked to FL-AR3 looming behind them, then to Koraz's tense shoulders across the room. "...something more personal?" The question hung between them like a vibroblade balanced on its edge. "Have you been to Ryloth recently?"
Spanner's grip tightened around his ale glass, condensation dripping onto the worn wooden table. "We're hunters," he lied again, forcing a grin that felt brittle. "Personal doesn't pay the docking fees."
Mimana's gaze lingered on FL-AR3's scorched chassis sitting at a further table, his lekku twitching in a way that suggested recognition. "Hunters," he echoed, fingertips tracing the rim of Pron's abandoned drink. He leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur that carried the sticky-sweet threat of Ryloth's spice dens. "You reek of trouble. The kind that follows men who poke the wrong nests."
He pushed back from the bench with deliberate slowness, the hem of his tunic catching on a warped floorboard as he stood. The Twi'lek didn't bother disguising his appraisal—counting blasters, noting Spanner's twitchy fingers, Pron's too-casual slump. "Enjoy your hunt," he said, the words dripping with false cheer. "The swamps have been... lively lately."
The tension shattered as the lodge doors burst open with a gust of swamp-scented air. Goova Oonta swept in like a monsoon, her emerald-green hide glistening with decorative oil that caught the firelight in prismatic streaks. The Rodian matriarch's narrow mouth curved into a welcoming grin as she spread her arms—the left one bearing the ritual scars of a huntress who'd faced a juvenile krayt dragon and lived to tell the tale. "Welcome, welcome!" Her Basic carried the melodic lilt of someone who'd practiced Core World pleasantries between spear hunts. "Varoo tells me we have fresh meat—I mean guests!" Her laughter boomed through the lodge, genuine and disarming.
She moved through the crowd with practiced ease, clasping forearms with the Trandoshans, pressing foreheads briefly with the Ubese hunters, and—when she reached Spanner's table—snatching Mimana's unfinished drink to drain it in one gulp. "Bah!" She slammed the empty glass down, her dark eyes swiveling toward the Twi'lek. "No spice in this one! You're slipping, Ree." Her tone carried the weight of old familiarity, but her gaze sharpened when she noticed FL-AR3's scorched chassis. "And you brought toys!" The droid's photoreceptors flickered rapidly as Goova poked at its shoulder plating with a suction-tipped finger. "Better not let Moxo see this one—he'll want to take it apart."
Servers emerged from the kitchen alcoves bearing steaming platters of roasted karstag, the meat glazed in a glossy, caramelized crust that crackled audibly as they passed. The scent alone was intoxicating—rich marrow mingling with the earthy tang of algae bread stuffing, all underscored by the sharp herbal bite of freshly picked greens.
Spanner watched as his portion slid onto the chipped but immaculately polished pewter plate before him, the karstag’s juices pooling around the stuffing in a way that made his stomach growl despite the lingering tension. Across the table, Pron’s jowls quivered with barely suppressed delight as he inhaled deeply, his Sullustan nose twitching at the layers of spice—garlic-root, firepepper, and something that hinted at Rodian hunting preserves.
Meanwhile, Koraz tore into his own meal with Tes the Trandoshan, their table littered with gnawed bones and the remnants of a second bottle of something that smelled like engine coolant. The Iktochi'spaused eating whenever Tes leaned in to whisper—each hissed word carrying fragments of intel wrapped in reptilian bravado. "Special hunts," Tes repeated, his claws tearing apart bits of karstag meat, eschewing utensils. "Not for credits. For trophies." His tongue flicked out, tasting the air between them again. "Moxo's got new stock."
Koraz's fingers tightened around his knife, the blade sinking into the meat with deliberate precision. "Live stock?"
Tesserack hissed laughter, amber eyes glinting. "Supposedly better," he murmured, leaning in until Koraz could smell the fermented tang of his breath. "Potentially sentient." The Trandoshan's claws tapped a staccato rhythm against the table—three beats, then two.
Meanwhile, Roona joined Xander and FL-AR3 at their isolated corner table, sliding onto the bench with the quiet precision of a predator settling into tall grass. Her Rodian snout twitched as she sniffed at FL-AR3's Rychelian blue.
"Statement: Consumption of alcoholic beverages by organics often correlates with lowered inhibitions and verbal indiscretion," FL-AR3 announced, swirling his drink with mechanical precision.
