Lifelong Nerd, Roleplayer, Writer and Philosopher
(Hi to anyone who wants to join this small little tabletop adventure! Start by describing your character's plans on Corulag, then have yourself be rounded up by these same ISB agents - I hope we all have fun with this. The ISB is intentionally seeking those with medical know-how - as such, medical character backgrounds preferred, but not necessary; after all, small-area ISB agents are bound to be riddled with incompetence.)
2 BBY
Location: A small city on Corulag
"Give me back my pack of cigarras! Also, WHY THE HELL IS YOUR HAND IN MY BACK POCKET?! I'm below the Galactic Standard Age of Consent for my species... Do you WANT to be reported, you weird damn blonde?"
The annoyed teenager found herself surrounded by five Imperial Security Bureau agents, three male and two female, the youngest of which had slipped his hand quickly (and uncomfortably) down the back of the Bothan's loose-fitting Duros-made breeches, the black fabric rustling as his hand searched for contraband (supposedly...), brushing over her clothed bottom in a most uncomfortable manner. Just in front of her, a stern, hawkish elderly woman, her well-groomed gray hair tied back into a bun, held the pack of cigarras that she had retrieved from Riskyr's Nerf-leather Corellian jacket in one hand, giving them a distasteful sneer. The remaining three agents kept their blaster pistols trained on the youth, who was fortunate that 7K-88 wasn't here (she had left him at home on Chandrila), as she witnessed a second group of agents affixing a restraining bolt to a rather fussy blue protocol droid in spite of the protests of the Irthorian owner and the droid itself just to one side of her... All around the small group of mostly-human students from some academy-or-other (although a single Bith seemed to be greeting them; he too had been forced against the wall of a dull, dome-shaped duracrete building to one side of the Bothan), the harsh white uniforms of the ISB agents milled about the students and the traveling Bith, Ithorian and Bothan, respectively, while harsh cries from the crowded shuttlebay indicated that others were being hassled, as well. The ISB agents grew all-the-more confident in their endeavor as they were soon accompanied by the gleaming armored small squad of Stormtroopers that had arrived, disembarking from landspeeders they had only just parked several feet away.
Fortunately for Riskyr Trafnal, the agents hadn't taken either her reading glasses, the lit cigarra in one gloved hand or her datapad, but she could only barely resist crying out in shock as the steel-eyed woman tossed her pack of cigarras to the gound, grinding it into the dirt beneath a booted foot. At her side, a middle-aged human with watery brown eyes cast an equally-harsh gaze over her, his bald head gleaming with perspiration from the overhead sun, summer appearing to have taken a toll on his otherwise strong, yet fat-laced body; his rotund, pulsing stomach strained his ghost-white uniform, and he shifted those disgusting eyes over the Bothan, even as the ghast-like female at his side gestured towards the wall that the three humans, the Bith and the Ithorian had been forced towards, as well. The greasy-looking, yet strong human took a datapad from the Thin Ghast at his side, his blubbery chin shifted as the lanky, Butt-Grabbing Blonde youth at his other side produced a small, lidded platter from the passenger seat of a recently-arrived landspeeder. For a moment, Riskyr couldn't guess at what was on the platter, until Horny McHandsy stepped next to the Fat Commander; the platter shifted as the Walking Testicle removed the ornate, silver lid, producing a subtle motion along the split halves of the underlying boiled puke-green Nuna eggs, as well as the bone of the well-roasted, slightly charred Nuna leg that rested in the middle of the boiled egg halves that had been so painstakingly arranged around the roasted orange-red flesh. The Fat Commander set the datapad into McHandsy's outstretched hand, both looking equally smug at the gathered offworlders. Eight Stomtroopers had arranged themselves around the offworlders on either side of the ISB agents, rifles trained on the detainees.
"Between the lot of you," he spoke in a deep voice, his lips crudely smacking as he shamelessly and noisily chewed a sewage-like egg half that he had lifted as he began to speak, "...We should.. Mmmfff... Mmm... Schlep... We should have enough medical expertise to ascertain the condition of... Of a valuable ally of mine, and a personal friend... You see, our handful of local doctors were all murdered in a violent uprising, and, while my friend's condition worsens, my requests... Mmm... Mmmmfff... Delectable... Requests for transferred staff have been ignored over these past two weeks by my upstart, arrogant so-called 'superiors'... As such, I've been forced to take drastic measures; hence, why I'm seeking the aid of all of you newcomers... The sooner you those of you whom we've cross referenced are cleared to aid our little division of the Imperial Security Bureau, the sooner this unpleasant little ordeal will be over. Those of you who have been selected to aid us based on your IDs, I suggest you cooperate if you don't... Mmmm... Don't want a sentence..." The Fat Commander beamed, even as he grasped the bone of the Nuna leg, raised the spice-laden flesh to his lips and harshly dug his crooked (though still-white) teeth into the morsel greedily, clear fluid dribbling down his chins as he leered hideously at the detainees...
