Log:Tatooine: Violent Shopping Spree

It's an arid, miserable, typical early evening at the Mos Eisley marketplace. The shadows are getting longer and business is booming. A perfect time, apparently, for a brash and idiotic raid by a swoop gang looking to score some easy hits. But maybe they opted to hit their mark with the wrong people in the vicinity.

Anakin turns back from the dark side

OOC Date: May 09, 2022
Location: Mos Eisley, Tatooine
Participants: Migs Mayfeld (GM), Corto, Hadrix Kora, Hahtavi Kora, Jax Greystorm, Kael Graystorm, Khalim, Kohnner, Merek, Nora Frayus, Terek Rosol, Tovani Enno

__/< Trading Bazaar - Mos Eisley Spaceport, Tatooine >__/~~\____/~~\

The yelling of Merchants from their small shops can be heard coming from nearly every direction possible. Welcome to Mos Eisley's Market Place. The planet's main retail center resembles a "flea market" where many different items can be bought for a reasonable price. With the large crowds, and the constant conversation, the Market Place is a hotspot of activity on Tatooine. Just hope you don't run into the wrong people, or anger the wrong merchant, though.

To the east, the desert of Tatooine seems to extend forever, while Main Street is located to the west. Gep's Grill, the renowned restaurant is located in this square as well.

-- Migs Mayfeld --

The star Tatoo I is creeping towards the horizon with its sister Tatoo II not far behind. The shadows are starting to get long as the evening progresses but life in Mos Eisley only seems to grow the closer to the cold of night becomes. The main marketplace of Mos Eisley is literally humming with life. Hundred of sentients wrapped in various shades of tan and brown garbs are milling about from stall to stall perusing the various wares. Everything from brass pots and woven rugs to ship parts and the savoury smells of the terrine vendor.

Propped up against one of the many similiar-looking adobe facades, a man watches the passers-by under the wind-torn canvas stretched above that is doing it's best -- and failing -- at blocking the heat of the twin suns. Black scarf draped over his bald head, Migs' blue eyes stare outwards squinting against the light; a quiet, unspoken distaste shaping his frown.

Or that could just be the taste of the black melon in his gloved hand. Sipping from it, Migs' face scrunches up further and he looks down at his drink as if it offended him. Which it did. "Everything is drek on this karking planet," he opines to no one but himself. And then takes another drink.

-- Tovani Enno --

Sand everywhere. This is what Tovani undestands about this place and already she is shifting a little uncomfortably in her armor - which she wears due to necessity of location. "Someone needs to find a way to market some sort of clothing that keeps sand out of places is should not be. I breathe, my clothes shift...and then its just..there. Magically."

Plucking some wooden carved do-dad off a stall, she turns it about to give it a long look. Setting it back down a little more carefully she remarks, "Need to return to Wroonia...some things can not be replicated elsewhere."

Mauve hair is left free about her face in hopes of deterring the sand from finding its way down her neck - alas! It is not to be so.

Golden eyes flit across the other stands nearby, spotting cool drinks which soon ends up with her aiming in that direction. Companion in tow or not.

-- Kael Greystorm --

Kael's walking towards the weapon shop glancing up at the twin beacons of angry heat in the sky shaking his head just a bit, "I don't know why I invested in a weapon shop out here. Guess I figured that the raiders would keep business going."

-- Hahtavi Kora --

The dry air and heat of Tatooine feels like home. Not so different from the warmer climes of Mandalore. One such wanders the bazaar, freshly arrived to look into some business with a local contact. Hahtavi's kitted out in his full rig, armor, rifles, jetpack and helmet as he walks through.

Here and there he pauses to study those moving around him, then walks again until he slowly makes his way to the meeting place. Next to a stall that is selling dried meats and another beside it selling locally made pottery. There he waits but doesn't have to wait long. A Twi'lek shows up, wrapped in the local loose robes so popular here. A nod to the Mandalorian and something said low. Hahtavi replies through his helmet's vocoder, <"What do you have?">

The Twi'lek produces a datachip which the Kora accepts. It is put into his datapad Hahtavi pulls out to check the information on it.

-- Kohnner --

Kohnner blended in, at least he thought he did. The problem was the young Canine stood well above a number of bipedal species. A trader by profession, he looked everything but as he walked through the market with several bladed weapons attached to himself protected by some base line light armor. He sniffs, some of the food drawing his attention as he moves. Hunter's eyes glide across the growing crowd before he stops and picks out a brand new Datapad from a clasp in his armor.

-- Jax Graystorm --

Jax was walking with Kael, "Might be a good investment. If the things I keep hear are happening." He frowns as he glances in the direction of the twin suns. "It doesn't help with the heat. This sure ain't Corellia." He says looking to his cousin. "So why you stopping by?"

-- Nora Frayus --

"I am just concerned that milk, no matter what color it is, will spoil in this heat," Nora says sideways to those she's traveling with. A worried glance is given to a vendor who is gesturing grandly towards their supply of spiced blue milk that is, as the sign would indicate, 'moderately refrigerated'. Nora's nose wrinkles a bit in distaste and she squares her body towards the vendor. While technically in the robes issued to her by the Jedi Order, their light earth tone linens are quite at home on the streets of Mos Eisley. If anything, what stands out the most is the poppy red scarf she wears atop her head. Or the pink hair. Or the sword on her hip.

Okay, some things probably stand out a little bit. But there are definitely weirder looking people here. Like Corto!

"And what was the other one?" she asks, looking at her fingernails and frowning when she sees a chip in the red polish. An exasperated sigh soon follows. "Fabric... destarcher? By the Mother," she says, and looks up towards Corto expectantly. "...You're carrying it all."

