Desert Rendezvous

[Vega Van-Derveld]

At 43,000 light-years from the Core, Tatooine is hardly considered the centre of the known universe. Lacking any kind of culture, it’s population does not seem to live but rather meander aimlessly through their existence. Aware of what boundless opportunities lay beyond their backwater world, yet unable to seize them, their lives are spent in hopeless slavery. What little money they do make is often spent before it is earned, often on gambling, in the hopes of winning it big.

Since the rise and fall of the Jedi Luke Skywalker, a previously unfathomable amount of attention has been shined upon the Arkanis Sector. An influx of tourists has added a few more digits to the bank balances of the ruling Hutts, whilst also managing to almost wipe out the entire population of womp-rats and wraids thanks to over-hunting. There have, however, been some even more curious side-effects.

Being a planet full of such depravity and miserable circumstances, it’s no surprise that settlements such as Anchorhead are a veritable magnet for do-gooders. For hundreds of years smugglers and the like found sanctuary on Tatooine. Now, Jedi are utilizing the planets vast surface for the same purpose. Natives are eager to draw any in credits they can, offering shelter to travellers with no questions asked. From time to time, however, someone will get a little too greedy and turn-in their visitor to the Empire. These are fickle times.

Of course, where there are Jedi, there are hunters. Mercenaries of all creeds flock to even the faintest scent of a Force user. For the capture of just one of the remnants of the Jedi Order, a man could receive a reward high enough to put him in good stead for the rest of his life. It was the perfect retirement package and first-rate boasting material to boot.

Not all hunters were in it for the money, however. It was rumoured that even amongst the ranks of the Empire itself there were Force users who dabbled in the dark arts, as the infamous Lord Vader had. These twisted souls sought the Jedi for no other reason than to eradicate them from the face of the galaxy. Discreet and deadly, they moved here and there, striking with unparalleled strength and leaving in their wake a bloody trail of carnage.

Unbeknownst to the people of Mos Eisley, one of these perverse creatures already walked among them. As the twin suns set over the ‘wretched hive’, a shadowy figure stepped into the smoky cantina. Aside from a few glances, he went mostly unnoticed. In a city full of lowlifes, it’s hard to tell the difference between your average thug and a Dark Jedi.

[Zabian Bal-Wandler]

It had been three long weeks, since his rescue from Imperial hands. Three long weeks of trapesing from planet to planet in hopes of getting as far away as you could get from Imperial rule, and yet oddly enough it was never as far away as a Jedi liked, never. For even somone as skilled as a Jedi in these dark days, it was hard to survive.

The Empires purge so far had been a great campaign, Jedi were captured, slain and tortured every which way that you looked, it was hard to close your eyes to such brutality. The communication lines between small Jedi camps were started to faulter as each group and duo of Knight and Master were slowly being exterminated like vermin, as evidently as one can imagine it was begining to become lonely as each of your own were vanising from exsistance.

It had been like this for years though, you would think that you would get used to it. But that was impossible. One day you were talking to one that you trusted and loved, one that understood your position, the next that person was gone, never to return, dead. But everyone knew they were being hunted, everyone knew that the next day it could be them off to the slammer never to return.

Everone of us, were simply waiting to die.

The baking deserts and rolling sand dunes were ideal for such sects to slip into for hiding on the Hutts planet, Tatooine was full of hunters and smuggerlers, but where else better to hide than right under you're enemies noses? In this case, somwhere else...

Zabian had retuned to Tatooine after a lenghy jouney with a one Sanis Prent and his motly crew only to find the Jedi encampment just outside Anchorhead deserted, they had ether left in a hurry or they had been dragged out forcefully, etherway, it looked just as lived in as when Zabian had visited two months ago, only this time, empty.

Drowning his sorrows was his one goal for the moment as in the very same cantina he took a swig from his glass, a local ale that had an accuired taiste. He had been here for only an hour and he had been drinking for the same glass. The once cold mixture was now stale and warm. Horrible infact but he still drunk idley from the glass.

The isolation now from Jedi life was becoming terrible, there was noone else but the bottom of the glass to speak to.

[Vega Van-Derveld]

Even with its suffocating smog, the cool of the cantina was a much welcomed respite from the blistering heat outside. Even at sunset, it was far too warm for a man who felt at his most comfortable in the icy caverns of Hoth. Stood at the bar, Vega Van-Derveld surveyed the clientele of the cantina. Aliens of all shapes and sizes were scattered across the bar. He smirked. It was a fully multi-cultural society, minus the culture.

“What can I get you?” a voice grunted. The bartender was the kind of man you could smell before seeing. He had an unkempt beard and looked as though he wouldn’t of recognized a bath if you hit him over the head with it.

“Antakarian Fire Dancer,” Van-Derveld toned in reply. He briefly considered leaning against the counter, but thought better of it after a glance down at its rather unsavoury surface.

“You look like death warmed up,” the bartender snorted, in what was either an uncustomary show of concern or a thinly veiled insult. Vega’s eyes, hollow, lifted and showed a flicker of annoyance. No further words were exchanged, though the Fire Dancer was mixed with unusual care and speed. Turning from the bar, Van-Derveld began to make his way through the throng of people. He was here to meet an Aqualish by the name of Argo and by the looks of things the walrus-faced dren was late. Instead of mingling with the locals, the former Stormtrooper intended to find himself a seat and continue his evaluation of the potential prey.

