Public What Does a Hutt Have To Do To Get A Bowl of Live Frogs Around Here? [OPEN]

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

Spoiler: Whottoomuzz Chantin Combat Loadout

Shyran Dol: Chantin Heirloom Armor

Melee Weapons

• MagnaGuard Electrostaff – Charged melee weapon effective against Force-users
• ZX Wrist Flamethrower – Cone of high-heat fire for crowd control
• Double-Bladed Vibrosword – Heavy melee weapon for cleaving and sweeping
• Lirka's Electrowhip

Ranged Weapons
• DLT-19 Heavy Blaster Rifle – Suppressive long-range firepower
• A280 Blaster Rifle – Armor-piercing rifle for general infantry use
• Ion Rifle – Disables electronics, droids, and shields

Heavy Weapons
• E-Web Heavy Repeating Blaster – Tripod-mounted anti-infantry cannon
• RPS-6 Rocket Launcher – Homing, high-yield warheads
• Personal Energy Shield – Wearable generator for temporary defense

Gadgets & Tools
• Life-Form Scanner – Detects biological entities through walls
• Scomp Link – Terminal hacking tool
• Jetpack – Short-range vertical mobility
• Stealth Field Generator – Temporary active camouflage
• Electro-Grappling Line – Tether that stuns and restrains

️ Deployables
• Probe Droid – Recon and support drone
• “Gonk Bomb” (Modified GNK Droid) – Walking explosive payload
• Portable Energy Shield Projector – Ground-deployed stationary defense field

Consumables
• Stimpack – Emergency healing injection
• Power Cells – Refuels weapons and gadgets
• Smoke Grenade – Obscures line of sight
• Ion Grenade – Disables droids and shields
• Thermal Detonator – Devastating high-yield explosive
• Fragmentation Grenade – Anti-personnel shrapnel blast

The cantina was... not much.
A refitted ore-exchange station off the Mardona Loop—somewhere between the spice runs of Rinn and the smuggling slips of Bracca. The neon outside blinked with a tired stutter, half the letters burned out, the other half flickering like they owed a favor to gravity. Inside, the air reeked of recycled coolant, fried batter oil, and the slow rot of sunless wood.

A few locals hunched over drinks, close to their sleeves and closer to their business. A Rodian freight captain nursing a busted knuckle. A devaronian sabacc cheat with an old cut down one horn. The sort of place where no one asked your name unless they meant to sell it.

And then the repulsors started humming.

A shadow rolled in through the front blastdoor, slow, deliberate, seismic in its weight. The sound of his crawl was not just the slap and drag of Hutt flesh, but the dull clank of power-assisted armor: engraved phrik, etched in electrum filigree, worn with scars and siege soot.

Shyran Dol.
The armor was known in certain circles.
So was its wearer.

"Chuba... je uba. Jee wamma um wanga—no ba poodoo, capeesh?"

Whottomuzz grunted the words through the speaker grille of his helmet. A battered droid prosthetic framed his lower face, Jawbone stolen from a repair droid and attach with spite. One dead eye, still regenerating. No patience.

The bartender—a Besalisk with a cataract in one eye and two cybernetic arms—eyed the armor, then the slug beneath it, and wisely nodded to the far booth.

The floorboards groaned under the weight.

Whottoomuzz the Hutt exhaled through his vents as a shallow brass bowl was brought to the table. Inside: Klatooine paddy frogs. Half-alive. Still hopping, some. A delicacy, if not as fresh as he once had them.

He plucked one between plated fingers. Slurped it whole. Chewed slow, tongue still tender from regeneration and Bacta recovery.

"Nobata je wamma. Jee-jee chobasa, unko no chak."

The cantina muttered back into motion. Blaster holsters didn’t unbuckle, but some eyes did linger too long.
Not out of recognition.
Not yet.

Just out of curiosity.

He was just here for a drink.
A bite.
And maybe five minutes without someone trying their luck against him for the credits on his hide.
He could almost taste the quiet.
Almost.

Open to interaction
(including bounty hunters)​

 

[Mr. Usher]

IN OBSERVANCE OF THE EXILED KING​

The man at the bar had teeth that didn’t quite fit his gums.

His face bore the leathery sun-split pallor of a local dockhand—work-hardened shoulders, a stiff limp in his left boot, calloused fingers stained with oil. He drank from a salt-rimmed glass without blinking, eyes the color of boiled milk. No one knew his name. No one asked.

He had arrived half an hour before Whottoomuzz.

And he had not stopped watching since.

His gaze followed the Hutt with an inhuman patience. Studying the slug on the run. A field test.
The skin he wore clung well, but beneath it, something chittered.

He raised the glass again and let the drink dribble past the lip, for illusion, not the taste. Inside, the whispers came muffled now. A dull fog across the Choir. There should have been resonance—feedback, sensations, bioelectric intuition dancing up from the Hutt’s spine that Mr. Usher could sense.

But it was quiet.

The Shyran Dol muted him.

A stone womb of resistance. The Void Stone core blinkered the tether, severing the full bandwidth of sensation. He could sense the proxy only in broad strokes now: where it moved. That it breathed. That it still lived. Without that armor, Mr. Usher might have been tempted to add Hutt Physiology to his repertoire of biological tricks. Instead, he had Invested heavily in sacrificed biomass for the Hutt to escape Ruusan. And now the disgraced crime Lord... drank swill and ate critters like nothing was wrong.

It was wasteful. Mr. Usher hated wastefulness almost as much as he hated depreciating assets. But to reveal himself now would be foolish – a candid look at the Hutt's behavior, even if muted through Voidstone, was valuable insight.