-- Hadrix Kora --

<<"Why did we have to come here?">> <<"H'I needed to check on an old... h'associate.">> The voice filtering through commlink speakers within his helmet was an older man's, whose accent made his words throaty and often with an H sound preceding. Despite the conversation the helmeted head didn't bob or tip like one might when in normal conversation. Privacy, where he came from, was a premium and one learned quickly to hide when they were 'chatting' until it became second nature to do so.

<<"Then why am I in this scugg hole and you're in the Dune Sea in my walker?">> Hadrix's rumble is distracted, hidden behind the seals of his armor, the flick of the red glow behind the visor the only sign that he is looking about, weapons slung, krayt scale cape covering his left shoulder and down to his waist, and an ID10 droid floats along at his right side.

<<"Because h'I dislike that town.">> <<"And I like it?">> <<"H'its much more your spheed, Hadrix.">> <<"Funny.">> <<"I know.">>

-- Corto --

They say in the stories that the destination is less important than the journey. But when you don't have a destination, where lies your point of comparison? Is it simply the act of venturing from one dusty old desert town to the next that brings an episodic style of closure to one's life? Or is it the endless searching of a final place to rest one's weary head that gives the endless sojourn its meaning? All questions upon which the ramifications were pondered by the Drifter, who continues to be the right man in the wrong place at the right time.

And so we come to our favourite supporting character upon the Sands of Tatween, where his attire of wide-brimmed hat, poncho, and dusty leathers fit right in even if the blue skin, gargantuan stature, and lack of nose made him stand out like a sore thumb. Each thudding step taken down the main boulevard of Mos Eisley came with the jingle of hardly-used spurs and the mental image of wood whistles and Ennio Morricone. Where Corto the Feeorin went, trouble usually followed, whether it be in the form of armed miscreants, or an Alderaanian lady with an ocean of back-talk stuffed into a pint-sized frame. "As much as I ain't complainin' about hittin' the frontier," he rumble-drawled to his erstwhile fashion disaster of a companion, "this is a mite overkill for a pair o' pants."

-- Merek --

Merek is walking along with his dark attire on, the white-black armor which has a beltcape that shifts along the wind as does the scarf which he wears. The man wears no helmet at the moment because he seems to be relaxing. He makes his way to a vendor to take his time and look at what is for sale, while he greets the person that's selling things.

-- Khalim --

Oh those twin demons up high. Looming above, they breath down their molten breath and even those windswept grains of sand have a new bite. Tovani's protestations prompt a glance, and a lopsided grin. "Not sure anything like that's sold around here, but they do make flight plans off-world." The mirialan begins rooting through a carryall full of what appear to be blaster gas regulators. "Might be something to look into. Dac, maybe. Or back to Rishi."

One regulator, only a little bit carbon scored, grabs his attention. "This looks like..." He peers a bit more closely, a thumb run across an etching. "Caelli-Merced, factory spec." There's a little 'hmmmm' of appreciation before he looks to the Jawa standing a couple of meters away. "HOW. MUCH. FOR. THE. REGULATOR." That's how you talk to Jawas, apparently. Loudly, and with drum-like precision.

-- Terek Rosol --

It's been quite a while since Terek had been back to Tattooine. Hard to believe the things he's seen since he landed here on a transport from Cathar. The Mandalorian clad cathar seemed to just be wandering the Bazaar, not really having much in the way of things he's looking for. If anything he's probably more people watching than actually shopping. One of his hands rests on the holster on his hip as he stops to take a quick look around, making sure to step out of the way of the main thuroughfare, not wanting to end up blocking the path of somebody who'd want to fight.

-- Migs Mayfeld --

The long, wide split between the architecture where the bulk of the marketplace fills the area stretches from east to west. Towards the eat, the marketplace grows more dense with people and items; droids wheeling around playing children and the permanent shops with their doors open inviting people inside to browse. The buzz of three dozen conversations all happening at once carried on the dry breeze of Tatooine.

To the west the street empties out into the desert. The slopes of the Dune Sea can easily be viewed from here shimmering in the veneer of heat waves in the distance. It is here at the mouth of this man-made river of commerce that a cloud of sand starts to encroach. Unlike the natural sandstorms anyone who has spent even a few days on Tatooine would know, this one is condensed to a singular point at the front that then fans out into a torrent in its wake.

The first panicked cries start to ring from those closest to the end of the street and travels like wildfire from person to person. Like a game of telephone where the message isn't at all garbled by the time it reaches further into the city. "They're coming! Dune Runners!"

The harbinger of a sand cloud has nearly reached the perimeter of Mos Eisley as vendors quickly grab the most expensive wares and start running for the alleyways as shops start slamming their doors and windows.

"For kriff-sake," Migs snaps at the green man yelling loudly at a Jawa. "They're Jawas, not deaf. But I might be." Attention pulled by the rising panic heading down the market street like a tide, Migs peers down towards the encroaching threat, his frown growing more sour. "Aw.... great." He tosses what's left of his black melon to the side and dives behind the nearest stall for cover.

-- Tovani Enno --

Tovi, standing near the Mirilian does a slight lean wince, arching her brow as she glances aside at him. Migs is giving his personal view of the interaction so she does not have to chime in. She does regard the juice stall not far away, "I will be over here!" She calls over to Khalim, just being sure that he can hear now that he went into old man mode.

As she is weaving through the crowd she hears the cry not far from her. Dune Runners. "What the living stars is a Dune Runner?" But no one presently is willing to answer that question though the general chaos seems to answer it all the same.

Tovani reaches down, touching the hilt at her back, a small assortment of weapons having been chosen for this outting that predictably was unpredictable. She struggles, shouldering her way towards one of the supports of the walls, meaning to tuck herself away for the initial arrival of the 'Dune Runners' when she collides with a larger male sending the rather toned Wroonian backwards a few steps and into the heater of a food stall.

She is up! And patting at her pants as they smoke, singed in a few places as she grumbles beneath her breath. Her right hand reaches back and the sword is drawn, a soft ring of metal sounds out as she stands in the open.

