Echoes & Silence
Location: Some backwater Rim World
Bounties were keeping the purse full when the forge was quiet or cold. This one was a good price, and the specifics were of a sort that Obran was keen from a personal sense. A Sith Empire operative was known to be in the area. This particular bit of scum had, if the dossier was right, had been a key player in the fall of Mandalore to the Sith. Or, at least that is what he read into the data. It was a Mandalorian arms & armor company who had suffered pretty badly in the Fall. They were paying an exorbitant amount, and the reasoning were for 'crimes and treasons against the people of Mandalore'.
So, beyond the price, he was happy to take the job. His target had fairly easily been tracked to this backwater world. And working with locals, he had a good approximation of location. A twi'lek was, at the least, physically remarkable to many. So it was he happened down a back alley near to dust. Vents from the sewers and heating systems scattered his cloak, flashes of the bare armor underneath. A battered blaster pistol was holstered on his right hip, and in the small of his back rested his knife. A set of heavy metal-alloy knuckledusters were on his hands, and a deep cowl hid his helmeted face.
Target usually came by this way on their way back to their rented room. Said room was in a hostel that had droid security, and underworld connections. Hence the back alley boogaloo. He waited, crouched behind a dumpster. Rain soaked the cloak through, and a chill set in his bones, but he waited still. Eventually, he saw a form turn into the alley, furtively checking their trail. But surprise, rather than satisfaction registered. It was the target. But helmeted and armored in Mandalorian gear. Either the bounty was wrong, or omitting. Either way, it had turned personal.
As the target passed him by, he lashed out with a grab around the knees, and jerking a boot knife to slice at the achille's on the right side. The move missed, largely because he had to jerk to the side as the scum cursed in Mando'a and drew a gun. So... It was a traitor then... In his mind, red descended as he rose and swung, punch connecting in classic form to the helmeted head , right at the base of the lekku.
They were sensitive on these types, and Obran was hardly one to play fair or nice. An electronic cry crackled from the vox as the follow-up punch cracked the visor of the helmet. He needed to silence the other, and quick. Less attention the better.
[member="Keira Priest"]