                                Star Wars 

                           Wizard's RPG Stories

          source : http://www.wizards.com/default.asp?x=starwars/newsarchive
          upload : 10.IV.2006


     Kilassin For Hire

     By Morrie Mullins

     A Tarasin scout explains how a hunting party on the trail of a  ferocious
pack of  kilassin  found  a  mystery  instead.  Cularin's  great  lizards  are
dangerous, but the fate of this particular pack makes the Tarasin  worry  even
more. Find out what happened in our latest  supplement  to  the  Living  Force
campaign, a tie-in to the scenario "A Mon Alone."

     The more "advanced" species of the galaxy have  a  romantic  notion  that
goes  something  like  this:  Many  species   are   not   as   technologically
sophisticated as we have the pleasure to be. These less sophisticated  species
- - we will think of them as "primitive," without meaning any  disrespect  and
without considering that any might be taken - - have their own subtle forms of
art. They are often adept at weaving, for instance. They  make  fine  pottery.
They understand the ancient art of carving wood by hand. And they  are  mighty
hunters. For many such species, hunting is not only an art, but a religion.

     This romantic notion has been applied by some, quite mistakenly,  to  the
tarasin, Cularin's surviving indigenous intelligent species. It takes  only  a
short search of the holonets to turn up academic papers relating  the  tarasin
hunting practice to everything from fertility  rites  to  Sith  worship  to  a
complicated form of dance.

     None of these papers, unfortunately, seem to have been written by  anyone
who's ever been to Cularin for more than a month. While it  is  certainly  the
case that  tarasin  hunting  parties  are  often  so  regimented  as  to  seem
ritualized, the simple truth is that without tight control over  the  process,
the hunter will become the hunted. The kilassin, great reptiles  that  inhabit
Cularin's jungles, are nothing to be trifled with. Without a precise  plan  of
attack, tarasin  who  find  themselves  hunting  a  herd  of  kilassin  almost
invariably end up as a somewhat twitchy meal.

     The hunt is much simpler than what self-important academics make  it  out
to be. It isn't art, and it isn't worship. It's survival. And if  there's  one
thing survivors understand, it's when something has gone wrong.

     What follows is a journal recorded  by  a  traveler  in  the  jungles  of
Cularin. It is presented here to help others better understand the  nature  of
the tarasin hunt, and it chronicles a situation in which a  hunt  came  to  an
unplanned conclusion. A translation from the Tarasinese will be  displayed  as
the narration progresses.

     There were at least eleven kilassin. That  is  what  we  decided,  though
their tracks ran back upon themselves and their  spoor  piled  one  creature's
atop the next. If they were more intelligent, I might have thought them to  be
attempting to hide their numbers. But they are  no  more  intelligent  than  a
Caarite is tall, and no more subtle than  -  -  well,  than  a  Caarite.  They
tromped through the jungle with such force  that  I  began  to  believe  Cloud
Mountain might awaken. I stayed far enough behind that they would  not  notice
me, and I shifted my position as the wind shifted.

     I was the advance scout [this is the closest translation available of the
Tarasinese phrase no'oma k'bri, but it fails to capture the full flavor of the
phrase; it also implies a certain level of honor at being  the  lead  tracker,
though contextual cues indicate that being  the  no'oma  k'bri  may  sometimes
(though not always) be a form of punishment]. I had seen this pack of kilassin
before, I believed. There was one, a small one with  the  cruel  claws,  whose
track was very distinct. One of his claws was missing, so that he left only  a
partial hindfoot print wherever he stepped, and he rolled that foot more  than
others of his kind, to keep his balance. So I had seen these tracks, with this
pack, in the past. They had never moved like this before.

     I knew from the tracks, from the moistness  of  the  sap  on  the  broken
branches and from the fresh stench of their leavings, that  they  couldn't  be
more than an hour, maybe two, ahead of me. This is as close  as  most  hunting
parties come, until we push into the midst of the pack itself.  Kilassin  move
slowly enough that if you allow yourself to become any closer than this before
you are ready, you may find yourself  walking  into  their  midst  after  they
stopped for a nap. A stream, or even a shady stand of trees, can stop  a  pack
of kilassin suddenly, and lead the hunter who believes himself to have a  good
deal of space between himself and the great lizards into a costly error.

     Had they been moving deeper into the jungle, I might have  ignored  them.
They had two hours on me, and I had one hour on dusk, and if there is  a  time
when I am less interested in actually finding a pack of kilassin, it is  after
nightfall. But they were moving toward one of the irstat, and I needed to stay
with them, to push, since while most kilassin will not stray too close  to  an
irstat, this herd was not behaving like most.

