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SWRPF Archive On the Wrong End of the Crosshairs

Discussion in 'Star Wars Role Playing Archive' started by Monsteryort, Sep 17, 2005.

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  1. Monsteryort Jedi Padawan

    Member Since:
    Sep 17, 2005
    Kerrjon Nebula
    the end of the line...


    All I could think about was how tired I was. The edgy, jittery adrenalin high that had been buzzing through my consciousness for what seemed like forever was only now starting to bleed away. Weariness hit my brain first, and left my thoughts slow and plodding, like they now had to swim through the water that before they could just coast across in a repulsor car. the weariness dripped down to my slumping shoulders, and slid all they down my arms to where they were joined behind me by a far too heavy pair of durasteel binding cuffs. Finally it seemed to pool under my bent knees, where it would lay fetid, sapping whatever strength I had left as I knelt hunched in the middle of a small empty room.

    I had been running for long enough, hunted like a Kyronian Chirup with pack of blood-crazed Craghounds snapping at my backside. Finally though, it was over. I looked up at the figure in front of me, who's hands now firmly grasped my fate and my life. Of course at the moment, those hands grasped a blaster, pointed at chest, and a holocam, pointed at my face. On the receiving end of the Holo-image would no doubt be Jabba.

    I never should have taken that job. Not from Jabba.

    Well, I can firmly say now that I have learned my lesson, and can also say, with an astounding degree of confidence, that I will never be working for Jabba, or any Hutt, ever again. For awhile there I even thought I had gotten away from him, I was across the galaxy, far away from any sort of Hutt influence. Unfortunately money has a way of traversing great distances, as do bounty hunters when they stand to get their hands on said money.

    Bounty Hunters. Never like'd 'em. But its this most vile brand of big-game hunter that, much like a stain on my underwear, sully my memories of the events that lead to this most ignominious position I found myself in here...
  2. Monsteryort Jedi Padawan

    Member Since:
    Sep 17, 2005
    OOC

    Will it be your character standing proudly over mine, after a successfull capture? The hunt is on. I'm going to leave this thread pretty much completely wide open. Anybody who wants to join has my advance permission, as long as you adhere to the rules I will list. The time period will be not long after episode 4. Participants can of course include bounty hunters, but also feel free to play other characters involved in this somehow, for instance planetary or Imperial Law enforcement, an ally of Kerrjon, or another bountyhead on the run yourself. I'm not holding you to any writing style, 1st or 3rd person is fine. And yes, as hopefully the introduction implies, my character can certainly be caught, but I'll try not to make it too easy, and who knows, he might still get away yet. I just ask that you please try to make the hunt interesting. If you have your blaster to the back of my head by the end of your first post, thats probably a bit too soon.

    The Rules:

    -Standard forum rules and ettiquette apply here, so of course no God-moding, god modding, or super-uber characters.

    -No Jedi/Sith, and you better have a real good reason if you want to be force sensetive.

    -No Mandolorian Armor. a) not exactly common. b) c'mon, show a little creativity.

    -May not be named Fett. see above.

    Like I say, you don't need to seek my permission, just go ahead and jump in as long as you are willing to follow the above guidlines. I prefer your character description to meld nicely with your posts, but I don't mind if you want to go with a character sheet, such as the following example:

    Name: Hank "Head Squisher" Higgins
    Alias's: Tiny
    Species: Most think Wookie; he's actually just a folliculy well-endowed human.
    Gender: Male
    Age: 42 Years young
    Demensions: 2 m tall, 120 kg, 80 cm bicep, 7 cm big toe.
    Appearance: Huge Frikin' Guy. Well, muscled, but that is mostly covered up by thick dark hair over most of his body. Sometimes he braids all of it. Very rough face, crooked nose, dark green eyes. Wears black canvas lightly armored vest, utility belt, black & grey camo pants, white sneakers. Has a tattoo on his left arm with an arrow through a human heart and the word "MOM" across it, for which he always curses the artist because he thinks it was spelled backwards.
    Profession: Bounty Hunter
    Dream Profession: Interior Designer
    Transportation: Slave XVIII - Firespray Class fighter, every bounty-hunter's gotta have one. Hank's has been pimped, with flame decals along the sides, chromed blaster turrets, top-notch sound system, and fuzzy dice hanging from the rear viewscreen. Swoop-bike - rusted brown, not very fast.
    Equipment: Duel E-11 blaster carbines in hip holsters, vibro-axe, vibro-knife, vibro-tweezers, 2 thermal detonators (class B), 1 pair binder cuffs, long length of nylon rope, 1 pair macro-binoculars, sonic stunner, 3 sticks of gum, R5 series astromech droid named Rex, and which has the primary function of ash tray.
    Turn Ons: Glass of wine by the fire, staring at Coruscant skyline, the smell of vapors from a freshly exploded thermal detonator.
    Background: His Father was a Bounty Hunter, and his father's father before him, and his father before him. His mother is one, as are his brother and 2 cousins. His Niece is a member of the Junior Bounty Hunter's Association of Corellia, and the family dog is one too. At least with cats. His uncle is an accountant but he doesn't get invited to family get together's much. Bounty Hunting is in Hank's blood, and he'll hunt Bountys until he can't hunt no more.


