Muad Dib
Paragon of Virtue
Another dead end.
Another dead group of jackals who swore they possessed the information wanted.
Another dead bar.
Well, not dead per say. Certainly not alive. Even the flames have died down to dull red embers. The wind stoked the charred remains as though the ruin of the establishment once known as the "Hutt's Bile" was on life support.
The sithspawn of a bar should have been a DNR. Do Not Resuscitate.
Blackened skin of the rodian sizzled with the remaining fat of Grando, the green hued rodian who gave a reasonable impersonation of a hutt. Mazakka, the albino wookiee, left an acrid scent of scorched fur.
Reminded the madman of a Coruscanti native who tried his hand at a bbq off the balcony of his suite. Di'kut. The fire suppression units in the city never figured out how a badly orchestrated impromptu bbq turned into a firestorm that destroyed the luxury wing of some pompous politician.
Afterall, it wasn't his fault he helped the fire leap from the grill into the high rise apartment. Their bad grilling and scorched fumes clearly ruined the high end death stick he was smoking nearby. They got what they deserved. And the flames illuminated the night sky in a beautiful sorta way. Never discount a bonfire at night. Even if humanoids were part of the fuel.
Never said they were intelligent humanoids.
He rose from the debris of ash, hands rubbed together to discard any remaining detritus. No ashy rodian smeared onto pants for him. A light chuckle followed the man as he left the scene. Tan tunic tucked into dark brown trousers with knee high black boots encased calves was the dress of the day. A curved kal rested on his left hip while a pistol rode low on his right thigh. Across his back a sheathed beskad peeked its hilt above his right shoulder. Blackened cylinder sat in a horizontal sheath at the small of his back.
The man's build seemed average. Neither tall or short, muscled nor skinny. Brown hair ruffled in the slight breeze as a feral grin peeked from tanned face. Stubble adorned his cheeks. He tossed his leg over the swoop which rested upon repulsors while the bike awaited the return of its master.
In all appearances the figure was roughly nondescript. Just another no named person on a no named planet in a no named section of the outer rim. He was unremarkably average in every sense but one.
Glowing blue eyes blazed against the evening dusk with a ferocious spark of insanity that promised madness from within its depths. Laughter erupted from his chest as he activated the thrusters and feathered the throttle which launched the bike into motion.
The swoop consumed the klicks with hungry, wild abandon as the Mad Master leaned forward over the body of the bike. Wry amusement etched upon hardened features as the man headed for the next dusky town with a bar called the "Devaronian Horn of Plenty".
Maybe there he would find the answers he sought.
If not … well, he would find some way to pass the time.
His laughter was lost in the wind.
Another dead group of jackals who swore they possessed the information wanted.
Another dead bar.
Well, not dead per say. Certainly not alive. Even the flames have died down to dull red embers. The wind stoked the charred remains as though the ruin of the establishment once known as the "Hutt's Bile" was on life support.
The sithspawn of a bar should have been a DNR. Do Not Resuscitate.
Blackened skin of the rodian sizzled with the remaining fat of Grando, the green hued rodian who gave a reasonable impersonation of a hutt. Mazakka, the albino wookiee, left an acrid scent of scorched fur.
Reminded the madman of a Coruscanti native who tried his hand at a bbq off the balcony of his suite. Di'kut. The fire suppression units in the city never figured out how a badly orchestrated impromptu bbq turned into a firestorm that destroyed the luxury wing of some pompous politician.
Afterall, it wasn't his fault he helped the fire leap from the grill into the high rise apartment. Their bad grilling and scorched fumes clearly ruined the high end death stick he was smoking nearby. They got what they deserved. And the flames illuminated the night sky in a beautiful sorta way. Never discount a bonfire at night. Even if humanoids were part of the fuel.
Never said they were intelligent humanoids.
He rose from the debris of ash, hands rubbed together to discard any remaining detritus. No ashy rodian smeared onto pants for him. A light chuckle followed the man as he left the scene. Tan tunic tucked into dark brown trousers with knee high black boots encased calves was the dress of the day. A curved kal rested on his left hip while a pistol rode low on his right thigh. Across his back a sheathed beskad peeked its hilt above his right shoulder. Blackened cylinder sat in a horizontal sheath at the small of his back.
The man's build seemed average. Neither tall or short, muscled nor skinny. Brown hair ruffled in the slight breeze as a feral grin peeked from tanned face. Stubble adorned his cheeks. He tossed his leg over the swoop which rested upon repulsors while the bike awaited the return of its master.
In all appearances the figure was roughly nondescript. Just another no named person on a no named planet in a no named section of the outer rim. He was unremarkably average in every sense but one.
Glowing blue eyes blazed against the evening dusk with a ferocious spark of insanity that promised madness from within its depths. Laughter erupted from his chest as he activated the thrusters and feathered the throttle which launched the bike into motion.
The swoop consumed the klicks with hungry, wild abandon as the Mad Master leaned forward over the body of the bike. Wry amusement etched upon hardened features as the man headed for the next dusky town with a bar called the "Devaronian Horn of Plenty".
Maybe there he would find the answers he sought.
If not … well, he would find some way to pass the time.
His laughter was lost in the wind.