The planet Zygerria was a kingdom of gold and rot — sun-scorched hills baking under twin suns, cities dressed like slave cages, and high balconies built for cowards to overlook the agony they created.
But something had come out of the black.Something that didn't bleed like a man.Something ancient.Something angry.
They saw him first on the dust trail outside Rokk's Gulch — a silhouette stomping against the horizon, long coat tearing through the wind like flayed banners. Each step he took was slow, heavy, like he was dragging the weight of graves behind him. His fur was scorched dark, rough like burned mahogany. His broad Wookiee frame towered — beastly and bent with wrath.
At his side, a weather-worn blaster hung low like a gunslinger's iron.Across his back? A massive electrostaff, buzzing low and mean — its coil lines pulsing like caged lightning. And riding his belt opposite the blaster was a blade: thick, jagged, and cruel. Not a knife — a butcher's cleaver fit for vengeance.
But it was the hat that got them whispering.
A wide-brimmed shadow, black as oil, stitched from the scraps of slaver uniforms. A crimson band wrapped the crown — dyed deep with the blood of Kessel's worst.
His boots clanged when they hit the boards. Iron-plated toes, scarred from riot floors. The spurs didn't jingle.They rattled.Like chains from the deep dark.
They said when he stepped into Rokk's Gulch, the heat dropped ten degrees. Children went silent. Killers looked away. Shot glasses shattered in shaking hands.
No one stopped him.No one ever did.
He pushed open the saloon doors — wood creaking like it feared him — and stepped inside. Smoke hung in the air. Cards froze mid-flip. The piano died mid-note.
He didn't speak.Couldn't.But the growl that rose from his chest said everything.
"RRHHNNGGHH…"
He locked eyes with the bartender. Didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
Just pointed to his own eyes, then jabbed a claw toward the bar.Where is he?The question was carved in posture and presence.
The barkeep stammered, breath trembling.
"Y-you lookin' for… K'loren? H-he's in the palace… west end. Guards. Real heavy."
The Wookiee's response was a low snarl — thick with hunger and promise.
"HHHRRAAAHHHH."
Then he turned. Spurs dragging. Dust trailing behind like smoke.He didn't need words.He was the message.