Roona snorted. "Yeah, well, no one told you to develop a taste for ion stabilizers." She leaned in, her large black eyes reflecting the droid's flickering thoracic array. "Ubese not joking about 'big lizard.' Clan Oonta importing more than just rich idiots." Her voice dropped to a hiss barely audible over the lodge's raucous chatter. "Big hunt coming. Plateena, Goova daughter not happy."
Xander's fingers tightened around his glass. "Plateena?"
Roona's snout twitched—an expression that might've been a Rodian smirk. "Oonta daughter. Hunter. Been arguing with Moxo for weeks. Says the hunts are"—she glanced toward FL-AR3—"against tradition."
The droid's photoreceptors pulsed blue, analyzing the subtext. "Clarification: 'Against tradition' implies ethical violation." Its head tilted sharply toward the Ubese hunters, now gathering their gear with focused intensity.
Goova's booming voice sliced through the lodge's chatter as she climbed onto a central table, her clawed feet denting the wood. "Tonight's hunt honors the Scorekeeper!" she declared, raising a tankard of something that smelled like fermented swamp gas. The Trandoshans roared approval while the Ubese merely inclined their masked heads, then spoke amongst themselves in their mechanically altered voices.
As the afternoon's festivities wore down, Koraz made a bet with Tes'serak about the hunt upcoming that night. He managed to get Mimana in on it as well. One hundred credits each to the winner.
Re: Hunter and Hunted (Episode 20)
Eventually the evening festivities ended and a night expedition was offered. All of the Vagrant's crew joined in, along with Tes-serak, Renn, Mimana and the Goll's. One skiff took Koraz, Spanner, Tes and Mimana. The second away was FL-AR3, Xander and the Golls. The third skiff to depart carried Renn, Moxo and Pron. Each had another three or four Rodians onboard to manage the skiffs.
Plateena Oonta's feet stomped unhappily as she paced near the skiff boarding ramp, her emerald-green hide darkening with irritation under the harsh glow of the floodlights. "This is not hunting," she spat in Rodian, her voice sharp enough to make the nearest hunter stiffen. "This is butchery with spotlights!" Her black eyes flicked toward Moxo, who was busy loading frag grenades onto the skiff with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this too many times before.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors pulsed blue as the third skiff lifted off, the repulsors kicking up swirls of swamp gas that clung to Xander's jacket like a second skin. Talem was already complaining about the humidity, his vest sticking uncomfortably to his back, while Loren leaned against the rail with deliberate casualness—her fingers brushing Xander's whenever the skiff hit turbulence.
Up ahead, Koraz's skiff carved through the murky water, its floodlights slicing through the mist like a vibroblade through flesh. The Iktochi braced one boot against the gunwale, his free hand resting near his blaster as Tes'serak's tongue flicked out, tasting the air. "West," the Trandoshan hissed, pointing toward a denser patch of mangroves where the water bubbled unnaturally. Mimana's lekku twitched, his grip tightening on the rail as he whispered something in Huttese. Time passed slowly as the skiffs slipped quietly through the gloomy expanse.
The nexu's arrival was silent until it wasn't—a four-limbed shadow uncoiling from the mangrove canopy with the grace of a falling guillotine. Its twin tails lashed the air as it landed on a half-submerged log, the wood groaning under its weight. Floodlights caught the predator's scarred muzzle, the milky sheen over one eye, the way its remaining golden iris contracted to a vertical slit as it surveyed the skiffs. Saliva dripped from serrated fangs, sizzling where it hit the water.
FL-AR3's threat-assessment subroutine triggered before the Rodian guides could shout. "Alert: Non-native apex predator detected," the droid announced, pivoting toward the creature with pneumatic precision. "Designation: Nexu. Origin: Likely smuggled from Cholganna." Talem screamed—a high, undignified sound—while Loren grabbed Xander's arm with bruising force.
The first shot came from Renn's modified DL-44, its crimson bolt scorching past the nexu's ear tufts as the beast recoiled with a shriek that sent ripples across the swamp. Then chaos erupted—Trandoshan blaster rifle barking in staccato bursts, Rodian slugthrowers spitting lead that punched through mangrove bark instead of flesh. Mimana ducked behind the skiff's console, lekku twitching as stray bolts reflected in his wide eyes.