-- Hadrix Kora --

Dune Runners?

Local nightmares probably - and at least to their credit they're clearing the street, remaining generally centered and turning with all of the alarm of a loth cat rolling over to sun its belly. Looking to the droid at his shoulder and then back towards the oncoming speeders, Hadrix's frown is palpable despite the helmet covering his face.

"Don't." the droid's posh core accented voice lilts and she shakes her 'head' while the big man offers up a shrug, <"It's better than combing the streets on a wild fwit chase."> "Nooo." <"Trust me.">

Feet apart, right hand going to the left vambrace and tapping a few keys before his fist tightens and a small barbed grapnel head extends from beneath the blade of his hand.

-- Kael Greystorm --

Kael glances over at Jax and shrugs a bit, "I'm here to check on my investments. Gotta make sure the swoop gangs here aren't giving 'em too much of a problem." Another glance up towards the suns and then back over at his cousin, "And this is for sure not Corellia. I miss home sometimes." Then the call of Dune Runners and the approaching swoops he quickly looks around, "Trouble inbound. I recommend we not be in the direct path of travel." A pause, "But I'm not going to let them have free reign of the market place I've invested too much money in those shops." Then he takes to the shadows like he belongs there.

-- Hahtavi Kora --

The Twi'lek speaking with the Mandalorian asks, "Is that what you wanted to know about her?"

The Kora removes the datastick from his datapad, <"Yes."> Credits are removed from a belt pouch and handed over to the Twi'lek's hand. They instantly disappear and the Twi'lek adds quietly, "Pleasure doing business with you."

Hahtavi keeps his place, the datastick already slipped into the same pouch that now has it's tiny maglock activated. That's when the approaching dust cloud and the stir in the street gets his attention. This Mandalorian turns to see what is going on and realizing they are about to have an unknown amount of likely hostile company arriving any moment, Haht pulls one of his rifles off of his back.

An instant later the ramikad fires off his jetpack. No high sailing, just enough to pop up between vender's awnings and for his boots to drop down onto a roof top. Within the time it takes to suck in a breath? Hahtavi's dropped down out of sight to seek cover behind the low rim wall of his new firing position.

With, ideally, a good view of the streets below his position.

-- Kohnner --

The Klatooinian's attention is on scrolling through the Datapad, his brows knitted in confusion, face quickly turning to frustration as he fails to complete a likely easy task on the piece of tech. Maybe it was his sharp claws, or just a fat finger... More likely he was just impaired when it came to the finer parts of technology.

Ears perked up at the first rumbles of engines, not uncommon out here in on the sands to Tatooine. Then, however, there were shouts about 'Dune Riders' and people start to scatter, closing shops as quickly as possible. That look of frustration turns to disappointment and annoyance. A primal growl as his right hand clasps the hilt of the sword at his hip, ready to draw. The increasing scream of fast approaching swoops piercing his Canine ears. "I hate Tatooine..." He grumbles in a low growl expected of a beast like himself.

-- Jax Graystorm --

Jax feeling a tremble in the force, "We're not alone." He looks up to see Nora and Corto getting people out of the way. "I'll follow your lead." The Corellian says to his cousin. "Just don't get hurt, Nerys won't like it. I miss Corellia too." Then there's a sign from Jax, "This feels like Corellia, Nar Shaddaa, and half a dozen other places." As he moves into cover. Jax looks around spotting several familair faces. "This is not going to end well for these swoop bikers."

-- Nora Frayus --

Nora Frayus stares at Corto for a moment, and then towards one of the merchant stalls selling the pants, de-starcher, and blue-milk they came for. It's a really eclectic sort of shop, but conveniently so in this scenario. Nora wrinkles her nose and turns to look away from the man beside her to briefly run the back of her hand across the fabric of a nearby pair of pants. "Ew," she says flatly and pulls her fingertips away. It's around then that there is a certain distinct rabble beginning to lift up through the crowded street. Tell tale signs of a panic begin to brew, and Nora takes three steps back and away from the vendor to peer towards the source of this anxiety.

Streaks of sand through the dunes to the west, weaving and winding, serpentine, down the dunes and towards the far edge of Mos Eisley's bazaar. Her icy blue eyes narrow and she sets one hand on her right hip and the other hand on the grip of her sword. The wind catches her scarf just right enough to blow it from her peachy white and freckled face, braided pink hair left to drape over her right shoulder.

She turns to look up towards the seasoned Jedi beside her and squints in his direction, curious at his direction. For all the sass the little noble Lady gives him, she does, on occasion, look to him for guidance. When he begins to usher people to safety, she follows his lead. "This way, go on, hide," and a myriad of other generic 'get out of the way' lines are given with ruthlessly-thoughtful efficiency.

-- Corto --

Trouble. It was like a bad smell, gripping and lingering and never quite letting go no matter how far you went from the source. Or bathed, inasmuch as bathing in a waterfall instead of an appropriate sanisteam would do to get right in the awkward bits. Outdoorsmen always had that weird odour, trouble followed it, and ain't no connection to a mystical energy field was needed to spell that out.

"Let's get folk inside," the Feeorin dictated, and didn't hide the sin of pride in the walking sasshole he'd taken under his wing as she jumped into action. Of course, pretty pink hair lady vs seven-foot-five slab of blue meat, people were less than inclined to accept the Drifter's invitation over hers. "Y'all get inside, be safe, it'll be alright. Don't worry." Corto's platitudes were far kinder and less direct, uncanny for a Feeorin but typical for him.

With as many people sheltered as possible, perhaps, for the first time in a long time, Corto drew a gun. Not just any gun, from the holster on his right thigh came a scattergun that was pistol-sized in the Feeorin's dinner-plate hand, a sawn-down ACP model with a big barrel and a rounded lever-action. There was a satisfying double-click noise as the Orbak's Leg flipped around by the lever in the Drifter's hand, chambering a round for the distressing inevitability of action. "Best hope they're in a mood to talk..." he rumbledrawled, completely doubting every word he just said.

