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Terra

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Terra last won the day on June 23 2022

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  1. A thousand voices across a thousand worlds hammered into her senses, converging into a cacophony of static through which she could only make out two Sith. The bloodletting of her past seemed to stream past her in parallel, drawn from her like venom from a wound, malice spilling like vomitous bile to mix with the lifeblood around her. Her fingers twitched and picked at her former captor’s rough garments, wrinkling the cloth and spreading the blood into the intricate stitching. The former mercenary stared at the two Sith before her, swaying upon her kill, and was thoroughly confused; Terra had expected Ziost to be inhabited by far greater people. There was no grand assembly of Masters, there was but two young Sith. She saw something of the nightsister within the man, a pale imitation cast within a mirror, nothing but a bloody reminder of that Darksong whom she buried beneath the surface of Naboo. A smile twitched upon her gaunt features, the scene of the Nightsister’s death reflected upon the Force; the fracturing of skull by a slug, how the light reflected off the brain matter staining the granite. The woman, clothed in the orange and black of smiths, had no lineage she could see. A sorcerer, but without the deeds that made her important. This was no Sheog, no Geki, no Ason. Just a Sith without fame. Terra smiled ruefully, her scarred hands rising from the slaver’s clothing to grasp at her own face. Her blood was running hot and fast, thrumming within her ears with each heartbeat, driven ever on by the bloodlust protocols of the nanobodies that infested her marrow. Geki’s insanity. The girl stumbled to her feet, her unshoed feet slipping in the blood as she fell into a fighting stance. Unsteady, but she would die fighting, as the Sith of old would have bid her. Your commands echo still, Master…
  2. The changes came in flashes of wakefulness and blessed abeyance; being dragged upon a dias, stripped of all cloth and virtue and sprawled upon a diagram. The earth beneath her was warm, comforting. Screams filtered through, flitting and floating with cries for mercy. There was none to be had, and each in their turn was slain, filling the bloodlust of ancient Sith. It was how it was always done, extraction of dark emotion, be that pain, fear, agony, hopelessness, fed the power of the dark. Perhaps it was the nature of the planet itself that caused a stir within her soul. That warmth was different. Hungry. She had been adrift for so long upon the currents of whim and apathy, but the knife’s edge cut into the fabric of that dream, shredding her drug-hazed world into a bitter reality. She didn’t want to die. Not here, amongst the filth and the sewer rats, to be sacrificed for the edification of mania and ego of some false god. Terra had seen such things countless times; the rise and fall of Sith Lords were a bloody affair. Ar-Pharazon had sacrificed countless Jedi, Geki, legions of slaves. Sheog consumed everything in his Hunger. The knife split into her skin and sinew, causing a trickle of crimson to spill in rivulets down her naked spine. Ason… Oh how the Sith had marked her life. Ason. He had made her something greater and yet worse than human. The Soul of Nagathul had devoured her own. A Pariah. One bereft of life and power. Cursed always to the infeeling insanity that came without that which bound all life together. The consequences had been a rise in her own sociopathy and a downfall of any morality. A bitter narcissistic aimlessness. An assassin who killed entire royal families and Jedi Councils. The knife bit deeper. How did it come to this? Feeling came flooding back as that drug-haze was ripped away. The Sith Sorcerers were here to feed upon her anemic fear, like they had done to her predecessors, but she had none to give. Not even pain. They would never be abandoned to some Sith’s keeping again. They were hers alone. She took a staggering breath and turned swiftly, letting the knife scar her back and shoulders. Ason’s lasting gift, those of teeth of runed darkmetal, ripped into the throat of the priest, slipping easily through fat and muscle, vein and artery. Her mouth filled with the copper taste of warm blood. How it sated her. She had never known she was so hungry. She bore down upon the Sith, her spindly arms and legs wrapped about him like a lustful lover, riding him down to the wet, crour-bound earth as she devoured every drop of his lifeblood. Terra sat upon that drained corpse and smiled towards the Sith audience, her lips revealing something cruel and dark, outlined by shimmering torchlight; blood-soaked runes of darkmetal. The assassin of Lords and Jedi had returned. Crimson eyes, sparkling like a holocron with their palm; A Sith creation, ancient memories of long-dead masters, had returned. A Pariah in their midst
