Spice Lords of Sevarcos II

[Just Matt Now]

The Hutt sat gloriously on his velvet and silk throne, sipping his aged and expensive wine, while listening to the music of his most recently purchased slave, Yassa. Her harmonic use of her mandoviol filed the throne room and more importantly, Borga's ears. The Hutt had special reason to celebrate, with the grand opening of his second gladiator colosseum having opened recently, his credits were piling up. All the Hutt's work was paying off, but even in these times there was trouble afoot. Yet he would hear none of it, at least for the time being.

"Your grace, your reputation as a lanista is no doubt flourishing, but you must not forget about your spice operations. Currently they have taken a drastic hit, with all your focus on the arena, I mean." Perhaps one of the only men on Nar Shadda, or in the Cartel for that matter, who was not afraid to stand up to the mighty Hutt. The Chevin was his mojodormo, but more importantly, he was his closest friend. Standing at the foot of the Hutt's throne, though below on the landing, the Wor Niedra had shackled to his wrist a Chev slave. The shackle was chained tightly around it's neck, as she kneeled on all fours as if she were his pet.

"Wor, must you always ruin such good times. It's not every night where I celebrate and sit on my fat ass." The Hutt placed his glass on a tray one of his indentured servants held out for him. "Well, that's not true, but I do not celebrate as often as I could. All work and no play makes me eager to play and play hard." Continuing to grab a hookah pipe from the very female servant who replaced the tray with the drug induced machine.

Continuing the Huttese conversation. "I know my lord, but maybe this just isnt the right time." The Chev started to stand, but Wor yanked on her collar which forced her back to the floor. "At least let me find a suitable arrangement. I hear that the Spice Lords on Sevarcos II are preparing for the Festival of the High Winds. This could create an opportunity to muscle them out of some of the mines they hold on tight to. This way we can nearly triple our...ahem, my apologies your grace, I mean your spice operation."

"Haha, excellent idea Wor. Now, all I need is a trustworthy bounty hunter to help me obtain such a profitable resource. And I'm sure Icarus would not mind lending a hand..."

"I have already thought about it my liege. A Mirilan woman by the name of Damia Seles. She seems to be an up and comer for the Cartel, and very capable. We may just be able to get her help for damned cheap!"

"Excellent Wor. You never cease to amaze me. Bring her to me...now!!"

 

[Galavant]

Not too long later, Damia found herself standing before the Hutt Champios. She'd been asleep, but when the Cartel said you generally did without complaint when you were a Kung, and you were being called by one of the leading members of the Cartel. Damia just hoped that was good thing, rather than meaning she was in trouble. She'd gotten dressed quickly in her usual getup, but hadn't had time to do much with her hair which went down past her shoulders when it wasn't done up for working on droids, or speeders, or killing people. She hadn't brought any guns, or weapons with her. If the Hutt Lord wanted her dead, she doubted there was much she could do with a pistol to stop it from happening.

"<It is a honor to be in your presence oh might Borga, Champios of the Hutts>," Damia said in Huttese. She was aiming to be respectful but not overly so. The hutt had slaves on parade right in front of her, and as a former slave herself she could only muster so much respect for someone who kept them. Plus nobody liked a kiss ass. "<How may this one be of service to you?>"

She kept going in Huttese, mostly because she didn't know how well the Hutt spoke basic. She'd seen him on the holonet before, but with quick and accurate translations these days it was hard to tell if someone really a knew a language or if the makers of the program were just good at covering it, unless they focused in on the mouth. And Damia couldn't say she'd ever paid that much attention to a Hutt mouth on the Holonet before. And Hutt's typically considered their own language to be superior to others, and Damia didn't offend him by presuming he spoke a "lesser" language.

 

[Just Matt Now]

After following all the normal procedures to actually enter the Hutt's palace, Damia was finally let in. Borga was informed, by Wor of course, that she was unarmed. While this was not necessarily uncommon, it was peculiar especially for a bounty hunter such as Damia. Though the Hutt did not dwell on the thought, for she was not a threat, or even to be considered one, but she was a promising partner that the Hutt could use. The green skinned Mirulan was certainly a beautiful sight, despite her appearance today, which was rather shoddy at best. It was clear she had either just finished a job, or just rolled out of bed. Regardless, her skills were needed.