-- Merek --

Merek listens, noticing that people are riding up to the market. He takes the time to put on that helmet of his. Then he's drawing the pistol while he makes to whatever cover he can find. He's not intent to hide, instead he wants a position that will let him flank them with people, and for that he will need to do what he can to make civilians less of the target.

-- Khalim --

Migs quip draws Khalim's gaze, a glint behind dark brown matched by the quick grin that's fired off. "But you heard me, didn't you." Tovani's retreat from old man bazaar haggling (that sounds rather naughty, but really it's nothing of the sort) isn't given enough time for a proper response, for just as the mirialan's mouth opens with what would have been an incredibly witty response, those calls begin to be made. 'Dune Runners!' is shouted, over and over again.

Khalim's attention darts in the direction of those not-so-distant dunes, and sure enough plumes rising into the sky make it clear - in conjunction with the fear he hears in a dozen voices - that this is going to be a less than peaceful day.

As this imagery-driven inner conversation is going on, Tovi is wisely attempting to seek cover. Her recovered trip over that food stall heater is capped by the ring of a drawn sword and it's not but a moment later that Khalim's own pistol is in hand. There's a subtle whine-thrum, for just a moment, as its power-pack is swapped out. "I guess it's that time again." He looks to the sword-wielding wroonian. "Is it ever not that time? I feel like it should be, occasionally."

-- Terek Rosol --

The sounds of approaching speeders can be heard by Terek, about just at the same time that people start yelling. Terek turns his attention towards the sand cloud on the horizon that is rapidly approaching, and turns towards it. Lots of people scrambling for cover, others turning to face the danger. Then he spots Hadrix, who is frankly hard to miss.

Terek steps up behind him, <"You're just a magnet for this kind of drek, huh?"> He says jokingly, as he pulls his blaster out of the holster on his hip and sets his feet from his position just behind Hadrix. If he's learned one thing since joining Clan Kora it's to not be in FRONT of Hadrix.

-- Migs Mayfeld --

The Dune Runners are one of the many bands of swoop riders that have grown since the newest Hutt lord returned crime to the forefront of Tatooine life. This particular group liked to come in hard and fast, razing everything in their path, snatching what they can, and causing destruction to the rest. Today is standard procedure.

The group of swoop bikes roar down the way, merrily crashing through stalls, ripping down canvas canopies, and busting up a lovely produce stand that sends hubba gourds and imported barabel fruit flying into the air and splattering on the packed, sandy ground. The smell of grease and exhaust replaces that of grilled mushrooms and baked pastries as the gang rip their way through, hooting and hollering madly. Drivers stay on their bikes to terrorize the fleeing civilians while their partners leap off and start rushing to collect their prizes.

And a rail of indiscriminate blaster fire comes with it. Two fleeing denizens take errant shots and panic turns into pandemonium.

Migs peers from over the stall only to take one of those shots directly into his chest, throwing him back into a display of terracotta pots. "Sonuva Hutt's whore!" Coughing up a coppery taste in his mouth, Migs' hand disappears under his vest and quickly draws out an EC-17, pegging the Dune Runner driver who had hit him. "You kiddin' me with this?!"

-- Tovani Enno --

Green blur....more like a bodily obstruction between herself and the oncoming biking riding trouble. Those brilliant flashes of light not just collide with that same form, it causes him to stumble back and then against her before he slides off and towards the ground, Tovani somewhat dumbfounded at first. Shock registers finally in those precious seconds that follow as her eyes watch smoke rise from his jacket when he hits the ground.

"Khalim!"

The Wroonian lowers towards him but stops, pausing as the bikes rush past them. Her eyes lift to Jax as he is nearby. "Watch him...I need a moment."

She steps out and around his form, the sword held as she stalks out into the direct line of danger. She grits her teeth, the sand a minor background discomfort and then quickly fades to nothing as she closes the distance to the bike that is before her and with a rush at them she jumps, landing a boot on the side of the front of the bike, a blade sweeping to miss but the second on the back swing catches the driver, blood drawn as she lands and rolls before gettinb ack to her feet.

Dust be damned.

-- Kael Greystorm --

Kael takes a deep breath in and releases before he looks over at Jax, "I promise I'll try to minimize collateral damage..." He draws his pistols as he comes out from his hiding spot the LL-30 barking off a pair of shots one going wide but the second impacting the driver of one of the swoops before the loud report of the Sentinel IV the heavy blaster bolt impacting the driver with some extreme prejudice.

-- Hahtavi Kora --

When the drivers come rushing in, the Mandalorian up on a roof top pop up. Just enough for Hahtavi to see over the low wall around the roof's rim that is providing him cover from return fire. The angle isn't as ideal as he'd like but Haht fires away~

The first red bolt just barely hits a driver but they are moving too fast. The second shot misses.

The Kora has to shift position along the roof, trying to watch for a better opportunity for taking more shots.

-- Kohnner --

Kohnner literally just walked into the market. He talked to no one, he did nothing, he didn't even BUY anything and now... NOW, someone, specifically the Dune Runner Raiders , were bringing blasters to a sword fight.

It was likely obvious that the Klatooinian didn't have a single ranged weapon on him. A variety of blades including a rather large Vibro-Ax across his back, but not a single blaster or slug thrower. As soon as the first bolt intended for him zipped past him and slammed into a person or object behind him (Kohn didn't care what it hit), the Canine was in motion. He drew his sword with trained swiftness as he rushed with animalistic fervor towards the closest raider. In that first strike, his blade rang as it cut through air, finally meeting leather and then buried its self deep into the fleshy muscle of the Raider. The ripping sound of severed skin and bone could be heard. There was indifference from the Canine. Blood spurted out from his enemy a few quick moments after the upper sweeping attack was complete. Just enough time to trigger a bit of fight of flight... Flight in this case as the horizontal strike was dodged by the ruffian on the back pedal, the pain not yet clicking in his brain. Kohn doubled down and pressed the attack, snarling as he brought his sword down in an over head attack and connected, slicing clear and deep into the shoulder. He stalked his wounded prey... as if he were after a meal.

