Sand People Enclave

Nodding his understanding Zed remained silent as he readied himself for sleep. Laying down on his own bedding he began doing several breathing techniques he had learned to help him fall asleep.

When he heard his name Zed snapped back to reality and saw that Nartaga was preparing to leave. Once Patashu stood beside them Zed stood to his full height gaining a few glances from the Uli-ah who had not noticed him sitting there. I am ready.

Having sensed the turmoil inside Nartaga, Zed had waited until the Tusken regained his bearings. It is never easy to learn that a person you respected is not what you thought they were and harder still to lie to their face and pretend everything is the same. Patting the man on the shoulder he shook his head. It should be okay. Unless we leave this world I doubt we will find a better way to focus the blade. He sucked in a breath of air through his teeth as he thought about it a little bit. The only risk is the battery. The one I have might last for a few minutes we might be able to find the right one at Mos Eisley or Mos Espa.

Looking around to see if there were any other Sand People nearby he pulled out the holoprojector and looked at which of the cities wouldn't take them too far off their path. I guess we could try Mos Espa. Putting the machine back into his pocket just before a half dozen Tuskens rounded the corner he signed to Nartaga.

Having followed Nartaga around he paid little attention to what he was getting and trading for. Perhaps he would have if there was stuff for him to trade but aside from the clothes on his back, and the lightsaber he had nothing here. Instead he looked out at the ever increasing crowds of people. Keeping his mind focused so that he did not waver he watched them. Several made signs or noises of disgust at them. Whether because word of his own heritage or Nartagas he was not sure. Still most went kept their distance and went about their routine. Those that didn't did not approach them.

No Nartaga. I will stay with you. Zed spoke this time in the Tusken language. It still hurt his throat but he wanted to show his commitment to Nartaga that he would see this through to the end. If the Deadlands are as bad as you make them to be no one should be alone in them.

In the sky above the dunes, the CR90 corvette 'Wraith's Wale' flew over the hot sands of Tatooine, engines loud and heard for kilometers as it traveled. At the helm, a young Shiv Kataal piloted the vessel that had recently undergone repairs, occasionally peering down at the radar display to see if anything of interest appeared. There was a large map on one of the adjoining screens, showing the position of Demona Vilebride and her team aboard the jawa sand crawler they had commandeered. The youthful umbaran's pale eyes noticed the occasional bantha or traveling rank of tusken raiders on the camera feed, heading in two different directions. Most of the travel was one way, which was where he decided to pilot the ship towards, counting that the savage desert heathens would at least know the way they were going, assuming the sun hadn't addled their brains and turned them into sand. Eventually he could make out a landmark in the distance, two large cliffs leading into a canyon. He pulled back on the control yoke in his hands and engaged the thrusters, pushing the corvette's engines as he throttled towards the interesting land formation. The ship surged forwards and it was all he could do to keep his eye on the camera feed from one of the visual sensors on the bow, noting something not entirely natural. That was a large stone wall that appeared artificially constructed, extending from one side of the canyon to the next, forming a sturdy looking fortification. As the corvette zoomed over the wall, the camera captured images inside, noting many small bipedal figures and numerous large creatures that had to be banthas. He grinned and let out a whistle.

He had found it, or at least he had found something that fit the description of what the Captain was looking for. This was more than a simple small settlement, however, but a large gathering of the desert savages. Maybe more than Demona could handle, though he'd leave that decision up to her.

Reaching over he jammed a finger into the comm-controls, opening a channel between the Wraith and the sand crawler trailing some distance behind. Static crackled and at first he wasn't sure if the crawler's communications equipment was even working, but then he heard the familiar merciless tone of the boss.

What is it, kid?"

Though pale of skin, he turned a shade darker for all the embarrassment he received over being called kid. He knew he was the youngest member of the horde; he didn't need to be constantly reminded of it. Ignoring the snickers coming from the rest of the crew on the bridge, he leaned forwards and spoke into the comm-station's microphone.

"I think I've found something, Captain. There appears to be a large settlement of the tribals due west of your position. Based on the scans I'm estimating two score, possibly more. There are a few structures within obscuring our view so its impossible to say for certain." He paused, then stated what was on his mind. "Do you, uh, want us to look for another target? Maybe something smaller?"