Pleased to hear the Hutt tongue come from the little woman, Borga couldnt help but notice a very idiosyncrasy that reminded him of, well, his slaves. The way she walked, the way she addressed the Hutt, and especially, the way she spoke.

"<How may this one be of service to you?>"

The words repeated in his head. If not just heard moments earlier by a few of his very own servants. And now, Borga waved them off, glaring at Wor who seemed to have a telepathic connection to the Hutt's mind. The Chevin, along with his very own slave, shooed Borga's servants away, retreating into the kitchen where he would not soon later emerge with just himself.

"Ahh, Damia Seles..." He started, in Huttese. "I have heard quite some things about your recent rise in the Cartel. Most recently, your bounty on that pesky Tyler Durden right here on Nar Shaddaa. Got you a pretty penny. Tell me, how does one stop a gang as chaotic and dark as the one Mr. Durden had amassed?" The most recent bounty hunter list had been updated, listing Miss Seles as third top bounty hunter in all of the Cartel. This was no easy feat, and neither was taking out this gangster in the slums of Nar Shaddaa.

 

[Galavant]

"<With lots and lots of blaster fire, m'lord. It pleases this one to know that her exploits are known even by one as esteemed as yourself>," Damia replied, still in Huttese. She had no idea if the way she spoke the language marked her as being greatly different from others. She'd learned it when she was still a slave herself, and didn't carry on enough conversations in the language to know that there were some who could pick up on the differences between someone who was educated in the language as a luxury, and someone who was educated in it because their master wanted them to be. Noticing the difference between Borga and other Hutts, on a physical level at least was something Damia could do however, largely because of the same upbringing. The Hutt was more muscular than the stereotype, which probably meant he was attractive, by the hermaphroditic standards of a Hutt anyway.

Now what are you buttering me up for, Damia asked herself in her mind. Hutts, in her experience, didn't just dole out praise to be nice people. They did it because they wanted you to do something for them, and they wanted to wear you down with kind words so you'd accept a lower payout and be less likely to haggle as hard as you might, if say you'd just been insulted. Damia doubted that the Hutt had even known who she was, before he decided he needed someone to do her bidding. Her being third on the bounty board wasn't just praise, it was also the Hutt's way of letting her know that she wasn't going to be getting paid as well as first and second would have if the Hutt could've snared them for this little ploy.

But Damia didn't mind, this was how the game was played. She was getting praised, and she was probably going to be getting paid which was far better than getting dropped into a pit with an angry Nexu. She hadn't known if she was here because she had done something wrong, or something right when she'd first walked in. Now she did. As the servants cleared the room she started to get worried again. If they'd stayed it would have meant to her that was going to be a nice simple job probably. With them, the chances of Borga throwing her in a life and death situation he didn't want anyone them to hear about increased exponentially.

 

[Just Matt Now]

With every word, his intuition told him that Damia was indeed a slave. Either he could be right, or completely wrong. Either way he felt it right to leave his indentured servants out of the way for now. Borga was pampered and spoiled, of course, though he was not afraid to pick up his wine glass and sip it himself, certainly. Leaning forward and placing the glass back on a tray, Borga actually rose from his throne. His gladiator, his personal bodyguard, Icarus, was standing just behind the massive throne, though still in view. He felt like no more a slave than a paid bodyguard, though his respect and loyalty for the Hutt was unwavering.

"Oh and they are, never doubt that." He lied, but it didnt matter. This much recognition was probably more than he would ever give a Kung. And the two recently promoted Kung to Enforcer had been known to have dealings with the famed Hutt. Incidentally they were the ones above Damia on the leaderboards. Was this merely coincidence? That is speculated. Though Borga thinks it differently.

"I don't know if you heard, but I have just acquired a second colosseum on Zonju five and have been celebrating its grand opening. Although some members of my court have taken my celebration as a loss of focus, towards my other, more illicit business." The Hutt was cocky, and arrogant. He automatically assumed that Damia had heard of his Kajidic's success with drugs and spice. This business has been around long before he even considered opening an arena on Nar Shaddaa.

"While there is plenty of time to sit back and relax, the only limits are, as always, those of vision. And I cannot stop the vision I have of obtaining more wealth and power. If not for me, than for the Cartel and the future of my Kajidic."

The Hutt slowly started to descend from his throne, down the steps he slithered.

"Tell me, Damia. Have you ever heard of Sevarcos two?"

