Public The Council of Credits | Underworld Summit

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

The holoprojector flickered to life in the dens of thieves, spice parlors, gunrunner vaults, and shadow offices across the Outer Rim. A single sigil glowed gold on a field of black: the crest of the Chantin Kajidic—once thought idle, now undeniably awake.

Then came the voice. Deep. Coiling. Heavy as duracrete.

<“Crime is not dead.”>

A pause, pregnant with implication.

<“The Jedi seek to strangle profit with purity. The Alliance taxes what it cannot control. The Sith leave no room for enterprise that does not bow.”>

A slow inhale, the rustle of silks and metal rings.

<“It is time to build something that cannot be taxed, imprisoned, or swallowed whole.”>

The image sharpened, revealing the looming bulk of Whottoomuzz the Hutt, draped in dusk-colored robes, a single golden ring glinting on one fat finger. Around him: silence. Behind him: power.

<“This message is a summons.”>

<“To Hutts and Horns, Blades and Barons. To those who know what real power tastes like—burnt spice, blood, and credits.”>

<“Come to the table. Speak your name. Claim your seat.”>

<“We will not call it a Syndicate. Nor a Cartel. That is for the galaxy to decide once we have written our terms in fire.”>

He leaned forward. The projector crackled under the pressure of his gaze.

<“But if you have debts to settle... wars to fund... spice to move or lives to erase...”>

<“Then come.”>

<“And let us rule what they think is ungovernable.”>

The transmission cut, leaving only silence—and the weight of the offer hanging in the air.

Spoiler: OOC: What This Thread Is

This is an open invitation to criminal characters, smugglers, syndicate leaders, pirates, spice lords, info brokers, and anyone with underworld clout to attend a clandestine summit called by Whottoomuzz the Hutt, head of the Chantin Kajidic.

The goal is to ICly discuss the formation of a new criminal alliance, syndicate, or shadow confederation that can rival the organized powers of the galaxy. The criminal world needs unity (or at least... profitable tension).

You don’t need to be part of a Hutt cartel. You can be a rival syndicate boss, a freelance killer, a black-market medic, or a washed-up slicer looking for a comeback.

This is meant to be a dialogue-heavy, tension-rich, potentially explosive meeting of minds and egos.

You can:
• Make deals or threaten rivals
• Forge new alliances or bicker about turf
• Plot vengeance against Jedi, governments, or ex-partners
• Recruit others to your criminal project
• Or sit quietly... and watch the knives come out

Eventually, this thread may evolve into a launching point for a new Underworld Faction or ongoing network of scum and villainy RPs.

No posting order, no pressure—just come to the table and cause trouble.

OPEN​

 

[Mr. Usher]

COUNCIL OF CREDITS ​

Location: Aboard the Eidolon, somewhere in the Outer Rim
Transmission: Encrypted Holonet Relay
Recipient: Whottoomuzz Chantin, Chantin Kajidic
Subject: Re: The Council of Credits | Underworld Summit

The holoprojector hums to life, revealing a sharply dressed humanoid figure seated in a dimly lit room. Clad in a tailored pinstripe suit, gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his obscured features, the figure exudes an air of calculated composure. When he speaks, his voice is smooth, deliberate, and carries an unsettling undertone.

"Esteemed Whottoomuzz,

Your summons has been received and noted with interest. The proposition of establishing an unassailable consortium in the face of galactic overreach is... compelling.

I am Mr. Usher, proprietor of diversified ventures spanning acquisition, redistribution, and biological innovation. While my operations typically favor discretion over display, the current climate necessitates a reevaluation of alliances and strategies.

To that end, I shall dispatch an authorized representative to attend your summit. This envoy, though not myself, will possess full authority to negotiate and commit on behalf of my interests. Rest assured, their insights and decisions will reflect my own.

I anticipate that this gathering will yield mutually beneficial arrangements. Should your vision align with pragmatic enterprise and sustainable expansion, we may find common ground.

Until then, may your endeavors remain profitable.

Respectfully,

Mr. Usher"


The transmission ends, leaving only the static hum of the projector.

Whottoomuzz Chantin​

​

 

[Dakhm The Hutt]

JABBA'S PALACE – THRONE ROOM – NIGHT

The once decadent halls reek of smoke, sweat, and spilled lifeblood. Crimson streaks glisten across the stone floor where Brokka Desilijic's bloated corpse slumps at the base of the throne. His slit throat bubbles quietly, a final gurgle escaping as the last of his life leaks out onto the floor.

Dakhm the Hutt towers above, breathing steady and low. The durasteel blade in his hand is slick, heavy with justice—or perhaps something colder.