  3. Where once had been a fierce warrior, upright and strong, with blood as hot as the seven suns, only a sad, feral thing remained. Bronzium hair stained dark by spice, muscles withering under anorexia’s ravenous toll. The girl could see nothing but the pale specks of light that filtered through the course blindfold that rasped against her face. Bruises pained her every movement, coughing in fits upon ruined lungs. The addict strained to breath through a nose packed with congealed blood, and could only smell the ash of deathsticks and the sick-sweet fester of her fellow captives. The girl next to her had sounded younger than her teens, crying for a lost mother and begging for water. The addict judged she had been rotting for three days now as the botfly larvae had begun to crawl the few inches between them, to cover her in their waste. She estimated from the weeklong journey, they had lost half of her fellow captives. Many had been refugees, some addicts or prostitutes, swept up by cultists in the undercity The weight of the ship shifted and shuddered, pitching the former mercenary into the rotting corpse beside her. Pain blossomed from a hundred bruises, giving a sharpness to her mind she hadn’t felt in many months. A few muffled moans came from the bay around her, driven by desperation, stupefaction, or pain. For her own part, the addict spat a mouthful of larvae and putrefaction onto the floorboards, followed by the black bile that had filled her stomach. The hissing of an airlock interrupted the growing symphony of self pity, and every voice fell silent, daring not to invite a kick, a stab, or the ravenous hands of lust. “These smell dead” The voice came from a Weequay, a cruel beast of an alien, with long curls of wiry hair “Even the dead have use to the Necromancers.” That was from a female Twi’lek, skin as pale as alabaster, with dark, cruel eyes and a voice like shifting gravel. Beyond them, fresh air leaked in, pressing into the bay with icy fingers. The world beyond was cold and smelled much as its creator; of purulent rot and festering bogs. She knew it far too well; The Old Slug had fashioned a world in his own image. Into that new world, the addict was tossed into a pile like cordwood, sorted from the dead. And so Terra had come to Ziost, a former Mandalore stripped to nothing but a blood sacrifice
  4. The spear fractured, the darkmetal tip having dug deep into the shoulder of her opponent before snapping off, leaving her with only a broken shaft of oiled, fire-hardened veshok-wook in battle-numb fingers. The wood clattered noisily on the shattered stone about them, two titans of combat alone upon a rooftop with only silent gods as witness. Oya… Tros. The man, that former friend and crusader was not dead, having only fallen to his knees by the force of the spear, but the battle was over. The hands had been locked in, and she had come out with an idiot’s array, but only barely. It had cost her far more than perhaps it had her opponent. Faith was gone. Blessing was gone. The gods had never spoken, no matter how hard she had prayed and chanted. No matter the sacrifice. The divine right to her title had gone with it. She had raised a hand against a brother. Terra smiled ruefully, her scarred and metallic jaw twisting to show bloody fangs. She bent, the plait of tangled braids streaming around her to pick up her buyce. No. To pick up her helmet. With cold fingers she found the bronzium circlet that had adorned her brow for so many years, what had marked her as Mand’alor, and wrenched it from the darkmetal clasps. With steps that seemed to shake, Terra approached Tros, before stumbling to join him on her knees. She stared into his T-visor, seeing nothing beyond the wraithlike reflection of the broken woman she was now. A victor in name only. She placed to circlet in his hands. The girl placed her helmet before him, watching for a moment the twilight dwindle in the dark mirror of its metallic gleam, and stripped slowly each piece of her armor from her body, piling it ceremoniously before him. She transformed before her friend from that imposing warrior who had almost conquered the galaxy with each piece of discarded beskar. With each cracked and fallen façade Mandalore the Bloody faded into a gaunt and sickly girl, the marks of self-harm badly bandaged on torn forearms. Bones outlined harshly on malnourished skin. She had aged little from the young woman that Piccalo had picked up from Aeton, but the horror of her life was stained upon pale, bruised skin. Sharpened darkmetal teeth streamed with saliva thick with crimson blood. Corruption, rape and torturous modification by the Sith. Being forcibly ripped from the Force and made a Pariah. It all played into the lurid form that knelt before Tros Ardell. A broken form in a ripped, sweatstained and bloody undertunic. The only thing that stood out was the wild, crimson eyes which belonged more to a rabid dog than the morose woman before him. “Goodbye. My friend.” The former Mandalorian stood, touching the forehead of Tros’ helm with her own, before walking into the night, bare feet leaving a trail of blood. She left him there, with her armor and weapons. There would be no return.