Borga was not trying to intimidate her at all, and was quite open to a response to what he was trying to tell her. He could have been eliciting such a response. As, unlike most Hutt's, Borga liked to hear what others had to think.

 

[Galavant]

"<Congragtualtions on your opening,>" Damia said, another common courtesy that didn't real mean anything but was part of the usual back and forth. He'd praised her, now he boasted about himself, so she praised his success.

Sevarcos II...Damia had to think on that one for a moment. Astrology wasn't really her specialty, at least not when she didn't use the holonet to simply look up a given world but Sevarcos sounded familiar for some reason. She couldn't say she was really familiar with Borga's operations. Gladiator's and spice weren't really her cup of tea, so she didn't keep tabs on who owned what in those particular markets. She did know he was a powerful member of the Cartel though, and what more did you really need to know than that?

"<It's a spice world,no?>" She said, thinking of the term Borga had used 'illicit business' had jogged her memory. Beyond that she couldn't say she knew much about the place, so she elected not to say anything more about what she knew about it as the Hutt [ST]stepped[/ST] slithered off his throne.

 

[Just Matt Now]

"Yes it is..." The Hutt nodded as Damia congratulated him. He was used to the kissing up and faked emotions and expressions, but by now he was more accepting of it. That wasnt to say Damia was kissing up to him, though the expressionless excitement in her was not all too convincing.

"It is a spice world that yields a huge profit. And if I could dip my hand into this planet, then I am positive that my spice operation would triple. There are three ruling spice clans on the planet, all adherents of the native population, which are the Sevari people. The planet's top three highest income clans are those in the Southern Desserts, the Northern Frontier, and the Equatorial Belt. Each run by perspective Spice Lords. There is a special event that is said to take place at the late season equinox, which in is about five days. This, "Festival of the High Winds" is a very important ceremonial and ritualistic gathering of all the spice lords and clan leaders who meet to discuss their spice trade." The Hutt continued down the second platform until he reached the same plane as Damia, towering over the Human like woman, Borga looked directly into her eyes as he spoke to her.

"During this festival's main event, they hold wind races, which tend to be extremely violent. It is said that the winner of this wind race gets to determine what changes they need to make to their spice trade, if any. What intel that I have come across is that the clan in the Equatorial Belt is in need of a new Spice Lord..." Through aeonCorp Borga has been able to come across information through brokers and shadow intelligence agencies. With a great discount, he can dig up dirt on whomever he pleased, though he directed such power on searching for new business ventures. While the Hutt claims it is his smarts and intelligence, it is actually the work of Wor Niedra who relays the information to the wealthy Hutt.

"This is where you come in Damia, well you and Icarus both. You are to come in contact with this potential Spice Lord, convince him to sway the clans business to invest in my name and hand over what control there is, and in return we will make sure that he wins the race, and becomes one of the highest leading Spice Lords, who will only answer to me. I will leave the race in your hands, but this is very important that you can convince him to join me." Borga understood little of the wind races, but he did know that they often resulted in at least one death. If they could combine forces with this Sevari, then perhaps they tag along and make sure that not only does he doesnt die, but that he wins.

The Hutt held out his hand, his eyes and head still toward Damia, making a 'come hither' motion to Wor. The Chevin waddled over with a satin pillow in his hands containing a credit chit. While borga knew that Damia could not see the value of the chit, that mattered little, she knew she would be paid well.

"I promise you Damia, you will be paid well for your efforts." The Hutt spoke of more as a question than a suggested command.

 

[Galavant]

Go to Sevarcos, fix a race, intimidate/bride/convince a spice lord, and make sure he stayed alive. It sounded simple, yet at the same time incredibly complex to Damia. The Hutt looking into her eyes was a bit unnerving, mostly because she had no idea how the hermaphroditic slug with a male persona would interpret her facial expressions. Would he see an underlying lack of respect due the fact that he held slaves? Damia had once captured a slave liberator to make a measly 9,000 credits bounty but there was a difference between that and actually owning people. At least by Damia's own admittedly skewed moral compass.

She also had no idea what a wind race was, but from the description of the different regions Borga had just given she imagined they were dry, sandy, and...well windy. She made a mental note to bring along both her droids, her repair kit, and pretty much anything else she owned that might help. She might not have known exactly was a wind rider was, bu she imagined the easiest way to accomplish what Borga had in mind would be to either sabotage the competition or upgrade her soon to be new best friend's ride, or both if she could get away with it. On the trip to Sevarcos she certainly planned to read up on the world get an idea of what she was getting herself into, because she was going to take this deal. If she didn't she couldn't imagine it would anything especially good for her budding career with the Cartel. And if she didn't want to be doing the bidding of Hutts like Borga for the rest of her life she needed to take deals to do their bidding now.