He sipped again. Liquid stored in an internal pouch. The man smiled, or attempted something similar.
He scratched the back of his own neck—and pulled away a patch of dead skin. Underneath it, something darker pulsed.

Location: Crowded bar, back wall, second stool from the fruit slicer droid
Objective: Observe ally behavior. Assess risk. Recalibrate trust.
Tags: Whottoomuzz Chantin | Open perception if desired
​

 

[Kinley Pryse]

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

​

This place was a hole in the wall, that was for sure. There was about a quarter of a band trying to stammer their way through notes, and the floor was sticky like it hadn't been cleaned in .. well ever. It wasn't the most glamorous of places but Kinley had certainly seen worse. She had made her rounds, selling spice and sticks and various other party favors to those that could afford them. When the Hutt slithered in everyone eyed him and gradually returned to their business, but they were still tense. Hutts had a way of doing that to people. To Kinley though it was a potential customer with very deep pockets.

She took a seat at the booth and did her best not to make a face at his chosen delicacy. "Nice armor. Never seen anything quit like that."

Whottoomuzz Chantin

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

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.”>

Whottoomuzz never forgot a face.

The memory slithered in with the same slow certainty he moved now.
A summit. Lights low. Hopes high. Steam curling from cracked floor vents and silver trays heavy with narcotics and half-true promises just outside a bloodstained palace on Tattooine. She was there, forgettable to most. But not to him. Not with those eyes. Not with that satchel.

A death stick dealer, orbiting the chaos like a moon around an imploding star. No stake in the grand game, just pushing supply. He remembered her. Now, she sat across from him like they’d both stepped out for caf. No sign she recalled the words he’d spoken then. No reason she would, even without the mask which sat next to the wriggling bowl. His face was damage and reformed imperfectly.

He remembered her. And he remembered who she spoke to that day.

"Jee da naga do wamma... peetchu woy cha naga du woy da woy."

He plucked another paddy frog. This one squealed—briefly—before vanishing into his plated maw. A slow chew. A longer stare.

"Do killee peetah, do bu wata?"

His tone was mild. Almost cordial.
But his eye—a golden disc across from the scarred, milky white remains of its twin covered in an improvised eyepatch—didn’t blink.

Kinley Pryse​

 

[Kinley Pryse]

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

"I make my own luck—just ask the last guy who tried to shoot me."​

As Kinley slid in closer and got a good look at the Hutt she couldn't help but think he was familiar. It was difficult to tell with Hutts of course, but either way it didn't matter. She was here to make some conversation, try to make a sale, and be on her way. When Black Sun owned your hide it was best not to get too chummy with the other syndicates after all.

"Do killee peetah, do bu wata?"

She grinned as he asked his question, happy he had caught on so quickly. "Depends on what you want. Burning is cheaper but for the right price I've got stuff that will make you think you blew your eardrums out."

She wondered if Hutts even had eardrums.

Whottoomuzz Chantin

A Smooth Criminal

 

[Mr. Usher]

WATCHER​

The flesh suit sagged at the knuckles. The tongue was borrowed and the inner ear had a faint buzz like a dying capacitor. No matter. It would do. The bar wasn’t loud, and the Hutt was louder.

He stirred his drink with a bent spoon. The liquor was dark and greasy, clinging to the glass like engine fluid. The Hutt had armor on. Something old. Heavy. The stone was inside it.

He could feel it like a spike in the skull. Static across the spine of his borrowed frame. The Void Stone didn’t banish him—but it made the tether thin, like a breath through cracked glass. Most of his attention was elsewhere. What sat here was a sliver. A marrow-slick whisper of his mind, straining against interference.

Still, he watched. Still, he listened.

He had never seen Whottoomuzz when the lights weren’t on him. When the chorus wasn’t looking. He had wondered—would he pace? Would he slither in manic circles? Would he speak to ghosts, or pull off his mask and scream into the void?

No.

He was... Somewhat civil.

The Hutt ate. Spoke softly. Remembered names. Though, something sounded off in the tone. Malice, maybe.

Mr. Usher tilted his head slightly, as if that might help him hear better. The sound quality was poor, distant and meat-muffled, but he made do. A woman spoke to the Hutt. Young. Bold. Familiar?

He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Just adjusted his posture to keep the profile neutral and turned slightly away. Enough to eavesdrop without suspicion. Enough to study the Hutt in silence.

There was always a story behind monsters. Sometimes, the first truth was in what they did when they thought no one was watching.

@open​

 

[Whottoomuzz Chantin]

Her grin danced on the edge of nerves, but not from recognition. Her words tried to cut cool and casual, but he’d heard the tone before. So many up-and-comers thought it bought safety. Or distance. Or amnesty from memory.

He let the silence stretch just long enough to grow teeth.

Then moved.

A servo in his arm whirred with the low churn of compressed torque. He unslung a flat-browed credit bar from beneath the folds of his armored mantle heavy, high-value, stamped with untraceable exchange codes. He didn’t haggle.

"Mi boska do wanga. Jee-jee soong peetch layee."

The cred bar hit the table with a thunk. A transaction.

"Bo shuda jee patka see peetchay. Jee-jee killee."

He didn’t move the bowl of frogs. Didn’t even look at them. His gaze never left her hands. Watching. Waiting. Recording every detail.

Let her think it was curiosity.
Let her think it was indulgence.

He would never touch the burn.
Not a drop. Not a draw.

It would go back to his holdings.
Run across his chem-sniffers.
Tested for trace compounds.
Rare markers. Designer drugmaker sigils.

He wanted to know whose formula she'd carried. Whether it had once come from his labs. From chemists who now swore fealty to other syndicates.

He would find them.
And remind them why they once served the Chantin Kajidic.

But first, a sale of Ms. Pryse's finest.

Kinley Pryse​