Ranger Archive
Thread: A hunting story
Page 1 of 2
BlueChris
Mon Feb 09, 2004 2:35 pm
#1
Hi. I'm a new ranger because I had grandiose visions of casting my areatrack and finding Krayts and Kimos and Albatrosses and all kinds of big game for my guild. Well, I don't have to tell you guys how that kind of thing works out. So, I'll try keeping my chin up by tellinga story that really happened. Maybe it's longwinded, but at least I'm not crying "nerf" or "ur class suxx0rs." Great job on the Outdoorsman proposal, btw.
Yep, I fought the Giant Dune Kimogila last week. Like most discoveries, it didn't have anything to do with my elaborate ranger tracking rituals. Instead, some hatchlings popped close enough to scare the crap out of me, and upon further investigation I discovered the big boy behind them terrorizing a small civilian village for lunch. As a wise man once said, it's better to be lucky than good. I'll take lucky any day.
I immediately radioed into Headquarters for assistance, but the Imperial Army General in command was too busy cooking tortur stew to be bothered. A brave Doctor responded from worlds away, but got stuck using the public space bus. Oh, my kingdom for a Star Destroyer! The indignities we suffer for the Emperor's New Order while he gets his act together!
All alone and armorless, I wondered what to do with the majestic creature. Would I plink away at it from heavy concealment? Would I inflict critical bleeding strikes to its brain at the risk of enraging it? Would I attempt to render it helpess by destroying its balance with good old Teras Kasi prowess? Would I go back to Talus and eat some tortur soup? Precisely at the moment of greatest confusion, fortune smiled upon me.
On the other side of the village, a swoop bike was driving by. The rider was either the bravest man who ever lived or the dumbest man who ever lived, because he drove close enough to the beast to get a face full of claw. The bike kept riding into the Lokian desert, but its pilot wasn't so lucky. Just as I had written off the guy as an after dinner mint, he leaped back to his feet and started fighting back barehanded!
I saw a speed and grace in his fighting style I hadn't seen since leaving the Teras Kasi dojo behind to serve the Empire years ago. He was a whirlwind of lethal punches and kicks that would have quickly ended the life of almost any other creature. This was a Master of the art at work, but his impressive display of violence did little but amuse the Giant of the Dunes. It toyed with him like a ball of yarn as he leaped about to avoid tooth and claw and certain death.
If I ever had a chance, this was it. I picked up my laser rifle, and strained to recall my Xenosurvival training at the Imperial Ranger School. Did that main artery run behind the Kimo's jaw or under it? Under. No wait, that's the Krayt artery. Kimo's have it behind. Or do they? Damnit, I shouldn't have been flirting with Kelron's girl during the Desert Worlds lectures. She turned out to be cold as a dead fish anyway that prude b... UNDER! BLAM!
It was like a firehose had opened up under the Giant's neck. It raised its head with an earthshaking roar and painted the burning village a new shade of red. To compound its misery, as it turned around to face its executioner (That's ME!) one of its forelegs went into a pile of collapsed rubble. The leg crashed through the ground level into some sort of underground storage complex and the giant was stuck. The Master took the opportunity to inject a stimpack, take a hit of Muon (strictly for the glory of the Empire, of course), and flash a smile through his new coat of crimson.
The beast was now leaking its life away, but nowhere fast enough to stop it from killing both of us if that leg ever came free. I kept at it with my rifle, aggrivating the wound with more laser fire, while the Master continued to distract those deadly rows of teeth. To the novice, attacking a stuck animal may seem unsportsmanlike, but keep in mind that this old Kimogila had already gone mad enough to destroy a village before we even got there. For its own good and the good of Lok, it had to be put down.
I began to wonder about how much the old beast had seen in its thousand year life. How many volcano eruptions had it shrugged off? What had it been like to truly be the king of all you surveyed? But I quickly snapped out of my philosophical mood as the leg came free. The wise Master and the professional soldier both indulged in a quick explative while recalculating their odds of survival.