Koraz didn't fire. Not yet. The Iktochi braced against the skiff's rocking, tracking the nexu's frenzied leaps between half-sunken logs with the patience of a predator who understood timing. When the creature pivoted mid-air—exposing the soft juncture between neck and shoulder—his finger tightened. The shot wasn't loud. Just a whisper of ionized air before the bolt seared through matted fur, muscle, and finally the spinal cord. The nexu collapsed mid-pounce, momentum carrying its limp body into the water with a splash.
Silence choked the swamp for half a breath before Tes'serak roared approval, clapping Koraz's shoulder hard enough to stagger him. "Clean kill!" The Trandoshan's claws gleamed with reflected floodlights as he gestured toward the still-twitching corpse.
Koraz's skiff lurched forward, repulsors whining as the Rodian guides maneuvered to secure the nexu with hydrostatic grapples. One hunter leaned precariously over the gunwale, vibro-harpoon poised to hook the beast. The swamp returned to its bleak appearance with the sounds of insects and other unseen creatures competing with the skiffs' engines.
Ahead of them, FL-AR3's skiff juddered over a submerged log, the impact sending Talem stumbling into Loren—who used the moment to press closer to Xander, her perfume cutting through the swamp's rot. The droid's photoreceptors locked onto movement in the reeds: a ripple that didn't match the skiff's wake. "Statement: Biological signature detected in that direction," FL-AR3 announced, just as the surface erupted in a shower of algae.
The skiff jolted violently as something massive breached beneath the surface—close enough that swamp water sloshed over Loren's sandals. She yelped, recoiling into Xander's chest as the droid's photoreceptors locked onto the disturbance. "Hypothesis: Aquatic predator," it intoned, just as a scaled tail the width of a speeder bike slapped the water less than a meter away. Talem's scream was embarrassingly high-pitched.
Then the swamp exploded. The reptiloid surged upward in a cascade of brackish spray, its armored head slamming into the skiff's underside hard enough to tilt the deck at a sickening angle. Rodian guides scrambled for balance as the beast's serrated claws raked the hull.. One hunter vanished mid-shout, yanked underwater by a whip-fast strike of the creature's barbed tail.
Talem's scream cut off abruptly when the skiff bucked again, flinging him over the rail. He hit the water with a graceless splash—just as the predator's maw yawned wide behind him. Loren lunged instinctively, her fingers catching only air before Xander's arm hooked around her waist, dragging her back from the edge. Beside them, one Rodian guide had no such luck—the creature's jaws closed around his torso with a wet crunch, blood blooming dark in the floodlights.
"Identification: Swamp scyk-class reptiloid," FL-AR3 announced, his vocabulator somehow calm over the chaos. "Recommendation: Target ocular or ventral weak points." The droid's arm pistons hissed as he braced against the rail, his free hand snapping up to discharge a precise shot into the beast's left eye. The reptiloid recoiled with a guttural shriek, its thrashing sending waves that nearly capsized the skiff. As the floodlight pivoted to show the massive ghest, Xander launched a frag grenade for the creature's mouth.
Surprisingly, the grenade did damage but the scaly hide was only partially damaged by the concussive force—the beast's armored plates flaking away in jagged shards where the explosion had struck true. The ghest dove into the shallow water, unable to completely submerge as brackish froth churned around its lashing tail. Blood and swamp filth swirled in its wake, the stench of burnt scales clinging to the humid air. Loren gagged as she watched the water churn with the creature's retreat.
Koraz's skiff roared ahead, its floodlights carving through the mist like blades. Tes'serak snarled something in Dosh, claws flexing around his rifle stock. Mimana clung to the rail, his lekku twitching with each erratic jolt of the skiff. The Iktochi didn't rush his shot—his boots braced wide, shoulders loose, breath steady despite the adrenaline humming through him. He waited until the ghest breached again, its wounded eye socket gleaming wet in the light, its maw gaping wide in a roar that sent ripples across the water.
The blaster bolt punched through the beast's palate—clean, precise—and Koraz knew before the echo faded that it was fatal. The ghest's thrashing slowed, its body spasming as dark blood frothed from its nostrils. It sank sideways into the swamp, sending up a wave that rocked the skiffs violently. Spanner whooped nearby.
