A Little Light Seasoning

[Azimuth Industries]

Ryloth,
Spaceport

The general state of flux in galactic governance played havoc for all types of commerce, but not for the slavers of Ryloth. Even under the Techno Union they found their chosen trade quite lucrative, but with the dissolution of that institution - and all regulations with it - the slavers found the flesh could not leave planet fast enough to keep up with the demand.

They also found themselves very, very rich.

In the middle of the hustle and bustle, back leaning against the wall of an establishment of ill-repute, Narbo looked out on the spaceport. To his left stood an array of platforms all marketing scantily clad Twi'leks. Every platform had a clamoring throng surrounding it. And to his right? Pretty much the same karking thing.

"Ah, not a bad view, eh Sim?"

Beside Narbo stood a lumbering hegemonic war droid, with a single, glowing cybernetic photoreceptor. It said something vaguely offensive in a monotone Trandoshan.

The Aqualish laughed, tusks clicking together. "Our pateesas will be here soon, don't you worry."

In the meanwhile, all sorts of scum passed by on the street. The sort that might want a stake in Narbo's ventures. He kept eyes out for any who looked promising.


@B'enor (Ben) Benjeel | [member="Logen Brunner"] | [member="Onley Xiangu"] | [member="Lok Munin"] | [member="Ellifain Verrona"]

 

[B'enor Benjeel]

Ben, the grey furred Chadra-Fan mechanic, slicer, and, some might even say, scum, spoke quietly but frustratingly into a com linked to Shorty, his customized astromech/slicer droid, “Where are you?” he asked through gritted teeth, “I know we’ve landed and the crate’s been unloaded, I can here people outside, so where the kark are you?”

“Boop, whistle.”

“What do you mean be patient? At least you had free reign of the storage hull. I’m not exactly curled up in first class here.” He kicked at a piece of junk with his right foot. “Hurry up, would you, it’s dark, it smells like the inside of a hutt’s colon, and I think I just stepped in poodoo, or worse.”

Moments later, he heard a dull drilling from outside the wooden crate he was curled inside, and with a pop, the hatch opened and the door thudded to the ground. Bright light illuminated a cloud of dust kicked-up by the door. Ben squeezed his sensitive eyes shut.

“Ahh, turn the lights down! I haven’t seen daylight in months” he said rolling out of the crate onto the dirty, bustling floor of the spaceport. He swatted at the air as if he could brush the bright-light away.

“Whistle, whistle, boooop.”

“Well, it felt like that long.” He stood up, covered in dirt from the floor, grime, and other unrecognizable goop from the crate. With one arm over his eyes, he used the other to brush off his green mechanic’s suit, doing little more than rubbing everything into the fabric.

After acclimating his eyes to the light, they opened to see a hurried, packed spaceport, the kind of place where a fella could roll out of a crate unnoticed. So, he hadn’t gotten to Ryloth in style, but, at least he’d made it. He pulled out the piece of flimsy Narbo gave him and said, “Alright, let’s go find Narbo so we can finally make a few credits.”

“Boooooop, boop”, accused, Shorty.


“So what if I gambled it, that’s my right. Schutta, would you.”

**********​

After getting lost, distracted, then lost a little more, Ben finally found Narbo leaning against a wall. “I said I would make it, and here I am, lorda pateessa, at your service – for a price. And after what I had to do to get here, It better be a good price” he said to Narbo.

Shorty approached the war droid, “whistle, beep, boooop,” he greeted.

 

[Riz Carter]

[member="Narbo"] @B'enor (Ben) Benjeel

Pint-sized form zipped and fluttered through the busy streets. She could smell the sweat from the dancing twi'leks and mingling bodies and fur. But there was something her little nose was seeking out and it wasn't the smug smell of an aqualish with the scent of a few dozen different women on its tusks or the chandra-fan musty, salty smell.

It was spice.

Being an ex-slave to a hutt developed certain... habits. Certain needs. And the little wistie would do anything to satisfy those cravings.

Bright eyes zeroed in on a bag at Narbo's side. With a pump of her wings, she dropped through the air in a steep dive, going for the opening. She needed to go low to get high.