It was quiet on the bridge as everyone waited for the captain's reply. There would be no shame moving on to a smaller target. Even though they were technologically inept, the tuskens had the numbers and from what they had heard they were probably armed well enough to make them dangerous. Then again, the more that there were, the greater the profits when they sold them as slaves. A score like this would be enough to put them in the black for the better part of a year, unless they drank up all their credits, which they probably would. Finally the static was broken as Demona replied, her voice unwavering and certain.

No, that sounds perfect. We're on our way. Keep circling the area until we arrive. Once we're there you'll provide air support. We'll need a bit of shock and awe if we are going to have any chance at this.

"Understood, Captain."

Releasing the microphone, Shiv took the controls in hand and turned the yoke, causing the corvette to take a long wide bank around the settlement they had found. He eased back on the thrusters, cooling the engines and allowing the locals on the ground to get a better look at the danger stalking them from the air. He watched the radar screen, focusing on the blip that was the sand crawler, slowly moving closer.

---

Inside the stolen jawa sand crawler, which Demona and the dozen umbarans aboard were now calling the 'Slave Wagon', the captain took a drag from a narrow glass pipe, inhaling noxious spice fumes as she stared out the narrow slit serving as a window. The narcotic mix used in the pipe was the same that her people had pumped into their battle suits during the clone wars, fueling their bodies with chemical stimulants that increased aggression and banished away fear. As she smoked the toxic substance, she felt invincible, laughing aloud as she thought of the chaos that was in store for them. The rest of the crew lounged about inside, some performing equipment checks while others played with knives or engaged in games of chance. Everyone except Demona was slightly on edge, the narcotics having erased any doubt she might have otherwise had. All the while the mobile fortress lumbered closer and closer to the enclave. Within an hour it would come into visual range.

All they had to do was wait.

Thirteen sleek black Bantha-II cargo skiffs zipped over the wastes on their way from the hovering black pyramid that had taken up position in the Dune Sea, trailing dust clouds of kicked up sand as their repulsor engines whined, carrying the sinister force atop their backs to the recently defeated Sand People Enclave. The skiffs pilots, filthy smock wearing umbaran monks of the Hunger Cults, decreased the transports speed as they entered the last leg of the journey. By the time they reached the toppled gates, the floating vehicles rolled to a stop, hovering only two feet off the sand as they rested on cushions of air. Primitively clad Gamorreans disembarked from the sides of the skiffs, carrying brutal looking axes held in ham sized hands attached to bulging muscular arms, which themselves were marked by mutation and tribal artwork. These boars were from cannibal Clan Morlock that made its home in the darkside infested forests of the Deep Woods region on blessed Pzob. The corruption woven into the land had effectively transformed the simple tribe of Gamorreans into swollen sithspawn, replete with all manner of boney protrusion that split their forest green flesh in places. They wore tribal charms, necklaces of severed ears threaded through gut strings or sinew, and were generally studded with all manner of rings and bone piercings.

Ghazghkull, war chieftain of Clan Morlock, led the party of porcine primitives. He towered over the other mutant boars, standing at least a head taller than the next largest, his monstrous physical stature the product of the Dark Apothecary's alchemical augmentation. The ground practically shook with every footstep the swollen savage boar took as he marched up to the leader of the Rishilings, Ghamûl, who was lounging in a quaint throne the tuskens had clearly crafted using the limited resources of the desert. The altered galandan rose as Ghazghkull approached, presenting a menacing figure himself, though lacking anywhere near the Gamorrean's sheer bulk.

"Ghazghkull, I presume?" Inquired the rival chieftain in layered dark silks and bronze scale-mail, his own changed features hidden behind his face shroud, so that only his black passionless eyes were visible through holes in the veil. A moment of silence passed between them, broken only when the larger of the two chieftains snorted and tucked thick sausage link fingers into a belt holding up a girthy belly. Enhanced by secret shamanistic practices though he might be, Ghazghkull was still a Gamorrean, thus incapable of conversing in basic without augmentation to his vocal cords. However, with his already naturally cunning mind bolstered beyond the norm by sorcery, he was able to understand the languages of the weaker races. Recognizing this, Ghamûl didn't beat around the bush. "I won't waste your time. The bodies you're looking for are piled in the caves behind us to stave off the rot as long as possible, which in this heat doesn't take long. Not just the men, but the women too, after my soldiers had their fun with them." There was no concealing the trace of amusement in his tone. Most of the women has fought as hard as the men and had to be put down before his Rishilings could enjoy themselves, but not all. Some had submitted due to fear, were used and defiled just as you might expect, then killed anyway once his warriors had their fill of fun.