-- Jax Graystorm --

Jax catches sight of Khalim taking a pair of blaster bolts. "You got this Kael?" Then he looks at his cousin well go Greystorm on raiders. "You got this. Oh... Yeah don't kill any civillians. Leave some raiders for the Mando or they'll be cranky." Then Jax leaps over the crates he was hiding behind. His hands raised in the air as he goes running half stooped down blaster fire flying over his head. He kinda looks like a goose.

Then confronted by Tovani as Jax fire man carries Khalim over his shoulder, "He'll be in cover." Then moves to carry the unarmored Khalim to cover, "Captain, You alright there. I'm going to get you in this food stall. She always that grumpy? And if you're tanking shots might want to get you some armor. Tatooine is not safe." Jax where is your armor?

-- Nora Frayus --

The panic in the streets has reached a fever pitch as blaster shots have begun to ring out through the narrow corridor. The sound of speeders ripping through stands and scattering gourds and melons blends with screams of fear and the smell of smoke. Nora finishes ushering a young husband and wife behind cover and is moving to get a jawa to safety when she sees one of those errant shots strike the woman in the back and knock her onto her belly. Nora's eyes widen for a moment. Nostrils flare. Pupils dilate. And then she moves.

Her movements are fast and agile, with one hand on the grip of her sword to stay its swaying as she vaults over broken stands and moderately-refrigerated blue milk. Tiny shifts in her step see her pass effortlessly around fleeing civilians, and agile twirls preserve her momentum of those she can't quite dodge around. Her feet carry her close to Kohnner, whose keen swordsmanship has done the bulk of the work on the Raider currently fleeing from him. Nora just gives him that last little push. She draws her blade and strikes in one motion, drawing it down across the outside of his jugular. A fatal wound. "Well struck," she says to Kohnner with a chilly smile. Her next steps draw her near a fallen driver, crawling on his hands and knees towards his speeder. Her blade plunges down into the root of his neck. She turns the blade and continues to walk, dragging him a half an inch before that sword pulls itself from his spine.

She continues to move towards another driver that fires at her as they pass. Step, two three. Both shots splash against the wall beside her and the driver fill find themselves on the receiving end of the flat side of her rapier, right across the jaw. Crack.

"Get up," Nora barks.

-- Hadrix Kora --

<"Can't take me anywhere, Vod."> head shaking and chuckling when he dips to one side, turning at the waist to lean under one shot and then mirroring the action while his free hand is out to push Terek with him <"This is why I got my own laundry machines - public services always turned into a blood bath and everyone's delicates got scorched.">

The scream of engines nearing and blaster fire coming keeping him on the balls of his feet as they get closer, begin tearing up the market - right into the teeth of return fire and swinging blades. Unable to catch them on the go, when the runners set to their rampage he looks, momentarily over his shoulder, <"Feel free to keep using me as defilade, eh?"> red glow in his visor blinking. Looking back to the raiders his left hand tracks - emitting a popping sound that sends a line that twists around and around one of the scumbags, grapnel swinging to twist on the line then pull tight before Mandalorian and mechanized winch pull. The combined strength and motion throwing the poor sot forward onto their face as they're being reeled in.

Leaning and turning his leg one of the tubes mounted aside the poleyn of his boot snicks out, smoke trailing behind the rocket dart that spirals out into the stomach of another, kicking them over onto their back before it detonates. <"Fark I hate Tatooine.">

-- Corto --

All hell broke loose, as it was prone to do on The Sands of Tatween. Shots flew, people got hit, and Corto hesitated. Why? He had a gun the size of his forearm in his hands and the means and motive to use it.

But that wasn't the Way.

Shooting folk never quite sat right with the Drifter, unless he really had to, and right now he could find bigger priorities. The bald feller and the youthful looking chap had taken a couple hits, and preventing lives lost always took preference over taking them. The non-bald one got preference simply by virtue of being closer.

"Awright, c'mon young feller, let's get you outta the line of fire," the Feeorin rumbledrawled, in that weird calming completely anti-Feeorin tone of his. With exactly zero exertion, he scooped up the man into his arms and started hiking towards the nearest combat, as though he were cradling a toddler. Though maybe with less screaming.

-- Merek --

Merek takes position while one of the blaster bolts strikes the man in that left leg. Blue liquid comes from there and splatters along while he takes the time to fire off three shots. Even through what he is dealing with he manages to make two of them, taking a raider while he begins to adjust position. Then he's scooped up by Corto and he blinks a bit, "Alright, well thank you," he offers with that husky tone of his. "I'll point," he will offer.

-- Khalim --

Khalim's exposed, pistol held forth and tracking but there's little between him and the wild of this moment. Unlike Tovani, sword slashing and clad in plasteel plate like some high-tech hedge knight, the mirialan's protection is limited to nerfleather and synthfiber. Which, come to find out, is no protection at all when it comes to tibana-assisted charged particle bolts.

Just a dozen meters away a swoop careens into the rickety form of a mobile stall. It settles, but the Dune Runner occupying a small passenger cupola aims an antiquated Republic-era sporting pistol. There's a moment of realization, Khalim's mind shocked into the reality of this split second, that something bad is about to happen. He tenses, and sees the bolt spark from its barrel.

There's a STATIC BARK followed almost instantaneously by a body twisting impact. A hole has been scored in Khalim's jacket, and he looks down even as he is stepping... no, falling backwards. Into Tovani. She momentarily halts what would have been a real fall, but it only gives that gunner a target of renewed stability. The mirialan does not see the second round, which takes a heavy bite out of his right leg.

