Valen Thale
Smuggler
It was said that anyone could get lost on Nar Shaddaa if they really wanted to. Slip into a crowd, and there was hardly any chance of anyone finding you. Only the Hutts, the slugs that ruled the moon, had the kind of resources necessary to track anyone in the never-ending sea of faces that wafted from place to place on the Smuggler's Moon. At least, that was what he had been told. But Valen Thale wasn't that lucky. Never had been.
He was walking briskly, almost running, up the street alongside a row of neon signs for a string of the moon's finest nightclubs. On any other night, he would have counted himself lucky to slip into any one of these joints. The drinks were cheap, the men (and women) were hot, and he could easily lose himself in the cigarette smoke and gambling for hours on end. But tonight he could do none of that. Because tonight, he was on the run.
Valen tossed a glance over his shoulder. The crowd behind him was as thick as it was in front of him, but he could still see the metallic glint reflecting off of the Mandalorian's helmet as it bobbed up-and-down in time with his steps. The Mandalorian bounty hunter was in no rush. He seemed to enjoy the thrill of the hunt, of knowing his prey was scurrying away from him like a mouse through a maze. Very likely, the Mandalorian had scouted out the street before making his presence known and knew all the ins-and-outs.
That would make it pretty kriffing hard to slip away.
As he increased his pace, Valen kept his eyes moving, looking for an avenue of escape. There were a plethora of alleyways; but that was too easy, too predictable. And he was anything but predictable. If he darted into one of those alleys, he might fool a common mob enforcer; but, for a Mandalorian, he would just be serving himself up on a platter like a lamb for slaughter—his body to be carted off as proof for whichever angry crime boss had put the hit out on him. No. He had to be smarter than that.
As if on cue, a pink-skinned Twi'lek woman swung out from the threshold of the bar directly in front of him and looped her arm around his. He sensed her intentions immediately, and, just as he suspected, she pulled him towards the door of the establishment. He let her. This was the moment he had been waiting for.
"You look like a bad man, mister," she said with a seductive grin and batted her heavily-lidded eyes. "Are you? Are you a bad man?"
"More than you know, lady." He made sure not to look behind him. He didn't want her to know he was being chased. If he played this right, he wouldn't even need to run. It was all a matter of patience, timing, and being more unpredictable than your enemies.
The Twi'lek woman leaned in so closed to him he could practically feel her lips on his earlobe. "I like bad men," she said. She put a finger on his chest and traced an imaginary line down his sternum. "Why don't you slip inside with me and have a drink? 'son the house."
Valen put on a genuine smile and tried to project some of his usual charm when he replied. "Sweetheart, you know just the right things to say." He shrugged towards the door. "After you."
"Such a gentleman!"
"Sweetheart, I've been accused of being a lot of things, but a gentleman isn't one of them." He was trying to be suave, but there was truth in his words.
She pulled him into the bar just as the crowd outside was beginning to thicken and bottleneck into the club behind them. Good. That would buy him some time and put some more distance between him and his armored friend. The second they were inside, a burly (and likely drunk) Devaronian bumped into them, breaking her link on his arm. The Twi'lek woman shrieked with alarm, but, before she could relocate him or latch her arm around his again, Valen ducked into the thicket part of the crowd and began looking for another way out.
[member="Gunner Saxon"]
He was walking briskly, almost running, up the street alongside a row of neon signs for a string of the moon's finest nightclubs. On any other night, he would have counted himself lucky to slip into any one of these joints. The drinks were cheap, the men (and women) were hot, and he could easily lose himself in the cigarette smoke and gambling for hours on end. But tonight he could do none of that. Because tonight, he was on the run.
Valen tossed a glance over his shoulder. The crowd behind him was as thick as it was in front of him, but he could still see the metallic glint reflecting off of the Mandalorian's helmet as it bobbed up-and-down in time with his steps. The Mandalorian bounty hunter was in no rush. He seemed to enjoy the thrill of the hunt, of knowing his prey was scurrying away from him like a mouse through a maze. Very likely, the Mandalorian had scouted out the street before making his presence known and knew all the ins-and-outs.
That would make it pretty kriffing hard to slip away.
As he increased his pace, Valen kept his eyes moving, looking for an avenue of escape. There were a plethora of alleyways; but that was too easy, too predictable. And he was anything but predictable. If he darted into one of those alleys, he might fool a common mob enforcer; but, for a Mandalorian, he would just be serving himself up on a platter like a lamb for slaughter—his body to be carted off as proof for whichever angry crime boss had put the hit out on him. No. He had to be smarter than that.
As if on cue, a pink-skinned Twi'lek woman swung out from the threshold of the bar directly in front of him and looped her arm around his. He sensed her intentions immediately, and, just as he suspected, she pulled him towards the door of the establishment. He let her. This was the moment he had been waiting for.
"You look like a bad man, mister," she said with a seductive grin and batted her heavily-lidded eyes. "Are you? Are you a bad man?"
"More than you know, lady." He made sure not to look behind him. He didn't want her to know he was being chased. If he played this right, he wouldn't even need to run. It was all a matter of patience, timing, and being more unpredictable than your enemies.
The Twi'lek woman leaned in so closed to him he could practically feel her lips on his earlobe. "I like bad men," she said. She put a finger on his chest and traced an imaginary line down his sternum. "Why don't you slip inside with me and have a drink? 'son the house."
Valen put on a genuine smile and tried to project some of his usual charm when he replied. "Sweetheart, you know just the right things to say." He shrugged towards the door. "After you."
"Such a gentleman!"
"Sweetheart, I've been accused of being a lot of things, but a gentleman isn't one of them." He was trying to be suave, but there was truth in his words.
She pulled him into the bar just as the crowd outside was beginning to thicken and bottleneck into the club behind them. Good. That would buy him some time and put some more distance between him and his armored friend. The second they were inside, a burly (and likely drunk) Devaronian bumped into them, breaking her link on his arm. The Twi'lek woman shrieked with alarm, but, before she could relocate him or latch her arm around his again, Valen ducked into the thicket part of the crowd and began looking for another way out.
[member="Gunner Saxon"]