The tracking fob led me to Arvala-7. Again. I'd rather face a mudhorn than another week in those canyons.
The mark was a Devaronian spice smuggler named Xarath. Five thousand credits, dead or alive. Guild doesn't care which, but alive means more pay. I prefer that anyway. Less mess to clean up.
I tracked him for three days through the northern canyonlands. The sandstorms this season are brutal. Had to seal the helmet twice to keep the grit out. My armor took a beating from the wind—scratches on the right shoulder plate that'll need buffing out.
Found him holed up in an abandoned moisture farm. Old Jedi-era structure, half-buried in sand. Smart choice, except he left tracks in the dust. Rookie mistake.
He tried to run. They always try to run.
Disrupted his speeder with a whistling bird to the engine housing. He went down soft. No permanent damage. The Guild paid the full five thousand plus a hazard bonus for the storms.
Spent the night in the Razor Crest, listening to sand scrape against the hull. Made me think about how quiet the covert used to be. The forge fires at night. The Armorer's hammer.
This is the way.