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Mandalore


Kakuto Ryu

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E-11 in hand, Ca'Aran vaulted over the remains of a ARC wing, and almost fell face down into a pool of burning fighter fuel. But he recovered and only got his armoured legs covered in the mess of burning liquid. The heat was a little awkward, but it would be several minutes until the burning got anywhere near going through his protective suit. That was what it was made for after all.

 

Almost in tandem the crews of the four ARC's all in shining Katarn Armour opened fire upon the crowd of lightly armed soldiers. AS this was the pacifist group, the work wouldn't last all that long. Ariana took a blast to the shoulder pauldron and went down hard. She was back up in several seconds, but still the combined fire of many small arms took down one of the ensigns from Caedes five. Finally breaking through his armour, and rattling him with blaster fire. Yet one by one, the armed resistance fell silent to the superior arms of the Black Sun forces.

 

Then there were only the children, the women, and somewhere the Duchess. Ca'Aran allowed himself a smile as the pacifist tribe began to lay down their weapons. Surprisingly there were not many guards left. Only about twenty armed men and women surrendered, Ca'Aran instructed the remaining crew of Caedes Five to guard them, as he went in search of the Duchess.

 

He stood upon a upturned crate and addressed the crowd of surrendered foes, about two hundred in number, all women and children of noble birth. ”œDo please surrender to me the Duchess of Mandalore, who is to be tried for crimes against her people, and treason against the Galactic Alliance!”

 

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Ca'Aran

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Malin followed beside Terra on ground level, doing his best to shoulder his grief. He tried again and again to justify the murders with the terror that the Mandalorians had wreaked in the past, but the more his mind tried to cover its own self loathing, the more he felt sullied and worthless.

He was killing for money... Again. It was despicable.

 

None of his conflict showed on his face however. Instead, he wore a mask of indifference as he blasted ships out of the sky. His face and eyes grew expressionless and distant as he stood his ground beside Terra, a woman who smiled and reveled in the slaughter as if she were born for this. She arced her swords into the air with the finesse of an artist most fine and cut into Mandalorians like butter; it was terrifying, yet mesmerizing.

 

Malin did his best to avoid being distracted by her though and held his own twin medium vibroblades at his sides, twirling them around to warm up his hands. He moved them around in slow enough open circles, to avoid straining his wrists, but quick enough to limber up his sore hands as a wounded Mandalorian began to rouse. The man looked to be a sort of corpse when Malin looked at him last, but he was slowly gathering the nerve to charge at him.

 

Malin paused for a moment, removed his duster, which came along with his long blade and its respective sheath. Then he threw it at the slow going Mandalorian who was just then accelerating his attempted charge and was near enough to be a threat. After that, all Malin had left to do, was to juke away from the Mandalorian's rabid turn.

 

The disoriented Mandalorian faltered at the added weight and when the combined weight of Malin's sword and Duster knocked him square in the face, the lummox smashed to the ground, doing his best to get up, but having a bit of difficulty.

 

Now that his knives were revealed, Malin moved the holsters from his wrists to around his calves and when the straps were secure, he moved forward, easily a lot better off maneuverability wise without his duster on. The mandalorian from before was still having troubles, but he had managed to dislodge the extra weight and was now only struggling against his own.

 

Malin looked callously at the man as he grunted and groaned, frothing at the mouth with all of the difficulty visible in his face; Malin watched as the man continued to push and tense his muscles one after another even with the amount of pain he must have already been streaming through them; he saw the mandalorian's concentration and struggle holding in the pain and saw him use it to drive him forward; then, when he thought the Mandalorian would finally make it to his feet, Malin cut for a vital part in his neck and watched the Mandalorian fall like a marionette. It was simple, it was practiced and it was brutal. Malin enjoyed none of it.

 

He didn't feel better than the Black Sun or know that he was higher than them in morals or dignity, but he held himself in contempt. He had long given up on trying to save himself for a life of peaceful living when he lost the root of why he was fighting for one in the first place, but images of him sharing that life with the one he loved still hung in his mind, teasing his lack of resolve or self control.