  5. Terra’s scream echoed within the confines of her helmet, but there was no reply in the heavens. Tros did not fall. No godfall. The cards were scattered. There was only the tragic emptiness of her personal hell, the lie of triumph and importance, unanswered by cosmic reality. Her fingers seemed to lose their strength, sapped by desperation and a shattering faith. She had served broken men, Sith and Jedi, Crime Lords, been both a Pariah and the godlike leader of a movement that had destroyed the Core Worlds. And yet. A dark cloud was forming within her mind, spreading swiftly as the light’s horizon was swallowed into oblivion. A strange quietness, bereft the voice of the gods. …Does he deserve the title? Where was the evidence of it? Where was the lasting strength? So many had built in greatness but all she had from years of fighting was nothingness. For years now she had attempted to snatch up the flame of passion and wonder that had come with the crown of Mandalore, but those that had faded with her Crusade. All that was left now of that beauty was rust and brokenness. Scars. Dreams of greatness that would never come to pass. Coldness crept into her fingers, spreading as ice in her veins. Yet despite those failures, her internal voice cried for her to press ever forward. Instinct to fight, but the darkness and the cold and the quietness went on just the same. The HUD outlined where Tros had taken cover, on the rooftop below, behind what might have been a forced air refresher system, now smoking from several stray rounds. Metal teeth gritted together, sending sparks to sear her scarred tongue. The metallic taste of blood seemed to shake her mentally, a totem of reality of the war she fought in, more pressing now than her constant internal struggle against emotional nihilism. Yet the coldness remained. There was a scraping crash in her ears, and her breath left her in a rush. An alarming red flash, and her HUD displayed a grapple line having attached to the armor plating on her chest. The assassin immediately dropped one of her pistols, grabbing at the line to detach it, her icy fingers finding the thin line, but the world went as dark as her thoughts. The initial shock of it was overcome by instinct. Somehow her electronics system had been disabled, which left her vulnerable and directionless midflight a half dozen meters above her opponent. The emergency settings on the jetpack wouldn’t last long. Spast. Letting go of the line, Terra ripped her buy’ce from her head with shaking fingers. Cool air, choked with smoke and the acrid smell of ozone whipped against her face, her sweat turning her face as cold as her hands. She let the helmet fall as the Jetpack sputtered on her back. The Mandalorian stared down at her opponent, and one-time friend with crimson eyes, her blonde plait of hair whipping in the wind like a battle standard. The Assassin emptied her one remaining pistol down at Tros as gravity began to win the battle against her struggling jetpack sending a wave of flechettes to great the man behind his cover, before letting that too fall to the earth below. The darkness began to creep in again, crawling at the edge of her eyes. A bittersweet smile of darkmetal and blood crept over her stern complexion. She mouthed one, sad word to him. ...Oya... With a strong pull, she grabbed onto the line that tethered her to Tros as her Jetpack finally died. Her trajectory changed to be directly towards him, aided by gravity’s pull. From her back she brought forth her vibrospear, long and of wicked darkmetal that seemed to pull in the last remaining twilight into its tip. She would fall upon him like the Taung in their Mythosaur hunts, to drive her spear through gap about the collar into the vitals beneath. There was darkness in her eyes. A bitter determination reflected in the hallows of her eyes, a gaze averted from life. And so she would fall from heaven like the stars at the galaxy’s end when all would turn to night. ((3)) ((Lost electronic control according to the elctrodart. Emptied a few rounds of flechettes at Tros and then made a falling spear attack. Thank you for the duel, it’s been an absolute pleasure. I’m sorry for the delays!))