Torchlight flickers along the frescoes. The palace is silent, save for the slow whir of a holocomm unit activating. The sigil of the Chantin Kajidic glows in the air as Whottoomuzz's message concludes, echoing off ancient walls.

Dakhm watches, unblinking.

When the silence returns, he speaks.

The holocomm crackles as Dakhm's massive form leans into view, blood drying across his chest, tattoos coiled like scars over his flesh. His voice is low and brutal, scraping like iron dragged across stone.

He spoke in Huttese:

<"You speak of fire.">

A pause. Wet, deliberate.

<"I am what crawls from it.">

His gaze does not flinch.

<"Your message reached me as the last pretender to my throne begged for mercy. I denied it. As I will deny any who think I am here to follow.">

He draws the blade across Brokka's empty, milky eyes and lets it fall to the ground with a metallic clang.

<"But I will attend.">

<"Not for unity. Not for vision. Not for titles.">

His massive form rises to its full height, head casting a looming shadow against the palace wall where Jabba once sat many ages ago.

<"I come because this galaxy forgot who ruled it before these empires wore uniforms.">

A slow, guttural breath.

<"Let the fools call it a summit. I will call it reclamation.">

The holocomm flickers as Dakhm narrows his eyes, his voice thick with finality.

<"I am Dakhm Desilijic Tiure. Now, Head of my Kajidic once more. Free from republic prisons. Bathed in blood. I do not seek a seat at your table—"

He reaches down and drags Brokka's corpse aside with a wet thump, revealing the ancient throne of Desilijic, now his.

<"I am bringing the table.">

The holocomm cuts.

And all across the stars, those who watched it… felt a very old fear return.

 

[Victor Lee Burukai]

Smarteel, Burukai Estate
Tags: All

<"I am bringing the table.">

Ah... typical Hutts. Gods, they thought themselves. Such was sure to occur if you outlived the stars you thought were gods. Victor was not here for such acts of bluster. He was sending his transmission for the same reason he had always been in the criminal underworld: Money. His ancestors had been the enforcers of Jabba the Hutt, and the wealth of his noble house had been found in the sale of song steel to the highest bidder. Now the Baron found himself slipping into a higher seat of power, his clan willing to let him handle business while his disobedient niece was off to lock him out of her heritage.

A minor setback.

"Honorable Whottoomuzz... Victor Lee Burukai, Elder Baron of House Gyukia. I am here simply because my house has always been here. I bring with me, as the planet of Smarteel has always brought, the near indestructible song steel for use in arms. It would be of the highest honor to continue to provide these services... Alongside this, I offer warriors of the highest callibur, the best swordsmen in the galaxy. For a thousand years have we been honing our tradition and carved out our place in the Outer Rim."

A gentle grin formed under his mustache.

"I am nothing if not a humble servant, eager to fulfill a great purpose. I am most excited to provide a sample of our craftsmanship when the time comes for this most esteemed gathering."

And with that the feed was cut.

 

[Jerec Asyr]

Quekko's Choice Ship Emporium
Lum Rouge, Seven Corners, Denon

For purposes of holo transmission bona fides, Jerec took his shirt off. He was getting up there, not in the best shape of his life either, but he had enough muscle and scars and prison tattoos to augment his credibility. Being Ithorian tended to make people underestimate him in venues like these. Normally, underestimation protected him. Today it wouldn't. Off with the shirt.

"I'm Jerec Asyr," he said in Corellian-accented Basic. "I ran with Darkwire and I ran half the Spacer Guild. For going on forty years, if you've bought a pre-owned ship near Denon, no questions asked, odds are it came through my cousins and me."

To his way of thinking, there was Organized Crime and there was organized crime. He thought of his sprawling good-ol'-boy operation — chop shops, ship theft, getaway cars, illegal mods, a shavvitton of smuggling — as the latter.

"Alliance's border's getting tougher, lane monitoring's tighter, Denon's out from under the Alliance, and change is in the wind. My cousins are interested. Fair warning that I'm gonna try to sell half of you the boat you've always wanted. See you soon."

Whottoomuzz Chantin Mr. Usher Dakhm The Hutt Victor Lee Burukai

 

[Ordan Vosk]

Jabba's Palace | Throne Room

---

There had been blasterfire throughout the chambers, and sub chambers of the palace. When it ended there was a stillness, often attributed to death that descended over the environment. The fighting was done, the enemy was dead.

Black matte armor covered the frame of the Enforcer who now stood over the corpse of a Gamorrean who had been in the service of the late Brokka Desilijic.

Kicking it over after ensuring that it was dead he watched as the corpse of the Gamorrean rolled onto its stomach then laid still.