But as if by the grace of the Emperor himself, the Giant freed himself not to run toward us, but away from us! Flight won over fight in the Kimogila's leaky head, and we chased it down with reckless abandon. At the same time, a biblical swarm of giant flits gained the courage to attack the wounded Giant and slow it down enough for us to stay within range on foot. The Master practically rode its tail while I ran top speed shooting wildly like a maniac. The sniper gods were probably going to get even with me later in some ugly way, but not today!
Finally, the Giant Dune Kimogila fell -- throwing sand in every direction and leaving a crater for the ages. On second thought (this being Lok and all), it was a crater that would survive a sandstorm or two. Thanks to the Giant's age and the Master's brutal but opportunistic attacks there wasn't one scale left that an armorsmith would find useful. Believe me, we looked. We settled for as much meat as we could carry, but that didn't dull the victory. The Master and I exchanged bows and parted our seperate ways into the night.
Ahh, I know now what it is to hunt.
I immediately radioed into Headquarters for assistance, but the Imperial Army General in command was too busy cooking tortur stew to be bothered. A brave Doctor responded from worlds away, but got stuck using the public space bus. Oh, my kingdom for a Star Destroyer! The indignities we suffer for the Emperor's New Order while he gets his act together!
All alone and armorless, I wondered what to do with the majestic creature. Would I plink away at it from heavy concealment? Would I inflict critical bleeding strikes to its brain at the risk of enraging it? Would I attempt to render it helpess by destroying its balance with good old Teras Kasi prowess? Would I go back to Talus and eat some tortur soup? Precisely at the moment of greatest confusion, fortune smiled upon me.
On the other side of the village, a swoop bike was driving by. The rider was either the bravest man who ever lived or the dumbest man who ever lived, because he drove close enough to the beast to get a face full of claw. The bike kept riding into the Lokian desert, but its pilot wasn't so lucky. Just as I had written off the guy as an after dinner mint, he leaped back to his feet and started fighting back barehanded!
I saw a speed and grace in his fighting style I hadn't seen since leaving the Teras Kasi dojo behind to serve the Empire years ago. He was a whirlwind of lethal punches and kicks that would have quickly ended the life of almost any other creature. This was a Master of the art at work, but his impressive display of violence did little but amuse the Giant of the Dunes. It toyed with him like a ball of yarn as he leaped about to avoid tooth and claw and certain death.
If I ever had a chance, this was it. I picked up my laser rifle, and strained to recall my Xenosurvival training at the Imperial Ranger School. Did that main artery run behind the Kimo's jaw or under it? Under. No wait, that's the Krayt artery. Kimo's have it behind. Or do they? Damnit, I shouldn't have been flirting with Kelron's girl during the Desert Worlds lectures. She turned out to be cold as a dead fish anyway that prude b... UNDER! BLAM!
It was like a firehose had opened up under the Giant's neck. It raised its head with an earthshaking roar and painted the burning village a new shade of red. To compound its misery, as it turned around to face its executioner (That's ME!) one of its forelegs went into a pile of collapsed rubble. The leg crashed through the ground level into some sort of underground storage complex and the giant was stuck. The Master took the opportunity to inject a stimpack, take a hit of Muon (strictly for the glory of the Empire, of course), and flash a smile through his new coat of crimson.
The beast was now leaking its life away, but nowhere fast enough to stop it from killing both of us if that leg ever came free. I kept at it with my rifle, aggrivating the wound with more laser fire, while the Master continued to distract those deadly rows of teeth. To the novice, attacking a stuck animal may seem unsportsmanlike, but keep in mind that this old Kimogila had already gone mad enough to destroy a village before we even got there. For its own good and the good of Lok, it had to be put down.
I began to wonder about how much the old beast had seen in its thousand year life. How many volcano eruptions had it shrugged off? What had it been like to truly be the king of all you surveyed? But I quickly snapped out of my philosophical mood as the leg came free. The wise Master and the professional soldier both indulged in a quick explative while recalculating their odds of survival.
But as if by the grace of the Emperor himself, the Giant freed himself not to run toward us, but away from us! Flight won over fight in the Kimogila's leaky head, and we chased it down with reckless abandon. At the same time, a biblical swarm of giant flits gained the courage to attack the wounded Giant and slow it down enough for us to stay within range on foot. The Master practically rode its tail while I ran top speed shooting wildly like a maniac. The sniper gods were probably going to get even with me later in some ugly way, but not today!