 

[Azimuth Industries]

Interestingly enough, the spaceport did not shut down.

Strange to say, slavers had apparently made a lot of money. And with the money came the power. And with the power came... well, apparently not respect.

In any case, Narbo was no slaver. He heard blaster shots in the distance, but he had also grown up on the streets of Nar Shaddaa and didn't pay them much mind.

He had other things on his mind, like why some strange bug was dive bombing his satchel.

Bzzzz.

Narbo swatted at the funny-looking insect with one furry, three-fingered hand. "Shoo, shoo."

He looked up as a Chadra-Fan and an astromech approached. Sim said something in Trandoshan to the smaller droid. Narbo grunted. "Ey, Benny, help me catch this bug."

[member="Evangeline Sage"] | @B'enor (Ben) Benjeel

* * *

A Twi'lek man with numerous gold bands wrapped around his lekkus stared at the security guard. "Slavery? There are no slaves here," said the slaver, "These are high quality escorts. Completely willing."

"Oh yeah? Then what are the chains around their necks for?"

"Eh? Oh that," said the Twi'lek, whose name was Bril. His lekkus shifted. "Some of our customers have uh, certain inclinations."

"Oh."

Bril's lekkus twitched. He gave the guard a toothy smile.

 

[Azimuth Industries]

Bril, unlike many Twi'leks, did not have a very strong skull. He'd been diagnosed with a thin skull as a child and always been careful to make sure he never hit his head too hard.

Until now, of course.

Edric's baton came down and Bril's head split like a soft melon. Blood spattered onto the ground.

People screamed as two Twilight Legos callously dragged the corpse away.

"Murderer!"

Someone fired a blaster. More followed.

A small war began.

 

[B'enor Benjeel]

Both Ben and Narbo noticed some sort of pest making a run for Narbo’s spice satchel. “Ey, Benny, help me catch this bug” Narbo said as he tried swatting it away. “This.” Ben grumbled, “Was not what I had in mind when I said I was at your service, petessa.”

He started to draw his blaster when Shorty chimed in, “Booooop, whiste, boop.”

“Yeah, I guess that would be a bit overdoing it,” he responded as he slid the blaster back. He grabbed a small hydrospanner from his utility vest instead. With his multitude of acute Chadra-Fan senses, Ben could easily keep track of the pest, hell, he could smell the thing’s spice craving leaking from its tiny pores with his chemoreceptive smell. Which was weird now that he thought about it. Did bugs get hooked on spice?

Unfortunately, his reflexes weren’t as amazing as his senses. He swung the hydrospanner wildly, clanging against Shorty, who protested loudly.

“I don’t see you trying anything.”

With that, a welding torch at the end of a long, jointed arm popped from one of Shorty’s hatches. He began swinging it wildly. There they were, not long after landing on Ryloth, with their first job – as exterminators, of all things -- excitedly swinging appendages around like some comedic duo.

[member="Narbo"] [member="Evangeline Sage"]

 

[thegreatbeyonder]

Arian--like many spacers--found himself refueling his starship on the Outer Rim world of Ryloth, home of the Twi'lek race; here he had hoped things were quieter, but instead found himself in an all too familiar situation.

The sound of blaster fire rung in the distance, followed by a singular shout. "Murderer!" The voice carried over silenced denizens before an array of screams and outrage drowned out everything else as the spaceport threw itself into panic and violence. This was not turning out to be your blue milk run, yet Arian couldn't deny the growing sense of euphoria he felt deep inside himself.

Just as he assumed it was none of his business, however, he realised an all too familiar sight. Although they never met, he knew of [member="Narbo"] through a mutual contact and recalled seeing a holovid or two from spaceport security elsewhere in the galaxy.

The only unexpected sight was a stubby Chadra-Fan struggling with something he apparently could not see. What the...? The more he looked, the weirder it became. Arian kept a hand close to his modified Luxan penetrator, just incase things turned south for him real quick.

[member="Evangeline Sage"] | @B'enor (Ben) Benjeel

 

[B'enor Benjeel]

Disregard. Unintentional post.

