Kainan Wolfe
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Post by Kainan Wolfe on Dec 8, 2020 17:35:40 GMT -8
- Principal Authors: Carpy (Kainan Wolfe)
- Who can post on this thread: Myself (mainly), other writers by invitation (please message me privately if you have any ideas)
- I want to receive critical responses: Yes, preferrably by DM's or on Discord, would prefer to keep this thread IC only
- I will be using standard Universe rules here (e.g., canon-only, fleet limits, etc.): Yes
Location: Tatooine Timeframe: 5 Years before present day On the dusty planet of Tatooine, a reclusive mercenary is hired to rescue a town's residents from a band of slavers.
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Kainan Wolfe
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Posts: 55
Affiliation: The Forgotten
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Post by Kainan Wolfe on Dec 8, 2020 19:04:54 GMT -8
"There is no justice in this galaxy. No feeble hope, or no light at the end of the tunnel, no right or wrong, only those with power and those without. Power is the only thing that matteres. Those who can take power, will take it and those who can not, will be subjugated, tools to serve those more powerful than them. Life has no more value than its utility in the service of the ambitions of those who control it and as such, your life is worth nothing until you can be molded into the form we so desire. Your power is insignificant. You are weak. Therefore, you will serve obediently as a tool, a weapon in our hands until the day we have no more use for you, then you will be discarded. That is your fate and know you have no more ability to change it, than a hydrospanner or a blaster has the ability to decide how and when it is used. We own everything that you are, that you ever will be, your soul, your life, you exist for no other purpose than to serve us, for the rest of your meaningless, miserable lives."
|<<<~~-~-~-~-~~>>>| He awoke, as he always did, shivering and covered in a cold sweat, despite of the sweltering heat of the small hut that had served as his home for the past several years. Alone but for the afterglow of his nightmares, his only constant companion as he breathed in the silence, corralling whatever energy he could to drag himself out of his bed and go about his daily labors, crossing the small room to the dented old tub-and-barrel that served as his improvised shower, kitchen sink and wash basin for clothes, ignoring the small, cracked mirror on the wall as he splashed water across his face to banish the last vestiges of sleep. He knew what he would find there. The same lifeless, haunted look of his own eyes staring back at him, the look of a man who lost his ability to enjoy the simple things in life, who had no more dreams to live for, no aspirations left to fight for and went about his daily life like an automaton, waiting for his life to fade away, forgotten under the ancient, lifeless sands of the dusty planet.
His moisture farm was a rough thing, barely more than a shack, barely small enough to be considered a storage shed, barely having any amenities by most standards even here, on Tatooine, the forgotten garbage heap at the end of the galaxy. Just a few improvised pieces of furniture, a handful of moisture vaporators, a small tool cabinet and a banged-up old speeder which had been patched up so many times that it was impossible to tell what make or model it had originally been. But it suited him just fine, insignificant and invisible as it was to the rest of the world, so lacking in value that even the local Tusken didn't bother to try to raid it. The perfect home for one who wanted nothing more than to be left alone and forgotten by the rest of the universe.
Doing his rounds amongst the vaporators, making sure to drain away the storage tanks and load the product into plasteel barrels, checking the ancient, decrepit equipment for wear and tear and patching up the patches he made the previous days, where necessary, then setting himself to the tedious task of taking apart his landspeeder again. The repulsor coil had been acting up lately and it needed to be fixed before whatever was wrong with it malfunctioned and left him stranded in the desert.
He was buried in the guts of the machine when he heard the speeder bike approaching, still some distance away, obscured from sight by the dunes. His senses were far sharper than those of regular humans, another unwanted gift he paid a terrible price for. This was unusual, the denizens of the nearby towns usually left him alone, giving him a wide berth wherever he went and he made no efforts to change that. Which meant that the bike would be trouble, as only the most desperate of bandits would even bother trying to rob him of what few possessions he had.
With an annoyed grunt, he disentangled himself from the jumbled mass of old wiring and mismatched parts and retrieved the old blaster rifle from its storage place in his hut, emerging with his weapon ready and already trained upon his target as the speeder bike came to an abrupt halt only to reveal its occupant to be one of the youths from the town, the look in her eyes a mixture of fear and desperation, the lack of sleep evident in her disshelved appearance. "The people in town say you're some kind of warrior. That you're dangerous and we should keep our distance," the youth addressed him in a hesitant voice.