 

With a steady, but sidelong glance, Malin retrieved his long vibroblade and re-strapped it to his back, leaving his dirty duster on the ground. He didn't need it; he didn't want it. It was just a reminder.

 

Instead he rolled up the sleeves of his mottled black and grey shirt, tightened the straps of his holsters and made sure his vest was secure, before following Terra and watching as she dispatched a few more Mandalorians.

 

Those cold unforgiving blue eyes, never fading...

 

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Terra dropped the Mandalorian's helmet into the arms of Raven Eleven and glanced backwards at Malin as he nearly decapitated the Mandalorian he was busy fighting. It was good to see the man was competent, if not very good at combat. He would be a valuable asset to the team, if he kept up the fighting spirit. With a flare of her black-gloved hand, she flicked the blood off the twin vibroblades, watching the crimson droplets land onto the walls and ceiling of the lighted hallway, as if from a painter's brush upon a canvass of white.

 

She motioned for Malin to move up into the hallway, and began to sweep down the hall, keeping her eyes upon the sealed doorways. There were two such doors at the end of the hallway, both of ebony duraplast. Terra ran quickly down the hall, vibroswords in hand, and pressed the activation key on the left doorway, while the Ravens did the same to her right. It had been only a few weeks since the last time she practiced room-clearing maneuvers, but she still felt adrenaline pump through her body, causing the world to slow, as her finger depressed the activation key for the armored doorway.

 

She moved to the side as the two doors opened, observing Raven eleven and twelve enter the doorway to her right. With a small sigh, she leapt into her assigned room, bringing up her vibroblades to block any incoming attack. A line of crimson plasma zipped over her head, fired by a Mandalorian female, who was sitting on top of a stack of metallic ingots, atop a pallet. The Mandalorian had green and orange armor, fitted to her form, armed with a heavy-blaster rifle, marked with the symbols of Clan Ordo. Another clan-leading target, marked for death.

 

The heat of another blast singed Terra's arm as she rolled towards the pallet of ingots, finally achieving cover from the Mandalorian's fire. Keeping her breathing steady, Terra stepped backwards and flung one of her vibroswords like a javelin at the woman's throat. The blackened blade dug into the Mandalorian's armor, doing no real damage, but the strength behind the blow knocked the woman from the top of the pallet. With her one free hand, Terra dug one of her flechette pistols from its holster, and advanced on the Mandalorian's rising form. With a kick, she threw the Mandalorian onto her back, quite surprised, finding that Mandalorian females, were in fact, much less battle-hardened or warrior-like than the males. Ripping the helmet from the woman's head, Terra removed a large portion of the Mandalorian's head with a squeeze of the flechette pistol's trigger, sending a spray of brains and bone against the neatly piled ingots. One more Mandalorian clan-leader down.

 

Clearing the room, she took one of the bronzed ingots in hand, and brought it up to her datapad for a chemical analysis. It came back with what she had hoped: beskar, Mandalorian Iron. With this much, Black Sun could pull great wealth from the arms market in the galaxy, or from the Sith. Terra stepped up to the dead Mandalorian female and retrieved herself a trophy: the girl's chest-plate and gauntlets. Activating her comlink, she stepped back into the hallway, and set a com to Delta, alerting him to the stash of beskar, and its location.

Terra

To the Death...

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OOC: This post is a bit much.

 

IC: Landing the Dreadfully Unpleasant and Very Unholy Chariot of Unwarranted Suffering on top of a hospital, the Sith murderer known as Ar-Pharazon stormed out and immediately began killing doctors. He open fired on security guard's face and burst into a network of operating rooms, using the Force to fling open all of the doors in his wicked path. Using his dark side sorcery, he carefully plucked out breathing tubes and flipped off various life-support devices. Pumps feeding comatose patients stopped moving food.

 

He continued forth into a surgical center, and jump-kicked the patient on the table, killing her instantly. He used the Force to fling a tray of surgical knives into another surgeon, killing him just as quickly. Then, he grabbed the lead surgical technician, a kindly old man with an unusually long white beard. Ar-Pharazon tugged at the man's beard, before wrapping it around his wizened, but utterly terrified face, in order to strangle him. Death came swiftly. Then, the Sith tore the man's head off before setting the lifeless body on fire with the Force.

