T A T O O I N E
Jundland Wastes - No Man's Land
Outpost Salara
"The Jundland Wastes are not to be traveled lightly."
The wind wailed as the cantina door slid open and just as quickly slid shut again, blocking off the small cloud of sand and grit blown in by the gust. The figure who had just walked in was dressed in tattered desert gear, a dark beige cloak that brushed the floor with the hood flicked over his head to shadow the majority of his visage.
What little that showed underneath proved to be a tan colored utility suit with many pockets, a pair of thick hide boots, dark gloves, vision goggles and a strip of cloth over the mouth, covering up a dark gunmetal gray breathing mask. He was not very tall, no more than average height, and carried twin Westar-34 blaster pistols on a tan belt that slung low on his hips. He carried with him a large sack, slung over his shoulder and with the way it was hung low, had some weight on it.
The sentient paused and looked around, then finally settled the dark tinted goggles on the tradesman. Striding on over past the handful of bounty hunters, the odd moisture farmer, and a few Jawas, it was business as usual. Trade is what trade does around here. Salvaging got a few credits what with what the desert would birth from ages past.
This would be no different. Or would it?
Dumping the sack upon the counter with a heavy thud, the metallic voice came humming out of the rebreather mask. Monotone in pitch but focused in observation.
"Where's Sun Vae?"
