Post by Zabasaz Volgarius on Jul 7, 2009 3:39:28 GMT -5
Zabasaz hadn't much a reason to fancy such a slimy pit as Malastare, but then that wasn't what qualities he sought in a planet or a locale any longer. Thirty years and he never managed to get much longer than a year to himself before some gun-toting or saber-wielding imbecile barged into his life and tried to put an end to it, only to learn just what Zabasaz spent those thirty years doing the hardest way there was. However, instead of aiming for distant, obscure worlds to settle down, Zabasaz decided he might have better luck taking up refuge in worlds people do their best to avoid. One, what twisted reasoning would motivate someone to try to live out their days deliberately in a place so filthy? And two - who would even want to dredge through such filth to dig up some dubious, washed-up Jedi?
Of course, while the Dug home world wasn't the MOST filthy place among the Rim and the Core, it was definitely suiting of his needs. Or so he assumed, right up until some brat of a Dark Jedi chased him down and challenged his might in the middle of a Pixelito cantina. Needless to say the attempt was fruitless, but he didn't manage to execute the force-wielding fool. To have been sniffed out so soon in his new hide-out was unnerving, and meant that soon more would come. Not to mention after he had fended off the sneak attack by the foe in the cantina a few days before, he lost track of him. Without his blood running for sure, there was no hope now that Malastare would provide a safe home for him. It was off to the next slime-hole to shake off the trail of his pursuers.
Trouble was... well, he couldn't turn up the thousands of credits for interstellar travel. Getting to Malastare drained him of all of his credits and six months of work here hadn't done much better. Fortunately he was able to buy a ride off-planet by some shifty smuggler, but then perhaps traveling in a private transport would make him difficult to follow with an alive, aware, and hot pursuer in the shadows of his wake.
The Pixelito Starport was located in the heart of the highly urbanized capital, and currently Zabasaz was walking towards the edge of the upper cityscape that overlooked the starport. The infrastructure encompassed a vast lift that, if his memory served him correct, would bring him about a quarter mile walk from the entrance to the starport. There, his ride was (presumably) docked.
While Pixelito was a filthy hole filled with some of the galaxy's lower rung of the scum ladder, something about the aesthetic of the city pleased him in his departure tread. The metallic, bronze-colored cityscape was... oddly easy on the eyes, once one had gotten used to the stink. Of course, it was unlikely that the rest of the world shared the quality that Pixelito did. In the distance he heard the engines of podracers roaring along with the roars of the crowds that so enjoyed the dangerous sport. It made his own thoughts and actions feel quietened but it also made one who relied heavily on his genetic senses (his ability to reach out and feel with the Force was damn near non-existent) feel uncertain when an attempt on his life was just made days prior.
He was garbed in a flowing black cloak with a hood over his head. His face was veiled by a composite helmet with a visor, amplifying sounds and picking up various signals for information that could be submitted by any familiar users on his reserved frequencies, though he hadn't made friends with many Dugs so he had his doubts. He hadn't really even bothered to say good bye. His chestplate and the black garb that veiled the rest of him, in consort with his sizable cloak, caused Dugs to look at his imposing figure with no intention of making obvious taunts at his choice of regalia. And Zabasaz had few belongings, all of which were safely stowed on his belt and back underneath the cloak - provisions, tools, his datapad, back-up commlink, and of course... his lightsaber.
In time he reached the ledge, and below he could see the starport, filled with ships that could not be counted for they so often came and went the number fluctuated too quickly. He didn't remember what model ship the smuggler was using, or if he was even told - he only remembered the number of the bay they were scheduled to meet in about ten to twenty minutes. After inhaling a breath through his helmet's respiratory vents, he looked along the ledge to find a lift. The starport was approximately a three-hundred yard drop from where he was, and it was huge, one of the biggest he had seen in a couple of years. One lift and he'd be there for the second time in the last year, and likely the final time in his life. If Malastare couldn't hide him, he had no intention of coming back. Podracing wasn't his bag and Dugs CERTAINLY didn't do anything to please him other than stink enough that he didn't need to worry about his hygiene too much.
