Independent Krysst

[Vek]

Krysst​

Biography​

Krysst was the runt of the clutch.

Be it a lack of heat while he incubated in the egg, a lack of cold perhaps or some genetic mishap it didn’t matter. He wasn’t born ugly, deformed or infertile. He was just small.

Being small does one of two things. You either use it to disappear, or in Krysst’s case you use the feeling of inadequacy and overcompensate through ultraviolence against your clutchmates or whatever else is within reach. Where his kin would play fight, Krysst would rip off a brow ridge or bite off a claw. Were it not for his kin’s inherent ability to regenerate lost limbs he might have been more chastised but instead he was simply forced to carry the kills of his kin when they hunted. To you or I that would be insulting. To a Trandoshan, it was worse than death.

So Krysst grew angrier, and angrier but grew little more than five Trandoshan feet. Then he grew in anonymity until noone remembered him and shrank away until he was littler than the littlest flea.

Until he killed a Wookiee.

I mean, it wasn’t a clean kill or a good kill or even a deliberate kill or EVEN a heroic kill but Krysst would never admit that.

Point is, he ran over a drunk Wookiee with a speeder, crushed its skull. He hid the body. Then bought a decently weighty maul, hit the Wookiee with it more than necessary to hide his lie and to exhaust his shame. Then skinned and sold the pelt. The money he gained was enough to buy a spot on a longhaul flight. It was during that flight, when the ship’s kitchen lost their cook.

Krysst could barely boil an egg. Scorekeeper forbid! Boil an egg!? When you’re eggspawn, you don’t boil an egg. You crack it and drink it. Or you swallow it whole. But cook it! That’s…no…just…repellent doesn’t come close. He might have heaved at the prospect were he a real Trandoshan…but the smells coming from the pot steaming on the hob…

He would sleep in the kitchen, the heat was like heaven on his thick skin. He would bathe in the spices, marinade in the juices of meats and vegetables he’d never dreamed of. And then, after several fortunate days of reheating leftovers that gave him time to read recipes and then he cooked.

He relished the steam, swooned in the stink of cumin, diced bantha and worlberries.

The crew had the squits for three days. But Krysst found the thrill of the hunt. One ingredient, then another then another. Recipes hung in his bunk like pelts. And the runt, given enough time, became a hunter of cuisine.

He’s also a vicious little bastard with knives.