[color=darkorange][h1][center]Rouke[/center][/h1][/color]

The last burning beams of light from Tatooine's twin suns were snuffed out as the massive ramp grinded shut, sealing the occupants inside. [i]Like a metal tomb,[/i] the Tusken nervously contemplated, shifting his weight from leg to leg as if the floor burned his feet. Rouke had encountered these hulking metallic behemoths before, his tribe trading with the Jawas who rode them, but no Tusken ever entered one willingly. The heat inside was nothing Rouke hadn't experienced before, perhaps even being slightly cooler inside, but he felt warm sweat trickled down his face all the same. The crowd shambled forward, prodded by armed soldiers in dirty white armor, their boots clanging against the metal floor. Rouke scanned the interior for any means of escape, but the room was locked down tight. His eyes returned to his shackled feet and he moved deeper into the Crawler.

Everything felt so alien, so wrong to the lone Tusken. No sand beneath his padded feet, no burning desert wind whipping against his robes. He worried he would never feel those sensations again. As the crowd packed closer and closer together, Rouke became panicked, even more desperate to escape than ever. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The tall walls around him were rapidly closing in, and the air became thick and heavy. He refused to be crushed to death by some Imperial war machine, not like the rest of the complacent prisoners shuffling around him.

The Tusken muscled his way through the crowd forward, flowing robes whipping behind him. Maybe there was a way out ahead. He clambered up the stairs, rising above the throng of disheveled prisoners, practically crawling over them. A sliver of meager light, piercing through the front of the crawler, lured Rouke in like a moth to a flame. As he drew nearer, the Tusken could make out the endless sea of shifting sands meeting the equally infinite blue sky, and the twin suns slowly vanishing where the two met. The view brought him some level of peace; his breathing slowed, and his wild eyes no longer darted rapidly around the room. Rouke looked back at the ground he covered, surprised to find that it was no smaller than when he first entered. Never had the Tusken's nerves caused such a reaction, and he hoped it was both the first and last time. Rouke turned his attention to the group gathering around the window overlooking the desert landscape.

There were at least two aliens among them, neither of which belonged to species he recognized, though he knew only a few. He spotted what looked to be a Tusken Raider, and Rouke's bound hands quickly clenched into fists, but after a moment realized that, although traditions vary from tribe to tribe, no Tusken would wear a helmet as high-tech as the one this humanoid possessed. The creature that dominated the room with its presence, however, was a massive droid, a far cry from those his tribe usually sold to the Jawas. The typical service droids they salvaged didn't ever have blasters for arms, and none of them spoke in clear Basic like this one, usually the unintelligible (to Rouke) assortments of random bleeps. A dark-skinned human approached the group and spoke to a colossal droid; Rouke couldn't make out the words, but he could tell from the human's posture that they were not words of friendship. [i]This should be a good fight. Who will win, the machine with blasters for arms, or the human with shackled arms and legs?[/i] 

A woman with dark blue skin and odd appendages on her head joined the conversation, but Rouke wasn't interested in their arguments. They reminded him of uli-ah, Tusken children, all trying to establish dominance over each other through threats alone, never picking up gaderffii and settling their differences with a fight. Rouke noticed a final member of the party, a human sitting down before a panel of buttons, levers, and blinking lights. He seemed to be in a position of great importance, possibly the one piloting the crawler. Rouke was ignorant of almost every aspect of machinery, but he knew from experience that you don't ride a bantha from the back; you sit at the front of the beast to control it. Perhaps this crawler was no different, and this man was the "rider," though he wasn't dressed like the other Imperials. Rouke pushed his way through the group and sat in the empty seat beside him. [color=darkorange]"Are you a slave of the Empire like this one?"[/color] Rouke asked, tilting his hooded head to the droid. His voice was low and gravelly, with a thick, guttural Tusken accent, but nothing else about him was particularly intimidating. It had been over a year since he shed his traditional Tusken attire, trading them in for average colonist clothes, with a large earth colored robe over them. However, even though he had calmed down significantly since entering the craft, there was still a nervousness about him, like a caged animal that could bite without warning. Rouke had an inkling of a plan inside his head to escape, but it would never work without the help of this pilot. He hoped that his meager persuasion skills would be enough, but the Tusken had his doubts.