 

Using the bearded head like a vicious flail, Ar-Pharazon flogged several nurses to death. He used the Force to ignite them too. After firing a pistol in the hospital administrator's face, Ar-Pharazon hurried back to his ship before ascending high into the Mandalore's atmosphere. Pressing a button on his ship's main control panel jettisoned several months worth of human waste on top of the hospital's burn center.

 

The Dreadfully Unpleasant and Very Unholy Chariot of Unwarranted Suffering entered hyperspace. Ar-Pharazon got away, without penalty.

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[Associate of the Illinois Mafia since November 2002.]

Member of the Four Horsemen

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The ARCs went zooming from the ruins of the planet Mandalore. The pilots and the evidence were retrieved from their EV zones, and the captives and cargo loaded up onto the shuttles.

 

Within minutes the entire croup of ARCs and Shuttles had disappeared, never to be seen again.

 

The operation was a success, and it had been epic.

 

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Ca'Aran

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The casualties added up, until they were easily in the tens of thousands. The bombing raids lasted hours, and many families found refuge in their shelters, though the raging fires soon suffocated a great many of them in the pillars of wretched black chemical smoke. It was a horrible disaster, and one that the Black Sun were only too happy to exploit. Bombs continued to drop on the crowded cities, and the quarries and mines were thoroughly raided, stealing billions of credits worth of supplies and beskar ingots.

 

Though the Black Sun had been here several days, there was no inter-galaxy response. The severing of communications had been a fatal blow, especially with the Mandolorian factions scattered as they were.

 

On the sixth day, there fell silence. The unmarked ships ceased their bombing runs, and an eerie silence fell onto the great ruined cities. And soon another group of ships arrived. A subsidiary of Black Sun, its connections hidden by thousands of back-door companies. FEMA it was called. A galactic relief force, that brought medical aide, engineers, and psychological counsellors. Relief was finally here, along with almost a million body-bags, and newscrews.

 

But the Black Sun agents and squadrons were already long gone, escaping back into the hidden bases of the great Black Sun. The next stage of the plan had begun.

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Terra walked slowly from the main stimcaf meeting-house, covered from head to toe in the crimson stains of blood. One her heels, walked handsome Malin, similarly covered in the gore of slaughter. In place of her normal Black Sun regalia, she now wore the armor scavenged from the clan chieftains. It was beautiful armor, in the Neo-Crusader style, but was somewhat patchworked, and Terra decided she would have to repaint it. From her gloved hands, hung her two vibroswords, stained with the blood of Mandalorians of many species.

 

Before her, lay what appeared to be a blacksmith's workhouse, boarded up and barricaded. If Black Sun wanted to utilize the beskar they had obtained, she would need the skilled craftsmen necessary to craft the metal to their designs. Motioning for Malin to move up, she walked casually up to the doorway, and placed a small charge slowly on the door. Taking a few steps backward, she blew the door, which caved in easily, the shoddy construction of the Mandalorians no match for modern technology. They might have great skill in metal work, but their culture, language, and houses were simply terrible, on the same standard as Ewoks on her mind. From what she saw, their ability to fight was similar too.

 

Walking calmly into the large building, she brandished her weapons, watching for movement. A group of huddling, armored figures in a corner, trying desperately to hide behind a series of forges caught her eye. They would be the blacksmiths. Running quickly up to them, she witnessed around twenty metallurgists, losing control of their bladders from fear. Mandalorian courage indeed. Rounding up the blacksmiths, she sent them under guard by Malin to the awaiting Black Sun shuttles, where the cowards would be taken to Dubrillion for processing. Watching the shuttle's departure, Terra prepared herself to continue the genocide.

Terra

To the Death...

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+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

Malin watched as Terra slew Mando after Mando. It wasn't particularly poetic and it had a macabre note to it, but it was clear that she was enjoying herself. The Mandos were doing their best to fight her off, tearing at her hair and trying to use anything in their power to stop her, but she wove through them without difficulty and they slowly began to fall to her swords. Her swords that were now covered in blood. In fact, pieces and parts of Terra's entire body had been covered in blood.