Now, to find a lift. Certainly he was a Dark Jedi, but he had no intention to drop three-hundred yards only to try and land on his feet, likely to go splat. He had his doubts any entity he had encountered in his comparatively long lifespan could survive such a drop. Perhaps he would do best catching an empty lift - being enclosed in a tight space with stinking locals was the last thing he needed with the fury that came packaged with ANOTHER unsought upheaval of his life.
Of course, while the Dug home world wasn't the MOST filthy place among the Rim and the Core, it was definitely suiting of his needs. Or so he assumed, right up until some brat of a Dark Jedi chased him down and challenged his might in the middle of a Pixelito cantina. Needless to say the attempt was fruitless, but he didn't manage to execute the force-wielding fool. To have been sniffed out so soon in his new hide-out was unnerving, and meant that soon more would come. Not to mention after he had fended off the sneak attack by the foe in the cantina a few days before, he lost track of him. Without his blood running for sure, there was no hope now that Malastare would provide a safe home for him. It was off to the next slime-hole to shake off the trail of his pursuers.
Trouble was... well, he couldn't turn up the thousands of credits for interstellar travel. Getting to Malastare drained him of all of his credits and six months of work here hadn't done much better. Fortunately he was able to buy a ride off-planet by some shifty smuggler, but then perhaps traveling in a private transport would make him difficult to follow with an alive, aware, and hot pursuer in the shadows of his wake.
The Pixelito Starport was located in the heart of the highly urbanized capital, and currently Zabasaz was walking towards the edge of the upper cityscape that overlooked the starport. The infrastructure encompassed a vast lift that, if his memory served him correct, would bring him about a quarter mile walk from the entrance to the starport. There, his ride was (presumably) docked.
While Pixelito was a filthy hole filled with some of the galaxy's lower rung of the scum ladder, something about the aesthetic of the city pleased him in his departure tread. The metallic, bronze-colored cityscape was... oddly easy on the eyes, once one had gotten used to the stink. Of course, it was unlikely that the rest of the world shared the quality that Pixelito did. In the distance he heard the engines of podracers roaring along with the roars of the crowds that so enjoyed the dangerous sport. It made his own thoughts and actions feel quietened but it also made one who relied heavily on his genetic senses (his ability to reach out and feel with the Force was damn near non-existent) feel uncertain when an attempt on his life was just made days prior.
He was garbed in a flowing black cloak with a hood over his head. His face was veiled by a composite helmet with a visor, amplifying sounds and picking up various signals for information that could be submitted by any familiar users on his reserved frequencies, though he hadn't made friends with many Dugs so he had his doubts. He hadn't really even bothered to say good bye. His chestplate and the black garb that veiled the rest of him, in consort with his sizable cloak, caused Dugs to look at his imposing figure with no intention of making obvious taunts at his choice of regalia. And Zabasaz had few belongings, all of which were safely stowed on his belt and back underneath the cloak - provisions, tools, his datapad, back-up commlink, and of course... his lightsaber.
In time he reached the ledge, and below he could see the starport, filled with ships that could not be counted for they so often came and went the number fluctuated too quickly. He didn't remember what model ship the smuggler was using, or if he was even told - he only remembered the number of the bay they were scheduled to meet in about ten to twenty minutes. After inhaling a breath through his helmet's respiratory vents, he looked along the ledge to find a lift. The starport was approximately a three-hundred yard drop from where he was, and it was huge, one of the biggest he had seen in a couple of years. One lift and he'd be there for the second time in the last year, and likely the final time in his life. If Malastare couldn't hide him, he had no intention of coming back. Podracing wasn't his bag and Dugs CERTAINLY didn't do anything to please him other than stink enough that he didn't need to worry about his hygiene too much.
Now, to find a lift. Certainly he was a Dark Jedi, but he had no intention to drop three-hundred yards only to try and land on his feet, likely to go splat. He had his doubts any entity he had encountered in his comparatively long lifespan could survive such a drop. Perhaps he would do best catching an empty lift - being enclosed in a tight space with stinking locals was the last thing he needed with the fury that came packaged with ANOTHER unsought upheaval of his life.