Tes'serak clapped Koraz's shoulder with enough force to stagger him. "Scorekeeper favors you tonight," the Trandoshan rumbled, his breath hot. Mimana's lekku twitched as he eyed the sinking carcass.
The Rodian guides worked swiftly, hydrostatic grapples whining as they hauled the ghest's bulk onto a reinforced skiff. Its armored belly scraped against the gunwale, leaving smears of blood and algae. One hunter gagged—the stench of ruptured intestines was overwhelming—while another secured Talem's limp form with grim efficiency. Loren stood frozen, gripping the rail so tightly her knuckles blanched. She didn't look at her husband's waterlogged corpse.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered toward Loren, then Xander. The droid's vocabulator pitched lower. "Observation: Spousal loss requires emotional processing. Recommend—"
Loren cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Don't," she breathed, her voice steadier than her trembling hands. She turned away from Talem's sodden body—his once-pristine vest now shredded and clinging to bloated flesh—and faced the swamp's black expanse instead. Her shoulders rose with a slow, controlled inhale.
The Rodian hunters worked in grim silence, hauling Talem's corpse onto the skiff with grapples meant for trophies. His limbs flopped bonelessly against the deck, water sluicing from his sleeves in dark rivulets. One guide muttered in Rodian about Core Worlders and soft skulls before catching Loren's glare and falling silent. The ghest's carcass followed, its armored hide scraping against the skiff's plating with a sound like grinding teeth.
The Rodian guides worked with practiced efficiency, stacking Talem's corpse, plus one of their own, beside the ghest's carcass as if both were merely prizes to be cataloged. One hunter nudged Talem's limp wrist with his boot before shrugging and turning back to the controls. No eulogies. No mourning. Just the wet slap of scaled hides against durasteel and the hiss of swamp gas venting from the engines.
Koraz collected his credits from Tes'serak's outstretched claw—the Trandoshan grumbling something about "Iktochi luck" before Mimana handed over his own lost bet with a tight-lipped nod. The Twi'lek's gaze lingered on Loren's rigid posture before flicking away. The credits clinked softly in Koraz's pocket.
Plateena Oonta's feet stomped unhappily as she paced near the skiff boarding ramp, her emerald-green hide darkening with irritation under the harsh glow of the floodlights. "This is not hunting," she spat in Rodian, her voice sharp enough to make the nearest hunter stiffen. "This is butchery with spotlights!" Her black eyes flicked toward Moxo, who was busy loading frag grenades onto the skiff with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this too many times before.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors pulsed blue as the third skiff lifted off, the repulsors kicking up swirls of swamp gas that clung to Xander's jacket like a second skin. Talem was already complaining about the humidity, his vest sticking uncomfortably to his back, while Loren leaned against the rail with deliberate casualness—her fingers brushing Xander's whenever the skiff hit turbulence.
Up ahead, Koraz's skiff carved through the murky water, its floodlights slicing through the mist like a vibroblade through flesh. The Iktochi braced one boot against the gunwale, his free hand resting near his blaster as Tes'serak's tongue flicked out, tasting the air. "West," the Trandoshan hissed, pointing toward a denser patch of mangroves where the water bubbled unnaturally. Mimana's lekku twitched, his grip tightening on the rail as he whispered something in Huttese. Time passed slowly as the skiffs slipped quietly through the gloomy expanse.
The nexu's arrival was silent until it wasn't—a four-limbed shadow uncoiling from the mangrove canopy with the grace of a falling guillotine. Its twin tails lashed the air as it landed on a half-submerged log, the wood groaning under its weight. Floodlights caught the predator's scarred muzzle, the milky sheen over one eye, the way its remaining golden iris contracted to a vertical slit as it surveyed the skiffs. Saliva dripped from serrated fangs, sizzling where it hit the water.
FL-AR3's threat-assessment subroutine triggered before the Rodian guides could shout. "Alert: Non-native apex predator detected," the droid announced, pivoting toward the creature with pneumatic precision. "Designation: Nexu. Origin: Likely smuggled from Cholganna." Talem screamed—a high, undignified sound—while Loren grabbed Xander's arm with bruising force.
The first shot came from Renn's modified DL-44, its crimson bolt scorching past the nexu's ear tufts as the beast recoiled with a shriek that sent ripples across the swamp. Then chaos erupted—Trandoshan blaster rifle barking in staccato bursts, Rodian slugthrowers spitting lead that punched through mangrove bark instead of flesh. Mimana ducked behind the skiff's console, lekku twitching as stray bolts reflected in his wide eyes.
