After that business on Mandalore, Miha had to go to ground for a while and a little sojourn to Wild Space would do perfectly, and before long Miha found himself landing on Rishi. There’s nothing on Rishi, just humid valleys, trees, and a disproportionately dense collection of gun runners smugglers and pirates; in many ways it was the best place someone could lay low for a while. Presently, Miha had parked his ship in the centre of a now abandoned settlement, and was now stood in the centre of the ring of huts and shacks, slapping the wet dirt with a shovel. That was the beauty about Pirates, they had the habit of dying randomly and violently on any given day and leaving their house behind when they did, all Miha had to do when he landed was expedite the process a little. It wasn’t a luxury resort by any means, but it was nice to finally have a little quiet. The sun was setting as Miha packed down the dirt of a fresh grave, a rusty old machete sticking out of the dirt like a skinny attanae to heaven; and when Miha wiped the sweat from his brow, he felt the sting of the neat little line that very same blade had left on his forearm. Stabbing the shovel into the dirt, Miha made his way back to the hut he’d decided belonged to him now. He briefly entered, before stepping out onto the porch with a heavy copper pot filled with a stew that he’d been cooking since the last Pirate fell, his first aid kit, and a bottle of rum so potent it would have been illegal on most planets. Pulling the cork with his teeth, he upended the bottle over his wound, wincing at the sting of alcohol in the fresh wound. Within a few minutes he’d stitched the wound shut and wrapped it in clean dressing, it was up to the body to manage the rest. Fishing a cigarra from a packet he’d picked off one of the corpses before he buried them, he lit the cheap pre-roll and inhaled deeply, before furrowing his brow and stubbing the thing against his heel, tossing the filter back inside. Snyde, he thought, bargain bin bullshit, barely worth burning. Washing down the disappointment and bitter taste of lacklustre smoke with a mouthful of the bootleg rum, before giving the radio left out on the porch a thump, filling the air with scratchy, crackling notes of music. As he lifted the lid off the pot and raised the ladle to his lips, the crack of a branch in the brush surrounding the clearing made his head swing up towards it, dropping the ladle back into the pot. With a sigh, he stood up and slipped the shorter of his swords from his waistcloth, slapping the scabbard against his shoulder as he stepped further into the clearing. “Your friends are dead, and if you don’t get running, you’ll be joining them.” He warned, casting a lazy gaze into the treeline and waiting for a sign of movement.