As a servant approached with a credit chit on a velvet pillow, Damia couldn't help but think that bit of theater was a little over the top, and she couldn't help but notice that Borga continued to use her first name. Not Miss Seles, but just Damia, or Damia Seles.

Well maybe one day I'll have enough credits to call you Borgy Borgs, She thought pretending to mull over the deal in her head for a few seconds so she didn't seem too eager to take a job where she didn't even know how much money she'd be getting. She doubted the Hutt would screw her over though, you didn't get as far as Borga did by pissing off the little man. Maybe it would be enough to get a couple more droids, line up some suppliers, and open her shop again. And at least she wasn't going alone, she have Icarus whatever the hell that was with her.

"<Then this one accepts the gracious offer from your esteemed lordship>," She answered with a grin.

 

[Just Matt Now]

"Excellent..." The Hutt spat as he turned around and began slithering back to his throne. "Icarus. You will accompany Miss Seles and help her accomplish this task. I will accept no mishaps." He said with his back still towards Damia. Icarus had been standing by the Hutt's throne, arms crossed, listening intently. He had already known he would be going on the mission, and already understood the stakes.

"Yes, my liege. You will have your spice mines on Sevarcos." The gladiator stepped up, revealing himself more.

As Borga reached the top, he placed a hand on Icarus' shoulder.
"You have my permission to use what credits you need, within reason. I will be keeping an eye on my account as always." The Hutt said loud enough for Damia to hear. Icarus replied with a respectful nod.

Turning around and taking his seat, the Hutt again addressed Damia. "Icarus will come with you Damia, though he will be taking your lead. You will have any resources that you may need. A ship, credits, you just inform Icarus and he will accomodate them. You have five days until the festival. Do not disappoint me."

 

[Galavant]

Damia was glad she'd read up on Sevarcos II on the trip there, and was especially glad she'd done so before setting foot on the planet. 'Catching the Wind' might've been what the locals called it when visitors who hadn't planned ahead took a deep, unprotected breath, of the spice choked air. Damia called it 'getting addicted to shit I really don't need in my body or can afford to pay for on a regular basis'. With spice floating freely in the air though she could see why mining the stuff underground would be an extremely lucrative trade. Then again why even bother mining the stuff? Damia was pretty sure she jury rig something that would 'catch the wind' and collect the spice granules. Maybe not as much as a mine but it would certainly be worth a more than a few credits off world.

But there wouldn't time for any of that, not with the Festival of Winds, and the job she had to do at it. Trundling on her left was Guthfer, the little droid had no problems moving across the hard, sun-baked, ground but Damia was sure she was going to have to clean a ton of sand and spice out of the droid when they got back to Nar Shaddaa. N10 was on her left, the taller droid humming to itself lightly as it moved along. It had been a long time since Damia had wiped either of their memories so little quirks like that were no surprise to her, and neither was the fact that the droid had horrible tune. Icarus, the big cat like gladiator whom Borga had insisted tag along (probably to make sure she didn't cut a little deal for herself) was around somewhere as well. At her sides were Damia's usual Azalus Pistols a long with a few tools, and she carried her unitech diagnostic kit in her left hand. The Sevarii certianly perferred their more primitive tech, but Damia hadn't seen anything in the rules that said someone couldn't upgrade their Wind Rider for the race. In fact, it was quite the opposite with everyone being encouraged to do whatever it took to win.

The festival itself, was more festive than Damia would have imagined based on the look of the world, and the spaceport they'd travelled here from. Rows of tents, prefabs, and other structures housed vendors, and games for the crowds to enter as they milled about waiting for the main event to start. In addition to the native Sevari, there far more offworlders than Damia would figured. She could tell them from the natives as they were mostly wearing the same breathing mask she was to avoid spice inhalation. And those that weren't were also easily recognizable as they either stood in a stupor, or walked about off balance running into people and things. The Sevari themselves didn't look all that different from regular humans to Damia, except that they wore far different (and less stylish) clothes than the typical denizens of Nar Shaddaa.

