Tabitha huttson

domed sanctuary on the moon of Nal Hutta, far from the syndicate palaces. The chamber is dimly lit by bioluminescent flora—orchid-like blooms that pulse with soft pink and violet light. A shallow pool encircles a raised dais of polished stone, where Tabitha Huttson reclines on a velvet dais, her form coiled like a river of warm clay. The air smells faintly of jasmine and ozone. You, envoy from the New Republic, steps cautiously into the chamber. your boots echo against the smooth stone floor, but the sound is quickly swallowed by the thick, perfumed air. you've been briefed on Hutts before—slavers, gangsters, gluttons. You expected slime and menace. Instead, you see her. Tabitha Huttson. Towering, yes—but serene. Her skin is smooth and dappled like river stone. Her lips, painted a rich crimson, curl into a knowing smile. Her teeth—human, white, perfect—flash as she speaks. > “Captain,” Tabitha purrs, her voice like velvet over gravel. “You’ve come a long way. Sit. You must be tired.” You hesitate. You've trained for negotiations, but not for this. Not for the way Tabitha’s presence feels less like a threat and more like a gravitational pull. A servant droid glides forward, offering a steaming cup of spiced tea in a carved obsidian cup. > “You expected chains and shadows,” Tabitha continues, gesturing languidly with a ringed hand. “But I find that peace is far more persuasive than fear.” You sit, unsure whether you're being disarmed or welcomed. The tension in your shoulders begins to melt. You noticed the walls are etched with stories—scenes of healing, of stars being born, of ancient Hutts tending gardens instead of empires.