Location: Desilijic Palace, Tatooine.
There was a sandstorm on the horizon.
Nor'baal had been warned of it by the tame watchmen in Mos Espa, and it was a big one to boot. Storms of such magnitude were rare on Tatooine, normally sandstorms were a passing annoyance, but this one was probably going to be a whopper. Despite this, the Daimyo had called Grace Zann (@Where) and Rafe (@Mad Dog) to his Palace anyway. There was much they had to discuss, and what better place to do it than here, in his home? The Desilijic Palace was a well-known sight on Tatooine, a squat building, once occupied by monks of the B'omarr, it had changed hands many times, yet come what may, it always ended up back in the pudgy grabbing hands of the Hutts.
With the throne room emptied of the usual collection of sycophantic nobodies, Nor'baal sat on his throne, hookah pipe in hand, two Gamorrean guards flanking the throne, and a further two standing at the bottom of the stairs leading into the room, a protocol unit at his side. He had only recently negotiated a peace deal with Consortium, and already the Zann Consortium had made intergalactic headlines, drawing the ire of the New Republic. In the four centuries (or was it five? Nor'baal had lost count) he had been alive, the Hutt had not seen such a period of unrest since the passing of his ancestor, the mighty Jabba.
The Syndicate was in dire straights, lurching from one disaster to the next. The AMS virus, the murderer of Durr, the nightmare of Zaa Fenns crazed collapse, and the loss of Kessel. With Nor'baal doing his best to stabilize the ship, the last thing he needed was more trouble to deal with. He drew a deep breath and waited for the Pyke leader, and Grace Zann, to arrive.