With a sigh, the farmer lowered his rifle as he took the measure of the girl, a bored expression in his gold-hued, slitted eyes. She couldn't have been older than twenty, still carrying herself with the brazen ignorance of one who barely began her adult life. No threat to him, even if his hands were tied behind his back and he were blindfolded. Black, deadly talons gleamed menacingly on the ends of his fingers, tapping a rhythm in the handguard of his rifle, showing his annoyance at the young woman's intrusion on his farm. "Maybe your townsfolk are wise," he responded in a dismissive tone. "Maybe you should keep your distance," he said as he turned his attention away from her. "Whatever junk your parents sent you here to sell, I'm not interested in buying. Tell them not to waste your time sending you here again."
"Please, sir," she insisted with urgency in her voice. "This is important!" the girl called after him. "Yes, yes, I'm sure its important," the man responded dismissively. "I don't care."
"We're being raided by slavers!" she shouted back desperately. That stopped him in his tracks for a moment, though the look of annoyance didn't leave his visage as he turned back to face her. "So? Don't you have a marshal to deal with these things? Some local militia, or something? Go and tell them to do their jobs and stop bothering me. I'm just a moisture farmer."
"The marshal's dead!" she responded. "The militia ran off, the slavers have one of those old Imperial walkers. Please, sir, we're just townsfolk, they kidnapped our people and we can't rescue them on our own!" the girl shouted, pausing for a second to think of what else she could say that would sway the savage-looking man. "We can pay you! Whatever you want, just name your price! Credits, supplies... company..."
That last part prompted a feral growl from him that made the girl back away a few steps. "You people have no sense of pride," he said to her, disgust dripping from his voice. He ought to let the town stew in its own misery and face its fate. This wasn't his fight, he should stay out of it... But he could use the credits. And some supplies. And there were few things he hated more than slavers.
With an annoyed grunt, he conceded. "Fine. But keep your... company. I'll take the job for a hundred credits and some spare parts."
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Kainan Wolfe
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Post by Kainan Wolfe on Dec 12, 2020 1:08:28 GMT -8
Blood ran like rivers amidst the decaying hallways of the ancient temple. It spattered the walls in angry splotches, caked the floors beneath his boots as he walked on, a bloodied sword in his hand, its blade humming ominously, singing its own song of battle and bloody murder. Blood soaked his clothes, painted his hands red, covered his face in garish, savage patterns. In his taloned hands, was steel. His eyes, his warped and twisted, slitted feline eyes, screamed vengeance. Implacable, he advanced towards his foe with the certainty of a predator that had cornered its pathetic prey.
"How?" asked the trembling voice at the end of the tunnel, a shaking hand pressing against the jagged tear through which life and blood gushed, as if to stem the tide of fate, as if to dam that flood. "Where did you get that sword? That knowledge was forbidden to you."
"I made it," the assassin said, his voice as cold as ice. "While you slept on your laurels, I learned. While you reveled in the victories won for you by others, I trained. While you indulged in wealth and drink and pleasure, I worked, tirelessly, to bring about this day."
"That is not possible. You were to be a slave! A tool, nothing more!" the wounded voice spat back, words of hatred, of indignation and disbelief.
"Yes. I was meant to be a slave. A tool and nothing more," the assassin retorted. "You made me into a weapon. Trained me to kill with the Force. Warped and twisted my body with the Force. That was your second mistake. Your first was to assume your chain could hold me."
"We gave you power!" the wounded man accused, a vain, desperate attempt to appeal to some sense of gratitude and loyalty. "Made you more than the wretch you were!"
"No," the assassin replied, calmly, in control. "If there is one thing I learned, it is that power is never given," he said. "It can only ever be taken by force."
"Why? Why do this now? Why turn against us?" the wounded one demanded.
"Its simple," the assassin responded. "I learned from you all there was to learn. You have served your purpose and in doing so, your usefulness to me has now come to an end. Isn't that what you taught us? That useless tools should be discarded? Isn't that the way of the Sith?" |<<<~~-~-~-~-~~>>>| He brought his rusty landspeeder to a halt, its engines sputtering and coughing, alongside the girl's speeder bike at the front of the town's biggest building. Its size was the only thing that separated it from the rest, that made it stand out amongst the edifices of the town, the same dusty old town he remembered from his last visit. It was as if life here never changed. It probably didn't, not in hundreds of years. If it weren't for the slavers, it probably wouldn't have, not for hundreds of years more.