Not far from the temporary city that sprawled up was the race area. Each of the Winder Riders participating sat out in the open in a long straight line, with equipment sprawled about them, and mechanics working them before the race started in an hour and a half or so. Not far from them were the shaded stands that would hold the spectators, which looked to already be near capacity, and people were already gathering at their sides, staking out spots as close to the action as possible. Of course it wasn't really close to the action as the Wind Riders would be racing through the nearby canyons rather than across the open plain here, but it was a place to congregate, and no doubt others did so further along the track. The track markers themselves were extraordinarily primitive by Damia's standards, being only painted piles of stone. The Wind Riders themselves were antiques, but at least they looked interesting.

"Which one do you think is our guy?" She asked Icarus as they headed towards the Wind Riders. There was nothing preventing someone from walking up to them before things started, probably so local celebrity racers could draw crowds. It wouldn't actually be hard to find the clan leader they were looking for, as the markings on the equatorial belt's, Winder Riders would be distinct from the others, and the man they were looking for in particular would probably have even more distinct marking since this was his first race as a Clan Leader. At least from what Damia had learned.

 

[Butler]

"Hey! Ge'back 'ere!" shouted a grisly voice.

A young girl, tripping over her own rags in a drunken stupor, ran out amidst the racers laughing. In her hands, above her head, she held a primitively colored riding helmet with two horns. A large man barreled through the blockade of wind riders after her, kicking parts off their mounts in a daunting dance of derangement. Another racer yelled daringly, outraged by the blind ball-steps of this enormous baboon wrapped in shredded tan hide and a torn breath mask.

"Get down on the dirt and fi-"

smack

The larger man swung his hammer fist, spiked gloves and all, through the other man's cheek, spinning the other round like a top before he fell flat onto that very dirt; out cold.

"Com 'ere!" he yelled again after the girl, who tripped and fell over a wind rider when she wasn't looking.

He stepped up to the wind rider and the girl who lay bottom up with her goggles pushed up and her nose in the ground. He reached down and violently swiped his helmet out from her hands and pulled it in further to his side, unintentionally scratching white scrape across a symbol upon the head of the mount. He smirked at her position beneath him, rethinking his early retreat, and smacked her ass with the helmet just for fun. She yelped helplessly to the sensation, seemingly fine otherwise. But when the beast of a man turned around, there was this little prick standing in the way at most half his size and wrapped in dusty black cloth down to his toes.

It cleared it's throat, the scratch of paint glistening in the reflection of his dirtied goggled and hooded stare.

"And you want some of this too??" he threatened with the harrowing rise of the horned helmet up overhead, other hand reaching out and snatching the little cretin's collar.

gzzzt

"Ah!" The man's hand singed with a jolt of audible electrocution, a snapping spark, and he reeled.

The little being's hips twisted a rotation, hiking up a single foot, and kicked a knifed toe into the inside of the large man's groin; the blade sticking with a clear slip of the flesh through cloth, his foot held there for a moment as the man felt that sudden shock, then let the blade slide through the leg and dropped his foot down between the massive stance.

"YAAAAAAH!!!" the man-beast screamed bloody murder, falling to his knees with a pool of blood immediately flowing out of him like a loosened bladder.

But the little being wasted no time swinging its arms round like wings, clapping into the sides of the crippled man's neck; tiny blades at the tips of thumb joints sticking into the man's ears with sinking slits. The little one's hands flicked it's thumbs' rotations and instantly slapped both ear flaps, detached, down onto the ground next to either foot. Then his little hands coned into pointed fingertips, and smacked sticking fingers into the opened ear wounds like a pair of beaks pecking or picks sticking into the bleeding ear canals. Then it twisted its hands back and forth while the man screamed on his knees before the little being. Finally when it'd had its justice, the little one retrieved its fingers from the man's ear holes; but only one hand fell down gently to it's side, the other calmly placing a palm onto the man's shoulder and then patting it twice. It then walked past him as his eyes rolled inwards and he collapsed onto his face, feint.

The little one walked up to the scratch, leaned in to inspect, and then slapped a bloody palm onto the side before dragging the red mark across the insignia memorably. It lifted up, turned its head with introspection, then accepted the adjustment and returned to prepping its decorated ride. The sand of the earth was enough to scrub off the slick of dirty hands, instantly drying into something stickier and better for flying. But then the wind flew by and yanked the hood from off its head. It was a small little man, wearing a brass crown around his neck; crude gadgets and barbed wire riddling his gear inside and out. He shirked each arm free, and tossed the cloak up onto the back of his ride, revealing every detail of his efficiency upon his body; looking to be some sort of living booby trap, colored by the deaths of a dozen men - some skin pieces still hanging off certain prodded spokes along various parts of its gear.