     I called back to the others, signaling that we needed to hurry. They knew
the route as well as I, and their response told me that  they  understood  the
danger. I began a half-jog, which  is  normally  discouraged  for  an  advance
scout. If we get too far ahead, the remainder of the  hunting  party  may  not
find us in time. But I believed myself to be far enough  behind  the  kilassin
that I could not possibly overtake them without having the rest  of  my  party
nearby.

     The other difficulty in moving quickly while hunting is that  one  misses
subtle signals. This is more true when the quarry is moving in an illogical or
atypical manner. The challenge with these kilassin is that -  -  intentionally
or not - - they were hiding their numbers. I followed the mish-mish of tracks,
which remained a mish-mish as my eyes flashed across them. Carelessly.

     Twenty minutes later, the first kilassin came  at  me  from  a  stand  of
trees.

     It was a small creature, but vicious. It had thick forelimbs and  daggers
for claws, and it reared up as it came at me,  ready  to  cut  me  into  small
pieces.

     The weakness of these kilassin, though,  is  their  strength.  They  lack
flexibility. They are fast and can maneuver quickly, but their limbs are thick
and meaty. When one rears at you, the best thing to  do  is  move  inside  the
reach of its claws and hope that it doesn't think to fall atop you.

     This is what I did. It ran at me, ready to  rend  flesh.  I  ran  at  it,
trying to keep my flesh whole. I felt the air slice open as its  claws  passed
my head - - one to either side of my well-retracted fan - -  and  then  I  was
pressing my face against its smooth underbelly. It stank  of  vorgrhis  leaves
and sour water.

     It roared its anger, and I shoved with my shoulders, knowing I must  keep
it off balance to the rear  for  a  few  seconds  more.  My  hands  found  the
vibroblades at my belt. I do not remember stabbing the creature. I do remember
gouts of red staining my arms to the elbows and the rattling  death-croak  the
thing belched at me before it lay still.

     It was very difficult to get one of my vibroblades out of  its  belly.  I
almost left it. My fear was that the rest of the herd  might  be  nearby,  and
that I would do better to have one weapon in my hand  and  one  stuck  in  the
creature's gut than to be attacked by another kilassin while trying to pry the
blade loose. But it came free with my last yank, and I was glad. It is a  good
blade.

     I straightened and spun,  expecting  more  creatures  to  come  from  the
treeline. They did not. I cleaned my blades and hurried on, knowing  that  the
rest of the party would mark the body - - if they saw it as worth marking -  -
and follow soon. I could not hear them, but I knew they must be near. When you
work as closely together as we  do,  you  begin  to  sense  things  about  one
another. Had they been further behind, I might have slowed my pace.  But  they
were there, a half-kilometer or so to my rear, and the pack  of  kilassin  was
ahead of me, still moving toward the irstat.

     The best thing about following a herd of kilassin is that  they  are  not
subtle. Generally, you do not have to clear  away  branches  or  dodge  around
prickly underbrush. The kilassin have cleared a path for you. So  I  ran,  not
quite so quickly as before, and with a bit more caution. Being  ambushed  once
as dusk was beginning to settle its gray mist beneath the  spreading  branches
of the k'flua trees was enough for one evening.

     Ahead of me, I knew there was a clearing, and from that clearing  a  path
would lead the kilassin directly to the village. Signs said I was a  half-hour
behind them now, and that clearing would be  a  half-hour  from  the  village,
perhaps a little longer as day fell and night  arose.  For  the  sake  of  the
irstat, I could not be cautious, so I  signaled  to  my  companions  -  -  the
whistle of the blue-beaked akcinor - - and I ran. I would catch  the  kilassin
and turn them aside, or I would make my way to the irstat first and warn them,
get them clear.

     I came to the clearing and ran across to the path on the far side. Within
seconds, I stopped. The path was thick with branches and vines, and  the  tall
grasses to either side whispered and waved  in  the  night's  soft  wind.  The
kilassin had not been through here.

     Confused, I returned to the clearing and searched. The  tracks  led  into
the clearing, but they did not lead out. The  kilassin  had  arrived  at  this
place, had milled about - - it looked as though two of them had lain down -  -
and then they were gone.

     I have hunted kilassin for years. I am very  well  acquainted  with  what
they can and cannot do. These kilassin did not leave of their own accord. They
were taken.

     As to who would take kilassin, or why - - I wish that I knew.