Young Writers Society

Tarkin's brow furrowed, searching the dust for a shadow. There was none. Frustrated, he went still, listening carefully for even the slightest rustle of leaves.

The only issue was now his quarry was aware of some kind of presence. Fighting the urge to find and destroy the person in the way of his hunt, he kept moving towards the trees. He's made it to the grass by now and could hear branches breaking and see a low light as someone moved away from him through the brush.

Tarkin followed the noise, fingering the rifle's trigger thoughtfully. He was fairly sure of where at least one person was. He could fire, but Palpatine wanted this target alive. If he struck the target wrong, there might be trouble. If he didn't take the shot, though, his rival might get there first and do the quarry in. After another moment, Tarkin dropped to his belly, took aim at where he estimated someone's ankles to be, and fired twice in quick succession.

Sirejj felt the heat of the blaster bolts rip past his legs as he jumped to the side. He heard a cry from in front of him but wasn't sure if his prey was somehow hit or just frightened. He snarled, this time sounding like the beasts of his home planet and nothing even remotely humanoid. He wouldn't be able to take any quarry with someone shooting at him so he stopped and lay still, watching and listening. If the other hunter was foolish enough to pursue the prey further into the woods, he would have to pass by Sirejj first.

Tarkin, unfazed, tilted the muzzle of the rifle up and fired toward the growling next, then rolled to the side to get a different angle. He waited, holding his breath as he waited for a cry of pain.

Sirejj felt that one graze his shoulder. The hunter was close. How he was firing in the dark and hitting so accurately said something about his experience. This was no novice he was up against. He rolled behind a tree, grinding his teeth against the significant burning in his shoulder.

Tarkin advanced a few feet, then stopped again to listen. Breathing, bushes, twigs, anything. His eyes flickered toward where the quarry ought to be.

Sirejj kept his breathing as silent as possible and did not move. He could feel the presence of someone advancing towards his position, but they were moving painfully slow

He waited, then fired off a few shots to his left, trying to flush the intruder out.

Sirejj was shielded by the tree and didn't move. Maybe he'd fool the other hunter into thinking he'd been lethally shot, but that was unlikely. He could hear sticks breaking in the distance as the quarry made their way even further away.

Tarkin sighed inwardly; that would be another tedious chase.
"Sir, did you get him?" the boy's tremulous voice came from somewhere behind him, and he closed his eyes. Kriff, he'd nearly forgotten about him. His footsteps were masking any sounds Tarkin had hoped to hear.

Another one. Drat. At least this one sounded younger and probably wasn't nearly as knowing as his master. Sirejj moved slightly as the boy talked so he could turn and look towards them. His eyes could see perfectly well in the dark.

Tarkin refused to blow his cover.
"Sir?" The footsteps stopped; he could practically see the fool turning his head this way and that. "Sir, there are some creatures coming this way. It's too dark for us to track him any further..."
Tarkin stayed still, trying desperately to hear something, anything besides his companions blabbering. The quarry was gone, but perhaps he could catch the one who had spoiled the hunt.

Sirejj could make out a figure standing in the shadows. That was the one he was after. He'd gut the young one too if he decided to play the hero. This would be a waiting game, and while he was not naturally patient, he would wait for blood.

(Tarkin is still lying down)

The boy went silent, perhaps contemplating the consequences of leaving his superior alone in the dark while he went back to the tent. In the end fear of the greater danger won over, and he moved further in Tarkin's direction, squinting.
He was too near at this point; he might trip and land on Tarkin, and then they'd both be dead. Tarkin moved forward as quickly and quietly as he could at an angle so he wouldn't be trampled by the simpleton.