Turning away, satisfied he proceeded into the next room on his way back to the throne room.

While Dakhm The Hutt spoke on the holocomm Ordan appeared somewhere in the background, reaching with both hands he'd detach his helmet and remove it slowly before stowing it underneath an arm, in the crevice of his armpit...

"The Palace is cleared."

...he'd have said, lifting his other hand to wipe his gauntlet over weathered features where beads of sweat had formed...

"Brokka's loyalists have either fled or are dead."

...then he went silent, listening to what was said without further interruption.

Once he'd been with the Black Sun, he still maintained ties with them though he'd come into the service of Gorba the Hutt during that Bosses tenure as leader of the Hutt Cartel and now Dakhm was paying his wages.

Looking, he'd watch Dakhm take his place on the throne before his gaze swept outwards across the dead.

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

The luxury yacht descended on twin ion trails like a golden dagger sinking into sand. The Kajidic’s Pride, flagship of the Chantin syndicate, had once hosted pleasure barons and spice tycoons in its velvet halls. Today, it came to rest with precision near the scorched bones of Jabba’s ruined palace — a symbol both nostalgic and calculated, in the final moments of a bloody Coup d'etat of Dakhm The Hutt .

At the base of the descending ramp, his guards stood in ceremonial formation: Nikto bruisers with electro-halberds, mirrored-faced droid attendants, and draped Twi’lek couriers holding censers of fragrant smoke. All part of the stagecraft.

Then came the Hutt.

Whottoomuzz Chantin was not slim, but he was hard. A gilded titan wrapped in silk and armorweave, gliding forward atop a sleek grav-platform reinforced for his bulk. Gemstones ringed his jowls. His breath hissed through a spiced vapor mask between sentences. One eye, just above an old scar, swept the gathered summit invitees with lizard-like calm.

<<“Ahh… my honored guests. I welcome you.”>>

His voice was smooth, but coiled — each word weighed like a contract clause, or a death sentence.

<<“You have come from the shadows and the skylanes, across sectors ruled by law, chaos, and greed alike. That pleases me. It proves ambition still stirs in the underworld's blood.”>>

He gestured with a ring-heavy hand toward the fractured spires of Jabba’s palace, half-swallowed by time and sand.

“This monument... was ruled by a beast fat on fear and fools, culled by the new Hutt. I gather not to resurrect past gluttony, but to crown something sharper. Leaner. Unified.”

He paused, letting the words hang.

<<“And while my kin rot in Alliance chains,”>> he said, voice turning gravel-edged beneath the gold, <<“I will not sit idle and grow fat on ceremony. We are here to speak of power. To divide what others would deny us.”>>

A beat. Then he softened — just enough.

<<“Come inside. There is drink. There is light. And there is business.”>>

He turned with the weight of one who did not care whether his guests followed — because they would.

The entrance to the Kajidic’s Pride flared open with warm crimson light and the distant thrum of music. As Whottoomuzz ascended into the belly of his ship, the shadows stretched long behind him, inviting those who would combine their strength with his — whether they attended in person or via holoprojection, there were terms to be set.

Whottoomuzz did not wish to be an overlord. A system too reliant on a singular figure was too easy to topple, anathema to the strength of Galaxy's underbelly the great unifier of greed. Among those gathered he would find those would serve as equals, or those merely those who would serve.

And if any should seek to take advantage of the gathering...

A prized killer, seasoned gladiator, and valuable slave, Scratches Metal , was more than capable of dispatching those foolish enough.

Victor Lee Burukai Makar Clyne Dakhm The Hutt Jerec Asyr Mr. Usher Arcadian @Open​

 

[Trenn Untas]

The halls were full. Warlords with laser-scorched armor shouted across tables, thumping drinks down like war drums. Spice runners lounged with half-lidded eyes and glittering rings on every finger. Pirates boasted over holo-chess and black market holos. Assassins leaned in corners, faces mostly shadow, eyes never still.

Everyone had a style. Everyone had a story they needed you to hear.

Then Trenn Untas arrived.

No guards. No herald. No sound.

He just appeared—one moment, not there. The next, walking slowly down the main corridor like something that had always been there, just unnoticed until now.

The others wore all kinds of flair—blood-colored sashes, horns capped in gold, fur capes from dead planets. Trenn wore only black. Simple. Sharp. His cloak whispered as he moved, not from weight, but from precision. Not a wrinkle out of place.

He didn’t posture. He didn’t blink much. He didn’t fidget like the others. His body was tall and narrow, but tense—like it could spring in any direction. His face? Hard to read. His Nedji features were long, cold, and still. Not emotionless… just unreadable. Like trying to study a knife blade for feelings.

