Log:Hutt Cartel: The Lord's Voice
After years of service, Borgol The Hutt approaches his Wraith with a new duty. Reward or Punishment, whose to say?
OOC Date: November 17, 2023
Location: Nar Shaddaa
Participants: Borgol the Hutt, Amal Jha
The Citadel's meeting room is for the resident Hutt Lord's private meetings and that's precisely why it's in use this evening. Unlike some meetings or encounters with Lord Borgol the Hutt, this one was very much intended and even arranged. A message conveyed to the Wraith, Amal Jha, summoning the Echani to meet with His Eminence at an appointed time.
It's around one of the smaller tables that the Hutt Lord resides, laying lazily upon luxurious cushions with a hookah settled at the center of the table. While the Hutt Lord does not partake directly, some of those gathered around the table: do. The scent of spice in the air is thick, adding further effect to the shifting dark red and deep blue lights that seems to shift with the currents of the music filling the chamber.
While outside the Citadel of Manifest can become quite rowdy, it's likely by design. The resident Hutt Lord is often much more lenient of such revelry within his home, because those having a good time tend to spend more of their hard earned credits. Or get themselves into such deep debt that the Hutt Cartel can capitalize upon their misfortune for much greater, longer term gain.
The keen eye and knowledgable mind of Amal Jha would recognize that many of those gathered around the table were - and are - among some of the most influential faces among Lord Borgol's retinue. Trusted advisors, bodyguards, and confidantes all. Their presence seems to be ignored for the time being, however. The appointed time approaches and Lord Borgol's golden eyes, both artificial and organic, seem focused upon the entrance across from the raised platform that the Hutt Lord has lounged himself upon.
Amal Jha was many things. First Daughter, trader, smuggler, fighter, assassin, when it was required. Late was not one of them. And so, she stepped through the doors into the meeting room at the appointed time. A few seconds early, indeed, so that her arrival before the throne of the Hutt was at precisely the correct time. No bowing or scraping, but a formal dip of her head accompanied by a precise bend of the waist forward. Polite without being revealing of what weaponry she wore beneath her duster, "Lord Borgol." Did Amal note the faces sitting at the outskirts of the table? Certainly. Did she give them more than a fraction of her attention? Not at all. It was to the Hutt Lord she paid her respects.
"Wraith, Amal," arrives the answer of Lord Borgol the Hutt, his voice powerful and practically stretching out to fill the room. He sits himself a touch more upright, which may very well reveal some degree of the seriousness of the night's meeting. Or entertainment. Like most Hutts, Lord Borgol considered spoken Huttese to be an enlightened language. Thus that is the language which he deploys, while the matte grey protocol droid works to translate - even if it is unnecessary amidst present company - and the organic eye of the Hutt seems to reside solely upon the pale spectre of death standing before him.
Perhaps it's a matter of respect that Borgol does not dawdle in his getting to the point, but instead moves directly into it out of mutual respect for his long-time associate, business partner, assassin, smuggler, negotiator, enforcer, and so much more. One of the Hutt's great arms rises and his thick-fingers splay while his arm waves, as though drawing all of the room's attention to himself, "I summon you tonight for two purposes. One will be carried upon the back of another. The first is quite simple: a message I wish delivered. I would prefer that you deliver it personally, because of who will receive it."
Borgol pauses for a moment and a look that can only be described as wry amusement etched across a Hutt's face is presented prior to his continuing, "There is one called Jallo Dara. My information leads me to understand that he is a Mandalorian. Their honor is sensitive. I wish you to find him and extend an invitation to meet with me here to discuss a potential business arrangement."
It is after this task is spoken that Lord Borgol falls silent. Waiting, watching. His stare rests heavily upon Amal. The burden of it is great, but unlike most, she's strong enough to weather it. [Language: Huttese]
Amal was not given to exuberant displays of emotion. That was not the way of her people. She expressed herself in the line of her shoulders, the way her weight was distributed across her body. For those who might be able to read the Echani's physical expressions, she was comfortable in the Hutt Lord's presence. There was no fear in her, though there was obvious respect. She listened, with intention, her greeting, which had been in Basic, likely so that any in the room would have understood it, turned to Huttese, as the Lord set the tone, "I am well acquainted with Jallo Dara. He runs quite a respectable and well-respected business here on the moon. A shipyard within the Gearheads district. From what I have heard, and seen, as he had worked on a number of my ships, he is close to, if not the best ship's mechanic and engineer in the sector. I will speak with him. He is a reasonable man, unlike...many of his kind. I do not think he will be put off by being asked to meet with you." [Language: Huttese]
Amal's answer keeps Borgol silent while he listens. By the end of her answer and explanation, a stoic nod is given from the Hutt Lord. He ponders her words for a moment before his broad mouth parts and widens yet further with a Hutt's approximation of a small grin. "Good, very good," Lord Borgol answers with a wide, alert golden organic eye settled solely upon Amal while the pair converse, "then you understand my intent. A reasonable Mandalorian he may be, but there's a distinct difference between summoning him with an electronic message and sending a more, mmm," the Hutt Lord's voice trails off into a deep, rumbling purr of thoughtful consideration, "personal touch."