[Zabian Bal-Wandler]

The last of the ale had gone somwhere, ether he drank it mechanically or it simply vanished without trace, he liked to think that the later might have happend, but doubted it. Zabian was not one really to drink but once in a while he might treat himself to a few beers, on occassions such as these it was imperetive to 'wash away the tears'.

It was at some point between putting his glass down relucantly and shifting in his seat to stand when Zabian felt a disturbance, a disturbance like none other, it can only be described at a pang to the chest, like somone flicking the heart. Stopping in mid stance he estimated its location, he or she, probably a male, thought Zabian, were near the bar.

Murder ran through the very veins of this man whome Zabian was feeling, his personality, his agender, bloody and grim, this man was dangerous, this man was hateful.

'...This mans a dark follower' whispered Zabian to himself.

[Vega Van-Derveld]

Very few booths were empty. In some groups huddled over crooked hands of cards or scores of empty glasses, while others were occupied by shady loners. The cantina had been constructed, whether intentionally or not, in such a way that it provided many a dark hiding place for the customer who preferred not to be disturbed.

One man in particular seemed to be doing his best to not be noticed, yet in this very act he made himself stand out like a sore thumb. Vega could feel the unease oozing from him. He could almost smell the fear. It was this kind of reaction that he thrived upon. It looked as those his lips were moving. As if only to provoke it further, he broke away from the crowd and began to move towards Zabian.

There was something about him… something familiar.

“Seat taken?” he inquired, his metallic voice somehow malicious in spite of being produced by a synthesizer.

[Mirko Spendrim]

Mirko looked despondently at his hand. It was not a sabaac face - his cards really sucked. He puckered his buckteeth through his mismatched lips and made a ffssssking noise.

The way he saw it, he had two options.

One - he could fold, toss in his hand, loose his last 5 creds and earn a punch in the face from the trandoshan sitting opposite.

Two - he could bluff, up the ante, then next round fold, toss in his hand and earn a punch in the face from the trandoshan sitting opposite.

Either way, he was earning a punch in the face and loosing his last megre creds.

He made more ffsssking sounds while he deliberated.

Mirko had been down on his luck lately. Story of his life. Gone were the glory days - when the purge was in its heyday. Information was abundant and Spendrim "broker extraordinaire" as he liked to recall himself, never was without a next job. The business of "stoolie" was very lucrative. Trouble was. He had never been any good at cards and he and his money had been easily parted.

Now, with the force-users as scarce as a hundred pound Hutt, trading in information leading to their whereabouts had dried up completely, leaving Mirko to eke out what passed as a living as best he could.

Nowadays, he mainly dealt with crooked cops and their cheating wives, being nickled and dimed to give up skeezy lovers or shylock patsies. Once, he'd even run info to those psycho Inquisitoriates, but only because he'd been desperate. Those guys gave him the creeps. Much the same as those crazy female vigos of the black sun, which of course, did not exist. Even in his own mind, Mirko was scared to think of those ladies.


And so, here he was. Melting like a stick of butter in this scum-ridden frypan cantina, playing cards with the likes of brutes like this.

Mirko ran nubby fingers over 3-day-old whiskers, scratching his chin noisily. He decided to delay the inevitable.

"I see you, and raise you this.." he tossed in a cheap chrono he'd found in the men's washroom a half-hour ago. The thing didn't work and the face was cracked, but he doubted the Trando would have witt enough to notice.

Wriggling in his chair, Mirko sucked his buck teeth once more, miserable.

Story of his life.

[Zabian Bal-Wandler]

For a moment the Jedi did not answer, frozen in thought at the very nerve of e man befoe him. His eyes locked with the darksiders and his eyebrows frowned dangerously.

' Sit, but do not expect me to be in convosation with the likes of you'

[Vega Van-Derveld]

A smirk twisted Vega’s lips. Any normal being would have taken this response as their cue to leave, but Van-Derveld took some satisfaction in the displeasure of others and so seated himself opposite Zabian. As he sat, he saw – across the bar – one of the larger sabacc games becoming somewhat heated. A group of burly trandoshan’s were giving a wiry little man a run for his money, he supposed. They could have had an empty hand and still wound up with the pot, just with a flash of their teeth.

“Not a gambler, are we?”

[Mirko Spendrim]

His bet was accepted by and large without much comment from the group. One player decided he'd lost enough for one night and folded in his hand. Getting up from the table, he bumped against it shaking the whole thing and spilling drinks to a chorus of complaining grunts and annoyed gesticulations from his companions.

Things settled quickly though and the play resumed. Mirko, eyeing the opportunity, helped himself to what remained of the player's abandoned drink.

"No point wasting it" he defended to anyone who cared. No one did.


Tipping the glass to his lips, his perpetual roving eyes noticed over its grimey rim two dubious characters sitting across the way from him -- no mean feat in a joint such as this.

He didn't recall seeing these two about before.