Koraz didn't fire. Not yet. The Iktochi braced against the skiff's rocking, tracking the nexu's frenzied leaps between half-sunken logs with the patience of a predator who understood timing. When the creature pivoted mid-air—exposing the soft juncture between neck and shoulder—his finger tightened. The shot wasn't loud. Just a whisper of ionized air before the bolt seared through matted fur, muscle, and finally the spinal cord. The nexu collapsed mid-pounce, momentum carrying its limp body into the water with a splash.
Silence choked the swamp for half a breath before Tes'serak roared approval, clapping Koraz's shoulder hard enough to stagger him. "Clean kill!" The Trandoshan's claws gleamed with reflected floodlights as he gestured toward the still-twitching corpse.
Koraz's skiff lurched forward, repulsors whining as the Rodian guides maneuvered to secure the nexu with hydrostatic grapples. One hunter leaned precariously over the gunwale, vibro-harpoon poised to hook the beast. The swamp returned to its bleak appearance with the sounds of insects and other unseen creatures competing with the skiffs' engines.
Ahead of them, FL-AR3's skiff juddered over a submerged log, the impact sending Talem stumbling into Loren—who used the moment to press closer to Xander, her perfume cutting through the swamp's rot. The droid's photoreceptors locked onto movement in the reeds: a ripple that didn't match the skiff's wake. "Statement: Biological signature detected in that direction," FL-AR3 announced, just as the surface erupted in a shower of algae.
The skiff jolted violently as something massive breached beneath the surface—close enough that swamp water sloshed over Loren's sandals. She yelped, recoiling into Xander's chest as the droid's photoreceptors locked onto the disturbance. "Hypothesis: Aquatic predator," it intoned, just as a scaled tail the width of a speeder bike slapped the water less than a meter away. Talem's scream was embarrassingly high-pitched.
Then the swamp exploded. The reptiloid surged upward in a cascade of brackish spray, its armored head slamming into the skiff's underside hard enough to tilt the deck at a sickening angle. Rodian guides scrambled for balance as the beast's serrated claws raked the hull.. One hunter vanished mid-shout, yanked underwater by a whip-fast strike of the creature's barbed tail.
Talem's scream cut off abruptly when the skiff bucked again, flinging him over the rail. He hit the water with a graceless splash—just as the predator's maw yawned wide behind him. Loren lunged instinctively, her fingers catching only air before Xander's arm hooked around her waist, dragging her back from the edge. Beside them, one Rodian guide had no such luck—the creature's jaws closed around his torso with a wet crunch, blood blooming dark in the floodlights.
"Identification: Swamp scyk-class reptiloid," FL-AR3 announced, his vocabulator somehow calm over the chaos. "Recommendation: Target ocular or ventral weak points." The droid's arm pistons hissed as he braced against the rail, his free hand snapping up to discharge a precise shot into the beast's left eye. The reptiloid recoiled with a guttural shriek, its thrashing sending waves that nearly capsized the skiff. As the floodlight pivoted to show the massive ghest, Xander launched a frag grenade for the creature's mouth.
Surprisingly, the grenade did damage but the scaly hide was only partially damaged by the concussive force—the beast's armored plates flaking away in jagged shards where the explosion had struck true. The ghest dove into the shallow water, unable to completely submerge as brackish froth churned around its lashing tail. Blood and swamp filth swirled in its wake, the stench of burnt scales clinging to the humid air. Loren gagged as she watched the water churn with the creature's retreat.
Koraz's skiff roared ahead, its floodlights carving through the mist like blades. Tes'serak snarled something in Dosh, claws flexing around his rifle stock. Mimana clung to the rail, his lekku twitching with each erratic jolt of the skiff. The Iktochi didn't rush his shot—his boots braced wide, shoulders loose, breath steady despite the adrenaline humming through him. He waited until the ghest breached again, its wounded eye socket gleaming wet in the light, its maw gaping wide in a roar that sent ripples across the water.
The blaster bolt punched through the beast's palate—clean, precise—and Koraz knew before the echo faded that it was fatal. The ghest's thrashing slowed, its body spasming as dark blood frothed from its nostrils. It sank sideways into the swamp, sending up a wave that rocked the skiffs violently. Spanner whooped nearby.