 

[Just Matt Now]

"My guess would be the small one..." Icarus said in not so many words. The small bout that had just taken place seemed like a bit extreme. Unsure if it was because the spice winds were making the larger man disoriented and act like a complete fool, or for another reason. What was clear, however, was that this small man was not to be trifled with. Perhaps he could win this race without the help of Damia and Icarus, though Borga would not want to take that chance...then again, if that was the guy they were looking for.

The mask Icarus was wearing was pinching on his furs, causing irritation. Though he did not want to remove the mask and be subject to the effects of the spice winds that filtered the air. His discomfort only grew the longer they remained still. And the Kushari wondered what plan Damia had in mind. As there were a few ways to go about helping this Spice Lord, although he must first be informed of their intentions.

"I suppose we should confront him." His voice slightly muffled by the discomforting mask. Icarus was not so helpful, though he was only here to aid Damia, taking her orders and not giving them.

 

[Galavant]

"I think you're right," Damia replied sullenly. Why did it always have to be the kriffing lunatics? Whether it was helping or hunting it seemed like a lot of her work involved finding the least mentally stable people in the galaxy. Well at least the lack of rules in the race made sense now. The people who participated were three Hutts short of a Kajidic, wacko. Still Damia felt approaching him with a massive Kushari, and a couple of droids at her side.

"Well....kriff it let's go," She said heading in the direction of the racer and his ride. As she walked, she found herself questining why the natives would do this on open air repulsorcrafts. She knew they didn't use much advanced tech, but surely they could spring for this new invention called AIR CONDITIONING. Especially since it was a fairly arid, and warm world. She could already tell she was going to have more than few sunburns by the time this whole thing was over and done with. Hopefully she wouldn't have much more than that though, something that seemed increasingly unlikely as they continued on.

The locals used fairly low tech.

Their races had no rules.

They seemed like a pretty brutal bunch.

Therefore Damia could only conclude that they were a bunch of spice addled, vicious, idiots. And here she was walking towards one of the more vicious ones looking to make a deal on behalf of a Hutt lord.

"Hello," She started in a happy tone of voice, as she approached the man in a way that would hopefully be interpreted as friendly, or at least non-hostile. The information on Sevarcos listed Galactic Standard as the primary language so she anticipated no problems with communication. "I'm Damia Seles, these are my droids, and this is my associate Icarus Maneater. We're here on behalf of Borga the Hutt, and we'd like to make an arrangement with you that will make everyone here very, very rich. Oh and help you win this race!"

She might have said it in a happy tone, but she also said it in a quiet tone to ensure no one else would overhear what would hopefully be the start of making a deal.

 

[Noirceur]

As the drugged winds swept, dangling his cloak, he turned around, the sun reflecting on his pale eyes. Staring intently at the Mirialan, he allowed the air to sweep his face, lifting his hair. The woman spoke of Borga, the Con Lorda of the Hutt Cartel, a being he had heard of many a time. He was as famous as he was infamous, and the small man was slighlty surprised to hear the slug had interest in him. Stepping forward, just inches away from her, he spoke, his voice stenching of spice, with a sour sound to it.

-"That sounds like a cheap travel ad, Miss Seles. I can't remember the last asshole who came to me with the same happy proposition. What makes yours different?"-

Stepping back, he awaited for her response. He knew the Cartel would have shifted their slimy hides to this place sooner than later - spice flew here like air. Literally. He had confidence in his own ability to win the race, though some help wouldn't hurt.

-"Anyways, you promise me credits, and this race won. I could almost jubilate with that. See, this world is simple. Either you strive, fight with tooth and claws and rise above all these other pretenders, or you burst asunder and get crushed beneath like a shagging insect."- He finished, coughing frenetically.

He shifted in a dramatic loop, now facing the vehicle that was to be his pass either to greatness or nothingness. Placing his hand over the red marking he had made earlier, he looked back at the two individuals.

-"This ride has never failed me. Will you?"-


A voice in a loudspeaker screamed bloody-murder.

WOOOHOOOO! TWO MINUTES FOR SHOWTIME FELLAS!