 

[Freeosk]

A thick slab of muscle, even for a Yuzzem, attached to a hulking eight foot, two-inch-tall frame -- deliberately crafted over decades of exercise -- casually walked through the bustling spaceport of Ryloth. In other words, some might say, he was very tall, jacked, and cut – not to mention fury.

And -- intimidating.

Which is why, despite the packed and bustling nature of the spaceport, most of its occupants chose to keep a wide berth of Freeosk, the former gladiatorial slave. He was here to find a job as a bodyguard/ mercenary, plying the only talents he had which were his heavily muscled frame and his expertise in close quarters combat.

Narbo had shown interest in acquiring his unique skill set. After all, few, even a Wookiee, wouldn’t think twice before tangling with a Yuzzem, let alone one so heavily built as well as trained in gladiatorial violence. Besides, in his not so humble opinion, the small, flabby, and weak bodies of smugglers, spice dealers, cartel leaders, and galactic police, were certainly not among the list of those who would willingly pick a fight with a Yuzzem – making his presence quite valuable in such a dangerous trade. Which meant credits.

Granted, he knew little about Narbo and his line of work, but even Freeosk, with his limited galactic experience, knew enough about Narbo's career to know what such a career required.

On approaching the place where Narbo indicated he would be waiting, Freeosk double checked his flimsy. Then, peering over said flimsy, he scrutinized the tiny rat and droid flailing around near Narbo, who also appeared to be swatting at something. Freeosk checked the flimsy again, hoping he’d read it wrong the first two times… he hadn’t.

Approaching the odd group, he said sarcastically in a deep bass voice flavored with a hint of raspiness, “I hope I’m not interrupting your dance practice, but I’m supposed to meet Narbo here. You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?” He glanced over at Narbo.

[member="Narbo"] | [member="Evangeline Sage"] | [member="Arian Lenar"] | [member="B'enor Benjeel"]

 

[Riz Carter]

[member="Narbo"] @Freeosk

Little wings beat furiously, just missing the three-fingered furry hand. Red-haired head shook. She twittered at him and zipped into the air again.

"Rude. Rude. Rude."

Then came out the hydrospanner.

"Eeeep," she ducked behind Narbo's right elbow. Who knew if he'd get shocked, instead? Then there were flames. Fiery-eyes widened and she dove, scrambling and disappearing inside Narbo's bag. One tiny boot fell from the lip of the bag and on the ground in a silent plop from her tiny foot being caught for just a second. Wings tucked down against her back as she went deeper and deeper in.

@B'enor (Ben) Benjeel [member="Arian Lenar"]

 

[The Bounteous Hunt]

Falleen Prince of House Lac...

That had been his title until he was enlightened to the violence and the chaos that follows titles like those, before he learned of the atrocities the power of a name could have. They had told him, that Falleen was the center of the galaxy, that the Falleen were innately better off than the rest of the galaxy... but they were no different, and this revelation set him on a path of renunciation, and of physical detachment. The woman he had met, Mav Reyti, was a survivor of genocide, the most brutal and bloody of all the Primeval campaigns. It had started with the name Zambrano... a name already tainted by the infamy of genocide and oppression, and it started with a Hutt who had claimed the title of Warlord of the Chiloon Rift, the Black Prophet, the Host of Balagoth. Czast was aware of the Primeval faith, what it truly represented to the common people, and not to those who held the sway and the power of prophets.

Czast had always been wary of the overtly religious, but in his time exploring the galaxy as a prince making a pilgrimage away from home, he had found the basic intrinsic principles of faith - to be courteous of all life - alluring. While not a believer himself, he became a devout student of faith, and he studied the faithful whom he lended aid to in their time of need. It had happened by chance, but it has forever changed the rest of his long life. Ever since, he had been exploring the galaxy in search of new sights, new faiths, and new people to lend his hand to.

Today, that world was Ryloth.