Finally, the Giant Dune Kimogila fell -- throwing sand in every direction and leaving a crater for the ages. On second thought (this being Lok and all), it was a crater that would survive a sandstorm or two. Thanks to the Giant's age and the Master's brutal but opportunistic attacks there wasn't one scale left that an armorsmith would find useful. Believe me, we looked. We settled for as much meat as we could carry, but that didn't dull the victory. The Master and I exchanged bows and parted our seperate ways into the night.
Ahh, I know now what it is to hunt.
Cableguy25
Mon Feb 09, 2004 9:36 pm
#5
/cheer Nicely done
And you have inspired me to write my own..
Message Edited by Cableguy25 on 02-10-2004 07:13 PM
Shmuku
Tue Feb 10, 2004 10:01 am
#6
Great story and all, but all I want to know is: Was the stew tasty?
BlueChris
Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:08 am
#8
Thanks, everybody. Even though he's a Master Chef now, his stew is on the bland side. But please don't tell him I said that. And the reason I'm playing ranger now is because I read one of you guys make a comment thatyou're not bringing Krayts to the hunting parties, but rather foodto the Krayts. What follows is what happened to me last night.
I organized another tour of Lok that included Compton, Phae, RaAmon (ISS) and our new Creature HandlerD-Day. Upon finding our first Gurk nest, some pirates ambushedus, and during the fight (which was well under our control) somebodyaccidentally shot at the gurk nest. Well, you don't have to be The Amazing Kreskin toguess how that went. Compton drove the 6K meters back from the cloning center, and slammed down his iron fist. Thanks to the wonders of Imperial Military Disciplined Fire, we breezed through three Gurk King lairs without a problem. Well... almost.
On the third lair, instead of the usual Gurk King + bunch of little gurks boss, we had the pleasure of coming face to face with a Gurk King + a bunch of huge destroyer gurks boss. Compton and I (being the grizzled veterans that we are) knew it was our duty to impetuously take down the King no matter what other savage beasts were gnawing at our flesh. The others (not being grizzled veterans) threw discipline to the wind, picked their favorite gurk destroyer, and proceeded to panic.
Compton and I valiantly brought the King down to 200 measly health points before being slain by it. The dark side must've been on the blink because nobody else heard our fallen spirits yell "KILL THE KING! LOOT THE @#$ING KING! IGNORE THE DESTROYERS AND KIIIILL THE KIIIIING!" Oh well. Phaetal and RaAmon were slain moments later by their dance partners. But what wasthis? D-Day was spared the vicious deathblow!!!
After much telepathic coaching on the use of stealth and diversion, D-Day rose to his feet and commanded his pets to kill the King! It worked!!! Then, much to our horror, D-Day forgot everything about stealth and diversion and began shooting at the rest of the gurks. *Sigh* He was put down a second time, but not before running far away from the still unlooted Gurk King corpse. The hunting gods seemed to enjoy this game, for D-Day was spared a deathblow a second time.
The second incapacitation gave him time to meditate on the meaning of stealth and diversion and not shooting at a group of enemies while trying to sneak around them. D-day rose a third time, carefully masked his scent, and moved towards the corpse.
Was it a pebble that gave him away? A sneeze? A bit of tortur-stew-inspired gas? Philosophers and historians would argue that point for centuries. Either way, the King's retinue made a fine snack out of our hero, D-Day, long before he could type /loot. Thirty seconds later, the king's corpse was covered by the blowing sand -- his sacred hide escaping our grasp.
That battle may have been over, but the hunt was not. The hunting gods delivered a Giant Dune Kimogila into our newly cloned hands as a consolation prize. With the help of Dr. Cyy and a rival Kimogila, we chased our gift from day into night; from wasteland into settlement; from flat dunes into mountains. In the end, the armorsmith's tastes proved too fine for any of its scales, but we knew victory nonetheless.
On the third lair, instead of the usual Gurk King + bunch of little gurks boss, we had the pleasure of coming face to face with a Gurk King + a bunch of huge destroyer gurks boss. Compton and I (being the grizzled veterans that we are) knew it was our duty to impetuously take down the King no matter what other savage beasts were gnawing at our flesh. The others (not being grizzled veterans) threw discipline to the wind, picked their favorite gurk destroyer, and proceeded to panic.
