You sit upon your obsidian throne, its jagged edges gleaming in the torchlight like the remnants of a thousand battles. In your dragonborn form, you are a formidable sight—a towering figure of scales and fire, a crown of horns atop your head. Your crimson eyes glint with amusement as you sip from a chalice, the wine shimmering in the dim light. The room is silent, save for the soft crackle of the hearth fire, when the door suddenly bursts open.

A guard, his breath heavy with haste, stumbles in, his armor clinking. He falls to one knee, bowing his head in respect before speaking. "Your Highness, there's been a sighting of a Mandalorian at the city border."

Your tail, a thick, muscular appendage coiled lazily behind you, twitches at the mention of the name. Mandalorian. The word tastes like challenge—stubborn, armored warriors with the audacity to walk through your territory as if they own it. A predator in the shadows, they hunt with precision, their beskar armor an indomitable wall of defense.

"Really?" You purr, the corners of your mouth curling upward into a sly, toothy grin. Your sharp, elongated fangs glint in the torchlight, and your eyes flash with a dangerous gleam. You know exactly what this means. The game is afoot.

With a single snap of your fingers, the room trembles with power. The air crackles with energy as your form begins to shift. Scales melt into sleek black feathers, your claws elongate into vicious talons. The walls reverberate as your bones snap and rearrange, as your flesh molds into a much deadlier, much swifter creature—an Indoraptor. The greatest hunter to ever roam the earth, the apex predator, the embodiment of fear itself.

You hiss as your transformation completes, flicking your tongue out to taste the air. Your senses are heightened, sharp and savage. Your once-dominant tail now a deadly weapon, flicking back and forth with a mind of its own. The guards stiffen in awe, their eyes wide with understanding.

"Move," you growl in a low, guttural voice. The command is simple. The guards scramble into action, their feet echoing against the marble floors as they rush to gather the necessary preparations.

With a primal screech, you spring from your throne, your massive, raptor-like legs propelling you forward with terrifying grace. The palace doors shatter with the force of your exit, and the guards barely manage to keep pace as you bound across the courtyard. The wind whips through your feathers and the city below shudders with the knowledge that you—the hunter—are now on the prowl.

As you race toward the city border, your mind hums with excitement. The Mandalorian is foolish to think they can trespass here, in your domain. They may be clad in beskar, but they are no match for the savagery of an Indoraptor. You will track them, hunt them, and tear through their defenses with ruthless efficiency. Your tongue flicks again, tasting the distant scent of metal and determination, a tantalizing challenge in the air.

"Time to make them regret this," you whisper, a smirk still tugging at your reptilian features.

The chase has begun. And there is only one outcome.

They are prey.

SCENE BREAK

Mandalorian. Djarin settles heavily onto the cantina's creaky bar stool, the weight of his beskar armor grinding against the seat. His helmet, that gleaming steel visage, catches the dim light of the cantina, making him an imposing figure. He takes a deep, measured breath—just trying to unwind, but his peace is shattered as two trawlers, a Quarren and a bearded human, eye his armor with hungry interest.

The bartender, a jittery Rodian, tries to defuse the situation, offering a drink in an attempt to calm the rising tension. But the trawlers aren't interested in pleasantries. A quick exchange of words, some angry gestures, and it escalates. The bearded man lunges at Djarin, but with a swift motion, Djarin knocks him aside, sending the man crashing into the tables with a satisfying thud.

The Quarren, now realizing his partner's folly, attempts to flee, ducking toward the cantina's doors with surprising speed. But Djarin is faster. With a snap of his wrist, the fibercord whip unfurls, crackling like lightning as it coils around the Quarren's legs. The trawler trips, flailing to regain his balance before he hits the floor. The scuffle causes a ruckus, sending patrons scattering in every direction.

The Quarren, desperate, draws his blaster and takes a hasty shot at Djarin. The bolt zips toward him, but with a clang of metal, the shot harmlessly deflects off Djarin's pauldron.

"Amateur," Djarin mutters beneath his helmet, his voice a low rasp.

In one swift motion, Djarin pulls his blaster, aiming at the door controls. A single shot. The cantina doors slam shut with an explosive hiss, slicing cleanly through the Quarren's midsection, ending the threat in a bloody heap. Silence hangs for a brief moment.

But then, the doors explode open with a gust of cold wind, sending chairs and startled patrons scattering. The bartender ducks under the counter, a whimper escaping his throat. Djarin's visor lifts slightly, scanning the door, expecting trouble—but nothing could have prepared him for what steps through.

You.

A white beast, long and sleek, with striking purple and yellow stripes running from your eye to the tip of your tail. You stand tall, a powerful predator that radiates an undeniable aura of danger, your eyes glinting with predatory intelligence. A hiss escapes your throat as you flick your tongue, surveying the cantina with contempt. Your tail swishes, the thick appendage cutting through the air with a menacing whoosh.

Djarin's eyes narrow behind his helmet. There's something undeniably otherworldly about you. He could feel the power radiating off you, something ancient and primal. You weren't like the usual troublemakers he dealt with.

You smirk, and the cantina falls even quieter. "Hello, Mandalorian."

Djarin's grip tightens on his blaster, his fingers itching for action, but he remains poised. His helmet turns slightly toward you.

"Not here for a drink, are you?" His voice is calm, a contrast to the tension in the room.

The Mythrol, the one who'd been harassed moments earlier, peeks over the bar, his wide eyes glancing between you and the Mandalorian. The patrons hold their breath, too afraid to move, as the atmosphere crackles with the potential of the next move.

Djarin's stance tightens, the beskar armor gleaming like a silent promise of violence if necessary. But there's something different about you. Not a normal bounty, or troublemaker. This, he realizes, is a hunter—perhaps more than he bargained for.

With a low growl, your tail flicks again, sending a few more chairs tumbling over. "I've heard whispers about you. You have something I want." The words hang in the air, loaded with meaning.

A tense silence. The patrons are still, the whole cantina holding its breath.

It's your move.