The scene before him, was the same scene he saw across the galaxy. People with authority belittling and destroying those without authority to a title, and authority destroying those of inferior titles. Do not misunderstand Czast, he had come to loath the idea of slavery and the infernal authority of a "Master", but the sudden and incidentally ultra-violent response from the security guard hit a nerve for Czast he had been suppressing since he arrived on this glorified trafficking hub.

Someone screamed Murderer at the guard, who was just as surprised as they were to see the blood splattered across the pavement, before a blaster cut through the air and hit the guard in the shoulder. Screaming in pain, he fell or rolled behind a crate for cover and pulled out a blaster of his own while he called for more security. The number of blasters and angry confused people escalated, and Czast was caught in the middle of it.

So far his renunciation of titles and detachment, has done nothing to increase his calm in such a immoral situation.

Rather than choose a side and pick a fight, Czast decided in the heat of the moment he would do something else entirely, and far more productive than confused reactionary murder - he would free the Twi'lek slaves. It would likely be difficult of course, he hadn't the faintest clue how to speak - Twi'lekese? - but somehow, probably through the 'gift' Mav Reyti had told him he had, Czast has always been able to understand people fairly well without having learned their language. His rudimentary instinctual understanding would have to do, they probably know Basic either way. Czast approached the Twi'leks who could do little more than tremble with the violence surrounding them... their calm was not increased upon seeing a wild eyed Falleen man escaping that violence and running towards them. However, before he could reach them and explain his intent, another Twi'lek male noticed his approach. He must have somehow mistaken him for security, or a thief, judged by the spacer outfit he had on to blend in with the crowd here.

<<Falleen scum! You killed my brother!>> The man spoke in his native Twi'lek tongue, forcing a grimace on Czast's face to have received that sort of discrimination from another oppressed alien... but it did not seem the man was in his right mind, accusing him of his brother's murder. He was just looking for an excuse to shoot him. Momentarily, as he spoke, Czast felt his left shoulder burn. Reacting on instinct he shifted his weight a moment before the Twi'lek pulled the trigger. The threads on his jacket singed, and the scales on his arm were slightly charred, but otherwise intact and unharmed. Without even thinking about it, the minor sizzling pain seemed to go away for Czast, as he reached out his hand... seeing in his mind the weapon clattering to the ground. For a brief moment, he had to close his eyes... but this was a mistake, the blaster rang out again and this time it struck near enough to his foot to make him jump and lose concentration. It seemed he had only succeeded in throwing off the Twi'lek's aim.

"Hagwa crispo! Hagwa crispo! Dobrah pateesa!" Czast's words of non-violence spoken in Huttese seemed to do nothing in the face of blind rage. So much for nobly setting the slaves free, it looked like he would have to incapacitate or kill this stranger first...

[member="Narbo"], [member="Evangeline Sage"], @Freeosk, @B'enor (Ben) Benjeel, [member="Arian Lenar"]

 

[Azimuth Industries]

"Wait, wait," Narbo held up a three-fingered hand quickly to forestall Ben's ruthlessness and not just because the Chadra-Fan would probably end up whacking him accidentally, or the droid would end up setting him on fire.

He thought he'd heard a voice yelling at him in Basic. And that bug... was it really a bug? Now that he thought about it it looked more like a tiny human with wings than a bug.

"You, whoever you are, come out," he yelled into the satchel, looking more and more like a deranged Aqualish who had snorted one too many lines of glitterstim.

The ground shaking beneath a giant's stride caused him to look up. "Eh?" His eyes went up and up, then he laughed. The Yuzzem was absolutely enormous. Ah, and there was the smuggler from Helix. Right on time.

Blaster shots started to heat up somewhere in the near distance.

"Best we get a ship, yeah?" He pointed at Arian. "You got a ship?"

[member="Arian Lenar"] | [member="Freeosk "]| [member="Evangeline Sage"] | [member="Czast Lac"]

 

[thegreatbeyonder]

More and more individuals showed up. Perhaps there was some kind of meeting Arian wasn't aware of.

The spacer was about to back off and return to his ship, familiar sights or otherwise, until [member="Narbo"] singled him out of the crowd.

