John Jewl
Character
You sink deep enough into the bowels of Coruscant, you'll meet people who haven't seen the sun for generations. Somewhere so dark that light gets trapped and devoured. While the jewel of the Alliance looks pretty on the surface, something rotten festers within its heart.
It suited John Jewl and his gang perfectly. With the fall of the Maw, the gang decoupled themselves from the warbands, going on a warpath in a galaxy of waning influence, as fallen empires retreated towards their capitals. But attrition still took its toll on the gang and after each raid, there were fewer and fewer of them.
They needed to heal, recover and recruit. Hideaway and sink back into the shadows until they could begin their campaign of slaughter once more. What better place to do that than in the jewel of the Alliance? Getting through security was difficult, and without sheer dumb luck, they'd probably be thrown into prison or worse. But once they got onto the surface of Coruscant, it was easy getting into its underbelly.
There they took up odd jobs of bodyguarding, courier work, and anything that would pay the maintenance. But this wasn't their style. They weren't urban thugs, they were frontier marauders.
They went to the usual job centre, a sleazy bar that called itself the "The Winking Hutt", not run by any Hutt or anyone associated with the Hutts funnily enough. They were contracted to guard an underground music gig. Not only did they only get to brutally beat and nearly kill only one fan that was feeling a bit touchy-feely, but they also cheated out of their hard-earned credits. What became an argument quickly escalated into a full-blooded brawl, and then slaughter. It wasn't the principle of not being paid properly for a job, it was boredom. They wanted to kill, they'd be starved for it for far too long, and now a ripe excuse presented itself and like starving scavengers, they jumped at it.
Everyone was targeted, bouncers doing their job and innocent patrons trying to forget a hard day of work. The entrance was blocked, and vibroblades purred in delight as humming blades were slit under the skin, rawhiding their scalps, not even for proof of trophy but simple sadism.
Did they run away? No. Running away now would mean running away from a good fight. John and his gang sat down by a booth with his compatriots, as bloodied maimed bodies littered the now brutalized cantina, waiting for something to happen.
It suited John Jewl and his gang perfectly. With the fall of the Maw, the gang decoupled themselves from the warbands, going on a warpath in a galaxy of waning influence, as fallen empires retreated towards their capitals. But attrition still took its toll on the gang and after each raid, there were fewer and fewer of them.
They needed to heal, recover and recruit. Hideaway and sink back into the shadows until they could begin their campaign of slaughter once more. What better place to do that than in the jewel of the Alliance? Getting through security was difficult, and without sheer dumb luck, they'd probably be thrown into prison or worse. But once they got onto the surface of Coruscant, it was easy getting into its underbelly.
There they took up odd jobs of bodyguarding, courier work, and anything that would pay the maintenance. But this wasn't their style. They weren't urban thugs, they were frontier marauders.
They went to the usual job centre, a sleazy bar that called itself the "The Winking Hutt", not run by any Hutt or anyone associated with the Hutts funnily enough. They were contracted to guard an underground music gig. Not only did they only get to brutally beat and nearly kill only one fan that was feeling a bit touchy-feely, but they also cheated out of their hard-earned credits. What became an argument quickly escalated into a full-blooded brawl, and then slaughter. It wasn't the principle of not being paid properly for a job, it was boredom. They wanted to kill, they'd be starved for it for far too long, and now a ripe excuse presented itself and like starving scavengers, they jumped at it.
Everyone was targeted, bouncers doing their job and innocent patrons trying to forget a hard day of work. The entrance was blocked, and vibroblades purred in delight as humming blades were slit under the skin, rawhiding their scalps, not even for proof of trophy but simple sadism.
Did they run away? No. Running away now would mean running away from a good fight. John and his gang sat down by a booth with his compatriots, as bloodied maimed bodies littered the now brutalized cantina, waiting for something to happen.
