Tyger Tyger
The Clinging Fire
Mon Espa
Tattooine
The sun beat down over the patrons of Mos Espa, evoking from them the wretched stench of body odor and the necessity for concessions as they waited out each racing bout - individual, hour-long opportunities at feast or famine (but at the economical status of the typical clientele, neither affliction would be enough to last for very long). Milo hunched over in an effort to attain some quantum of personal space amidst the huddled masses densely packing into the stands in hopes of changing their weekends. In his hand, he clutched his ticket, entitling to him to a tripling of his initial funds should the Bottle of Smoke take victory; in defeat, the desperation to take ANOTHER bad bounty under shady circumstances against particularly dangerous personalities.
Idely, Milo wondered what @[member="Akk Akk"] would be getting up to in his absence, and was partially grateful he wasn’t present to rot in the desert heat.
The announcer rang out over the loudspeakers as the race neared its start, draining attention away from the racers lining up their pods at their designated starting positions and the concessioners once more hitting the stairwell to peddle their water canteens and wamprat kebabs.
“Allll right, suckers! The race is about to began! But theeeere’s a special BONUS this round! (Don’t say ol’ Yordo the Hutt never gave ya’ nothin.) For your viewing pleasure, Round TWO of the TOURNAMENT OF THE SABER continues with a SURPRISE BOUT!”
Milo swallowed hard. His shoulder wound having been professionally healed, Milo’s memory of his bout with Morna had all but evaporated – just as his winnings had.
He should’ve known better than to relax.
“Innnnnnnnn this corner, armed to the teeth and always ready to murder, the Champion of Roon --@[member="Daxton Bane"]”
Milo’d never heard of ‘em. That was positive, sorta. He crossed his fingers and hoped his name wasn’t next, knowing full well that it was.
“Annnnnd his opponent, weighing in at 150 years old, the ghost story your grandpappy told you – TYGERRRRRRRRRR TYGERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR”
The crowd was a mixture of confusion and excitement, many standing up and clapping and hooting. Milo stayed small, figuring he didn’t have to claim his title EVERY single time. Hopefully, this would all just blow over.
“Let the match! BEGIN!”
The pod racers revved up, then blasted off down the track.
Tattooine
The sun beat down over the patrons of Mos Espa, evoking from them the wretched stench of body odor and the necessity for concessions as they waited out each racing bout - individual, hour-long opportunities at feast or famine (but at the economical status of the typical clientele, neither affliction would be enough to last for very long). Milo hunched over in an effort to attain some quantum of personal space amidst the huddled masses densely packing into the stands in hopes of changing their weekends. In his hand, he clutched his ticket, entitling to him to a tripling of his initial funds should the Bottle of Smoke take victory; in defeat, the desperation to take ANOTHER bad bounty under shady circumstances against particularly dangerous personalities.
Idely, Milo wondered what @[member="Akk Akk"] would be getting up to in his absence, and was partially grateful he wasn’t present to rot in the desert heat.
The announcer rang out over the loudspeakers as the race neared its start, draining attention away from the racers lining up their pods at their designated starting positions and the concessioners once more hitting the stairwell to peddle their water canteens and wamprat kebabs.
“Allll right, suckers! The race is about to began! But theeeere’s a special BONUS this round! (Don’t say ol’ Yordo the Hutt never gave ya’ nothin.) For your viewing pleasure, Round TWO of the TOURNAMENT OF THE SABER continues with a SURPRISE BOUT!”
Milo swallowed hard. His shoulder wound having been professionally healed, Milo’s memory of his bout with Morna had all but evaporated – just as his winnings had.
He should’ve known better than to relax.
“Innnnnnnnn this corner, armed to the teeth and always ready to murder, the Champion of Roon --@[member="Daxton Bane"]”
Milo’d never heard of ‘em. That was positive, sorta. He crossed his fingers and hoped his name wasn’t next, knowing full well that it was.
“Annnnnd his opponent, weighing in at 150 years old, the ghost story your grandpappy told you – TYGERRRRRRRRRR TYGERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR”
The crowd was a mixture of confusion and excitement, many standing up and clapping and hooting. Milo stayed small, figuring he didn’t have to claim his title EVERY single time. Hopefully, this would all just blow over.
“Let the match! BEGIN!”
The pod racers revved up, then blasted off down the track.
)) @[member="Daxton Bane"]