El Taco Taco — Roleplayer Guild

Ahhh, I love the Mon Calamari! :D Fuck yeah!

Tatooine is iconic, and I think absolutely perfect. Who wouldn’t want to get off planet? I’m of the opinion you can’t really run a Star Wars game without Tatooine, or, at the very least, Nar Shadaa.

My Zeltrons are kind of a ridiculous pair—Aelyn’s a mechanic and something of a savant with a hydrospanner, but she’s quick to blow all her credits gambling or buying junk droids to tinker with. She’s got a bad case of wanderlust but she’s totally ill-equipped to save money or prepare for journeys.
Mykail isn’t much better. While he’s a lot less impulsive, he’s a perpetual asshole, with the amazing gift to find something to bitch about, no matter his surroundings. He’s incapable of holding his tongue or deferring, even with his life on the line.

They’re a package deal, and between the two of them they usually manage to piss someone off badly enough to have to run for their lives within a year or two of settling down somewhere.

Artefact wise, what are you thinking? The first thing that comes to mind for me is a Holocron, although why a holocron would be on Tatooine is beyond me. Maybe they were dispersed across the galaxy in a last ditch effort to save Jedi knowledge from the Empire? Extinct Jedi or not, they’d probably fetch a good price for the right buyer and would possibly be hella dangerous.
Or maybe the artifact could be something like the Muur Talisman? I’m a huge fan of bending canon to my whims, who says it needs to have been destroyed? P: Plus, Rakghouls! That shit would be cray.

Danko, I’m totally down. That sounds hilarious.

The fire was deafening. Someone had torched the great oak table. The inferno feasted on chairs and tapestries, licking upwards to the rafters. Her skin blistered in the oppressive heat, white hot beneath the steel of her armor. The stench of cooked meat filled the air. It took all her willpower to keep from retching, to keep moving.

She needed to find Gildas. Every time she turned to continue the hunt, there was another of the glassy eyed abominations. They did not so much as wince when her steel met their flesh, even when she lopped off an arm or ran them through. They were relentless, an unending wave of might. She could barely hold her position, forced ever backwards, ever closer to the flames. Someone—a guard, Khaliq—screamed. In the corner of her eye, she could see the glass-eyed shadows lifting him and tossing him into the flames of the table.

She screamed, whipped the blade in a wide arc to catch the glassy eyed man reaching for her, throwing her weight into the strike. She pushed forward, through the fountain of blood and flesh as his head flew off. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, pushed her onwards. She had to get out, had to find him and run—

Samaire awoke to the familiar sight of the wooden ceiling of the barracks. Sunlight streamed in through the narrow windows. Spirits, her everything hurt. She had never been so aware of the protestations of her body in all her years. For a moment, she let herself sag into the thin straw mattress, indulging her aches and pains. She palmed her eyes, desperate for the shadows of sleep, arms burning with the simple motion.

With a groan, she swung her legs out over her rack. Her stiff muscles shrieked, demanded rest, but Samaire paid them little mind. She fumbled with her trunk, withdrawing her clean leathers. A glitter of gold caught her eye. She paused, before reaching out to thumb the little broach, tucked away beneath her small clothes. It was a golden lily, suspended above crossed scimitars, barely larger than her thumb. She yearned to pin it to her breast, to unwrap the hilt of her blade and wear the Cathan emerald and gold proudly once more. Instead, she tucked the broach deeper into her trunk, snapping it shut and locking it tight.

Samaire dressed gracelessly, the exhaustion refusing to allow her even that small dignity. Judging by the position of the sun in the sky, she might have managed three hours of sleep. It would have to suffice. There was too much work to sleep away the sunlight. It would be a welcome distraction from the shadows of sleep.

The skies were clear, thank the Spirits. The sun beat down on the back of her neck, and the air was clear. Like this, she could almost forget about the previous night. But the world was not content to let her put it from her mind. As she began the trek down the winding paths to the fields, she was acutely aware of the way people would stop and stare. Samaire focused on walking as smoothly as she could manage, setting her lips into a thin line. She didn’t want to know what people were whispering. She knew fingers would already be pointing and she had been the one to first find the stag. Alone.

The Second had looked at her as though he suspected her of claiming the heart herself. It had taken considerable self-control to refrain from snarling at the wisp of a boy. She had done many things in her life—not all of them admirable—but even Samaire Cathan knew better than to play with blood magic. She had led a small group of guards and the First to the site, tracking the nothingness with heart pounding in her chest. The First was interested where she had learned to track, but she had been spared answering by the horror of the heartless stag.

She had seen the sun rise through the windows of the Zarnofsky stronghold, explaining her findings to the Third, the Fourth, and the Guard Captain. She had thought the Second suspicious—the Third seemed intent on catching her in a lie. Samaire had repeated her truths through gritted teeth. She did not think the Third truly believed her, but the woman eventually relented, releasing her to bathe and rest.

Stifling a yawn, Samaire’s attention was piqued by the sounds of a commotion. Half a hundred meters down, by the main gate, a large wagon had ground to a halt. The horses tossed their heads violently, and even from the distance, she could see their panic. Someone was shouting—muscles protesting, she darted down along the cobble road, hand touching the dagger at the small of her back, praying fervently she wouldn’t need to use it. But with missing hearts and shadows about, there was no knowing. A thin man passed her, running with all his might towards the stronghold, nearly colliding head on.

Her body moved instinctively, sidestepping and sending her in a dead sprint down the hill. Her heart strained against her ribs, a bird panicked in its cage. The wagon lurched, one of the horses bucking wild. Samaire swore, tried once, twice, thrice to catch its bridle without being trampled. The lady of luck blessed her on the fourth attempt, gloved hand secure about the leather straps.

“Easy, easy,” she tried for soothing, moving with the beast, intent on redirecting its wild energy as best she could manage. Its nostrils flared and she narrowly avoided being kicked. The driver was nowhere in sight—oh, there, scrambled into the back, where an unholy commotion echoed. She swore again, the horse tossing its head violently. Samaire couldn’t even begin to figure out the buckles of the harnesses connecting the horses. But she could see straps and, with a quick prayer, she ducked forward, dagger slicing through leather with a vicious jerk of her arm. The wagon nearly toppled as it broke towards freedom, but another slash of leather let the first kicking horse free. With space to work, it was easier to remove the other one. She barely paid mind for where they ran, already heaving herself onto the wagon.

The driver, Brenna she recognized, and Jules appeared to be restraining a furiously thrashing man. Samaire boggled for a moment.

“Samaire—a hand!” Brenna’s strangled shout pulled her to reality. Sheathing her blade, she hopped into the back. There was no time to think. Even with Jules, a man built like a small house, the bound man seemed on the verge of escape. Samaire could only join the struggle, swearing beneath her breath.

Carved hearts and shadows and wildlings. This couldn’t end well.

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Schist happens.

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