KotOR I: Orin Dakall

“Well, I guess Zaalbar didn’t like seeing me get smacked around. He let out this howl and yanked that Vulkar a meter up off the ground and held him there by his throat. The other two screamed and ran off, and I thought Zaalbar was gonna rip that punk’s arms off and beat him to death with his own fists. But the Vulkar was so scared he fainted. Or maybe Big Z’s breath knocked him out.”



Mission was really getting into the story. Orin began wiping down her vibroblades and trying to get the blood off her armor before it ate through it. She didn’t know if it would for sure, but the blood had a sharp acidic smell, and she wasn’t keen on taking the chance.



“I keep telling Zaalbar to brush those choppers of his, but he never listens,” Mission continued, flopping down next to Orin. “Just stay upwind when he’s speaking and you’ll be fine. Anyway, I knew those Vulkars would be back with friends, so I grabbed Big Z and we took off. Ever since then we’ve been a team. We look out for each other, you know?”



Carth was trying to catch Orin’s eye, but she pointedly turned to Mission. “How did he end up on Taris anyway? I didn’t think Wookiees were much for space travel.”



“He was fleeing some kind of trouble back on Kashyyyk,” she said with a wave of her hand. “That’s all I know, really. Big Z doesn’t like to talk about it. Doesn’t matter to me, though.”



Carth was gesturing over Mission’s head that they should move on. Orin blinked at him, feigning confusion at his meaning, but decided it was time to cut Mission off anyway.



“We should get back to the task at hand,” she said, standing and trying one last time to rub off spots of congealing rakghoul blood.



“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” Mission stood as well, stretching. “Like I used to tell my brother, fast talk and slick words don’t get the job done.”



Carth beamed over the Twi’lek’s head in smug triumph, making sure Orin had caught that last part. She focused instead on the first.



“You have a brother?”



She looked trapped, saying, “He’s a touchy subject, you know? Just so happens I don’t really feel like talking about him right now. Nothing personal.”



Orin felt a twinge of annoyance and was looking at Carth before she realized it. He had an eyebrow raised and was quite clearly saying, though non-verbally, ‘What? Aren’t you going to pester her until she cracks too?’



Which is precisely why, when she saw another cluster of rakghouls, she flipped on her stealth generator and was gone without a word. She needed to vent.



Moving forward, Orin began to silently pull out her vibroblades, ignoring Mission whispering her name, trying to figure out where she’d gone.



“Don’t bother,” came Carth’s voice, annoyed. “No point expecting better from a smuggler.”



“Oh that is fucking it,” Orin growled, loud enough for Carth, Mission, and the rakghouls to hear. She slammed her blades back in their sheaths, pulled her rifle, and started taking the rakghouls out at close range, taking cathartic enjoyment in the smell of burnt hair and charred flesh.



Two were down before she was fully unstealthed, and then the other four were on her. One was bigger than the others, hulking and drooling in a way that reminded her of a Republic pilot named Onasi.



Carth and Mission’s blaster fire added to her own, one of the shots so close that her forearm was burnt. “Ow!” she yelled back at them, taking down the last rakghoul. Then Mission screamed Carth’s name.



Orin spun on the spot in time to see that two of the rakghouls were still alive, one headed for Mission and the other--the hulking one--pounced on Carth, knocking him to the ground.



She dropped her rifle and pulled her vibroblades as she sprinted for them, slicing at the other rakghoul to get its attention off Mission. The only thing her mind could process was Carth’s struggling body pinned beneath the giant rakghoul.



She reached it just as blaster fire propelled it into the air, looking like a marionette with cut strings. Orin slid to kneeling above Carth. “Are you okay?” she asked breathlessly, barely taking in the bite marks on his face and neck before something hauled her backwards onto the ground. The rakghoul she’d sliced at was above her, ready to feed. She slammed her vibroblade into its widening mouth and through its skull, instantly back at Carth’s side.



“This doesn’t feel too good,” he said, the red of his blood standing out stark against his ashen face. Orin ripped off her rucksack, dumping out everything and shoving a pile of medpacs at Mission.



“Stay with him. Get the bites cleaned out and keep him swimming in kolto until I get back.”



“But what if we run out?”



“I won’t be long,” Orin said, grabbing the blade still in the rakghoul, bracing her foot on its jaw, and pulling the sword free with a sickening squelch. “Kill anything that comes near.” And she sprinted off.



She stealthed by two other rakghoul groups before she found the remains of the lost Sith patrol. Three rakghoul munched on the leg of one of the dead troopers. She beheaded two. The third she stabbed through the heart and lung. Orin tore through the uniforms and packs of the fallen Sith, ignoring blasters, credits, anything that wasn’t the serum.



There it was. A bag of sealed, filled syringes. She ran back through the two groups of rakghoul, taking them out with plasma grenades tossed over her shoulder, and skidded to a halt at Carth’s side, ripping open the bag with her teeth and slamming a syringe into his jugular.



His eyes were closed and his breathing shallow. She fell back onto the ground, panting. Nothing she could do now, other than wait.