Compton and I valiantly brought the King down to 200 measly health points before being slain by it. The dark side must've been on the blink because nobody else heard our fallen spirits yell "KILL THE KING! LOOT THE @#$ING KING! IGNORE THE DESTROYERS AND KIIIILL THE KIIIIING!" Oh well. Phaetal and RaAmon were slain moments later by their dance partners. But what wasthis? D-Day was spared the vicious deathblow!!!
After much telepathic coaching on the use of stealth and diversion, D-Day rose to his feet and commanded his pets to kill the King! It worked!!! Then, much to our horror, D-Day forgot everything about stealth and diversion and began shooting at the rest of the gurks. *Sigh* He was put down a second time, but not before running far away from the still unlooted Gurk King corpse. The hunting gods seemed to enjoy this game, for D-Day was spared a deathblow a second time.
The second incapacitation gave him time to meditate on the meaning of stealth and diversion and not shooting at a group of enemies while trying to sneak around them. D-day rose a third time, carefully masked his scent, and moved towards the corpse.
Was it a pebble that gave him away? A sneeze? A bit of tortur-stew-inspired gas? Philosophers and historians would argue that point for centuries. Either way, the King's retinue made a fine snack out of our hero, D-Day, long before he could type /loot. Thirty seconds later, the king's corpse was covered by the blowing sand -- his sacred hide escaping our grasp.
That battle may have been over, but the hunt was not. The hunting gods delivered a Giant Dune Kimogila into our newly cloned hands as a consolation prize. With the help of Dr. Cyy and a rival Kimogila, we chased our gift from day into night; from wasteland into settlement; from flat dunes into mountains. In the end, the armorsmith's tastes proved too fine for any of its scales, but we knew victory nonetheless.
Shmuku
Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:25 am
#9
"Was it a pebble that gave him away? A sneeze? A bit of tortur-stew-inspired gas? Philosophers and historians would argue that point for centuries. Either way, the King's retinue made a fine snack out of our hero, D-Day, long before he could type /loot. Thirty seconds later, the king's corpse was covered by the blowing sand -- his sacred hide escaping our grasp."
This is inspired stuff. I'm disturbing those around me in my office by laughing out loud at the "before he could type /loot." I'm picturing an adventurer in the wilderness yelling, in desperation, "Slash loot! Come on, Slash loot already!"
And thanks for the update on the stew. Slash bow.
This is inspired stuff. I'm disturbing those around me in my office by laughing out loud at the "before he could type /loot." I'm picturing an adventurer in the wilderness yelling, in desperation, "Slash loot! Come on, Slash loot already!"
And thanks for the update on the stew. Slash bow.
Calculus_Entropy
Wed Feb 11, 2004 1:50 am
#10
Excellent stories....let the "your profession stinks" folks revel in your glory!!!
ElClembo
Fri Feb 13, 2004 6:11 am
#11
/deepbow
Ladies and Gentelmen please rise for the first MASTER TALE-TELLER!!!
BlueChris
Fri Feb 13, 2004 1:10 pm
#13
Ok, this took so darn long I don't think I'm going to write another one anytime soon. Plus, I just got a TIE uniform and will be stalking two legged prey for a little while. As usual I took a dash of what happened to me, added acup of this and a pinch of that, and ended up with a perfectly legitimate fish story. Enjoy your break from my drivel,and I hope your Ranger experiences can be asfun as mine!
From the observation tower on an Imperial Outpost, General Iedap Othengur could've sworn he saw a mountain move.
"Good Lord, what the Hell is that?" he barked to no junior officer in particular.
A particularly green recruit replied meekly from behind a terminal that dwarfed him. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't know." Upon remembering his duty, he cleared his throat and followed up with, "I'll run a sensor scan right away, sir."
General Othengur would later wonder if the following diatribe was spoken out loud or stayed within the confines of his mind. "That **edit**, Hethrir. Getting me assigned to this backwater world without so much as a single orbital Dreadnaught. Lok! More a cruel verb than a name. Those pirates run roughshod over our supply ships while we wait here to be devouered like gnorts by who knows what. I should've taken a vibroblade to Lord Fatrear's precious nephew instead of an ale bottle."
