Smoke in the distance. Vasheira watched the rising plumes over the Republic Base from her workshop in the mountains, aqua-blue eyes hardened and glazed over. Republic fighter wreckage was dotted around the mountains, blazing fuel and electrical fires like beacons of warning. Her skull throbbed around the metallic graft implanted over her left eyebrow.
Smoke from her lips. She chewed her cigarra in quiet, seething anger. The sight was too familiar, flashing her back to the days on Ord Mantell when the Enclave enforcers would come marching through the mountains, raiding houses, burning any structure they suspected was harboring resistance. They, too, were an enemy of superior numbers and equipment.
Smoke hissing from the barrel of her blaster. Vasheira turned her eyes down to the bodies of the Sith troopers who had wandered up to her homestead. They were riddled with blaster burns and shrapnel. A tree had fallen on one. Just the silver grunts, thankfully; she’d have been screwed if those red or gold-armored elites had set their sights on her.
She shoved the repeater pistol back into its holster at her hip – hadn’t had time to get the big guns out, or her full armor for that matter – and set about stripping the troopers of all their equipment before kicking their bodies down the steep ridgetop slopes one by one to the cairnmog feeding grounds below. Might as well put the materials to use, she mused darkly to herself.
One thing was certain here. The Republic wasn’t able to keep its shit together. She’d debated over it long enough now. It was time for them to see how a Mantell Tiger did things.