Note: it's a short story that follows Rancor trainer Malakili
And now his last rancor, Pateesa, is dead.
Crushed by a lucky fool in black.
Worse, his employer is also gone—eradicated by that same lucky fool and his
cruel friends. Malakili and the others were left in the palace after Jabba’s sail
barge erupted in belching fire, all of them unsure as to what exactly to do now. A
new Hutt would come to occupy the dais, they said. And so many stayed as the
food dwindled and the water ran out. Soon those left began drifting away, too,
off into the sands and away across the dunes. No Hutt was coming. The galaxy
was changing. Could it be that the Hutts were fighting? Some underworld war
pitting slug against slug?
Malakili was one of the last in the palace.
And then one day, he left, too.
He thought maybe to tame the glorious monstrosity at the bottom of the Great
Pit of Carkoon (and, failing that, to throw himself into its maw), but the mighty
Sarlacc was injured. Burning wreckage from the sail barge had rained upon it.
Already its body—considerably more massive than the mouth exposed from the
sliding sands—had been partially unburied, its stoma-tubes slit open, its
digesting innards pillaged by industrious Jawas. They pulled out weapons and armor, droids and tools. And skeletons, of course.