 

Malin was having his share of difficulties too, given the circumstances and his own rudimentary fighting style, he managed to stay one step ahead of the Mandos at every turn, but he wasn't as graceful as Terra, which didn't really bode well. All told, when Terra began to search for the Metallurgists, Malin had a gash across his right cheek and two shots in his arm; one in the shoulder and one in the upper arm. He had the sheath his left sword before the strain and blood loss took his body down, but he was still standing, that much was certain.

 

He felt like stopping several times throughout the combat. He felt like he would do better throwing down his swords and yielding, but the more he fought, the more he built justification for what he was doing. The more he fought, the more he saw Terra's bloodlust and caught what might have been called a contact high. The delusion was so severe, that Malin looked at his own blood soaked hands as they approached the boarded up building and regretted his involvement almost immediately.

 

There was something about Terra's gleaming white smile through her blood soaked skin though. It was scary as shit to see. So Malin didn't really blame the Metallurgists for their fear even when they tried to resist her. He didn't really blame his own motivations, but something in him just didn't feel right.

 

Follow your orders like a good dog Malin... That's all you do...

 

Edited by Guest

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<< Look at the bottom of the Character Sheet >>

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Wroth, blood, and the bitter smell of death. Bodies scattered here and there, some children crying over their slain parents. He could feel the battle rage welling from his soul, and his grip tightened upon his vibro sword, as he glanced across the dismal scene. He rounded the corner and glimpsed the ruins of a stone building. Two stories high it had been in the summer days of his youth. When garlands of summer flowers adorned the entryway, and the giggles of the little ones”¦the little ones!

 

He didn't even remember starting to sprint, but within seconds he was at the collapsed doorway. He shouted for help and started pulling chunks of granite from the wooden frame, scattering them behind him like the stones scattered upon a beach. He was desperate, and his heart raced wit hire and worry. His bare fingers scrabbled against a beam wedged into place. He screamed in anger and hacked at it with his short sword, again and again he swung. Ignoring the painful shards scattering across his face and skittering across his grey armour, he swung again and the blade snapped in twain.

 

He punched at the rocks in fury, he cried out in agony as the tears began to fall. ”œSarah? Jain? Octavian?”

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Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur

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Regarding Black Sun's attack:

 

Firstly, it is quite simply inconceivable that Mandalorians would surrender, 'cower', or indeed 'wet themselves'. It is a gross mischaracterisation of the Mandalorians of the people that distorts their culture and personalities so much as to be laughable.

 

Further to this, there is not a chance that a Mandalorian would submit to slavery, and they certainly would not reveal the secretive process by which they create Mandalorian armour.

 

Mandalorian culture mandates that everyone, even to a certain extent, children, are warriors. To that end it is completely unfeasible that an underground criminal organisation would be able to mount an overt, full-scale assault on an entire planet, much less one inhabited by battle-hardened, fierce warrior-nomads. To suggest that these agents would also be able to pillage beskar mines whilst fighting off Mandalorian defenders is also untenable.

 

To that end, the 'days-long' uncontested attack, the characterisation of Mandalorians as 'cowards', the theft of beskar and the taking of slaves are all nulled. Black Sun instead take heavy (NPC) casualties amongst those forces foolish enough to assault a heavily militarised world famed for the ferocity of its people.

 

EDIT- this is not to suggest that PC's present may not do as they wish- slaughter away, but keep it to a more localised scale rather than implying that the entire planet has just been cowed by a crime syndicate.

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http://www.themire.co.uk-- being a veracious and lurid account of the goings-on in the savage Mire and the sootblown alleys of Portstown's Rookery!

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  • 3 weeks later...

The pounding at his door woke Calvin up and he was not happy at all. "I'm comin'!" he shouted at whoever was out there interrupting his sleep. "What do ya' want?" Instead of yelling a response through the door like any sane man--at least, sane according to Calvin--would have, they just kept pounding like there was no tomorrow.