"The mayor's residence?" he asked with a sigh. "Why are we here, instead of gathering a militia in the town square?"
The girl rolled her eyes, as if the answer was obvious, as if the mercenary had asked something that made her question his intelligence. Her contempt was evident in her voice when she replied. "Because I need to talk to my father, obviously."
The door to the building slid open to reveal a portly man in his fifties, oversized mustache on a round, rodent-like face, with small, beady eyes that bore the arrogance of the ignorantly entitled. Dressed in a comic parody of what was intended to pass on as official robes, a poor imitation in garish colors and cheap fabrics meant to imitate fine silks and velvet, the mayor waddled forward, his stubby legs stomping the dirt in an exaggerated fashion. "Daughter! Where have you been! We've been worried sick!" the man called out in a squeaky voice that added to his rodent features.
"I hired a mercenary!" the girl beamed, straightening her posture with pride.
At last, the mayor's gaze switched to the mercenary and the beady eyes darkened. "This... freak? I told you not to go there! I forbade you from doing so, yet you disobey me," the man chastised his daughter. "Besides, we haven't got the credits for mercenaries an' I already sent word to Mos Eisley."
"But, father!" she retorted back. "By the time we find anyone to help, it will be too late! Besides, this one said he'll do the job for only a hundred credits and some junk!"
The mayor sighed. "Fine... You! What good are you!" he demanded of the mercenary. "You better not be wasting our time, 'cause you ain't seein' a single credit until you finish the job!" the portly mayor shouted, trying to infuse as much authority as possible in his squeaky voice.
The mercenary stared back at the mayor with a thinly veiled look of disgust. "First things first, let's get one thing straight," he answered in a cold voice, his tone commanding, power and authority radiating from him as he spoke, as naturally as if he was born to it. "I'll do the job for you, I'll raise your militia and deal with the slavers. But I am not your lapdog, to be ordered around, threatened, coerced or chastised like a nerfherder," he said.
"Second, before we talk strategy, I'd like to know exactly what I'm dealing with. Your daughter said your marshall's dead? I want to examine the body, see what kind of weapons these slavers have. And I want you to tell me everything you know about them. Their numbers, their tactics, the location of their camp and everything else you can remember. You can fill me in on the way to the morgue."
With that, the mercenary turned back to his landspeeder, his hand already on the door handle by the time the mayor reacted.
"W-wait! You can't expect me to travel around in that thing! It looks like its about to explode!" the rat-like mayor called out. "Do you have any better options?" the mercenary responded, exasperation in his voice.
With a sigh and a whine, the mayor relented. "Fine, fine... We'll take my speeder. Its better than yours, anyway. Daughter! Go fetch the speeder!" he shouted at his progeny. With a sigh and a pout, the girl complied and disappeared through the house's door. Moments later, the garage door slid open, revealing a spacious landspeeder of recent model, paint still gleaming on its hull. "You like it?" the mayor beamed with pride, noticing the mercenary's attention had shifted to the vehicle. "Its brand new. Got it last week. Bet you never rode in one of these things, before," the mayor bragged. "Daughter! Get in the back! And you, ride in front with me. And be careful with the seat, its brand new and I don't want any dirt or scratches on it."
"Let's just get this over with," the mercenary replied with annoyance in his voice.
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Kainan Wolfe
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Posts: 55
Affiliation: The Forgotten
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Post by Kainan Wolfe on Dec 12, 2020 15:24:14 GMT -8
*Clang, clang, clang*
Deep beneath the bowels of the ancient temple, the sound of metal striking metal echoed throughout the dusty, silent halls.
*Clang, clang, clang*
The hammer rose and fell, striking the steel, the red-hot blade spewing angry sparks of protest as it was battered into shape.
*Clang, clang, clang*
Secluded in the secret forge, the assassin worked to shape his blade. And each time his hammer struck, he poured into it his hatred, his rage, his desire for vengeance, imparting upon the nascent weapon a darker fragment of his soul.
*Clang, clang, clang* |<<<~~-~-~-~-~~>>>| "When you asked me to take on this job, you failed to inform me that one of the slavers is a Dark Jedi or a Sith," the mercenary rebuked the mayor and his annoying daughter, a menacing displeasure in his voice.