Khalim meets the ground, in a most unfriendly way but he doesn't stay there as he's quickly lofted over a shoulder and firebeing-carried into the relative security of a food stall. Jax's quip draws a pain-halted chuckle. A good sign, right? "Th-" his word dies as a bit of air is swallowed. "Thanks," he manages, and it's followed by a nod. A very pained nod. "She's that grumpy when..." WINCE. Shallow breath. "I give her reason to be."

-- Terek Rosol --

Hadrix manages to pull Terek with him to safety, as the cathar Mandalorian finds himself down on a knee, but safe from any incoming blaster fire, <"I see you're putting that new cable to good use."> Terek says back to Hadrix, before he shifts his weapon over to one side, lines up a shot and fires, hitting one of the already injured drivers dead in the chest.

He turns to fire at the other one that was wounded, and pulls the shot just slightly, hitting the front of the speeder bike in a non-critical area, <"Damn!"> He quickly moves for non-Hadrix based cover before a second volley of incoming blaster fire can hit him, <"Tattooine has it's charms, vod. Just not right now.">

-- Migs Mayfeld --

It started as a typical raid; same as the rest. What the Dune Runners didn't anticipate was the crowd fighting back this time. What's left of the today's group of malcontents rally surprisingly well, shaking off their shock and now firing more directly at those hostile targets who have made Mos Eisley their personal problem.

The streets have nearly cleaned out by now, aside from the bodies of those who fell in the first initial rounds. Some denizens are injured but will survive. Two aren't moving at all and there are significantly less Dune Runners than when had started.

But that doesn't stop Migs. Now he's made it to his feet, older face tense with pain and rage. Right arm extended fully, he takes only a blink to set up his shot. Two blasts later and a driver is erased from the top of his still-hovering steed. A Raider, seeing his buddy wasted on the sand, runs up from the other side; charging Migs but staggers back in a moment of surprise when a third shot follows the first two without a breath in between and sears into his shoulder. "I ain't gettin' paid for this!"

-- Tovani Enno --

Grumpy. Tovani is not grumpy but justifiably miffed by the actions of one Khalim Nim. Actions that will most definitely require discussion at length when the time comes. Sooner rather than later.

The blue skinned female watches as the runners, as they are named, are cut down, shot down...dropped one by one and still manage to hold their gumption. Blood already paints the edge of her blade as Tovani stalks forward towards her next target and already injured figure that now has her full attention.

Quick steps bring her forward and she slides, dropping to the ground to kick up dust before coming to her feet last minute to avoid any shots that may have been for her head. Up she comes and she swings, the first causing her target to stumble back before her second strike cleaves into his chest. He falls, not quite dead but near enough as she glances to Kohnner.

A nod is given to him.

-- Kael Greystorm --

Kael's still slowly moving forward towards the Dune not so runners now as his blasters continue to bark sending bolts of red energy towards one of the drivers, "There's no escape pups." He looks around at the others who have started to fight back against the raiders, "Your best bet might be surrender. If it's not too late for you."

-- Hahtavi Kora --

The number of swoop bike drivers and raiders has dropped off rapidly. Somehow they ralley to come back around for another round. Not too bright are they? Getting mowed down but not retreating.

Hahtavi has found another firing position. He aims but holds his shots until his line of sight is as good as he can hope for. Two rapid shots in quick suucession.

This time the first misses but the second takes the driver out, crashing the swoop. There's a quick but careful look to see how others down there are faring in the ebbing attack. There were even a few familiar faces he thought he'd caught glimpses of - Hadrix for one is hard to miss.

Watching his Al'verde, Hahtavi suddenly has the urge to laugh! Time to hop down from the roof.

-- Kohnner --

Blue eyes a bit more carved with coldness than Nora's own, Kohnner looks up from the now dead prey, unable to toy with it any longer. There is no anger, only distance as he makes eye contact with the pink haired human. There is a bit of recognition, perhaps at the robes, it softening his eyes some as if he might have remembered something important and touching. However, that fragility dissipates only a moment later.

He doesn't say much, if a simple grunt and a nod before turning away to find his next victim could be considered conversation than his social skills were clearly on par with that of any diplomat. He flicks his blade, the blood flying from the extremely sharp edge.%r%tThe buzzing from the remaining Drivers doesn't bother him, inf act it becomes background noise as he hones in on his next target. The thing about being a big 'ugly' alien is that people can see you coming. It didn't help that his training and style didn't incorporate any type of stealth training. Cover, what was that. A Canine used as a Dog of War for the Hutts only knew one thing. Kill and make sure it's dead.

Closing in, he swings his blade with the grace of a woodsmen as if he was using the Ax still attached to his back. The Raider saw him coming and dodged, perhaps striking back at him. Another swing and a miss, but the trained warrior used the opportunity to jab his sword violently towards his target, impaling him deeply. It brought him closer to his prey, which he made eye contact with. He growled barring his teeth, as if searching for the meaning of life and death in his soul.

-- Jax Graystorm --

"I've got a feeling she's always grumpy. I know my wife is. Stay down." Jax pivots on the spot. His eyes surveying the scene as his right hand falls to the the modified series III he has holstered. Then in a fluid motion he pulls the blaster quicker than lighting and fires off a blaster striking the remaining Driver in the chest. Then moving forward to flank Nora, "Nora, I'm on your left." Then raising the blaster in a measured aim and squeezes off another shot finishing off the swoop pilot. " You and Corto alright?" He then glances over to Kael and see Kael being Kael.

-- Nora Frayus --

"I said get u--", Nora had begun to say, just as blaster fire crashed into the woman she was engaged with. The Little Lady's eyes narrow for a moment and she sighs dramatically, turning to stalk towards the few remaining Dune Riders that still stand on two feet. Kohnner is locked in a melee with another, but Nora knows better than to snatch death from another more than once. Especially now that the tides of the battle have begun to ebb. She draws her blade rougly across the face of another combatant, impacting his jaw with a loud, deafening -crack- that likely leaves his ears ringing and what parts of his brain are still able of cognition questioning... basically every choice he'd ever made.