 

Despite serving in the last great War as a mercenary for the Empire, Calvin had fallen into more lazy habits since it ended. There was a time when he would have been instantly awake and ready to fight in his beskar with weapon in hand upon a moment's notice.

 

Not now.

 

Now he was groaning and swearing like one of those pathetic Imperial grunts. Part of him should have been almost ashamed, but that part didn't have much sway right now. Plenty of strong drink last night had seen to that.

 

His head throbbed and the world seemed a little too bright to be natural as he stumbled out of bed and towards his door. With bleary eyes still bloodshot from a hangover, he threw open the door and saw his neighbor, Kastein, standing there.

 

"Don't ya know it is far too early to be wakin' a man?" he moaned.

 

Before he knew what hit him, a bucket of ice cold water doused him and made him want to die from the shock. Whoever threw it on him remained silent as he cursed and shouted out his anger, but as soon as he threw a punch at the man, he found his hand caught in a grip so tight he thought it would snap his wrist. A split second later, he found himself on the ground with the wind blown out of his lungs.

 

"Wha--" he tried to say.

 

Something moved to block the sun and a gruff voice said, "Sober up, Druitt. There are more important things in life than drinking and whoring."

 

"Like what?"

 

"Like the fact that Hadrian's family has been slaughtered and he needs you."

 

That helped drive away the fog. "What?" he asked in a clearer voice.

 

"You heard me, you damn drunk," there was nothing but derision in Kastein's voice. "I don't know why I am even bothering to get you except that I think Hadrian would appreciate the support."

 

"What happened?" Calvin asked.

 

"Some raid. I'll be damned if they get away with it for long, but that is up to Hadrian to get revenge."

 

Calvin struggled to his feet and shook the water out of his eyes. While he was doing that, he wasn't able to see the second bucket of water until it was too late. "Alright!" he shouted. "I'm awake!"

 

"That was for the smell," Kastein said with a smirk. "Get your things together, we need to be there as soon as we can."

 

The hangover was still there, but Calvin ignored it as he would a battle injury. He wanted to get to his friend and find out what happened and who would pay for killing his family. It did not take long for him to get into his beskar and geared up for battle just like the old days. Within a few minutes, the two of them were in Kastein's speeder and on their way to Hadrian's homestead.

Mandalorian honor? What is that? All I want to do is to kill a bunch of people, get drunk whenever I want, and have my pick of the women at the end of the day.

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  • 1 month later...

Agony in its purist form.

 

A soft thud of a shovel tearing through dirt could be heard.

 

Shadows of blissful memory.

 

A grunt of exertion, and another rasping shovelful of brown loam.

 

A child's laughter, merriment, and love, all cast to the ground. Shattered, as the dreams and hopes of a man were laid to rest beneath the furtile ground of Mandalore.

 

A silent stream of tears wept from the cold, steel blue eyes of a man, his back bowed in dark grief. He leaned upon a shovel of grey iron, streaked with mud and soot. The ash of destruction still fell as silent as snow upon the desolate landscape. The remnants of the uncontested criminal attack upon the innocents in farms and villages upon the fecund world.

 

A distant hum of repulsorlift engines.

 

The cold, inanimate, eyes of Hadrian II of the Clan of Augustus followed Kastein's speeder, as it weaved its way through the rubble. Hadrian straightened, and raised his bloody hand in greeting. He strode forward, over three small mounds and came to a halt over a slightly larger mound, a small white cross was at its head, and upon it the words JULIA AUGUSTUS.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

When Calvin had arrived, the Clans and warriors were called, COMMS were sent, encrypted, to those of whom Hadrian trusted. There would be a sacred revenge. It was sworn.

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Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur

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  • 1 month later...

When hammer hit steel sparks seared the air and danced about the floor. This was her place.

 

She enjoyed the metal as it sang beneath her tools and enjoyed the rhythm that played beneath every thundering blow. It was her drive and the only thing left of her husband. Late nights spent were often devoted to his memory, but this was more intimate. Cythe's husband lived by the steel and worked for days. His passion strung through the strength of his arm and the heat of his forge; through the glint of his armor and the music of tempered steel. She admired his devotion and began her own trade with his blessing and inspiration. Cythera pushed herself to be a weapon smith and now delighted herself with the singing of steel. She knew what it meant and could understand that much more about her husband.