"B-but... We didn't know! I swear!" the girl pleaded, trying to make up some excuse. "H-how can you tell?" she asked, still shocked at how quickly he had figured it out. She had omitted that detail for fear that he'd refuse the job, had hoped that he wouldn't find out until it was too late to back down. But he had proven smarter than the townsfolk had assumed him to be.
"Sure you didn't," the mercenary answered, shaking his head. "This wound?" he said, pointing to the lifeless body of the marshal, lying on the cold, durasteel slab of the morgue's examination table. "The way it goes through and out the other side and the cauterization? No blaster could have done this," the mercenary spoke in an annoyed tone, like explaining basic facts to idiot children. Facing the mayor and his daughter with a confrontational look in his eyes, he pointed a taloned finger at the lifeless form of the old marshal. "Your friend here was stabbed with a lightsaber," he declared. "And for all the hubris, hypocrisy and faults of their order, no Jedi would ever join up with a band of slavers. So the culprit could only have been a Dark Jedi, or a Sith," the mercenary spoke. "Let me guess. The lightsaber's blade was red? Thought as much," he said, not waiting for the mayor or his progeny to answer. He did not need to, he had already figured out the truth and had no interest in hearing any more of their lies and excuses. With a threatening look in his eyes, he stormed past the bewildered townies and past the building's front door, drawing a deep breath as he emerged into the dusty street.
If he hadn't turned his back, he would have seen the girl's face contort into an expression of fear, would have seen the color drain from her visage and the cold sweat beading on her brow. She rushed out after him, a tremble in her step, a tremor in her voice. "P-please! You have to help us! We didn't know! I swear to you, we didn't know!" she yelled out after him. The pudgy mayor joined her, his rat-like face turning indignant even as his skin turned red. "And so you're just gonna' leave, mercenary? Just like that? You'll abandon our town to the slavers, you worm?"
The mercenary stopped in his tracks and answered, without bothering to turn around and face them. "Tell me, mayor, when did these attacks begin? How long ago did the slavers set their eyes upon your town?" he asked, his voice cold and condescending. "Two weeks! Why?" the mayor demanded impatiently. "Why ask this question? What does it matter, they're here now!"
"And you say you didn't have money to hire mercenaries?" the silver-haired man continued to press on. "Well, yes! I already told you that! Are you daft, or something?" the mayor retorted. "But you did have the money to buy yourself a new landspeeder," the mercenary spoke with barely concealed disgust.
"B-but... T-that's... different..." the mayor stumbled and choked on his words, clumsily trying to come up with some explanation, his face reddening as his beady eyes narrowed in anger. "And how's that any of your damn business!" he yelled. "What would a freak like you even know of runnin' a town!"
"I should just let you rot," the mercenary responded in a low voice, barely a whisper, yet that was enough to silence the mayor and his protesting daughter. "I should just leave your town to its fate. Afterall, you slimy, greedy nerfherder did bring this upon yourself, wasting credits on pathetic luxuries instead of doing your job. On top of that, your bantha-brained daughter here, tried to deceive me," he said, pausing for silence, letting the fear sink into their bones, letting them sweat for just a little while longer. "But unlike you civilized folk, I keep my word. Freak's honor and all that," he retorted. "However," he paused. "This is the last time either of you tries to trick me, withhold crucial information from me, or treat me with disrespect," he warned, his tone and posture making it clear that the next time they disregarded his demands, the consequences would be violent.
"I will return later," he dismissed them as he resumed walking. "There's some equipment I need to retrieve from my farm."
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Kainan Wolfe
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Posts: 55
Affiliation: The Forgotten
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Post by Kainan Wolfe on Dec 13, 2020 2:18:29 GMT -8
The mercenary threw open the doors of his small tool shed, his inhuman, feline eyes darting from instrument to instrument until they located what he was looking for. Shovel in hand, he retraced the steps he had made so many years ago, counting in his mind, until he found the right spot just behind the small shack that was now his home. A shadow fell over his eyes as he dug, slamming the spade into the sand as if it were some enemy to be gutted, some old, forgotten foe to be battered, until finally, the jarring clang of metal-on-metal told him he would need to dig no further. He found what he was looking for.
Shovel discarded, the mercenary fell to his knees, as if some cosmic weight pressed down on his shoulders. Taloned hands swept the last of the sand aside, revealing an old plasteel box, the kind used for the storage and transport of weapons, an unmarked grey container which held secrets he had buried long ago.