"Giant Dune Kimogila, sir. The records show we lost an AT-ST and over a platoon of stormtroopers subduing a similar creature during construction of this outpost." The Lieutenant paused to do a double take on the numbers. "This one is approximately five times larger."
"Damn! Give me a status report on our walkers."
"Sir, it's lunchtime. Nobody's on duty in the repair bay."
"Fool! You'll find out or I'll put you on the front lines with a kloo horn and a purple bra!"
The Lieutenant snapped to attention, saluted, and sprinted across the outpost towards the largest structure in sight. It was built to house and repair a squadron of four AT-AT walkers -- the ultimate symbol of Imperial Army might. Unfortunately for the Lokian Imperial Army Expiditionary Force, Lord Nym found a way to bribe part of the delivery crew and the landing craft suffered a "malfunction" upon entering the atmosphere. It came down on opposite side of the planet to a welcoming party of system hackers, grease monkeys, and swoop jocks who couldn't wait to get their hands on the imperial titans.
Othengur didn't like to think about the ensuing battle much. The only reason any Imperials survived the retrieval operation was the fact that the pirates had no idea what they were doing at the controls. In a completely ridiculous waste of resources, a handful of scout walkers, hundreds of troopers, and two elite demolition units never made the return trip. Even worse, only two of the AT-ATs were brought down in a relatively acceptable manner. The third, whose pilots had learned quickly, had to be vaporized by a hand-delivered tactical nuclear explosive (resulting in twelve posthumous Imperial Crosses). The fourth had been gutted for electronics and motors long before any troops had arrived. No, that hadn't been much of a victory.
It took a month just to drag the remaining two back to the outpost. The Imperial beancounters (who really were the ones running things) told the General he would have to make do with what he had for now. A frantic operation was mounted to restore the machines to fighting trim, and the product of tens of thousands of man hours found itself expressed in three exasperated words.
"They're ready, sir."
Within minutes, the walkers emerged from their womb. The monster had come within a kilometer, but Othengur could almost taste his first victory since arriving at the barren planet.
Not far away, someone else had seen that same mountain move.
Chak Maalcut had been living in the Lokian wastes for months and had the beard to show for it. He had already looked into the eyes of two Giant Dune Kimogilas and lived to tell the tale. Unfortunately for him and his mission, he'd lost one's scales to the fires of a burning village and another's to the vicious teeth of another Kimo. He would not be robbed a third time.
He'd landed on Lok fresh out of survival school and longing to return to the Talusian plains. Though the faces of his comrades differed from hunt to hunt, none had changed more than his. Now, Chak was one with the desert. He could slip unnoticed into a sand dune or a gurk nest. He no longer needed the shelters he crafted for his mates. He could track the smallest and largest of creatures. He had perfected his hunting craft on the gurk kings and lesser kimos. While his two previous encounters with Giants of the Dunes proved beyond a doubt the existance of the hunting gods, he no longer needed to subject himself to their fickle whims. Chak Maalcut was a Ranger.
So at that moment when General Iedap Othengur instinctively stepped backward, Ranger Chak Maalcut burst forward into a sprint. Jahn Compton, Cyy Sunrider, Strahd Zarhovich, and Bezar Darkstar followed.
The Ranger knew about the Imperial Outpost in the area, but had spent the last few months avoiding it entirely. He had of course seen the smoldering ruins of the AT-AT fiasco and even witnessed part of the expedition to drag the vehicles back to base. Whichever Imperials had demonstrated such colassal ineptitude had no business even knowing about his mission. His Hunt
So as the great doors opened, and the AT-ATs emerged flanked by scores of troopers in white, Maalcut cursed the hunt gods one more time. Although he'd been listening to this base's chatter over his comlink, it was now time to reveal himself to it.
The five hunters looked like ants to the General in his tower. Imagine his surprise when the ants spoke to him over his own comlink!
"Imperial outpost. This is Master Sergeant Chak Maalcut of the Emperor's Hammer Special Operations Detachment. I'm requesting that your AT-AT strike force stands down."
