Han Solo

     Spring on Corellia had been uncharacteristically dry that year. The periodic rain storms that were counted on by the many farmers on planet were infrequent. Not to mention far shorter lasting than what one came to expect from the climate. A too warm season full of people known across the galaxy to be hot-headed.

     Dry as it was on the rest of the planet, you could always count on the air of the northern continent to be a bit damper; especially when you traveled beyond a couple of hundred kilometers of mountainous terrain and got into the swamplands called Agrilat. From his position on a howling speeder, the young racer could feel the air growing more humid around him. The faint, almost peppery smell of razor grass was detectable in the air as he continued down repulsorlift beaten paths. The route was well warn and widened by a volume of travelers.

     The rider was making good time and going a little too fast to do it. That was typical of Han Solo and with his destination being out of the way from all the other places he needed to be right now, he had to cut corners. Or at the very least, hug them tightly and pour on the speed through the straightaways.

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