When he passed, people quieted. Not because of reputation. But because there was something... off. Not dangerous like a madman. Dangerous like a scalpel. He took no seat. Took no drink. Said no words. He stood near a glass wall, looking out at the cracked desert below, the ruined outline of Jabba’s Palace still casting a crooked shadow. Behind him, Whottoomuzz the Hutt prepared to speak—his voice ready to stir chaos across the Outer Rim. Crime was changing.

 

[Jerec Asyr]

<<“Come inside. There is drink. There is light. And there is business.”>>

Whottoomuzz Chantin Trenn Untas Victor Lee Burukai Makar Clyne Dakhm The Hutt Mr. Usher Arcadian

Jerec arrived in the Infinity's Free, a ship of below-average reputation for the simple reason that it traveled under a shavvitton of fake telesponders and spoofed drive signatures. Red, rusty, tough as nails, a hundred-metre Gallofree transport. His crew were assorted spacers, many of them Ithorians, gronking away uncomfortably under the dusty parching skies of Tatooine when they had to come out from under the hull's shade.

A few semi-pacifist Ithorian spacer toughs, carrying Czerka HeadBangers — the nastiest stun blasters known to civilization — accompanied Jerec into the ancient Huttese-style palace. The place's population was fleshing itself out: retinues, scavengers, entourages, hawkers, dregs. Lots of posturing. Jerec's people postured with the best of'em.

When Whottoomuzz made his welcoming speech, Jerec left his people milling with their counterparts and went into the actual gathering alone, no HeadBanger on his hip. Others had dressed for the occasion; Jerec wore spacer's clothes.

"I figure the question on all our minds is if we're people we can work with," he said, meeting all the dignitaries' eyes. "Part of that's success and part of it's outside ties, who owes what to who. Just for starters, I figure I can work with Lord Whottoomuzz because I've got my reasons to hate the Alliance and its prisons too. Common ground can be just that simple."

 

[Mr. Usher]

Tatooine
​

The craft that arrived bore no sigils. Its surface was matte and dark, shaped for minimal reflection. not for the sake of anonymity, but simple detachment. It landed with an absence of fanfare, the only herald a low, thrum-like vibration in the air that ceased once its repulsors powered down.

The boarding ramp extended. From the gloom within emerged a humanoid figure in an immaculate black pinstripe suit, wide-brimmed hat casting its features in partial shadow. It walked like a man, moved like a man — but something was off.

The face was too clean. The gait too smooth. No breath fogged the air from beneath its mask. The thing beneath the skin had studied mannerisms, not inherited them. This was no crime lord in the flesh. It was a body tuned to simulate one. A disposable husk — and through it, Mr. Usher watched.

As the proxy stepped off the ramp and into the gathering, the hive-mind regarded its surroundings.

Gold. Smoke. Perfumed humidity. The yacht was excess — carefully crafted opulence meant to soften knives behind curtains.
But the palace, just behind it, told another story: scorched stone, blood baked into the foundation from Dakhm The Hutt 's coup, a violence still echoing in the mortar. The contrast was not lost on Usher. One was a theater. The other was a truth.

The Greater Ego understood the role of presentation, but blood was always more honest than gold.

The husk joined the others at the summit without urgency. When it spoke, its voice was smooth, almost warm — practiced, polite, and faintly resonant, like sound filtered through a deep chamber.

“On behalf of Mr. Usher — I extend greetings.”

It gave a measured nod to Whottoomuzz, then let its flesh-mimicked gaze pass across the assembled.

“My presence here is authorized to listen. To calculate. And, if warranted — to commit.”

The husk stepped aside from the center, folding its hands neatly. When Jerec, the Ithorian, offered his measured words about trust, allegiance, and the Alliance, the husk turned its head slightly too fluidly and remarked

“Common grounds begin with common wounds. So too can mutual gain make us greater than the sum of our parts ”

Its tone remained smooth, but lost a degree of affect. As if the thing speaking were no longer putting effort into mimicking a man.

“So yes. Perhaps we can work together.”

And then it silently stood still, observing the proceedings and paying careful attention to names, faces and other noteworthy details, pulling from the web of memories of the consumed to fill what gaps he could about each crime Lord present.