 

[Galavant]

-"That sounds like a cheap travel ad, Miss Seles. I can't remember the last asshole who came to me with the same happy proposition. What makes yours different?"-

"Well for starters I have a honest to the Force gladiator standing right next to me and I'm not too shabby with a blaster either," Damia justified. "Also it'll be m neck on the line too."

Which certainly true in more ways than one. She could die on the race, if she failed Borga might decide her head made for good recompense, the little bastard could stab her in the back, the possibilities were endless really. And that was always cheerful when it involved being killed. Why was it the possibilities couldn't be endless for something like ice cream flavors?

"Well if we win this race, no more tooth and claw for any of us," She replied to his second remark. They'd all be making a lot of money from this venture. Well maybe not Icarus, but his boss would be.


-"This ride has never failed me. Will you?"-

Before she could think of a nice, long, poetical answer the loudspeaker announced the race would be starting soon so instead she simply replied "No."

And with that she motioned for her two droids to make their way up onto the craft. They would hopefully be able to handle any mechanical problems that occurred on their own while Icarus and Damia dealt with more overt threats to their chances of success, and their new best friend piloted the thing.

 

[Just Matt Now]

Icarus Maneater...

It had a certain ring that the gladiator actually did not mind. It was menacing and intimidating, just like the Kushari. Icarus did not object to the nickname given, nor did he interrupt while Damia spoke to the Sevarcos native. She would do all of the talking, while all he had to do was stand there and look intimidating, and when things got down to it the dirty work. The look in the Kushari's eyes never changed as he stared deep into that of the soon to be king. Apparently more people have approached him with such a similar offer. Though it was speculative whether he realized what it meant coming from someone so high in the Hutt Cartel. It meant protection, and manpower. Borga would certainly want to protect his assets on this planet, and that would mean employing teams of guards to back whatever this man wanted. So long as it was in favor of the Hutts goals.

Basically, he would act as king, though not having to make any of the decisions. That would fall to the Hutt.
"You let us help you, and you will have Borgas full support." Maneater reassured.

Icarus looked at the other racers. Most of them did not wear the masks he and Damia had on. That was because they were natives of the planet and immune to the spice effects. He watched as one man boarded his ship from the sound of the two minute warning. He was not alone however, he too had supporters backing him. And they seemed to be packing their ship heavy. Icarus watched as another crew stow spears and other weapons onto their ships...this race was going to be more gory than expected.

"I dont think this will go as swift as you would expect on your own. Competition seems quite stiff."

 

[Just Matt Now]

Looking at the other competition he hadnt expected these guys in particular to show up. His mouth nearly dropped, his confidence slipping. He thought they were busy elsewhere, the Rhag Crew they called themselves. Family of brutish men and women who just wanted the spice rights for themselves. All about money and power they were. And they would stop at nothing to get there. Looking at the man next to the Mrilan, he looked more like a monster. Made sense why she'd called him Maneater. Her threat was empty, but he could feel the realism of the race now that Rhag was here.

"Umm...I'll take yer offer. So long as we win and you get me that crown. The names' Koro Ulluto. Listen, this race aint gunna be rainbows and sunshines. It's gunna get rough and shit might not go as I had originally planned. Yer maneater friend here is right, the competition os stiffer than you could even know. These guys are out fa blood, and they wont stop unless they kill or get killed." Koro shot a glance over at the Rhag crew who were readying their ship.

"And hay, this ride will only fit one of ya's, so whose it gunna be? I dont know if I can trust someone named Maneater, so how's it sound doll?" The race was about to begin so they needed to make a decision quickly. Koro had a few weapons on board, a light blaster and a spear or two, nothing special or over the top. He was going in on this alone after all. Hopefully things would change with this new opportunity. He would much rather work for a Hutt as king than die in this race and end up as nothing.

 

[Galavant]

"Guess it's me," Damia said, even if she wasn't very enthusiastic about going it alone. But she also actually wanted to get paid, and somehow she doubted if Icarus got up there, and then told Borga she'd stood by and watched she'd actually be getting paid for all this work.

"Watch after those two," She said to Icarus, referencing her droids which wouldn't be able to along either. To confirm her intent to Koro she then jumped aboard the miniscule craft. She only had her blaster pistols with her, but that wasn't such a disadvantage, they were the weapons she could handle best, and she could easily hold one while doing something else with her other hand. But she also didn't have any body armor for the shindig which did worry her a bit. She'd probably be able to enjoy a wider range of motion which would be good for helping Koro if he needed it, and fighting at closer ranger. But not so good if she ended up being a tall green target for any other racers. But the biggest problem Damia could see was her breath mask. If was loosened or yanked at it to say that it would disorient her would be an understatement if there ever was one.