With a second snort, the Gamorrean chief ordered his boars to work. They marched past him into the shade created by the high cliffs that line either side of the Enclave, disappearing into the dim tunnels to start their grizzly preparations. Shortly after the sounds of thwacking meat cleavers and axe heads echoed throughout the conquered settlement as the tribe-pigs hacked the bodies of the defeated tusken raiders into a gory chum. As the dead were harvested for their offal and meat, another porcine figure appeared at Ghazghkull's side, albeit one much slimmer and far older. She appeared to be a matriarch of the tribe, an old sow crone whose sagging flesh hung loosely from thin bones, while her posture was hunched and only held upright by the vice like grip she maintained on a gnarled length of Pzobian oak. Bird skulls rattled against the head of her staff, which was festooned with primitive fetishes, hanging from the knotted top with strips of animal hide. Her name was Sneetruk, a hedge witch of the woods, who served as one of many shamans to Clan Morlock. The ancient sow squealed and grunted something in indecipherable Gamorrese to Ghazghkull, who nodded, stroking his jowls thoughtfully for a moment before oinking in acknowledgment. Beady red eyes possessing a cold intelligence studied Ghamûl for a moment, then squealed a question the Rishiling commander would have had no chance of understanding if it had not come accompanied by a hand gesture, as the Gamorrean held his palm flat closer to the ground, indicating he was referring to something small. Comprehension flickered across Ghamûl's piercing gaze.

"The savages younglings? Ah yes, we have them penned up over there." Raising his right arm, the warrior indicated a bantha bone enclosure on the far side of the Enclave where a few of his men were standing round as guards. Even at that distance, the tiny forms of imprisoned tusken children could be seen, huddled together in small groups. "I still do not see their value, but spare them I have, as instructed. They are yours to take."

Nodding his horned crown, the war chief of Clan Morlock grunted something to Sneetruk, who hobbled her way over to the prison pens the moment he had finished. Their transaction completed, the two respective war chieftains shared once last disdainful glare, then the meeting was concluded. Ghazghkull let out an eye watering expulsion of flatulence and marched past the Rishiling leader. He entered the tusken cave system and began to assist his war boars in butchering up the bodies left behind, collecting every scrap of meat into large Sith iron cauldrons, that were carried back to the skiffs and loaded into the front just behind the plow shaped prow of each repulsor craft. It was dirty work, but necessary for the Great Devourer's plan. With the slaughtered Sand Person meat they could begin chumming the Dune Sea to bait their trap. Anti-coagulants were added to the pestilent pots to stop the blood and offal from gumming up too much, while the putrid mix sloshed out over the lip and sides of each cauldron as they were stowed aboard the skiffs. The Gamorreans worked quickly and within an hour the collective dead of the settlement had been mulched and transformed into putrescent chum. Moisture hungry flies swarmed around the skiffs, drawn to the fresh carrion spoiling beneath the twin suns overhead, though their presence didn't seem to entertain the boars notice who were used to the swarms of blood sucking gnats that pestered Porkswine Village on Pzob.

When the transports were loaded with bait, the massive slab of mutant Gamorrean spoke briefly with Sneetruk, who had taken charge of the Tusken young from the Rishilings that had imprisoned them. He left her a few warriors, then big her adieu, returning to the lead skiff to oversee the chumming of the Dune Sea personally. As he boarded, the skiff sank several inches, struggling to carry the weight of the war chief in addition to its grizzly cargo. Raising his axe high, he swept the ruinous double bladed weapon forwards, giving the order to move out. All thirteen skiffs streaked into the sandy wastes, dripping crimson drops from sloshing cauldrons of tusken blood every step of the way, leaving the swarms of insectile pests in their wake.