  6. Glowing azure flame began to rain down on her again, blasting holes all around her. The Mandalorian gritted her teeth, tasting the familiar metallic tinge of blood that always seeped from her darkmetal jawline. Jets of molten stone began to pelt her with heated shrapnel. The assassin took a step backwards with her left foot, raising her slugthrower to send a return shot at her former Vod. Rapid fire, same weapon as before The rifle bucked hard in her hands, her vision turning white as several rounds of the incoming fire churning the weapon’s ballistic chamber and feeding system into glowing slag. Her fingers began to sting, and she tossed the now useless weapon onto the ground as the stored ammunition began to ignite and cook off, sending shards of brass and glowing powder in all directions. She began to dance backwards, bringing an arm up to ward off the fire, but it continued to pour in on her relentlessly. Frustration bubbled into the blood that coated her throat. Spast. A searing line tore its way across her left thigh, and her backwards dance became a clumsy tumble. The Gods had sent the game into reverse, the Shift had occurred, and once again Terra found herself in an all too familiar place; wounded under heavy fire from a former friend. The ground bit hard into her back, despite the attempt at a roll. Her left leg seemed far too sluggish and could barely hold her weight. The HUD showed the yellow-glow that denoted her opponent rapidly approaching, shooting as he approached. Looking skywards, the Mandalorian stared into the domain of the gods, that swirling darkness of destruction. Above her the great war between Jedi and Sith was playing out, and in them she saw a fell mimicry of the eternal war between Kad Ha’rangir and Arasuum. The Destroyer had chosen her, and she would not fall in a paltry battle between former brothers. From those heavens above, and the hells within she channeled another cry, a far more bitter and angry thing. It shredded her throat and deafened her ears, birthed into existence from the deep pit of her sorrow and boundless rage. The gods would not use her as a pawn to be thrown away when inconvenient. Like those she had trusted always had. Dragging both of her flechette launchers from their holsters, Mand’alor ignited her own jetpack to kick herself towards her opponent, at an elevated angle of approach. She would be above him, towards where the gods made their war. She continued to scream, launching round after round of alternating flechette-fire down at the approaching Mandalorian. He had come for the crown, and he would be met with lead and flame. ((2)) ((Weapon destroyed, left leg injured. Fires flechette rounds in response to Tros' approach))
  7. With a roar of a thousand voices, the great Bes'uliik Hades shattered the sky with its metallic rage. Bolts of light the color of a Zamarrian starset churned their way through the sky, stitching pockmarked carbon into the glittering darkmetal that made up its armor. The great beast’s rearing turned into a stumble, its claws skittering against the broken stones. The blasterfire was precise and all too familiar. Her HUD began to filter out erroneous information, filtering everything out but what she needed for war. Tros and his spitting blaster rifle became outlined in yellow, marking a priority target. The discordant chorus of voices became deeper, full of a rising hatred. Terra spat a curse into the confines of her buy’ce, pressing her knees hard into the control mounting, but there was little response. Within her mind, a deepset rage was growing. She placed her left hand on the Bes’uliik’s plating, which seemed to shift in response to her touch like a ripple on a placid lake. A heartbeat and a thousand options spread themselves before her like the opening hand of a game of sabacc. Concussion Missiles, Trihexalon. Shrapnel Shells. Scatter Wave Amplifier. A thousand choices in which she could dispatch those that stood before her. Before Mand’alor. She could kill them all so easily. Greedy fingers stretched towards the armament controls. Kad Ha’rangir had dealt