Location: Jabba's Palace
Objective: Leverage Connections
Tags: Jerec Asyr Whottoomuzz Chantin Dakhm The Hutt Trenn Untas Ordan Vosk | OPEN​

 

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

Keep talking tough. It'll make your obituary more interesting

Tatooine​

The scent of burning spice laced the recycled air, thick and bitter like the deals being whispered all around her. Kinley Pryse kept her head down, eyes scanning the manifests glowing dimly on her datapad. Around her, the grand chamber of the Hutt vessel pulsed with the low murmur of crime — enforcers, smugglers, slavers, and syndicate lieutenants gathered like carrion birds around the great slug of a host in the center. Deals were being made. Futures carved up. Lives bought and sold with a sneer and a flick of a credit chip.

But Kinley? She wasn't here for talk.

She adjusted the satchel slung over her shoulder, the delicate vials inside clinking softly with each step. Glitterstim. Ryll. A few rarer strains from deeper in the Outer Rim — valuable, unstable, and lethal in the wrong hands. She moved quietly through the side corridors, staying out of the Hutt's direct view, weaving between protocol droids and bounty hunters like a shadow with a purpose. Debts don't wait, and neither do bosses who own your skin. Kinley wasn't here on her own ambition. She was here because of the one who had sent her. Because he held the leash wrapped tight around her throat — and her family's. Spice needed selling, and while the power players laughed and plotted, it was her job to make sure the product moved. Fast. Clean. Quiet.

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Dakhm The Hutt]

Dakhm the Hutt — Jabba's Throne Room (Restored)

The throne groaned beneath his weight — not from weakness, but rebirth. Black alloy and bone had replaced the old gold and slime. Where once Jabba the Hutt had lounged in obscene comfort, now sat Dakhm, a bulk of coiled might and scarred muscle, draped in armorweave and ceremonial silks.

Ash still danced in the high, cracked ceilings. Smoke curled from the ruined archways. The dead lay silent behind him, their usefulness finally expired.

As Ordan reported the kill, Dakhm listened in silence — unblinking, unmoved.

"The Palace is cleared... Brokka's loyalists have either fled or are dead."

The words hung. Confirmation. Closure.

And then, with the slow hiss of breath through massive nostrils, Dakhm spoke. His voice was deep and unforgiving, like durasteel being bent by force of will.

<<"Good.">>
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


The transmission stabilized just as the last of Brokka's banners was pulled from the walls, trampled beneath durasteel boots and wet ash. Smoke still lingered in the rafters, stirred by the faint hum of power returning to ancient systems.

Dakhm did not rise. He didn't need to.

He reclined upon the reforged throne slab of Jabba Desilijic Tiure, bulk braced by armored coils and bone-forged foundation. Crimson silk lay draped beneath his massive form, but there was nothing soft about him. No wine. No dancers. No laughing sycophants. Just the quiet weight of dominion restored.

The image of Whottoomuzz Chantin appeared on the holocomm — all perfume and proclamation. Dakhm watched. Listened. Measured the words the way a butcher tests the meat.

Then, he spoke.

His voice was low, measured, and old — not in years, but in debt. In oaths broken, and blood still owed.

<<"Bo shuda, Whottoomuzz. You arrive like a king. But do not mistake smoke and scent for legacy.">>

He leaned forward slightly, the throne creaking under the deliberate shift.

<<"This hall was not abandoned. It was taken. Not by inheritance. Not by pact. But by fire. I did not come from shadows. I walked in daylight while others whispered behind spice clouds.">>

His eyes narrowed to slits, glinting with the reflection of distant flame.

<<"You call this a summit. I call it a weigh-station for cowards and corpses.">>

A long silence. Then...

<<"But… credits speak. And power has many faces.">>

A slow inhale through flared nostrils.

<<"I am Dakhm Desilijic Tiure. Heir to Jabba. Holder of this throne not by birthright alone, but by conquest. And I do not kneel to your sigil, nor bind myself in your gold-wrapped chains.">>

He gestured subtly — a signal — and the doors of the palace creaked open to the fading light beyond. Flames flickered in the braziers. Smoke drifted like ghosts.

<<"But I will speak. And I will listen. Bring your best liars, your best offers. Inside, beneath the bones of real kings.">>

<<"And if you're wise, Whottoomuzz... bring respect. Not incense.">>

The transmission dimmed.

Whottoomuzz Chantin Ordan Vosk @ Everyone else

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

The chamber had fallen still — as still as it ever did in a den of smugglers and syndicates. And when Whottoomuzz Chantin rose — or rather, shifted — the silence thickened like oil.

His grav-platform groaned under the adjustment of mass, rising slightly. One gloved hand lowered his smoking hookah stem. The other raised a glass, briefly, not to drink — but to acknowledge the gathering.

And then the Hutt spoke.

His voice was velvet and gravel. Coated in civility, edged in weight. It reached from his gut like a sarlacc composed of silk and spice.