A ship? It took him a moment to register. "Yeah... I have a ship," he says--his eyes darting between the various aliens that made up their makeshift party. At the very least, his hopes were that he didn't need to haul a bunch of random alien dudes off world in his modest freighter. "Why? Where are we going?" By now he resigned himself to that fate, so long as it was just Narbo however.

Arian stood between them and his starship which found itself just meters in the backdrop. A simple freighter that wouldn't stand out in a fleet of trade ships, nor would it raise many eyebrows to galactic authorities always watching for smugglers, pirates, and the like.

[member="Freeosk "]| [member="Evangeline Sage"] | [member="Czast Lac"]

 

[B'enor Benjeel]

“Rude. Rude. Rude,” yelled a tiny voice.

Ben stopped his comedy routine. Shorty kept going. He ducked as a welding torch swung just over his head.

Narbo called for the madness to end so Ben banged a fist against Shorty’s dome, “Quit it, would you?!”

Wooop, beep

“No, we didn’t get it, I don’t think it’s a bug,” he said as he watched Narbo start yelling at his satchel. “For the love of spice, I hope it’s not a bug.” Ben looked at Shorty and made a gesture -- the international sign for crazy.

He’d been so busy flailing like a spaz he hadn’t noticed the blasterfire in the distance, the oversized teddy bear standing next to him, nor the human Narbo singled out about a ship.

“Oooooh, a ship! I love ships. Looks like we’re going to be one…” he said as he turned around, first facing the human, then, as he continued turning, his gaze exhaustively[SIZE=11pt] [/SIZE]scaled the colossal stuffed animal standing next to him, “… BIG… happy family…, ” he started to remark sarcastically.

Ben nearly sprained his neck trying to look at the creature’s face.

“Lookie lookie, someone ate his vegetables.”

[member="Arian Lenar"] | [member="Narbo"] | [member="Czast Lac"] | [member="Evangeline Sage"] | [member="Freeosk "]|

 

[Freeosk]

Narbo quit yelling at his satchel long enough to look up, and up, at Freeosk before asking a man from the group about a ship. Blasters echoed nearby. The rat looking thing turned around in a circle, saying something about family, and vegetables. What did I get myself into, he thought.

The human looked around frantically at the others, obviously concerned about opening his ship up to a ragtag group of aliens. Freeosk knew just how he felt.

The problem was, after walking close enough to the combat zone to overhear yelling, he knew the shots in the near distance had something to do with a government raid on Ryloth slavers. Considering Narbo’s chosen career, though not a slaver, the po-po wouldn’t bother distinguishing between the slaver’s and every other criminal in the area. That meant them, and, it meant Narbo, who’d recently hired Freeosk to protect him. Hell would freeze over before he was about to fail this job that quickly.

Freeosk was the furthest thing from a coward, having spent decades as a gladiatorial slave, but, he wasn’t stupid either. Plus, he hated blaster wounds. There was something annoying about being wounded from a distance and the smell of burnt hair and charred flesh always lingered for days.

Baring fangs, he stared down at the human, “You have a ship and we’re leaving on it! So start running in that direction” he growled, then added humorously, “or do I have to spank you all the way there?” Freeosk wasn’t without humor. In fact, humor was his defense mechanism, especially in times of stress and combat. Besides the force, humor had been the only way he’d remained physically and mentally intact through his enslavement.

[member="Arian Lenar"] | [member="Narbo"] | [member="Evangeline Sage"] | [member="Czast Lac"] | [member="B'enor Benjeel] |

 

[Riz Carter]

[member="Narbo"] [member="Arian Lenar"] @B'enor Benjeel @Freeosk

A voice boomed and echoed in the pack. Little hands covered her pointed-ears beneath that mop of tangled red. Antennas around her eyes twitched.

Loud, loud, loud.

The tip of her nose was powdered fresh with spice. Eyes flashed open. Hands slowly peeled away from her ears. Everything came into sharp focus. Spice did that to her, made a dull world bright. Little hands crawled toward the lip of the bag and held onto the edge of the fabric as her red-haired head peeked out.

She was ready to bolt.

Her little pockets were stuffed with the spice powder.