her an Idiot’s Array with which to decimate the Sith. Their Soldiers and their blasted… Mandalorians. Her hand dropped, and the dealer swept the cards away. Ah. The heavens seemed to echo in pleased laughter. Terra shrugged and slipped from the saddle, landing lightly on her booted feet upon the fractured stones. She brought her slugthrowing rifle up, watching the targeting reticle rise with it on her HUD. With a blink, she opened up the AVATAR-Link, letting it burn into her consciousness, tying herself into the fallen consciousness that was the creature’s soul. …Go my friend. I will not ask you to fight against your Vod. I am Mand’alor, it is my task alone. With those words, The Mandalorian let out a piercing shriek that tore at her throat, filling her mouth with the taste of copper. It was that of the jai'galaar, the shriek-hawk which had marked her people since the days of the Civil War. Stooping low, Mandalore the Bloody charged forward at an angle to right of yellow-outlined target of Tros Ardell. As she ran, she pulled the trigger twice, spitting 3-round-bursts of slugs at the man she once called brother. Her Vod. ((1)) ((Dismounts from Hades, Returns fire with six rounds of AP))
  8. Terra slammed her fist into the durasteel doorway, a smart of pain arising from swiftly bruising knuckles. The blast door refused to open, despite boiling her anger. A low growl rippled from between clenched, darkmetal teeth. She tasted the metallic bitterness of her own blood, a byproduct of the Sith alchemy that had woven her jaw together, leaving it a trap of sharpened fang and bleeding gums. The Sith had finally struck. The assassin had expected it months ago, but she hadn’t seen the Sith in such a powerful array of force since the days of old. According to the data readouts, there were hundreds of starships at play, landing teams of Mandalorians, and at least three Sith incursions into the Headquarters of the Rebel Alliance. Yet, she was trapped here, in an access courtyard, blocked in by power failure. Hades was not far away now, awakened in the depths of the undercity and rapidly approaching. Her personal guard were above, aboard the Misencordia, no doubt fighting and dying for Raven, of all people. Redemption is what they had called it, for the sins of their failed crusade. Her thoughts were interrupted by the jaded cry of ion engines and she watched a group of Fang-Fighters crack the sky above. Next, blasterfire cut into peace of the garden, coming from the entrance nearbye. She stepped back, a rising rage in her veins as fate began to dig its talons into her mind. Realization. The Combat-AI, began to anaylze the sounds of war, displaying types of munitions used, mixing with input camera feeds to produce a clear picture of what was occurring. It showed assault shuttles and battle. The assassin primed her jetpack, adjusting the flight nozzles for rapid leap with a blink of her eye. Tros was here. Fate was funny, in a twisted, evil way. Pitting former brothers against each other. A metallic, discordant roar and the Basilisk swooped in, and she leapt up with a blast of the jetpack. The leather saddle was already warm, and the swirling darkmetal plating of its shifting armor seeming to kaleidoscope her sensors, causing temporary blindness. From that darkness shifted the discordant voice of a thousand dead friends, blended together. …Are you ready to kill a Vod such as he…? Terra winced. The thought of killing another friend made rage blossom afresh in her heart, her blood rushing hot in her cheeks. She gripped her rifle in hand, setting the slugthrower to a 3-round burst. “Of course I’m ready. I've done it before.” The War Droid let out a cackling, horrific howl that shattered the air as it leapt above the walls to land before the shuttlecraft, between the advancing enemy and their target. A bestial guardian for an Empire that had long scorned it. On its rearing back sat Terra, Mand'alor the Bloody, Beskar’gam of pure black and swirling crimson runes, with a circlet of copper upon the buyce, catching and spinning the failing light of a world at war.
