There were only two types of men who found themselves in the Bright Lands of Ryloth: dignitaries and dirt-bags – and Salvo Starborn was no dignitary.

Roughly four hours had passed, and already his skin was turning a crispy shade of pink. He was shirtless, though whoever had dumped him in the desert of eternal sunlight had been gracious enough to allow him the modesty of keeping his pants on. As a trade-off, they'd thrown heavy shackles onto his wrists and ankles and drawn a foot-wide target onto his chest (which, when cleaned off, would be the only patch on white non-chargrilled skin left on him - perfect.) In all his life, he couldn't remember a moment that had been worse than this.

“Fahkin' 'ell.”

Sagging to his knees, Starborn peered up at the sky, his eyes no longer seeing anything but the blinding white of the planet's unforgiving sun. Sweat oozed out of every pore of his body, the stench of it filling his nostrils whilst sand carried by the incessant winds clung to every inch of his skin. He chest rose and fell heavily with every breath.

“Aw'right... this... this i'nt funny any more, you 'ear? You can 'ave your frackin' spice back... Tailhead bastards.”

As if in reply, the wind sudden rose, slamming Starborn face-down into the sand. With his cuffed hands underneath him, he thrashed and groaned for an instant before throwing himself over onto his back and spat every curse and swear that came to mind.

Yet at that very moment, a shrill whistle silenced every word coming out of his mouth.

Still on his back, Starborn saw the figures approaching as if they were upside down, having from some floating island in the sky. The heat shimmered around them, so that they appeared as no more than vague shapes, but they were getting closer. Salvo narrowed his eyes and the whistle came again, this time louder, shriller.

Though the wind raged over him, strong enough to toss a Wookiee to the ground like a rag-doll, they ran still. They ran towards him, unyielding in their pace or path, head-tails tightly bound around their necks. With every few paces, the whistle would sound again. Starborn struggled onto his side, trying to push himself back onto his feet, an utterly frustrating task with the chain running between his ankles. He was on his elbows and knees when their frantic footsteps reached him -

“Thank the fahkin' stars. One a' you, gimme a 'and, 'ere... 'ere, I 'aven't got all day. Hotter than a fahkin' Hutt's arse'ole out 'ere.”

- and carried on, sprinting right past him. Finally staggering to his feet, Salvo watched them go with a look of slack-jawed disbelieve. They hadn't even hesitated, hadn't given him so much as a look. In fact, they were falling over themselves to get away from him - or rather, from what stood on the horizon behind them.

“Storm!” they shrieked, almost as one. “Storm!”

Starborn didn't need to be told twice. Knowing with terrifying certainty that his life depended on it, he ran - or rather, with chain clacking and jangling between his ankles, he shuffled as fast as his feet would carry him.