 

Afterall, Heph was the only one that truly understood her. He was the only one that saw her for what she was, not what she looked like. Occasionally, men who came to look at the merchandise, would pour over her work with conscious praises, but subconscious leering. They would watch her as she tested her weapons in battle and jeer like chattering monkeys.

 

She knew what they were actually watching and she couldn't stand it, but there was nothing to be done. As long as they carried their petty fantasies in their head, they were fine. If their fantasies were to be made visceral Cythe had no qualms with ending it right then and there and she made that perfectly clear.

 

She did what she could to make a living and to keep herself working.

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Mandalorians loved weapons. All of them. There wasn't a single Mandalorian worth his weight in bantha piss that didn't like weapons of all types. Whether it be a finely crafted heavy blaster rifle that could take a Wookiee's head off at five hundred meters or a sword that could lop it off in a single blow, they all loved weapons.

 

If they were going to have any chance at fun, they would need weapons and gear. It would be best to start shopping for it now. And what better place to start than one where there was a lovely woman behind the forge?

 

Calvin was never known for being subtle in matters of love, and he loved fighting almost as much as he loved women. Strangely though, and he could never figure this out, he seemed to get a lot more fighting than he did women. Oh well, he didn't mind too much because fighting was nearly as much fun as sex.

 

He led Hadrian into the shop ((Cythera's)) and looked around. There were some very nice toys that he would love to have added to his collection, but he was only here for one thing. He really needed a helmet because his last one took a laser blast a few fights ago and had never quite been the same.

 

This woman appeared to have some decent looking ones in stock, but he wasn't so sure about the more delicate parts of the helmet. This rather attractive woman seemed to be a good smith, but he wasn't sure how well she did with the electronics aspect of making a helmet. If there was one thing he took serious besides fighting and drinking, it was the stuff that enabled him to fight.

 

"Now missie, your helmets look good 'n all, but do they come with anything besides the metal? I am lookin' for something that has at least some of the works in it. Nothin' fancy that can be twisted up in knots by an ion bolt or electromagnetic pulse, but somethin' that can link up with ma' mates and zoom and search in the infrared and ultraviolet?"

Mandalorian honor? What is that? All I want to do is to kill a bunch of people, get drunk whenever I want, and have my pick of the women at the end of the day.

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Cythera’s red hair almost caught fire from the chauvinistic gall that walked through the door. Cythera had heard of this one through his vulgar habits and it didn’t help his stock to immediately go from staring at the store’s merchandise to staring at her ‘merchandise.’

 

She could feel his eyes picking over her as he came in closer and closer, filing through her every asset and documenting them for his own supposed discreet enjoyment. She was extremely close to reaching for a weapon and knocking him out, but Cythera had a three strike system for these types of things, because she wouldn’t really have any business if she knocked out every man that walked into her shop.

 

This man wasn’t making it easy…

 

The first strike came when he questioned the helmets left over from the merchandise her husband made before he died and the second came when he referred to her as… ‘missie.’ So he was extremely close to earning a punch in the face. Still, he had one strike left so Cythera clenched her fists tightly under the counter to help her relieve tension.

 

“Yes sir, all of our helmets have electronic systems in them. They are built to be used in a military unit or on solo operations. You have the ones already tuned for military use on that wall and ones tuned for solo use on that wall.” Cythera pointed to the individual places in her shop as requested.

 

“If you have any specific questions about how the metal holds I can let you know more, but I am not an armor smith. My partner is no longer here so we are selling the rest of the armor at special low prices until it is all gone. Then, we will be selling only weapons; anything from vibroblades to blasters; from heavy explosive weapons to smaller ones like thermal detonators.”

 

Cythera looked at the helmet the man had in his hand and saw her husband’s trademark symbol faintly carved on the side. It was enough to push feelings about him to the top of her mind, but she stifled them for the moment, because there was stuff to be sold and she couldn’t afford feelings right now.