Should've gone to vet school.

The hit leaves him reeling, knocking him onto his hands, with knees not quite touching the ground. "I'm alright, Mr. Greystorm," Nora says to Jax, and nods in Corto's direction, who is heading to carry Merek to safety. "I believe our friends here were taking their leave," she says. Runners. Nora knows one when she sees one. The first has already begun to flee when Nora tucks her blade away, and the second has begun to scramble up from the position to which he'd knocked him and onto his feet.

Nora is making her way back towards the broken stalls when she sees an eruption of flame from Hadrix's gauntlet. It's close enough that she can feel it on her face, with the heat lifting up bits of that pink braid that had fallen out from their ties. She turns to look back over her shoulder at the scorched, crawling soon-to-be corpse with what might actually be pity in her gaze. And, of course, the shambling form of Corto moving up and towards them, weapon drawn.

She takes a few steps towards him now in a hurried pace, her hand moving to her hip to draw that blade once more. "Corto, let m--."

--CRACK--

Too late. The smell of blood and smoke. She doesn't turn to look down at the one he'd put down. Instead, her eyes are up on Corto now. She doesn't say anything, just gently presses her free hand to his shoulder before tucking her sword back into its sheath.

-- Hadrix Kora --

<"I know the feeling!"> shouted back to the raging voice coming from the older balding man, Hadrix continues forward when the compacted 360 view feed at the top of his HUD shows Terek moving away from him - his own path angling to put his beskar between himself and the raiders. <"Better than that sack of osik jerry rig one I had, eh?"> laughing in answer to the cathar's comment.

The first shot he interdicts striking the cuisse of his right leg a split second before another is reflected off of his cuirass, redirected into the dirt street, sending up smoke and glassed sand while he plods ever towards the enemy. Right arm throwing out to one side, engaging a primer that sends a feed of accelerant to pressurize in the coiled workings of hi right vambrace and a pilot light snaps on when the third shot takes him dead center of mass, bursting against the mandalorian iron over his heart and sternum.

Taking off after the fleeing figures, like watching some space damned monolith take off sprinting as if affronted that someone would tuck tail and run. Legs pumping with his right arm cocked, picking up frightening speed, like a runaway cargo hauler before he stretches out at long last. A gout of flaming gel bursting from the nozzle beneath his fist and enveloping the poor sot who goes to the ground, flailing and screaming under the blaze with the Massive Mandalorian comes to an eventual halt - watching the runner as though considering giving chase.

-- Corto --

"You're alright, boah," the Drifter said to the young man he might learn was named Merek as he placed him down behind cover. There was a meatfist pat on the shoulder, and Corto stuck his head back up to get the lay of the land.

Everything was on fire.

Okay, well, it could have been worse, a lot more civilians could be dead. But at least there was very little shooting. That's a plus. But even in the calm after the storm there were things that need addressing. Like the suit of armour standing over the screaming, burning swoop ganger.

Some things were just plain unsporting.

There was a deafening BOOM from the lever-action longarm/sidearm in Corto's hand, loosing a slug shell straight into the brainpan of the swooper in agony. It was a mercy, not even a cruel one, but definitely a painful one. Without cycling the weapon, Corto dropped the sawn-off back in his holster as he trudged over to the now-dead human bonfire. Then, he looked at the Mandalorian who'd done the deed. "Ain't right, kid. Give 'em a clean death if you really gotta, any more is just cruel." Then he turned his normally-ineffable to Nora, and what lived in his eyes was a frustrated sort of pain. "Ain't right. But sometimes you gotta."

-- Merek --

Merek looks along and nods to Corto, while he tries to stand up in a moment when they have to deal with something else. He sighs a little bit, while he takes a look about the place, "Ya."

-- Khalim --

Khalim remains tucked inside that gourd stall, bits of disintegrated vegetable marring the walls and splattered upon the ground. 'Stay down', Jax had said, and it was good advice! But there's a burnin' yearnin' need on the mirialan's part to /do something/.

That thing is apparently a fish-flop to the side, a loud grunt escaping at the impact of his wounded flank upon the ground. One dune runner is left within view, and he runs... runs fast, and maybe far, if only he can get there! "Kriffing jacket," Khalim murmurs around a cough. That modified Westar, oversized and yet still managing some manner of martial elegance, wavers as it's held aloft.

This was unsporting, in truth, but the man was brain-fuzzed, and a hole had been punched through the snazziest piece of adventurewear he owned. A price was demanded. That grip steadies, the barrel drifting into something approximating a proper sight picture. Aaaaaaand...

A quick pair of trigger-pulls discharge bright gold, the screech of charged particles lancing forth only matched by the screech of an injured thug as half his rump is blasted away. And then silence as the other half meets the same fate, and a completely assless man falls to the ground.

-- Terek Rosol --

Once it seems all of the hostiles have been brought down, Terek does a quick scan of the area to see who's been hurt. Hearing Khalim complaining about his jacket, Terek moves over towards him, "Hey hang on." He pulls a medpack out of his satchel on his side, and then immediately procedes to drop it as he brings it around, the pack flying out of his hand and smacking Khalim right on the very spot where he'd been shot, <"Oh damnit!">

He scrambles to pick up the pack, hoping he didn't just end up killing this guy while trying to help him out. Clearly he needs to work on familiarizing himself with the medpack so he doesn't butterfingers it when he gets it out.

-- Migs Mayfeld --

An eerie quiet falls over the bazaar. The kind that comes when death is in the air. What had been a hum of life and daily errands is now akin to a small battlefield. A small window into the crime and depravity that has returned to Tatooine with the rise of crime and the Hutt Lord endorsing it. Booths are destroyed. Inventory lost. Lives taken. There is blood in the sand, the smell unmistakable. But Tatooine people are tough. They will pick up the pieces in time.