2 BBY
Location: A small city on Corulag
"Give me back my pack of cigarras! Also, WHY THE HELL IS YOUR HAND IN MY BACK POCKET?! I'm below the Galactic Standard Age of Consent for my species... Do you WANT to be reported, you weird damn blonde?"
The annoyed teenager found herself surrounded by five Imperial Security Bureau agents, three male and two female, the youngest of which had slipped his hand quickly (and uncomfortably) down the back of the Bothan's loose-fitting Duros-made breeches, the black fabric rustling as his hand searched for contraband (supposedly...), brushing over her clothed bottom in a most uncomfortable manner. Just in front of her, a stern, hawkish elderly woman, her well-groomed gray hair tied back into a bun, held the pack of cigarras that she had retrieved from Riskyr's Nerf-leather Corellian jacket in one hand, giving them a distasteful sneer. The remaining three agents kept their blaster pistols trained on the youth, who was fortunate that 7K-88 wasn't here (she had left him at home on Chandrila), as she witnessed a second group of agents affixing a restraining bolt to a rather fussy blue protocol droid in spite of the protests of the Irthorian owner and the droid itself just to one side of her... All around the small group of mostly-human students from some academy-or-other (although a single Bith seemed to be greeting them; he too had been forced against the wall of a dull, dome-shaped duracrete building to one side of the Bothan), the harsh white uniforms of the ISB agents milled about the students and the traveling Bith, Ithorian and Bothan, respectively, while harsh cries from the crowded shuttlebay indicated that others were being hassled, as well. The ISB agents grew all-the-more confident in their endeavor as they were soon accompanied by the gleaming armored small squad of Stormtroopers that had arrived, disembarking from landspeeders they had only just parked several feet away.
Fortunately for Riskyr Trafnal, the agents hadn't taken either her reading glasses, the lit cigarra in one gloved hand or her datapad, but she could only barely resist crying out in shock as the steel-eyed woman tossed her pack of cigarras to the gound, grinding it into the dirt beneath a booted foot. At her side, a middle-aged human with watery brown eyes cast an equally-harsh gaze over her, his bald head gleaming with perspiration from the overhead sun, summer appearing to have taken a toll on his otherwise strong, yet fat-laced body; his rotund, pulsing stomach strained his ghost-white uniform, and he shifted those disgusting eyes over the Bothan, even as the ghast-like female at his side gestured towards the wall that the three humans, the Bith and the Ithorian had been forced towards, as well. The greasy-looking, yet strong human took a datapad from the Thin Ghast at his side, his blubbery chin shifted as the lanky, Butt-Grabbing Blonde youth at his other side produced a small, lidded platter from the passenger seat of a recently-arrived landspeeder. For a moment, Riskyr couldn't guess at what was on the platter, until Horny McHandsy stepped next to the Fat Commander; the platter shifted as the Walking Testicle removed the ornate, silver lid, producing a subtle motion along the split halves of the underlying boiled puke-green Nuna eggs, as well as the bone of the well-roasted, slightly charred Nuna leg that rested in the middle of the boiled egg halves that had been so painstakingly arranged around the roasted orange-red flesh. The Fat Commander set the datapad into McHandsy's outstretched hand, both looking equally smug at the gathered offworlders. Eight Stomtroopers had arranged themselves around the offworlders on either side of the ISB agents, rifles trained on the detainees.
"Between the lot of you," he spoke in a deep voice, his lips crudely smacking as he shamelessly and noisily chewed a sewage-like egg half that he had lifted as he began to speak, "...We should.. Mmmfff... Mmm... Schlep... We should have enough medical expertise to ascertain the condition of... Of a valuable ally of mine, and a personal friend... You see, our handful of local doctors were all murdered in a violent uprising, and, while my friend's condition worsens, my requests... Mmm... Mmmmfff... Delectable... Requests for transferred staff have been ignored over these past two weeks by my upstart, arrogant so-called 'superiors'... As such, I've been forced to take drastic measures; hence, why I'm seeking the aid of all of you newcomers... The sooner you those of you whom we've cross referenced are cleared to aid our little division of the Imperial Security Bureau, the sooner this unpleasant little ordeal will be over. Those of you who have been selected to aid us based on your IDs, I suggest you cooperate if you don't... Mmmm... Don't want a sentence..." The Fat Commander beamed, even as he grasped the bone of the Nuna leg, raised the spice-laden flesh to his lips and harshly dug his crooked (though still-white) teeth into the morsel greedily, clear fluid dribbling down his chins as he leered hideously at the detainees...
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