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Hadrian let a frown fall across his weather beaten face, "I am sorry your partner is no longer here, your partner had excellent craftsmanship I must say. He or she would have been a valuable asset to whatever clan or warband he was attached to." He extended his hand, "I am Hadrian Antonius Severus, of the clan Augustus, at your service ma'am." He did not think she would know his name, but his clan had held some degree of importance in the elder days, and one of his ancestors had been Mand'alore generation back. Wilhelm Augustus had been his name.

 

He picked up a brushed silver helm, glanced across the craftsman sigil, and smiled. It was of good craftsmanship, built for a young lady. His face showed no sign of the emotional war going on within him. It would have been the perfect size for Sarah. His mind revolted in agony as he could see their bodies again. Dead, burned, mutilated. All because of the neglect of an untouchable sovereign he had not had the guts to show his face on his homeworld in nearly a decade. A fool, a coward, a menace to the name of Mandalore. A shame to the tradition, he had pulled troops from their families and sent them into battle for that rebel alliance. And never once had he shown up again. A foolish king. One to be toppled upon his damned face.

 

Rebellion. Rebellion was in the air. He could feel its stiff breeze across his face. The shouts of a cause unseen and unlooked for. The thrill of a final victory, blood dripping from a bayonet. The end would be soon for the vain king of mandalore. And Hadrian would gladly lead the way.

 

He snapped back to reality, "How much for the set? And what weapons would you recommend for a girl of twelve?" Sarah would never be dead to him, not until the body of Shadowfett lay broken upon the ground.

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Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur

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At least this girl knew her stuff. Calvin could respect that in a lass. He had initially been concerned that she didn't know anything but was here for show, but it was good to have that mental image dispelled. While Hadrian was talking, he decided to inspect each helmet individually to pick out the best one. He didn't have the money to buy more than one, so he stayed with the individualized ones.

Mandalorian honor? What is that? All I want to do is to kill a bunch of people, get drunk whenever I want, and have my pick of the women at the end of the day.

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“Step in line, Ironborn... We go to see our Mand'alor...”

 

With a cry of greeting, three members of clan Greyjoy stepped towards the blacksmithy, dragging an unarmoured dar'manda, drenched in blood. At their lead, was a small Mandalorian female, dressed in all-black beskar’gam, with the symbols of clan Geyjoy adorning her breastplate. Her helmet was in the style of the Owl, and the faceplate gave off a pale golden glow. The three Mandalorians behind her were similarly clad, but without their buy'ce, which they carried under their arms. All of them were the elders of clan Greyjoy, and members of the Ironborn, the vigilantes and pirates for whom the Greyjoys had become famous.

 

The leader, Blackwraith, rapped her armoured knuckles harshly upon the door to the blacksmith, and turned to her men, removing her buy’ce, revealing pale, freckled skin, and locks of brown hair, tied into a simple plait. Her eyes were a cold, ice-blue, and behind them a bitter winter stormed. With a sigh, she kicked the prisoner in the face with her armoured boot, shattering his jaw, and smashing out the front row of his teeth. The man cried out in agony, but one of the elders stifled it with another punch. Blackwraith shook her head in disgust and spoke out towards those inside the blacksmith.

 

Mand'alor... The Ironborn bring you an aruetii chakaar for your justice... Will you hear his crime?”

Terra

To the Death...

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The chauvinist's friend seemed a might more respectful and even sentimental to her, which was a change from the normal rank and file that came into her store. It was a refreshing and relaxing sight, so much so that she almost forgot the other man was even in the room. She paused for a moment, acknowledging his praise and took his hand shake, answering it with a little strength of her own. She gripped his hand fiercely and took a long look into his eyes.

 

"My name is Cythera Anora, of the Clan Pantheon and some nights are better than others." She admitted, fiddling a little with her bangs. She could feel Heph's presence even now, in the shop and sometime it was easier to handle when she could drown the sounds of her pain with the orchestral musings of her anvil. She studied the wall for a moment, reliving the past, when she noticed something interesting in Hadrian's eyes, betraying his feelings.

