Bloodmaw

It is the third year of the war. Bloodmaw is forced on Coruscant patrol to hunt down a criminal. Tall, a Twi-Lek, drenched in white tattoos, hard to miss. Bloodmaw asks around in a bar. Sends those with him to ask questions as well.

The 125th. The crimsons, the jackhammers. The replacements. Send us anywhere, we'll do the job. Menial or campaign. This time, menial. Routine. Slow.

"What are you here for?" the bounty hunter asks when Bloodmaw approaches the bar.

He is draped in black cloth, frame obscured by armor. His clothes are loose, baggy, tucked partially under his armor. He is a fool, maybe, for having such graspable clothes. Perhaps smart, because he looks more formidable with it on, obscuring his form, obscuring his species. He has given himself false horns, poking up at the hood on him. The horns are small, but jagged and curling.

The bounty hunter is holding a cyan drink, and the secondary liquid trapped inside it swirls. The bounty hunter has clothed hands with dark pads on them.

He is still too similar to a trooper.

They know. Everyone knows. They must. Facial hair, some tattoos, even a helmet cannot conceal what this bounty hunter is. His voice is what will forever give him away, no matter how many layers of clothing or armor he puts on, no matter how many tattoos he inscribes into his flesh.

Across the club, Slipknot, also 125th, puts a drunk man, rowdy and not their suspect, in a headlock and then cuffs. Nobody bats an eye. This is the middle of Coruscant. Arrests are... common.

"Don't worry," Bloodmaw says, gruff. He sounds bitter as he speaks, faintly glaring at the bounty hunter from under his helmet. He bites out the words and licks his cracked lips after speaking. His voice comes out faintly rough from underneath his helmet, crackling through his helmets speaker. He really needs to get his vocals fixed. His armors red-painted ribcage and formerly-all-white-helmets' red streaks curl around and down his armor like thorny veins. A warning, a target, a memorial. Whatever anyone makes of it. He is moldable. "It ain't about you."


The reminder that he committed treason by not reporting the deserter nips at the back of Bloodmaw's mind even weeks later. It is lurking, between his brain and his skull, itching whenever he thinks of the bar.

But.

It is the third year of the war. Bloodmaw has lost whatever he had in him.


Bloodmaw has lost teeth; Bloodmaw has lost leaders; Bloodmaw has lost brothers; Bloodmaw has lost himself. Bloodmaw has lost. He has nothing left to lose.

There is nothing that the senate could punish him with that could hurt.

---

yes i have been reading great expectations sorry about the grammar oops

dragon outfit is his post tcw shenanigans fit

i have star wars fandragons in my hibden if you wanna check em out!! :)