  9. Terra watched the liquid, a pale crimson reflection in the starlight, dribble down the girl’s chin, bathing her alabaster flesh in a river of red. The Mandalorian reached up, twisting a lock of the auburn hair about one of her bloodstained fingers. The contrast of the washed and perfumed hair against the flecks of blood and grime beneath bitten nails consumed her world for a trill of her heart. She looked into the eyes, emeralds of refined, ethereal beauty. The Mandalorian’s calloused hands clasped about the lithe of the girl, bringing her into an embrace. Terra dragged in a breath, moving their hands to clasp together before them. The royal smelled of cinnabar and everglave, scents that danced to life in the Mandalorian’s psychedelic gaze to whiskey-toned amber and coal-blackened smoke. She brought the girl into a dance of war, their feet stomping to the wardrums and the cry of the wolves.
  10. ...Come away little lamb come away to the slaughter… Amidst the rolling howls, beating of feet and armor, a deamon moved in shadow. The rippling heat of a thousand bodies fueled its madness. Symbols of blood were painted upon naked flesh, the bereft clans dedicating the coming war to Kad Ha’Rangir. There was such glee in it all, the shadows twisting around firelight, playing across beskar’gam, reflecting deep crimson in the night. It was chaos, yet channeled towards one goal. The brotherhood of those who stand as a bulwark against a great enemy, to revel in blood and death until none remained. Each warrior knew their days were numbered, as did their leader. It was her, Mand’alor the Bloody, who stood at the heart of it all, dancing about the fyre, shrieking into the rhythmic night. Her voice cut into the drums, attuning them to her rhythm “Oh you tasters of blood, you raven-winged and wolf-skinned…” The dancing increased its ferocity. The stamping of feet seemed to shake the very world. The crimson, dilated eyes of the naked Mandalore, clothed in not but scars and symbols took in the cloaked figure in their midst. Her lips twisted into a smile, exposing too-dark teeth, dripping with blood “Who will wade into battle and bear the broken shield and bloody spear?” Rage-Howls answered, and Terra stepped into the thrashing maze to grab the girl about her waist, pressing into her hands the rough-hewn cup, whet once more with its bloody philter. A whistling cry from above and the twin jai'galaar began to circle them both. A wider smile, frantic and dripping crimson met the Queen’s eyes. Her voice held an annatural rage, as if driven by demon within “And who shall destroy the Sith?” Every voice broke into the cry of the jai'galaar, that shriek-hawk and symbol of Kad Ha’Rangir. The gods were with them, so spoke the omens
  11. “Mand’alor, you must prepare…” The rasping scraping of a knife skittered across her skin, shaving a slice of skin free from her left shoulder. Eyes closed; she felt rather than saw the warmth of blood spreading down the trailing scars ran through her ribs. Another cut, and a flare of pain arose from her right shoulder. More warmth. Callused fingers daubed at the blood, mixing with it a foul-smelling mix of river-mud and ash. Their touch was cool against her naked flesh. Lifeblood of the Leader. Lifeblood of the River. Burnt offerings to stave off the wrath of the gods. The omens must have been dark tonight. Terra opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh firelight. The drums were pounding a harsh rhythm, a counter to the constant sound of the city of rust. The priests droned in their chants, echoed by the soldiers that surrounded them all. Clanging clattering roars of Bes'uliik interspersed with the pounding of feet. Mand’alor the Bloody climbed to her feet, naked in the firelight, clothed in nothing but omens and symbols. A chalice of rough-hewn stone found her hands, and she stared at the murky, dark water. A cordial of blood, water from the Kelita, bonemeal, and the crushed essence of henbane. It was noxious on her lips, burning her tongue and coating her throat with the tingling of capsaicin and the rot of henbane. The fire began to dance before her, taking the shapes of war. Foretelling Kad Ha’rangir’s will. Throwing her head back, she let out a howling yell to shake the god of war from his slumber, and the rest joined into a raucous shouts like they were the embodies Karwelfs and Sherik’s of night. Bersærkergang
  12. Terra

    Nar Shaddaa