Tes'serak clapped Koraz's shoulder with enough force to stagger him. "Scorekeeper favors you tonight," the Trandoshan rumbled, his breath hot. Mimana's lekku twitched as he eyed the sinking carcass.
The Rodian guides worked swiftly, hydrostatic grapples whining as they hauled the ghest's bulk onto a reinforced skiff. Its armored belly scraped against the gunwale, leaving smears of blood and algae. One hunter gagged—the stench of ruptured intestines was overwhelming—while another secured Talem's limp form with grim efficiency. Loren stood frozen, gripping the rail so tightly her knuckles blanched. She didn't look at her husband's waterlogged corpse.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered toward Loren, then Xander. The droid's vocabulator pitched lower. "Observation: Spousal loss requires emotional processing. Recommend—"
Loren cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Don't," she breathed, her voice steadier than her trembling hands. She turned away from Talem's sodden body—his once-pristine vest now shredded and clinging to bloated flesh—and faced the swamp's black expanse instead. Her shoulders rose with a slow, controlled inhale.
The Rodian hunters worked in grim silence, hauling Talem's corpse onto the skiff with grapples meant for trophies. His limbs flopped bonelessly against the deck, water sluicing from his sleeves in dark rivulets. One guide muttered in Rodian about Core Worlders and soft skulls before catching Loren's glare and falling silent. The ghest's carcass followed, its armored hide scraping against the skiff's plating with a sound like grinding teeth.
The Rodian guides worked with practiced efficiency, stacking Talem's corpse, plus one of their own, beside the ghest's carcass as if both were merely prizes to be cataloged. One hunter nudged Talem's limp wrist with his boot before shrugging and turning back to the controls. No eulogies. No mourning. Just the wet slap of scaled hides against durasteel and the hiss of swamp gas venting from the engines.
Koraz collected his credits from Tes'serak's outstretched claw—the Trandoshan grumbling something about "Iktochi luck" before Mimana handed over his own lost bet with a tight-lipped nod. The Twi'lek's gaze lingered on Loren's rigid posture before flicking away. The credits clinked softly in Koraz's pocket.
Re: Hunter and Hunted (Episode 20)
The group formed up once back at the hunting camp in Spanner's room in the dormitory. Pron perched on the narrow bunk, while Roona leaned against the soundproofed wall. FL-AR3 stood motionless by the door, photoreceptors dimmed to low-frequency pulses. Xander and Koraz stood nearby.
Xander started the conversation with some unfortunate news. "The Raptor. The ship we flew in on. They had to leave."
Koraz quickly responded that they had more important issues at hand and they'd deal with that when the time came. He looked toward Roona who had remained back during the hunt and poked around the camp as best as she could.
Roona's black eyes gleamed under the dim light as she recounted her findings. "Scouted perimeter after dusk," she whispered, her nasal voice barely audible. "Moxo's guards went into jungle. Away from barracks."
"Heard them talking about ‘live targets’ in tomorrow's hunt." She mimed pulling a trigger. "Not hunting animals."
Pron’s hands froze mid-gesture. The Sullustan’s wide black eyes flicked to FL-AR3’s photoreceptors—now pulsing crimson—before locking onto Roona again. "Say that slower."
Roona’s snout twitched in a Rodian approximation of disgust. "Laughing about ‘two-legged trophies.’" Her voice dropped to a hiss as she imitated the guards’ guttural Rodian dialect.
Spanner’s face paled. "Kriff. They’re hunting sentients."
Roona flattened her ears, remembering the way Plateena had materialized from the shadows like a specter, her emerald-green fingers clamping down on her shoulder before she could slip into the jungle. "Not tonight, little scout," Plateena had hissed in Rodian, her breath reeking of fermented swamp berries. The Rodian’s grip was iron—not hostile, but unyielding. "You’ll miss the Dha Werda Verda." When Roona hesitated, Plateena’s grip tightened. "Our ancestors’ wars, acted in blood-paint and fire. More honorable than... whatever that is." Her black eyes flicked toward the jungle where Moxo’s guards had vanished.