    Alright, hopefully eveeything should be set. Don't hesitate to ask questions. Let the Hunt begin...
  3. Monsteryort Jedi Padawan

    Member Since:
    Sep 17, 2005
    Kerrjon Nebula
    Barist City, the planet Lusdu
    the beginning of the end...


    White bars of sunlight slashed their way through the window blinds, waking me from a blisfully deep slumber. As had been the case many a morning during the last three planetary weeks, my brain fought through the post-sleep fogginess to ask itself a few important questions. What time was it? Where was I? Who is this in bed next to me?

    The first question was answered easily enough by the display on the wall: too early.

    The second question took a bit more effort, but finally the answers pushed though the haze like a street lantern on a foggy night. I had spent the last three weeks (actually only about two and a half standard weeks; the days here are short, but that's a complaint for another time) on Lusdu, a well civilized but otherwise non-descript and actually rather boring world tucked into the galaxy's inner rim. I was laying low here, cooped up in a room on the third floor of Mizzlewomp's Inn, a focal point for a small mining town called Barist City. I had thought that overall, it was a good place to stay out of the way and very low key for awhile, while I figured out what to do about my new situation.

    As my mind kicked into gear, I realized the third question still had no answer. She looked vaguely familiar, but since no recognition krept into my head beyond that, I figured the answer didn't really matter that much. She was still asleep in my bed, meaning I probably hadn't paid for her. I decided to leave good enough alone, since much of the previous evening was full of blank spots anyway. I got out of bed, put some clothes on, and grabbed some cred chips before heading out the door. One more glance toward the bed made me wish I had remembered more of last night, but thats the price you pay sometimes when good drinks and rowdy friends start teaming up.

    I took the lift down two stories, where the main room of the Inn squats below the stacks of slightly dingy rooms. I spend a good number of nights here, since many of the locals come to wittle their time and hard earned credits away at the bar and tables. Good to mingle with the crowd a bit I always think. During the mornings like this one, those same locals come in to do battle with their hangovers with large helpings of breakfast and large mugs of caf before heading off to whatever soul-sucking menial jobs they've decided to waste their life with. I like to think I chose a better path in life, but then again I bet most of these fellows don't often find themselves having to hide out on unknown planets while the heat blows over.

    I entered to a pretty decent chorus of greetings from new pals and partners in crime and debauchery.

    "Heyo, here's the man now."

    "Ho! Nebs, hows the head?"

    "K-Neb, you wild son-of-a-klort!"

    "Where's my 50 creds Nerf milker?!"

    "Jonny Nebula, you ain't gonna like the holos we got of you."

    Must have been an interesting night. I plopped down at an empty spot at one of the tables, and took a few more lumps. I fired a few verbal vollys of my own, but my spotty memory of last night left me with precious little amunition. Things started looking up for the days prospects though when my breakfast came, and I really started laying into the big plate of meats and fruit in front of me.

    Thats when I noticed the Gawker. I pride myself on being observant (I wouldn't have survived even this long if not), but I confess it wasn't too hard to spot this clown. For one, he wasn't a regular, but that wasn't too outlandish since this was an Inn, and there were a few newcomers every day. The big one though was that stare of his, like a cutting lazer lancing straight into the side of my head. His eyes didn't help him to be very unobtrusive either, even in the reflection in a framed picture on the wall it looked like those eyeballs wanted to leap right out of their sockets. And the real nice topper was that the stare boared into me unabatted, that is right up until I looked in his direction, at which point the guy
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