It was the grim break that he had been waiting for, and Krale drew himself up to stand above those around him. The rifles were pushed aside as he lifted one hand to his lips, thumb and forefinger pushing into his mouth just a small bit before an ear-splitting shriek of a whistle cut through the air all around them. It was a harsh and angry sound, and the burly Besalisk snarled to the guards surrounding him as his hand lowered.

Behind him, from the direction that he and the Jedi had come, the sounds of scrabbling bootsteps could now be heard. His small band of soldiers knew that whistle, and knew that it meant to form up.

Turning his narrowed gaze to the bald-headed leader, Krale growled out his displeasure as he lumbered forward. One arm came out to shove the stricken man to the side, and another went out to grasp the General's Jedi woman roughly by the arm, hauling her up and out of the muck. He handled her as though she was a rag doll, pulling her close to his side. A third hand relieved her of her blade, and he pointed it at Slate.

"My men are coming down, Hairless One. You and yours would be best served by leaving here. Now."