Watto narrows his eyes towards the outlander, thinking on how best to coax them into kneeling before him. He hasn't had a good fuck in days ever since the last slave he owned had been lost gambling on a podrace. Perhaps he can urge them into a bet putting their very freedom on the line? "Whaddya want, Outlander? Looking for a place to shelter from the storm? Old Watto could help, if you don't my humoring me."