That was just about the funniest thing the General ever heard. Why, it was almost as funny as hearing that rumor about the rebels blowing up the Death Star with a single proton torpedo from an X-Wing. Who thinks up that kind of crap? Everybody knew that was a tragic reactor core malfunction. Engineers. Hmpf.
"General Iedap Othengur speaking. Where are your uniforms, boys?"
Ahhh, the uniform. Last refuge of the desk jockey. Perhaps the General would inquire next about the modifications to his laser rifle's burst fire circuitry.
"Uniforms don't last long in the Lokian wastes, sir. The Giant Dune Kimogilas of this planet belong to Grand Admiral Stephan Ronin in the service of Lord Krenn'sa Alvaak. I request and advise that you let us deal with this."
The General chuckled back, "Oh, and exactly how many have you dealt with before, Master Sergeant?"
Annoyed, the Ranger stated simply, "This will be my third."
Well, the General wasn't expecting that. And the hunting party had not slowed their pace.
"You can tell the Grand Admiral that it might be his pet, but this is my outpost. At the same time, I find it amusing that you think you can dent it. So go ahead and play with it, but if it comes within 100 meters of my walls, I'll turn it to slag."
Cannons. Slag. A crude method for crude men. But those words remained thoughts. The Ranger would have to play the role of nerf herder if he wanted to give his prey a dignified end and retain its sacred scale.
"Acknowledged."
While the General watched from his climate controlled tower, the Ranger raced through the desert towards almost certain death. The Giant, for his part, was unaffected by the drama. Dinner waited in tin cans and crunchy shells in the distance, while a tasty appetizer was for whatever reason running towards him practically unwrapped. Never one to look a gift kaadu in the mouth, he changed his angle slightly to accept the snack.
The hunting party knew the drill. As the Ranger dropped prone and disappeared into the sand, the rest of the group split along both sides of the Giant to encircle it. As the Giant turned his head to whichever side looked tastiest, Chak fired a shot under (definitely under, this time) its jaw, beginning the critical bleed.
The party opened fire on all sides, leaving the Giant confused. As it snapped toward one side, a bolt of pain would enter the opposite. While it rearranged its priorities, a third bolt would give it reason to turn elsewhere. The circle gave and took in every direction with every movement of its center. The theory was sound, but could never be a science, as each member of the hunting party found himself wounded at one time or another. The hunting gods enjoyed greatly those savage reminders of the hunters' fragility.
As he wore down the Giant's life, Chak knew the it might decide to bolt. It didn't get to be that old and that big by sticking around a losing fight. Chak wished he could somehow impart on the creature the wisdom that it didn't want to bolt towards that base. "Whatever happens here, buddy, you don't want to be slag," he half thought, half prayed.
For years Chak would wonder if the creature had heard him and defied him, or if the hunting gods had heard him and jerked his chain. Either way, the Giant decisively turned towards him -- guarding the vector into the outpost -- and bowled him over. Lok began to fade out, and a happy place with happy grass and happy clouds and happy rainbows and happy bunnies and happy Jerry Garcia (?!) began to fade in. Jerry saw Chak, turned unhappy, and roared, "SLAG!"
Before the Bob Ross painting was fully replaced by grim Lok, the Ranger's legs were already propelling him towards the Giant -- firing full auto and definitely risking an overheat. As the beast crossed the 100 meter mark, Chak prepared for the worst -- another battle won but lost, and the unending anxiety that he was not enough of a hunter to best the Giant without the gods' intervention.
But the worst never came. The base never opened up. The AT-ATs held their fire. In fact, General Iedap Othengur still stood frozen in place ten minutes after the Giant came to a stop mere feet from the outpost's defensive walls. Jahn Compton was the first to climb up onto its head and wrestle a sacred scale from its neck. He held it aloft with a primal roar of victory.
The prize was intact. The Hunt was won.
From the observation tower on an Imperial Outpost, General Iedap Othengur could've sworn he saw a mountain move.
"Good Lord, what the Hell is that?" he barked to no junior officer in particular.
A particularly green recruit replied meekly from behind a terminal that dwarfed him. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't know." Upon remembering his duty, he cleared his throat and followed up with, "I'll run a sensor scan right away, sir."
