This is a classic trap, it’s a tired and obvious one. Get one of your prey’s allies and leave them close to death in their path, then ambush them. Yet the beast is still a whiphid, as tall as a wookiee and twice their width. One casual swipe of its claws will shatter the bones of any humanoid, let alone their great goring tusks. If you see any of the hidden hunters stalking in the ether, you leave him to his death, but if not, you will use him as a shield or a distraction. And if the pair of you both somehow make it out of this forest, he will owe you a life-debt. You think. Whiphids are similar enough to wookiees, both large sentient-enough predators coated in fur, why wouldn’t they also do that stupid life-debt thing?

Amber eyes scan the treetops and the maze of branches that intertwine overhead, but you see nothing. Nor do you spy any figures that lurk behind the ancient trees that tower over you. Slowly, hesitantly, you stalk closer to the wounded behemoth while trying to stay as silent as possible and spotting anything lurking in the dark. The whiphid’s chest heaves and sinks in a steady rhythm, no ragged breaths telling you that he is close to death. Just outside of arm’s length, his not yours, you pause. You are wise enough to know not to startle a wounded creature of this size.

“Whiphid,” The whisper escapes your lips with the lowest voice you are able to muster. “Can you move?”

A jolt shoots through the half-ton monster, then a voice as low as the deepest level of Coruscant emerges from the mess of thick fur, “Foolish human. I am a trap that you have just sprung. It is too late to retreat now. Watch for movement above and free my foot, then snap the spear stuck in my back. If you pull it out, I will flay you alive as my very last act.”

Dumbly, you gaze at his left foot, seeing it impaled in a jaw made of sharpened stone from an obfuscated trap. Cursing yourself for missing it, you bend down to free the beast’s foot. The monster goes rigid as you slowly withdraw each of the spikes that have buried into his flesh, making no noise. Freeing his foot from the sunken trap, you move to the spear in his back, glad you didn’t try to withdraw it, knowing now that would have ended worse for you than him. Straining against the solid wooden spear, you leverage it against your knee until you are rewarded with a snapping sound.

Slowly, the whiphid stands up to his full height, towering over you like a parent does to their prepubescent children. Each of his six digits end with razor-sharp claws the length of your fingers designed to lacerate flesh. Two tusks jut from his closed jaw that promise a lethal bite. “I owe you red-skin. I expected no mercy here of all places. Foolish of you, but in return, I will make sure you escape this maze of death; then we are even. The name is Urr’tal, son of Mar’tal.”