The Rancor, for its part, merely flexed its long, powerful digits, growling. Tavion turned her head, speaking to the Rancor in soothing words. Words of Dathomir, words of power and calm. The accent would be different to any he had heard - hers was a generation apart and more impoverished, more practical than their cultish predecessors. But it would be unmistakable.

“Stolen? Yes, in a way. And for you to know of us, well…Zabraks are very, very rare these days, from what I remember.”