General Othengur would later wonder if the following diatribe was spoken out loud or stayed within the confines of his mind. "That **edit**, Hethrir. Getting me assigned to this backwater world without so much as a single orbital Dreadnaught. Lok! More a cruel verb than a name. Those pirates run roughshod over our supply ships while we wait here to be devouered like gnorts by who knows what. I should've taken a vibroblade to Lord Fatrear's precious nephew instead of an ale bottle."
"Giant Dune Kimogila, sir. The records show we lost an AT-ST and over a platoon of stormtroopers subduing a similar creature during construction of this outpost." The Lieutenant paused to do a double take on the numbers. "This one is approximately five times larger."
"Damn! Give me a status report on our walkers."
"Sir, it's lunchtime. Nobody's on duty in the repair bay."
"Fool! You'll find out or I'll put you on the front lines with a kloo horn and a purple bra!"
The Lieutenant snapped to attention, saluted, and sprinted across the outpost towards the largest structure in sight. It was built to house and repair a squadron of four AT-AT walkers -- the ultimate symbol of Imperial Army might. Unfortunately for the Lokian Imperial Army Expiditionary Force, Lord Nym found a way to bribe part of the delivery crew and the landing craft suffered a "malfunction" upon entering the atmosphere. It came down on opposite side of the planet to a welcoming party of system hackers, grease monkeys, and swoop jocks who couldn't wait to get their hands on the imperial titans.
Othengur didn't like to think about the ensuing battle much. The only reason any Imperials survived the retrieval operation was the fact that the pirates had no idea what they were doing at the controls. In a completely ridiculous waste of resources, a handful of scout walkers, hundreds of troopers, and two elite demolition units never made the return trip. Even worse, only two of the AT-ATs were brought down in a relatively acceptable manner. The third, whose pilots had learned quickly, had to be vaporized by a hand-delivered tactical nuclear explosive (resulting in twelve posthumous Imperial Crosses). The fourth had been gutted for electronics and motors long before any troops had arrived. No, that hadn't been much of a victory.
It took a month just to drag the remaining two back to the outpost. The Imperial beancounters (who really were the ones running things) told the General he would have to make do with what he had for now. A frantic operation was mounted to restore the machines to fighting trim, and the product of tens of thousands of man hours found itself expressed in three exasperated words.
"They're ready, sir."
Within minutes, the walkers emerged from their womb. The monster had come within a kilometer, but Othengur could almost taste his first victory since arriving at the barren planet.
Not far away, someone else had seen that same mountain move.
Chak Maalcut had been living in the Lokian wastes for months and had the beard to show for it. He had already looked into the eyes of two Giant Dune Kimogilas and lived to tell the tale. Unfortunately for him and his mission, he'd lost one's scales to the fires of a burning village and another's to the vicious teeth of another Kimo. He would not be robbed a third time.
He'd landed on Lok fresh out of survival school and longing to return to the Talusian plains. Though the faces of his comrades differed from hunt to hunt, none had changed more than his. Now, Chak was one with the desert. He could slip unnoticed into a sand dune or a gurk nest. He no longer needed the shelters he crafted for his mates. He could track the smallest and largest of creatures. He had perfected his hunting craft on the gurk kings and lesser kimos. While his two previous encounters with Giants of the Dunes proved beyond a doubt the existance of the hunting gods, he no longer needed to subject himself to their fickle whims. Chak Maalcut was a Ranger.
So at that moment when General Iedap Othengur instinctively stepped backward, Ranger Chak Maalcut burst forward into a sprint. Jahn Compton, Cyy Sunrider, Strahd Zarhovich, and Bezar Darkstar followed.
The Ranger knew about the Imperial Outpost in the area, but had spent the last few months avoiding it entirely. He had of course seen the smoldering ruins of the AT-AT fiasco and even witnessed part of the expedition to drag the vehicles back to base. Whichever Imperials had demonstrated such colassal ineptitude had no business even knowing about his mission. His Hunt
So as the great doors opened, and the AT-ATs emerged flanked by scores of troopers in white, Maalcut cursed the hunt gods one more time. Although he'd been listening to this base's chatter over his comlink, it was now time to reveal himself to it.