Funny, he thought as he pulled the box from the ground, fingers hovering hesitantly over the release latch that would open the lid. One can flee to the ends of the universe. Dig the deepest hole possible and bury his past under a ton of dirt. Sooner or later, though, the past always finds a way of catching up.
He flipped the latch, lifting open the lid to reveal the items within. A sword and four lightsabers, three of them obviously Sith. Trembling fingers reached out, then stopped. The mercenary clenched his fists to steady himself, the sharp, unnatural talons digging into the flesh of his palms, piercing the old scars already there. Crimson blood welled up, seeping between his fingers, the droplets staining the cloth lining of the box below.
With a sigh, he reached in, taking the sword and one of the lightsabers, which he clipped to his belt. He left the three Sith sabers behind. Taken years ago from the cultists which had sought to use him as a disposable assassin in their plans, they were mere reminders and would not serve him now. The sword, he drew from its scabbard, stopping halfway through, to reveal a jagged, sharp blade engraved with angry-looking patterns. The blade whistled, hummed and sang, an eerie sound echoing across the desert sands. It thirsted for blood, it had been denied for so long and now it hummed and sang again, eager to be put to use. The mercenary pushed it back into its scabbard and latched it to his belt.
With the box buried back in its hidden resting place, there was one last item to retrieve. An old, tattered cloak, which he threw around his shoulders, old reflex leading him to pull the hood over his head, as if to somehow conceal the painful darkness in his eyes. The temperature around him dropped as an unnatural chill settled in the air, a familiar chill he had not felt in years, the cold touch of Death itself. The cold touch of the Darkside.
With heavy steps, he left the farm behind, his slitted, feline eyes glowing golden with an inner light as he stared emptily into the distance. And as he walked away, the breeze held still, as if the entire universe held its breath in anticipation of what would come next. No matter what happened on this day, the mercenary knew some things would never be the same again.
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Kainan Wolfe
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Posts: 55
Affiliation: The Forgotten
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Post by Kainan Wolfe on Dec 17, 2020 14:05:15 GMT -8
The mercenary's eyes gazed at the assembled 'militia' with evident disgust. Just a bunch of angry, spiteful-looking townsfolk who cackled and cawed amongst themselves with no direction, hierarchy or organization whatsoever. These people weren't fighters. They could barely be counted as raiders. They lacked the required discipline and self-control for any kind of sustained, pitched battle, were prone to rash, impulsive decisions and none of them seemed willing to defer to authority because every one of them wanted to be in charge. Fortunately, he knew how to deal with their kind. It would be a headache for sure, but he could work with it.
"What is our inventory?" he asked, interrupting their petty arguments and shouting matches about strategies which were clearly idiotic and almost universally amounted to 'I will lead a frontal assault'. "Our what?" one of the townsfolk asked after a few seconds of consideration. "Our inventory, you dimwit!" the mercenary snapped back, just like a drill sergeant yelling at a particularly arrogant cadet. "Weapons, vehicles, explosives. The things we're supposed to fight a battle with!" the mercenary pressed on. Just as expected, the townsman took a step back, mumbling incoherently and looking around like a lost bantha.
"Now. Who amongst you is the town mechanic?" he demanded. After a few moments, a Twi'lek stepped forward, eyes cast hesitantly down, his boots digging an imaginary hole in the dusty soil. "W-we have about two dozen blaster rifles, the same number of pistols and... five speeders," the Twi'lek finally spoke. "No explosives?" the mercenary asked. "None that I know of," responded the Twi'lek. "We're moisture farmers, not miners."
The mercenary sighed, trying to think of a solution. "What about heavy duty power cells? The kind used for speeders and farming equipment. How many of those do you have?" the mercenary asked. "Oh, we have plenty of those. Just last week, I... Wait. You wanna' rig them up as bombs?" the mechanic responded.
"Well, not a complete idiot afterall," the mercenary replied sarcastically. "Get to it. I also want you to round up a few of these idiots and gather up as much scrap metal plates as you can, then weld them onto the speeders. It won't be military-grade armor plating, but it'll have to do."
"What about their walker?" another townsman asked. "The slavers got one of those. How are we gonna' deal with that?"
"Leave that to me," the mercenary responded. In truth, the town militia would be nearly useless in a conventional fight, no matter what he did to get them organized. They just didn't have the equipment to go up against E-Webs and walkers. However, their chaotic and undisciplined nature would make them an unpredictable distraction, which would be enough for him. And with the element of surprise on their side, under the cover of darkness... He could make this work.