<“Hrrmm... You’ve come.”>
<“Not all, perhaps. But enough.”>

His golden eye flicked to each of them — measured, deliberate.

First - to Mr. Usher
<“I thought you dead after the massacre at Mygeeto. I was certain I'd killed you on Dantooine. Yet, here you stand, like a stubborn infection. That resilience can be of use, and past business is credits gained and spent.”>

The Hutt turned to address the Ithorian.

<“Captain Jerec Asyr ”>
<“You speak plainly. That earns notice.”>
<“Hating a common enemy is easy. Doing something with that hate — is a rarer currency.”>

<“I do not forget names who lend their voice to mine when I call for reckoning. Neither does my vault.”>

He gave a slow, acknowledging dip of his massive head — a gesture of almost unnerving restraint.

Whottoomuzz did not raise his voice, but the weight of his attention shifted. Slowly. Subtly. Purposefully. Toward the figure by the window, Trenn Untas

<“And to those in the shadows…”>
<“You speak nothing — yet I hear your presence.”>
<“Whether you are here to observe or to choose... I offer this: even silence casts a vote.”>

Indirectly, the Hutt spoke upon noticing Kinley Pryse among the retainers and pushers.
<“There are those among us not seated. They carry satchels instead of sabers. Move spice instead of schemes.”>

<“To them I say: You are noticed. The blood of all our machines flows because those like you bleed for it.”>

Then — To Dakhm the Hutt:

He turned fully to the hologram.

And for the first time, the platform shifted slightly backward — a gesture of old respect, not weakness. His voice became deeper. He did not raise it.

<“Dakhm Desilijic Tiure.”>

<“I do not mistake you for a whisper. You wear the bones of old kings, not their perfume. And that… has weight.”>

A pause.

< “There are only three ways to inherit a throne. Birth. Coin. Or conquest.”>

<“You chose the third. You burned your name into the foundation where soft-bellied pretenders would have left it painted.”>

Another pause.
<“I am Whottoomuzz Chantin. Head of the Chantin Kajidic.”>

<“And in full view of this summit, I recognize your claim. Desilijic rises again.”>

He turned slowly back to the room, his presence now radiating focus.

<“But the galaxy has changed.”>

<“We sit on fractured thrones. We run uncoordinated routes. We bleed separately — and profit in half-measures.”>

<“I propose this: a roundtable. Not to unify… but to balance. To weigh. To rule.”>

His eye narrowed.

<“Let us form a Council for all the Galactic Underworld.”>

<“One seat per Kajidic. One seat per Syndicate.”>

<“Any who wish may join — or else knowingly waive their claim to representation in the affairs of the galaxy's shadow.”>

A moment passes.

< “There will be disagreements. There may even be blood. But that blood will be spilled with purpose and recognized, acknowledged by the rest — not spilt across a thousand silent, unseeing stars.”>

He raised the glass once more, not to drink — but to consecrate.

<“The Chantin Kajidic will host the first session. And you, your kin, or your masters are all invited.”>

The grav-platform settled. Whottoomuzz’s gaze flicked once more toward the flame-lit ruins behind them.

<"The dead built kingdoms from crime. Let the living build something even greater.”>

@Everyone​

 

[Victor Lee Burukai]

Tatooine
Tags: Dakhm The Hutt , Whottoomuzz Chantin , Jerec Asyr , Ordan Vosk , Kinley Pryse , Others...

<"The dead built kingdoms from crime. Let the living build something even greater.”>

"Ah, wise words," Victor noted as he entered. He was flanked by armored warriors, songsteel katanas at their sides. "Something greater than a kingdom. A dynasty to pull the strings of the galaxy in the darkness... Ah, but how rude of me to interject so suddenly. Victor Lee Burukai of House Gyukia."

The baron offered a cordial bow, taking the role of a humble servant. He fiddled with the end of his mustache as he stood back at attention, a glint in his grin. He was a man who knew the cards he held and where he slotted into the larger deck of the criminal underword. He turned to regard Dakhm The Hutt .

"And it certainly is an honor to be amidts the Desilijic clanhead," he noted. "My clan's ties to the underworld were born through service to yours nearly a thousand years ago. I have nothing if not pride for tradition. Ah, which reminds me..."

Victor snapped, and the men with him set weapons upon the table. Swords, axes, armor plating... all finely crafted and varied, tailored down to the smallest detail.

"What lays before you is Songsteel, finest quality in the galaxy," the Zabrak stated. "Harvested from the heart of Smarteel and forged in fires hot enough to rival stars. As my ancestors have provided arms for those of the ilk in this room, I too will honor that tradition. Consider my place on this Council to be the role of the humble servant. Through the enrichment of you all may I be made whole. The blades before you are free to take and inspect. Gifts of good will... and particularly handy when faced with those pesky blades of plasma our most righteous of foes are so fond of, no?"