The five hunters looked like ants to the General in his tower. Imagine his surprise when the ants spoke to him over his own comlink!
"Imperial outpost. This is Master Sergeant Chak Maalcut of the Emperor's Hammer Special Operations Detachment. I'm requesting that your AT-AT strike force stands down."
That was just about the funniest thing the General ever heard. Why, it was almost as funny as hearing that rumor about the rebels blowing up the Death Star with a single proton torpedo from an X-Wing. Who thinks up that kind of crap? Everybody knew that was a tragic reactor core malfunction. Engineers. Hmpf.
"General Iedap Othengur speaking. Where are your uniforms, boys?"
Ahhh, the uniform. Last refuge of the desk jockey. Perhaps the General would inquire next about the modifications to his laser rifle's burst fire circuitry.
"Uniforms don't last long in the Lokian wastes, sir. The Giant Dune Kimogilas of this planet belong to Grand Admiral Stephan Ronin in the service of Lord Krenn'sa Alvaak. I request and advise that you let us deal with this."
The General chuckled back, "Oh, and exactly how many have you dealt with before, Master Sergeant?"
Annoyed, the Ranger stated simply, "This will be my third."
Well, the General wasn't expecting that. And the hunting party had not slowed their pace.
"You can tell the Grand Admiral that it might be his pet, but this is my outpost. At the same time, I find it amusing that you think you can dent it. So go ahead and play with it, but if it comes within 100 meters of my walls, I'll turn it to slag."
Cannons. Slag. A crude method for crude men. But those words remained thoughts. The Ranger would have to play the role of nerf herder if he wanted to give his prey a dignified end and retain its sacred scale.
"Acknowledged."
While the General watched from his climate controlled tower, the Ranger raced through the desert towards almost certain death. The Giant, for his part, was unaffected by the drama. Dinner waited in tin cans and crunchy shells in the distance, while a tasty appetizer was for whatever reason running towards him practically unwrapped. Never one to look a gift kaadu in the mouth, he changed his angle slightly to accept the snack.
The hunting party knew the drill. As the Ranger dropped prone and disappeared into the sand, the rest of the group split along both sides of the Giant to encircle it. As the Giant turned his head to whichever side looked tastiest, Chak fired a shot under (definitely under, this time) its jaw, beginning the critical bleed.
The party opened fire on all sides, leaving the Giant confused. As it snapped toward one side, a bolt of pain would enter the opposite. While it rearranged its priorities, a third bolt would give it reason to turn elsewhere. The circle gave and took in every direction with every movement of its center. The theory was sound, but could never be a science, as each member of the hunting party found himself wounded at one time or another. The hunting gods enjoyed greatly those savage reminders of the hunters' fragility.
As he wore down the Giant's life, Chak knew the it might decide to bolt. It didn't get to be that old and that big by sticking around a losing fight. Chak wished he could somehow impart on the creature the wisdom that it didn't want to bolt towards that base. "Whatever happens here, buddy, you don't want to be slag," he half thought, half prayed.
For years Chak would wonder if the creature had heard him and defied him, or if the hunting gods had heard him and jerked his chain. Either way, the Giant decisively turned towards him -- guarding the vector into the outpost -- and bowled him over. Lok began to fade out, and a happy place with happy grass and happy clouds and happy rainbows and happy bunnies and happy Jerry Garcia (?!) began to fade in. Jerry saw Chak, turned unhappy, and roared, "SLAG!"
Before the Bob Ross painting was fully replaced by grim Lok, the Ranger's legs were already propelling him towards the Giant -- firing full auto and definitely risking an overheat. As the beast crossed the 100 meter mark, Chak prepared for the worst -- another battle won but lost, and the unending anxiety that he was not enough of a hunter to best the Giant without the gods' intervention.
But the worst never came. The base never opened up. The AT-ATs held their fire. In fact, General Iedap Othengur still stood frozen in place ten minutes after the Giant came to a stop mere feet from the outpost's defensive walls. Jahn Compton was the first to climb up onto its head and wrestle a sacred scale from its neck. He held it aloft with a primal roar of victory.
The prize was intact. The Hunt was won.
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