Sarge Potteiger
Emotional Damage
@[member="Marakai Al'Orren"]
Nar Shaddaa
Lower Wards
It wasn't often that Sarge found himself on planets such as these - lawless cities of Hutt controlled wastes. And it was even less often that he stood in a crowd, surrounding a ring used for 'illegal' fights. Everything about this was, technically, legal. But the idea that it might not be is what drew the crowds.
To be fair, he mused in thought, illegal on the Smuggler's Moon meant the Hutts weren't in on it. That was always a good way to bring the pain down on a gathering like this. But this was a Hutt sanctioned fighting ring, and sadly that wasn't going to work.
Still, considering the planet had recently come under control of the Republic, he'd felt it necessary to come and clean up some... hobbies that left a sour taste in his mouth. Underground fight clubs were one. Especially ones that preyed on slaves or the poor for their 'contenders.'
It was a bonus that there were rumblings the Black Sun was up to something, although he wasn't quite sure what that was yet. A place like this could provide that information, if you knew where to look. "Anyone taking bets on the next fight...?" He asks quietly, voice muffled by the white mask he wore.
He'd traded out his traditional Jedi robes for a tattered red cloak that just barely covered his shoulders, and was able to be pulled up and into a hood. Otherwise, he still wore his characteristic beskar. "Jaret is." A thick Hauk next to him says, hiking a finger towards a scrawny Rodian some ways over. "Thanks."
Moving his way around the stands, mindful not to offend any of the many gangers here to make a quick cred, he cleared his throat as he got in closer. "Who's up next?"
"Fangs versus Neon. 10 to 1 odds." The Rodian spoke quickly, clearly not wanting to take longer than necessary. Simple odds for simple bets. "100 on Fangs." Neon was a stupid name, but they were generally the ones you wanted to fear over the people with the aggressive names. Handing the credits over, he moves to the railing and leans over it, anxious to see what was about to go down.
Generally because the aggressive ones were named such to sucker in bets from people like him; if he were a mark, that was. He was playing a part. So was any number of other bored Republic soldiers and Jedi in the crowd which he'd brought along.
Nar Shaddaa
Lower Wards
It wasn't often that Sarge found himself on planets such as these - lawless cities of Hutt controlled wastes. And it was even less often that he stood in a crowd, surrounding a ring used for 'illegal' fights. Everything about this was, technically, legal. But the idea that it might not be is what drew the crowds.
To be fair, he mused in thought, illegal on the Smuggler's Moon meant the Hutts weren't in on it. That was always a good way to bring the pain down on a gathering like this. But this was a Hutt sanctioned fighting ring, and sadly that wasn't going to work.
Still, considering the planet had recently come under control of the Republic, he'd felt it necessary to come and clean up some... hobbies that left a sour taste in his mouth. Underground fight clubs were one. Especially ones that preyed on slaves or the poor for their 'contenders.'
It was a bonus that there were rumblings the Black Sun was up to something, although he wasn't quite sure what that was yet. A place like this could provide that information, if you knew where to look. "Anyone taking bets on the next fight...?" He asks quietly, voice muffled by the white mask he wore.
He'd traded out his traditional Jedi robes for a tattered red cloak that just barely covered his shoulders, and was able to be pulled up and into a hood. Otherwise, he still wore his characteristic beskar. "Jaret is." A thick Hauk next to him says, hiking a finger towards a scrawny Rodian some ways over. "Thanks."
Moving his way around the stands, mindful not to offend any of the many gangers here to make a quick cred, he cleared his throat as he got in closer. "Who's up next?"
"Fangs versus Neon. 10 to 1 odds." The Rodian spoke quickly, clearly not wanting to take longer than necessary. Simple odds for simple bets. "100 on Fangs." Neon was a stupid name, but they were generally the ones you wanted to fear over the people with the aggressive names. Handing the credits over, he moves to the railing and leans over it, anxious to see what was about to go down.
Generally because the aggressive ones were named such to sucker in bets from people like him; if he were a mark, that was. He was playing a part. So was any number of other bored Republic soldiers and Jedi in the crowd which he'd brought along.