Arok had never been to Mandalore before. He had never had to do so. Dominated by a warrior culture of late, the planet had spawned iron-clad militias that seemed hell-bent on causing trouble for the more discerning members of the galactic community. It was not a world upon which the Hutt Clan had done much business; its people had yet to learn how to engage with their betters correctly.
For that reason, Arok had advised his compatriots for this endeavour to be a little less Hutt.
Following his own advice, Arok arrived in a less overstated litter than usual. Born on a more traditional litter, carried by a team of eight muscle bound Gamorreans, two on each 'spoke' of the transportation, Arok was concealed behind sheets of gossamer thin silk, bright blue in colouration. He lay on the litter smoking his hookah, smarting at the pauper-like fashion in which he was made to transport himself.
<Wa citkiuet gahhamkee biy heee kouuahh datka.> came his lamentation from within the litter, passing unnoticed by all save those closest to him. Such was his humility that the Hutt scion had even forgone the battalion of guards he would normally have trouncing after him, leaving such matters to the guard his father had sent with them - some Deacalian he had not caught the name of.
His security, and that of his cousin, Skelgok, was in her hands and the hands of those of her kind she had brought along with them.
He took another long puff on his pipe as the litter made its way down the road on the upper levels of the Mandalorian capital. Generously, Arok waved at the civilians who looked up - undoubtedly in awe of his majesty and grace. <Pacmokenu planeeto, doth tee fa Skelgok? Um tee ban fa baa boyeke, nobata? Doth Jee tee saptkhe bai banag bai wanba ba amahola wata?> Arok called out to the other Hutt, as the troupe made their merry way down the long road toward their destination, a recently closed dock the Hutts where looking to acquire.