The Hutt Lord's tongue slips forward and out, wetting the thick skin rimming his mouth with the passage of the tongue that some less stalwart bellies may consider stomach churning. As it withdraws into his cavernous maw anew, Lord Borgol begins to speak once more with his thick, stubby chin inclining ceremoniously high before he begins to speak, "Now for the matter of business that travels on the back of the first matter. There are many in my service, but few have served with loyalty like you. There are many who bring arms to bear in my name, but few have illustrated the reach of my name like you. It is for this reason that I would name you my chief advisor and voice. Should you accept it," the Hutt Lord intones with a subdued, almost predatory smile; as though the notion of its acceptance is *really* a choice, "then from this moment forward, until such a time as you are released from your duty, you will be empowered to speak in the name of Lord Borgol of the Mazijik Kajidic, Master of the Citadel of Manifest, Administrator of Ledgers. You will rise above speaking with the power of my kajidic behind you. When you speak on matters of my business, it will be as though spoken by myself."
The words are spoken as though a great ceremony is underway and Lord Borgol the Hutt remains utterly silent while he stares imperiously upon Amal Jha. The floor is now hers it would seem. [Language: Huttese]
One may note that many of those gathered around the small table, partaking in the hookah and the offered spice? All seem to pause, fall silent, and turn alert eyes toward Lord Borgol the Hutt and Amal Jha.
"I think you will find him to be uncommonly reasonable. And a bit surprising. A Miraluka Mandalorian is a rare thing. Or so I am told." Amal said nothing more on the merits of the mandalorian, allowing the matter to rest. She had already stated that she would take up the task appointed to her, and so it would be done.
The second time that Amal fell silent, so that she could listen to not only the Hutt Lord's words, but his own unspoken language, her own frame did not change. A heavy burden, perhaps, but the Echani had borne many such burdens in her time. "You offer me a great honour. To speak in your name, to carry the weight of your judgements." For, in the end, Amal was that, in the case of this particular Hutt. His judge, jury, and executioner. "I will accept the task you have placed before me." If the smile from Borgol might have implied predation, it was not met with the reflex of prey from the Echani. They were not the same, in almost any way. And even as old as the Echani was, to her kind, she was still barely more than a child in the years in which a Hutt measured lives. But they had an understanding between them. "I will be the blade that holds your words to the throats of your enemies." Did Hutts have anything besides enemies? Best not to ask. [Language: Huttese]
Amal's acceptance earns a deep, respectful lower of the Hutt Lord's chin. Though upon his chin rising anew, it is with a renewed smile splitting his rather massive features. The words, and tone, are far from chastising but he does offer some modification to Amal's own words with a low rumble of sound that one could describe as a croaking chuckle from the largest bullfrog to ever exist on Dagobah, "Whether through brute force or subtle grace, you may be my greatest tool for pouring poison down the throat of my enemies," the Hutt Lord answers. The unspoken 'but' follows it soon after though, "You will always be the honey to wins friends and allies. Especially here. On Tatooine we could face many situations with brute force and naked vilence. Here, there will be times that require more tact. Which is why I entrust you with this duty, because I know that *you* can adapt quickly."
Unlike *some people*. Lord Borgol's golden eyes turn to regard the table of other advisors, bodyguards, and even an assassin among them. While many look to Amal with some measure of respect, congratulations, or salutation; one or two others among them look at her for what she is: competition.
It is then that Lord Borgol's attention shifts away from the table and back to regard Amal as he gestures he to the table, beckoning her to join the others before he continues, "Amal, join us. I demand you indulge your vices tonight. If I am to trust you, then you are to trust me. Indulge, party, and rest before your duties truly begin. Your safety and wellbeing this night is *my* responsibility." [Language: Huttese]
"I appreciate the faith you have placed in me, Lord Borgol. I am no stranger to the effect my kind have on most sentients." While they did not have the power of pheromones that some species had in their arsenal, Amal well understood the appeal the ethereal beauty of the fairer of the Echani subraces, coupled with their natural grace had to many. "Nor of the power of words to sway the less than faithful." Faithful, of course, was not quite used in the sense to which it was usually applied, but then, this was not the usual sort of business. "I am afraid I will disappoint you, Lord Borgol. I do not indulge. It dulls the senses." Amal did not, however, turn away the Hutt's offer entirely. Rather than indulge in spice, or smoke, or drink, Amal simple moved to find a space for herself on the cushions upon which Borgol had placed himself, choosing proximity as her reward for the acceptance of her new duty. A brazen act, surely, as the Echani settled her slight weight against the curve of Borgol's tail. The position a dancer might take, on the one hand, but Amal was no dancer. She was a blade, and close to Borgol's hand. [Language: Huttese]
