Jansal Corego
A Wandering Soul
[member="Killnan Omani"]
Ryloth.
Why Ryloth? Not that he had anything against twi'leks, they were awfully nice folk up until he had to kill them; ultimately, however, their homeworld was nothing like them - neither colorful nor quirky. It smelled like it looked, and it looked like it sounded; dry canyons and valleys cracking into deathly gulches shadowed beneath red mesas. Of course the citizens were cultured enough, with technologically advanced structures decorating the pinnacles of the landscape; however, he wasn't here to stay among them - no, his target did not deign to make it easy on either of them. When Jansal's ship descended slowly down into the public starport, laden by foreign, silver plate, much like his own beskar'gam, word traveled fast; something he had never anticipated - the contract had led him to believe the one he was hunting was isolated, unsupported, and the last thing he had drawn from that was that the entirety of the village would be covering for him.
And covering would be putting it lightly - they never drew blasters on the Mandalorian, they knew better; but Jansal would be damned if they didn't try their hardest to keep him away. In fact, they tried so hard it was only a matter of time until Jansal learned to simply reversed what they said to discover the truth - every aspect of what they said was a lie, it was like a fable: the date, the time, the location, the planet. In fact, it was so strange Jansal considered tossing in the bag right there, it was charming almost. Almost. It wore off after some time, after he humored them for a good bit; then the blaster came out. No one was lying then. Suddenly, everything was on the house; it was a small colony, independent of the government, perhaps illegally; nonetheless, they provided for themselves with trade and agriculture - they had security too, but they didn't so much as look at the man. Every time they shared a room they'd scurry out like cockroaches under a headlight.
He was making an effort to pack up before departing. Rifle, armor, accessories . . . but why was he feeling like he was forgetting something? He dared to make a final visit to the ship. They wouldn't contact his target, they knew better than that; Jansal was tracking their signals, they'd only hurry up the inevitable. He had the time to be leisurely if he so wished, and he felt like checking his equipment; ah, then it hit him. "Explosives!" He spoke this aloud, a few nearby settlers jumping at the suddenly boisterous response to his own muse before scuttling off into their dusty homes, like rabbits into a hole. It was comedic, almost. Again, almost. It was also kind of sad. Jansal never hesitated to pull a trigger, but he never hesitated to dispense pity, either - he was enigmatic like that. Then the ship, a twi'lek was toiling nearby it; something that shot up so many red flags to the merc you could practically see them pop out of his head. The pad was build into the adjacent architecture, like a solid cylinder; they stacked upwards into a rising slant right before the town hall - it was against this very plaza the starport nestled, almost cozily. But still dusty.
"Hey!" roared the Mandalorian. The twi'lek jumped, wide-eyed, and bolted; a young girl - red-skinned, and, damn, she could run. Before Jansal could blink she was gone and, as assumed by superstition: yes, she took the explosives. Not good. The last thing he wanted was to be tied to a girl accidentally melting her home off the face of the planet because she tripped with the damn things - the only thing Jansal hated more than desert worlds was a paper trail. Or a trail of ash, since that would be the only thing left of this godforsaken place if those things went off; high-grade seismic explosives, highly illegal. Jansal had planned to use it to clear out a canyon if his target went hiding, since it'd likely trigger a massive collapse, given the notoriety of various cave systems built around this particular sector of the planet. Now that he thought about it, it was kind of impressive she could carry it; he relaxed a little. Well, nothing to be done about it now, he supposed. If it happens, it happens.
Ryloth.
Why Ryloth? Not that he had anything against twi'leks, they were awfully nice folk up until he had to kill them; ultimately, however, their homeworld was nothing like them - neither colorful nor quirky. It smelled like it looked, and it looked like it sounded; dry canyons and valleys cracking into deathly gulches shadowed beneath red mesas. Of course the citizens were cultured enough, with technologically advanced structures decorating the pinnacles of the landscape; however, he wasn't here to stay among them - no, his target did not deign to make it easy on either of them. When Jansal's ship descended slowly down into the public starport, laden by foreign, silver plate, much like his own beskar'gam, word traveled fast; something he had never anticipated - the contract had led him to believe the one he was hunting was isolated, unsupported, and the last thing he had drawn from that was that the entirety of the village would be covering for him.
And covering would be putting it lightly - they never drew blasters on the Mandalorian, they knew better; but Jansal would be damned if they didn't try their hardest to keep him away. In fact, they tried so hard it was only a matter of time until Jansal learned to simply reversed what they said to discover the truth - every aspect of what they said was a lie, it was like a fable: the date, the time, the location, the planet. In fact, it was so strange Jansal considered tossing in the bag right there, it was charming almost. Almost. It wore off after some time, after he humored them for a good bit; then the blaster came out. No one was lying then. Suddenly, everything was on the house; it was a small colony, independent of the government, perhaps illegally; nonetheless, they provided for themselves with trade and agriculture - they had security too, but they didn't so much as look at the man. Every time they shared a room they'd scurry out like cockroaches under a headlight.
He was making an effort to pack up before departing. Rifle, armor, accessories . . . but why was he feeling like he was forgetting something? He dared to make a final visit to the ship. They wouldn't contact his target, they knew better than that; Jansal was tracking their signals, they'd only hurry up the inevitable. He had the time to be leisurely if he so wished, and he felt like checking his equipment; ah, then it hit him. "Explosives!" He spoke this aloud, a few nearby settlers jumping at the suddenly boisterous response to his own muse before scuttling off into their dusty homes, like rabbits into a hole. It was comedic, almost. Again, almost. It was also kind of sad. Jansal never hesitated to pull a trigger, but he never hesitated to dispense pity, either - he was enigmatic like that. Then the ship, a twi'lek was toiling nearby it; something that shot up so many red flags to the merc you could practically see them pop out of his head. The pad was build into the adjacent architecture, like a solid cylinder; they stacked upwards into a rising slant right before the town hall - it was against this very plaza the starport nestled, almost cozily. But still dusty.
"Hey!" roared the Mandalorian. The twi'lek jumped, wide-eyed, and bolted; a young girl - red-skinned, and, damn, she could run. Before Jansal could blink she was gone and, as assumed by superstition: yes, she took the explosives. Not good. The last thing he wanted was to be tied to a girl accidentally melting her home off the face of the planet because she tripped with the damn things - the only thing Jansal hated more than desert worlds was a paper trail. Or a trail of ash, since that would be the only thing left of this godforsaken place if those things went off; high-grade seismic explosives, highly illegal. Jansal had planned to use it to clear out a canyon if his target went hiding, since it'd likely trigger a massive collapse, given the notoriety of various cave systems built around this particular sector of the planet. Now that he thought about it, it was kind of impressive she could carry it; he relaxed a little. Well, nothing to be done about it now, he supposed. If it happens, it happens.