Arla hissed through her teeth, anger seething. This other Twi'lek was a surface, living on the thin band of hospitable land between the frozen and burning sides. They were of a ruling class, lording it over the majority of those that had to live beneath the surface in order to survive. It was people like him that raided her people for slaves, stole their own crops of Ryll. One of her people would be traded for nothing more than a single blaster, which would further be used to subjugate her tribe.

"I should kill you," Arla spat in her native tongue, "You son of a rak'sha."

Snarling Arla pointed her blaster at the old stump lekku'd twi'lek and pulled the trigger. The dull black metal remained silent and did not hurl the hot light she was expecting. Flipping the light stick over, she shook it, and then pulled the trigger again. Why it would not fire completely boggled her mind. She had no idea what a safety even was, let alone how to disengage it.

"How work this light stick?" Arla demanded, turning to Russan, "No work! No work!"