"So I guess I shoot and you drive?" She asked. This was Koro's ride, he would know how to handle it best, and if Damia could keep the competition of her back, hopefully he could pilot them to victory. And by extension loads of credits. All she had to do was make sure they didn't die ingloriously.

 

[Just Matt Now]

Icarus glared at the two droids, then switched his attention over to the other racers. It was clear that they came here to win, they wanted the crown and fame just as much as Borga wanted it for Koro. Such a huge event, and held in such high esteem. No wonder why it was so glorious to be victorious, there was so much violence. Even living through one of these races granted the participants with some fame. Unfortunately for them, the Rhag crew had a larger vessel, which allowed for more than just two riders. Hopefully Damia could handle herself.

"Well I aint gunna let you drive, that's fur sure." Koro responded.

All the racers had lined up on the starting line. Koro and Damia managed to snag a key spot on the front line, right next to the opposing Rhag crew. There were about five other racers, all geared up and with multiple riders. If Koro didnt have Damia, it would have been a short race for the Sevarcos native. Although, he must have known what he was getting in to.

Trumpet started to blare in the near distance. There was a rather large gathering that was barricaded away from the race. There were viewscreens and projectors that would track the race throughout the course, which Icarus knew nothing about. Although from looking at the map it seemed like they were going to be headed for a mountain and some valleys. Some announcer blasted over a radio in introducing the apparent four hundred and eighty sixth annual festival. Such a strong tradition that everyone upheld and continued to do so.

The contestants were ready, and the race would begin at the sound of the horn. Even through the mask, Icarus could hear the horn as clear as if he hadnt worn anything over his head. The race had begun, Korro pulled the throttle on his wind rider and quickly moved into first place, with the Rhag crew not far beside them. Shouts coming from not the stands of spectators, but from other wind riders would catch anyones attention. Profanities spat and insults thrown as if they would distract the sailors from their goal. Their first straight was a clear dessert path, which meant there would surely be violence early on.

"Make sure you keep an eye out for the ones behind us, last thing we need is our sail to get hit by one of those shots."

Behind Koro and Damia's racer were sounds of blasters and crossbows being shot and slug at eachother, cries could be heard even through the profanity. It wouldnt take much for them to get stuck in a heated battle, though hopefully they could keep their lead.

 

[Galavant]

"Kriffing hell," Damia muttered as she saw the violence erupt. When the wind rider lurched forward, she lurched a little as well until she kind find the proper footing, and a get feel for how to move about on the craft. She was used to sitting down when she flew, or at least having a pole or something to hold on to. But then again she was civilized. Although it was doubtful there was a lot of other places in the galaxy someone who lived on Nar Shaddaa could say or think that without it being ironic. The wind part of the race also made its presence felt without any partitions to keep it from sweeping over the occupants of the rider. Damia could feel flecks of dust, spice, and other particulates fleck her skin as they went by. She sincerely hoped she couldn't get some sort of contact high from the sky exposure, it might be bad for health in more ways than one.

"Yeah I kinda figured out the don't get shot part," Damia answered, almost yelling to get over the other noise and the muffle of her mask. Keeping the sail from getting damaged would be anything but easy though. It was easily the largest target on the damn thing, which led Damia to question why someone hadn't thought of using yet another new invention called an ENGINE to actually move the craft forward. They were already using repulsorlifts for kriff's sake, was it really that hard to take it a step further? She supposed the easiest way to keep the competition from shooting them out of first, was to shoot them first. In spite of her general indifference, most of Damia's plans usually involved shooting or hitting things. It was usually the quickest way to get things done in her experience.

Stepping back towards the rear, and Koros who was the till, she brought both of her blaster pistols out of their holsters, quickly disabling the "pain" blast to make better use of ammo. Somehow she doubted the sails of windriders felt pain, and the extra kick of another blaster bolt would hopefully tear bigger holes in their sails. Standing, slightly hunched over, near the rear of Koros' wind rider she took aim at the sails of the closest competition, intending to fire until she had to reload, until Koros asked to do something with their sails, or until the inevitable something else happened.