A triage begins to form as those who fled start to return to assess the damage. Migs slips his pistol back under his vest and drags himself from around the ruined stall that had been potential cover. Hand grasping the burning wound in his chest, his haunted blue eyes scan those in the immediate area, sweat beading down his face and lost into his crimson, stubby beard.

"Ah, rekk me." He leans up against the adobe structure again with a grunt. "Too old for this." Not a single face here is familiar to him, though he does look at the pair of Mandalorians a bit longer than the others. "Why is it every time your kind comes around, my life turns to drek, eh?"

Might be a rhetorical question; the answer to which he figured out years ago. For now, he is going to sit and wait his turn in the triage, trying his best to find some shade in what little is left of the canopy.

-- Kohnner --

Kohnner takes a moment to relish the in the quiet. Not a wound on him, unknowingly thanks to the Pink haired one assisting him. A deep breath though his large flat nose before his free hand fishes for something inside his armor. He pulls out a kerchief or cloth which he starts to clean the blood from his blade with. Right there, in the middle of the Bazaar without so much as a care as to who saw.

Eventually he sheathed his blade in a very disciplined and traditional fashion, blue eyes surveying the aftermath with a hand resting idle on the grip of his weapon. There is an indecipherable grumble before the Klatooinine starts back towards main street.

-- Nora Frayus --

"I know," Nora says and, if Corto is listening for it, there's sympathy in her voice. She is not a small woman, but beside him, she's rather diminutive. One of her hands rests on her hip while the other still grasps the grip of her sword on that same side. It is not an offensive posture, nor a defensive one. Rather, it is neutral. "I would have. It is... easier," she says, and then steps up and towards the stall that the two had been standing at earlier. Quizzically, the young woman begins to tidy the place as best she can. Bits of wood and broken glass jugs of blue milk litter the place, but the things she can place back into order, she tries to. A stand with too-starchy pants is re-righted. Jugs are placed back into their shelving. She can't quite return order to chaos, but she can try.

-- Tovani Enno --

Untouched. Unscathed. Undeterred. Tovani stands with Kohnner and a few others in plain sight at the center of the thoroughfaire now fully destroyed by the recent chaos. Finding herself without reason to be seen to - which is all fine and dandy she turns her attention towards Khalim. The Wroonian begins to cross the distance.

What is a quick stride becomes a jog as she draws closer, her breath doing its best to catch up after the expenditure of adrenaline like fire through her veins. Her footfalls kick up dust when she comes to that final halt beside the man she entrusted to Jax

She arrives JUST in time to see the treatement of Khalim's wound and winces. The tension is clear as she gazes down upon the Mirialan, her expression an open storm of emotion. Finally a sharp breath is drawn through her nsoe and her attention is quickly snapped to Jax. "Thank you," the sincerity is genuine as she reaches out to touch his arm.

"Can he be moved to our ship? The Blur is not far away but if there is a local physician it may be better not to risk it."

She lowers slowly next to him, looking over Terek's work but not giving criticism in the moment - that may come later. "What were you thinking?" Its not the real talking to but its the warm-up. It comes with a healthy dose of concern digging furrows into her forehead.

-- Hahtavi Kora --

As soon as the fighting has wound down, Hahtavi hops down from the roof. A tiny burst from his jetpack helps make his landing a bit softer, boots striking the hard packed ground. The rifle gets slung over an armored shoulder and mag locked up against his jetpack. There are a number of wounded and while Terek attempts to treat Khalim, Haht pulls out his own medpack.

<"Who needs a med-ic?"> A woman who's down, shot in the back, is checked first. But alas, there is nothing he can do for her. She is left lying in the dust for now. Ditto with the burned man Corto ended the suffering of. It is then this Mandalorian sees Migs himself has been shot in the chest.

Going down on one knee, Hahtavi asks him, <"I'll see if I can stop the bleed-ing, if you allow."> When an indication is given, this Kora sets to work with practiced efficiency to peel back damaged attire and clean the wound. A hypo of anti-biotics and pain meds, then bacta pad to be sealed into place.

Help the wounded and see to the dead.

-- Hadrix Kora --

<"See if the locals give him a clean kill. I don't care."> helmed head turning to look up at the face of the Feeorin, canting to the side while his left hand points to the raider wrapped up in whip-cord and struggling in the dirt. Migs gains the big man's attention next and Hadrix's helmed head tilts to one side at the comment about 'every time your kind' comes up.

There's no answer, just another turn of his head towards Terek and Hahtavi, <"Vods"> before he steps back, fixing a fresh cord cartridge into his vambrace and Khalim is, at last, noted with:

<"We have to stop meeting like this, Khalim."> and then the droid that has been with him is socketing into his armor and they are lifting up on jets burning blue from the nozzles of his jetpack, off and away to do whatever it is that Al'Verde Kora does on fine, Mos Eisley days like this.

-- Jax Graystorm --

ax looks away as other jedi discuss mercy killings. The Corellian sheathing his blaster and looks up to see Tovani touch his arm, "No problem. I hope he's alright." He gives her an honest smile. Then Jax looks to Kael and shrugs, "Yeah I miss Corellia."

-- Khalim --

As the excitement dies out, Khalim finds himself under Terek's care. Terek's rough, battlefield care. Dropping that scanner, that had been in the regs, right? Back in the day? No? "I'm not the enemy, Doc," he manages to get out, though the upcurl to the grimace-smile he shares betrays the appreciation flowing beneath.

It's Tovani's arrival though thats truly quiets the man. She asks her question and for once, truly for once, the mirialan has no reply. A pear-hued hand does shift to take her own teal opposite, though. A gesture? Apology?

Jax, standing just beyond Tovani, receives a nod and a grimace-infused, "Armor next time. Point taken."