    Terra slipped a hand into one of the pockets of her black duster, feeling with shaking hands for the vial that should have been there, but hadn’t been, time and time again. Her lungs felt more filled with tar than air, each breath a gasping, ragged thing. She hadn’t told anyone where she had gone, and that had been a week ago now, or more. There just hadn’t been anyone to tell. The Mandalorian had gone a week without talking again, consumed by the sickening blackness that circled within her mind. She stepped to the edge of the passenger causeway, folding her head on her dirt-stained hands, staring into the swirling traffic below, a stark pattern that reminded her of Hyperspace. Her comrades were all but dead, her Black-Guard slain by the Sith Master Qaela, the rest folded into the ranks of an Empire she barely supported. There they had found life again, and she had let them go, joyful in the moment to see them find a purpose. Now she was despairing. Envious of what they had gained and jealous of what she had lost. Reports had filtered to her of a New Mandalore in the Sith Empire, Tros Ardell. Terra stared at the dirt that had stained the underside of her nails. Dirt or dust or spice. She bit at one of them in hope, but tasted only dried blood. He can take the blasted thing. It had brought her nothing but sorrow. Loss. Failure heaped on failure. Nothing had cut through it, not after Mon Cal. She had slipped, slowly at first into despair but now she was tumbling in freefall. No upper or downer had cut into it. No whisky had expunged it. No tearing needle had drained it away. She stared down, down into the depths, and simply breathed in the air of a crumbling city. Lost.
  13. Terra

    Korriban

    Aboard the Xaakzaamhaid, Mandalore the Bloody watched the desert-planet of Korriban spin into view. She had been to the planet countless times, both as a slave and as a loyal Sith servant, but today, to come as an opponenet, to conquer, was different. She was excited, as were her men. They would sell their lives dearly. Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Destroyer Group [Missiles] |Bes'bev| Task Force Experience: Veteran (3xp) IPM Neo-Kandosii-class Battleship: Nat’ah |25/25| Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Destroyer Group [Railguns] |Akalenedat| Task Force Experience: Veteran (3xp) IPM Neo-Kandosii-class Battleship: Xaakzaamheid |25/25| Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Heavy Brawler Escort |Chayaikir| Task Force Experience: Veteran (3xp) IPM Neo-Kandosii-class Battleship: Oosterwijk |25/35|
  14. Above the Rusting world, the Mandalorian fleet arrived. It had not come to devastate or destroy, but it was once more under the employ of the Alliance. It was a war-hardened fleet, all the green had been washed away in blood and fury. It was ready for the next operation, for as long as the credits kept coming and their Mandalore remained entertained by the war. Terra herself, was aboard the Xaakzaamhaid. Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Destroyer Group [Missiles] |Bes'bev| Task Force Experience: Veteran (3xp) IPM Neo-Kandosii-class Battleship: Nat’ah |25/25| Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Destroyer Group [Railguns] |Akalenedat| Task Force Experience: Veteran (3xp) IPM Neo-Kandosii-class Battleship: Xaakzaamheid |25/25| Mandalorian Neo-Crusader Heavy Brawler Escort |Chayaikir| Task Force Experience: Veteran (3xp) IPM Neo-Kandosii-class Battleship: Oosterwijk |25/35|
  15. Terra watched the being fall, collapsing into the remnants of her former Prelast. Adrenaline pumped in her ears, ripping in pounding drumbeats against the now-quiet vault. The only sound that remained was the churning of metallic plating and mumbling soldiers. Mand’alor ground her darkmetal teeth, turning away from the fallen Sith creation in disgust. Another Alcazerin had fallen to her weapons. The Mandalorian’s stomach began to sour, the pain rippling through her like the waves of an ocean, whipped by a storm. She ought to have felt elated, but the reality of it all began to settle upon her. She had lost a good man, and all of her squad was now wounded in some regard. The illness began to crystalize a thought into her mind Mand’alor the Bloody would no longer lead men into battle, the weight of their souls, and the lives of those she loved were far too heavy a burden. She would return to being an assassin, a Mandalorian who represented her people, but did not waste their lives. As one, the Mandalorians departed Mon Cal, collecting their wounded, and leaving their dead, stripped of their armor.
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