Astoach
The Dark Comedy
Dust set below the twin rising suns and with the sky, so too did Astoach's mood lighten. Tatooine, Anchorhead, a slimy cesspool of the dredges of life and the utterly unspeakable nest of downtrodden tramps who rummaged within the plastoid back alleys, slinking just out of vision and awaiting some new off-worlder to mug. Astoach had already encountered three of them, two humans and a lasat, all of which were soon vomiting blood in said back alleys with holes pierced through various parts of their body. It was a romantic justice, one Astoach felt would help clarify the message he delivered and the intent he wrought upon such a backwater world. Yet, all the same, this backwater world was popular, primarily because of it being the homeworld of the young and legendary Luke Skywalker some handful of centuries ago, but this was no Mos Eisley, this was the Dusty Hades, the hidden eighth ring of hell dedicated to the sin of being so fething disgusting. If he received a nickel for every time he did not pass some greasy, rodian hooker on the sidewalk he might damn well be as poor as the rest of Anchorhead's denizens.
Yet, such a downtrodden spaceport was exactly what he was counting on. The Reborn Imperium, like all good factions, needed some stupefied cannon fodder to pat on the back and point in the direction in which they were intended to become blaster sponges. What better place to find people desperate for credits than so derelict village with one great claim to fame? Yet, there was no denying some quirky air of likability to it. Perhaps it was the smells of roasting bantha steaks, or the bustling markets, or the jawas and their shrilling "utinis", or the bright banners of multi-colored flags hung overhead, or maybe it was just the classical nature to the local. There was no complexity to it, for all of its vices were presented whole-heartedly on the surface. Even Astoach could respect such honesty.
He had already recruited an impressive line-up of half-baked bounty hunters and mercenaries for the job at hand, much rather for the sake of having an intimidating display of numbers on his side rather than having anything similar to combat effectiveness, and he intended to have a dozen more or so before the day was through. "Half now, half when it's done," he would say to the then-drooling hire-on who would have, by this point, probably leaped from a cliff for this kind of offer. Though, in Astoach's mind's eye, this was effectively what they were doing. They were substitutes for the primary force, currently in production, and, expecting a good deal of unleashed blaster fire to rain down from the distant rain clouds of opposition, Astoach needed a good many layers of meat-bags between him and the encroaching shadow of death until then. "Thraxxus," Astoach breathed into the commlink, resting upon his wrist. His thumb was planted firmly upon the incandescent, gold button, signalling the activation of the mic. "I've recruited about three party's worth of men, how about you? Report."
Thraxxus, Astoach's sidekick and a delusional madman was likely off causing untold amounts of trouble, as always.
[member="Rose Lalonde"]