The theater was a make-shift pit lined with obsidian shards, its center a sand floor. Rodian guards as actors—bare-chested, their hides streaked with luminescent pigments—circled each other with vibroblades dulled for ceremony but no less menacing. Plateena pressed a clay cup of something pungent into Roona’s hands as the drums began. "Watch," she murmured. "This is how we should hunt." Soon a Rodian in cobalt paint—playing the legendary hunter Vha’Kot—sank his teeth into a rival’s throat in slow, ritualistic motion. The small crowd roared as crimson dye spurted in an arc. Roona’s snout wrinkled. This wasn’t restraint. This was violence refined into art.
Snapping back to the present—the cramped dormitory, Pron’s expectant stare, FL-AR3’s photoreceptors throbbing like a slow-burning fuse—Roona exhaled through her nasal slits. "Moxo’s ‘live targets’ not any sentients," she whispered. "Probably our missing friends." The implication hung like the swamp’s miasma.
Now the question was what to do about it.
------------------------------------------
Unused XPS
Spanner - 0
FL-AR3 - 0 (+40)
Pron - 10 (+40)
Koraz - 10
Xander - 0
Roona - 5
Vagrant Group Funds - 3373 credits (-1200 hunting lodge payment)
Archelon Group Funds - 5591 credits
Gear: quick sale value in ()
3 Geonosian Rifles hidden in cargo hold for Nyn
4 Blaster Pistols (200 ea)
Xander started the conversation with some unfortunate news. "The Raptor. The ship we flew in on. They had to leave."
Koraz quickly responded that they had more important issues at hand and they'd deal with that when the time came. He looked toward Roona who had remained back during the hunt and poked around the camp as best as she could.
Roona's black eyes gleamed under the dim light as she recounted her findings. "Scouted perimeter after dusk," she whispered, her nasal voice barely audible. "Moxo's guards went into jungle. Away from barracks."
"Heard them talking about ‘live targets’ in tomorrow's hunt." She mimed pulling a trigger. "Not hunting animals."
Pron’s hands froze mid-gesture. The Sullustan’s wide black eyes flicked to FL-AR3’s photoreceptors—now pulsing crimson—before locking onto Roona again. "Say that slower."
Roona’s snout twitched in a Rodian approximation of disgust. "Laughing about ‘two-legged trophies.’" Her voice dropped to a hiss as she imitated the guards’ guttural Rodian dialect.
Spanner’s face paled. "Kriff. They’re hunting sentients."
Roona flattened her ears, remembering the way Plateena had materialized from the shadows like a specter, her emerald-green fingers clamping down on her shoulder before she could slip into the jungle. "Not tonight, little scout," Plateena had hissed in Rodian, her breath reeking of fermented swamp berries. The Rodian’s grip was iron—not hostile, but unyielding. "You’ll miss the Dha Werda Verda." When Roona hesitated, Plateena’s grip tightened. "Our ancestors’ wars, acted in blood-paint and fire. More honorable than... whatever that is." Her black eyes flicked toward the jungle where Moxo’s guards had vanished.
The theater was a make-shift pit lined with obsidian shards, its center a sand floor. Rodian guards as actors—bare-chested, their hides streaked with luminescent pigments—circled each other with vibroblades dulled for ceremony but no less menacing. Plateena pressed a clay cup of something pungent into Roona’s hands as the drums began. "Watch," she murmured. "This is how we should hunt." Soon a Rodian in cobalt paint—playing the legendary hunter Vha’Kot—sank his teeth into a rival’s throat in slow, ritualistic motion. The small crowd roared as crimson dye spurted in an arc. Roona’s snout wrinkled. This wasn’t restraint. This was violence refined into art.
Snapping back to the present—the cramped dormitory, Pron’s expectant stare, FL-AR3’s photoreceptors throbbing like a slow-burning fuse—Roona exhaled through her nasal slits. "Moxo’s ‘live targets’ not any sentients," she whispered. "Probably our missing friends." The implication hung like the swamp’s miasma.
Now the question was what to do about it.
------------------------------------------
Unused XPS
Spanner - 0
FL-AR3 - 0 (+40)
Pron - 10 (+40)
Koraz - 10
Xander - 0
Roona - 5
Vagrant Group Funds - 3373 credits (-1200 hunting lodge payment)
Archelon Group Funds - 5591 credits
Gear: quick sale value in ()
3 Geonosian Rifles hidden in cargo hold for Nyn
4 Blaster Pistols (200 ea)