Ep V: Chapter 30

The hunt is a work in progress. The way that it’s set up now is that the skiffs don’t slow down or pursue the chanwolves in order to keep it sporting. They’re fast, nimble, tough animals, and this means that a hunter will only have one shot before the skiff is gone. Flying droids will be sent back to collect carcasses of confirmed kills. Everything else is a failure. The storm only thins enough for the hunt once in a while; all of that creates a genuine sense of scarcity that allows Scora to hype this up as an event worthy of money and prestige. Rich tourists and noted hunters want to be able to say that they’ve done Chandar’s Hunt, and even more to bring home the preserved maw of a chanwolf. The larger the diameter of the maw, the more prestige it carries.

Only seven chanwolves have been killed since Chandar’s Resort opened its doors. The record for a maw is sixty centimeters.

Energy shields flicker on as they near the Stormlands and Enthea’s skin tingles. Scora doesn’t run the hunt; each skiff has a hunt master to do that. Scora, however, is participating. She takes her place at the prime spot at the front of the skiff while the other tourists and hunters go to their firing positions. They accept Tusken slugthrower rifles loaded with a single shot as the spectators gather on raised platforms to watch. Server droids hand out even more drinks, and the live music stops on all of the skiffs. Their formation loosens to allow for safe firing.

Scora’s putting on an earpiece that will let her communicate with the hunt masters and broadcast her voice.

“We’re nearly there,” she announces, getting everyone’s attention. “The first shot will be given to my honored guest.” She levels a finger.

Enthea turns to the other bodyguard. The Mandalorian’s D15 is slung over her back, and she stands with her arms folded, lightning reflecting on her Beskar armor. Her menacing helmet gives nothing away.

“Come on,” Scora coaxes, curling her finger.

Enthea senses the bodyguard’s annoyance.

“This is the warrior entrusted with my beloved’s safety. Surely, she can show us what a Mandalorian can do.” Scora must know that her cocky smile really just invites a punch to the face.

But the Mandalorian is a professional. She says nothing, although her body language speaks volumes. She’s irritated. She uncrosses her arms and makes her way to the front of the skiff, holding out a gloved hand. A droid passes her a rifle and she takes Scora’s place on the step, checking the rifle in a thoroughly knowledgeable fashion. She shrugs out of the sling that her D15 is carried on, and Scora takes it.

Myra looks on eagerly.