Jedi would be a threat. He sought to be the answer.

"For those who are abroad and present in digital form, I will be sure to arrange that the gifts of my house are delivered to you personally for your viewing pleasure."

 

[Jerec Asyr]

Offering appreciative words, Jerec took his time with Victor Lee Burukai 's pile of songsteel. He tried on a pair of bracers and remembered one too many friends who'd lost hands to Jedi mercy. The quality was exactly as promised.

"I'll sit down at your table for my crew, Lord Whottoomuzz." He looked around the room. "Only thing I ask is, if any of you have interests or jobs or problems in the Denon system, you let me know about it, show some respect. If I knowingly do work in your territory, any of you, I'll show respect right back.

"Here's what I'll offer you if you take a seat at Lord Whottoomozz's table.If one of my inventory acquisition specialists picks up a ship of yours by mistake, let me know and I'll make it right. Your people need a ship or speeder you can trust, you all get the friends and family price. You need a ship or speeder offloaded, cleaned, chopped up, no questions asked, I'm your first fractal radio call unless there's Alliance sirens right in your exhaust."

He grinned out one side of his neck.

"...and you ever want backup from someone who's gone toe to toe with a Sith Emperor and not pissed himself, give me a ring."

Dakhm The Hutt Whottoomuzz Chantin Ordan Vosk Kinley Pryse Trenn Untas Mr. Usher Makar Clyne Arcadian

 

[Razmir Tezhyn]

Razmir wasn't here to speak. He'd been sent ahead to scope out the situation in person. Gather what additional information he could, so that his employer could have another set of eyes in the room where it happened.

He did his best to listen to the talks—staying up to date with what the most powerful people in your field were up to was generally a good way to stay alive—but he'd let his gaze wander. From what he knew about the layout of the Hutt's yacht, there were plenty small crowds to hide in, shadows to slink around, and side corridors reserved for illicit deals. The exact places his employer wouldn't be looking, and where the heart of any good criminal business tended to lurk.

In those nooks and crannies, he spotted something more interesting than the meeting. He'd only caught a glimpse, a stray lock of brown hair and the leather of a coat and satchel, but that in itself was intriguing. Who was running around a luxury yacht carrying a big bag of...well, whatever it was they were carrying?

Razmir nodded to the guard standing beside him, excusing himself, and made his way away from the meeting, toward where he'd seen that peculiarity with a bag disappear to.

Kinley Pryse

 

[Kinley Pryse]

You've been hit by... you've been struck by...

Talk is Cheap but I Charge Double
​

<"There are those among us not seated. They carry satchels instead of sabers. Move spice instead of schemes.">

<"To them I say: You are noticed. The blood of all our machines flows because those like you bleed for it.">

Kinley caught snippets of the Hut's conversation and shot them a knowing wink. She was listening, of course, but more importantly, she knew Flint was around. Her boss wouldn't miss a meeting like this. Kinley usually did her best to steer clear of the smarmy bastard, but his presence changed the game. When Flint was in the room, there was only one rule: keep your head down and move the product. No questions. No hesitation.

She slipped through the crowd, weaving between grizzled mercs and spice-hazed drifters, when a flicker of motion tugged at her instincts. She was being watched or maybe followed. Probably just another buyer curious about her stock. Still, she let her eyes flick to the side. The man stood out instantly. Well-dressed, controlled, with the kind of quiet confidence that meant he was used to getting what he wanted. And unlike the usual grim-faced scum haunting this place, he actually seemed... pleased.

"Kessel Burn. Smooth blend, rough finish. Best price you'll find this side of the Rim," she said, her tone casual, almost bored—her usual greeting, but with just enough edge to reel him in.

Razmir Tezhyn
Mentioned: Whottoomuzz Chantin

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Arcadian]

Tags: Whottoomuzz Chantin et al
Location: Jabba’s Palace, Tatooine

For much of the conversation’s early moments, Arcadian was hyper-focused on flicking grains of Tatooinian sand from the creases of his rebreather with a thin bronzium pick. He’d pulled it free from a parcel of food as he walked by, leaving the fruit and cheese it skewered loose on the table.

Arcadian hated sand. It weathered his vital systems and embedded itself in impossible cracks, making even brief trips to desert worlds like this a chore. He greatly appreciated the sand-less winds of his homeworld, Uba IV, and was lamented by how long it had been since he stepped through its endless savannas.