"Who amongst you is the best sharpshooter?" he asked. Surprisingly, it was the mayor's daughter who stepped forward. "I can blast the wings off a mynock from a hundred yards away," she bragged. The mercenary simply sighed. Great, he thought. It just had to be the brat. "Then you're with me."
"The rest of you, start gathering together whatever ammunition and medical supplies you have. And make sure you have at least one comlink per squad and one comlink per speeder," he instructed. "Now get to work. We attack the slavers tonight."
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Kainan Wolfe
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Posts: 55
Affiliation: The Forgotten
Traffic Light: Green
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Post by Kainan Wolfe on Mar 13, 2021 16:46:26 GMT -8
He didn't have a lot of cover. Just a small rock and the rising form of a sand dune to obscure him from the sentries on the wall, but his experience lent him the skills he needed to blend in with the environment. Laying flat against the sand at just the right angle, he may as well been nothing more than a shadow, an illusion of the mind, easily dismissed by the passing eye. But this shadow had claws. Very deadly ones. The mercenary peered through his ancient macrobinoculars at the makeshift fortifications in front of him. A pair of corrugated walls, flanking an improvized gateway consisting of a metal frame, a few motors, some chains and what looked to be a plate stripped off the side of a Jawa sandcrawler, serving as portcullis. Scaffolding had been erected behind the walls, to serve as a makeshift walkway upon which sentries with blaster rifles had been posted, some ragtag thugs in salvaged Stormtrooper gear. With the townsfolk distracting them, they wouldn't be much of an obstacle. Most of the guards would be drawn to the wall on the far side once the townsfolk attacked and without a gangplank over the gate, they would not be able to redeploy to the other side in time to stop him from breaching that wall. "How much longer do we have to cook in this sun?" the girl whispered indignantly? "Why can't we just attack now and be done with it so we can get home in time for dinner?"The mercenary rolled his eyes. "That is not going to happen," he replied. "If we are to have a chance, we must wait until the cover of darkness before we attack. Otherwise, your people will be slaughtered.""But I could just take out the guys on the walls and the rest of the townsfolk could charge in and-""-Get slaughtered by the E-Webs the slavers have set up behind that gate, just in case someone attempts something as idiotic as what you just suggested," the mercenary cut her off. The mayor's brat was really starting to get on his nerves. "And how do you know they have E-Webs on the other side of that gate? Can you see through walls?" she snapped back, raising her tone a little higher than he would have considered safe. He let out a small, exasperated sigh as thoughts of stuffing a rag in her mouth flashed through his mind. "Because that's what I would have done, if I were in charge of defending that camp," he retorted in a calm, patronizing tone. "That's what anyone with two functioning neurons and a Bantha's grasp on military strategy would do."Truth be told, there were a lot of things he'd have done differently if he were in charge of setting up that camp. such as welding up some crenellations on that wall. And setting up a few reinforced platforms with E-Webs on top of them to serve as turrets. And having a few guys with rocket launchers above that gate, which he would make sure had some kind of gangplank on top of it, wide enough for troops to move back and forth between the two sections of walls. And set up a few watchtowers with snipers in them. And some additional snipers concealed amongst the outcrops in the cliff at the camp's back... "...-will not be talked to like that by some illiterate nerf herder living in the middle of nowhere who doesn't have two credits to his name-" the girl's rant went on, until she was suddenly cut off as a taloned hand grabbed the collar of her shirt and shoved her face-first into the sand. "Are you trying to get us killed?" the mercenary hissed at her. "What did I tell you about keeping your head down and not making noise?" he cut her off. Once, before Tatooine, his patience was known to be legendary. He could stalk a target for hours and lay motionless in the shadows for days. He could take his time to scope out a location until he memorized every detail, every possible entry and exit point, the schedule of every janitor and the patrol route of every guard. But even his patience had a limit. And having to put up with that brat's temper tantrums and constant entitlement had pushed him past that limit. "If I hear one more word come out of your mouth, I will tie you up and leave you here for the slavers or the scavenging animals. Am I understood?"The girl nodded, the indignation all but gone from her face and replaced by fear. "Good," the mercenary said, releasing his grip on her neck. "Now be quiet and stay still. Nightfall's only an hour away"
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