He would have preferred to carry on reminiscing, were it not for the bold assertions of Dakhm The Hutt that Clan Desjilic was not only alive and well, but staking claim to the Great Jabba’s palace. Arcadian maintained his signature silence on the matter, deciding that representing Black Sun as majordomo to its Underlord was more important than Hutt Cartel politics.

Cade was here for one reason, after all: information gathering.

He listened to the conversation with interest, and while there were many voices with slightly different views, there was a commonality between them all. One that Black Sun would be interested in keeping tabs on. The Hutts, it seemed, were seeking to establish a broader network spanning the Galactic Underworld; territory known to be treacherous, where efforts to unite were often dashed against the rocks.

But it had been done before, and done well.

The Hutt Space Consortium was one such example of a criminal empire maintaining a presence on a grander scale than local gangs or multi-system syndicates. Black Sun intended to rise from those ashes, inheriting the legacy of both the Hutts and Prince Xizor.

There was much he could say, but for now, Arcadian kept his cards close to his chest. His addition to the conversation was simple, ordained by Velzari Tharn hinself.

“On behalf of Prince Velzari, mighty and powerful Underlord of Black Sun, I thank you for extending an invitation to this… conclave.” Cade chose the word carefully, so as not to displease those who had qualms with “summit” and “alliance.” His voice sounded parched, like a sun-bleached tree in the sand. Arcadian felt no pain, but the damage his lungs endured was audible.

“Black Sun is interested in this effort. I have been granted the blessings of the Underlord to inform you of Black Sun’s willingness to act as a benefactor of this moot and its operations, should they prove to be fruitful and undertaken in good faith.”

Whether small or large, each kajidic, cartel, and syndicate present today knew the legacy behind Black Sun. An offering such as Arcadian’s would hopefully carry just as much weight.

 

[Dakhm The Hutt]

[Dakhm the Hutt | Jabba's Throne Room, Tatooine]

The old throne still held the stink of legends.

But now it held something else.

Dakhm's massive bulk lounged across the stone dais where Jabba once reigned. His skin gleamed with torchlight and hookah glow, thick with ceremonial oils and the sweat of conquest. Tribal and syndicate tattoos coiled around both titanic arms — warpaint, not jewelry. One thick hand clutched the hookah pipe, drawing in a slow, deep pull of glowing green vapor. The other draped across the gilded slab like a king resting after war.

The room was hot. Heavy. Hushed.

The holo-image of Whottoomuzz Chantin shimmered from a nearby pedestal, and Dakhm had listened — in full, without interruption. When the speech ended and the last voice fell silent, only the crackle of open flame remained.

And then the Hutt moved.

His head rose. His eyes opened — black pools with slivers of ancient fire.

His voice was stone sliding over blood.

<<"Whottoomuzz…">>

<<"You speak with the breath of a Kajidii and the weight of a syndicate graveyard.">>

He exhaled smoke from flared nostrils. The scent was spice and spice rot. A veteran's incense.

<<"Jabba's throne was not given. It was retaken. From cowards. Pretenders. Ghosts who wore his name like a mask and filled it with weakness.">>

He thumped the slab with his tail — a low, grinding echo that reverberated through the chamber.

<<"And you see clearly. There are only three ways to take a throne: birth... coin... or conquest.">>

A slow grin spread like a faultline across his face.

<<"I took mine in flame.">>

He gestured toward the holoprojection with a thick finger.

<<"And now, you offer balance. A council of warlords. Not peace. But rule. That……interests me.">>

His gaze moved to Victor Lee Burukai.


<<"Zabrak. House Gyukia. I remember those blades. Your people forged war, not words — and I respect that.">> He paused <<"Your steel is welcome in this hall. And your loyalty… will be tested in time.">>

Then to Arcadian.

<<"Black Sun. I know your shadow.">>

<<"Prince Velzari speaks through you — but I hear the legacy of Xizor. The one who understood that power is not in fear… but commerce enforced by fear.">>

He leaned forward. The throne creaked under him.

<<"Let it be known: Dakhm Desilijic Tiure accepts the terms.">>

<<"The Desilijic Kajidic takes its seat. Not beside you… but opposite you. As rival. As partner. As heir to a legacy of power none here can ignore.">>

A low laugh rumbled from his gut.

<<"One seat per Kajidic. One seat per Syndicate. That's the rule? Then bring chairs. Or bring stretchers.">>

He lifted the goblet — not to toast, but to judge. The firelight caught in the polished gold.

<<"Let the Council begin. Let blood be measured. Let credits flow.">>

A final exhale of green smoke hissed from his nostrils as he leaned back on Jabba's throne slab — and for the first time since the Hutt crime empire fractured, the seat looked occupied.