 

His memory seemed a little more personal to him than hers, which meant that there were no obvious hints toward his expression writ on his face, but she could still see a distinct change in his eyes as he coveted a small silver brushed helmet. She didn't want to seem nosy, so she didn't ask, but something about him seemed empty. Even his request for weapons for a twelve year old girl was rather odd within the contextual elements of his story and even though temptation begged for an answer, she didn't bat an eye.

 

"For the whole armor set, that will run you a negotiable sum of around ten thousand credits. It is made with one of the finer metal styles that Heph used to work with, but there is a discount, especially for a true mandalorian." Cythera said with a wink and the faintest smile she could muster. "Now, as for the weapons..." Cythera's face lit up with excitement. This was her favorite topic.

 

"We have a large stock of small to big grade A blaster pistols. There are a handful of the standard models and a few models that aren't seen around often these days. Like these," Cythera began as she walked to the back of her shop and dug up a pair of really nice looking pistols crafted with sleek metals that glistened under the light of her shop's overheard lamp. "a pair of WESTAR-34 blaster pistols that I just finished making the other day. The style is a little old fashion, but the grip is ergonomic and it is powerful, even for its small size."

 

Cythera grabbed one out of its casing and fired at a target she set up nearby, missing the bullseye by a hair. She smiled at her accomplishment and was ready to show Hadrian yet another set of blasters when someone barged up to the door and began barking loudly into the shop, imposing upon her property. It wasn't something she particularly cared for, but after a few moments of practiced silence, she figured she would let the situation play out before kicking the newcomer out of the store and shooing her away from the premises.

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Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum ner Sarah

 

For I am still alive, and thou art gone. I shalt remember thee, so thou art eternal my Sarah.

 

Hadrian smiled and nodded his greeting as he shook her hand, "It is always a pleasure to meet one of Clan Pantheon." For great they had been in the ancient days, and so they would be again.

 

The weapons were spectacular, wondrous bits of technology, perfect for her stature and hands. If only they could grasp weapons in death.

He smiled briefly and dug into his belt. He withdrew a large denomination credit chip and placed it into her hands. "This should cover the weapons and armour with a bit to spare Cythera. Vor entye"

 

Then there were shouts of rage and malice at the doors, and Hadrian knew that some had answered the call. The call for justice, for a new ruler free of ties to an outside authority. So it would be, or nightfall would claim them all. And the immortal lands would bow to agony. The clans would unite against the foul king, and he would be cast down, his blood would flow into the Rubicon. And how swift his throne would be torn asunder. Such was the path of Mand'alore. And now, He Hadrian of the Clan Augustus. Would lead a scattered group to oppose the most wretched of enemies. Their brothers and sisters. They would rise in a war of independence. And they would be forsaken by many. Kyr'tsad they would become. The forsaken.

 

He opened the door of the shop, with Calvin and Cythera at his back, and faced the mass of the Iron Borne. He raised his hand in greeting. "Hail and well met men and women of the Iron Islands. Clan Greyjoy. You come declaring rebellion against the unseen king." He lowered his hands, and placed his right hand upon the pommel of the sword slung upon his side. He bid the rapist that they had brought the swift justice of the sword, for the man's head separated from his body with a gush of bright red blood. A crime punished with death. JUSTICE that had been abandoned long ago.

 

"I ask you all here, representatives of Clans broken, without glory and honour that so many enjoy. Would you risk further death for glory and honour? Will you risk the chance to overthrow the unseen king? I tell you this.

 

The sword rose into the air pointing towards the fading sun. Darkening blood dripping from the honed blade. Hadrian's voice rose in anger.

 

"Here I will raise my standards and shall abandon peace and this desecrated law, fortune and death I will follow, from now on war is my judge. Until at last JUSTICE is brought to to wretched unseen king. Join me in this fight and we will restore the honour and glory of the old ways. We will venture to the stars of a thousand systems, and the galaxy will tremble in fear at the sound of our war horns."

 

The splendour and madness of the Iron Born's roar would be written of for a thousand years.

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Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur

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  • 4 weeks later...

...Interesting. This Mand’alor speaks in an odd fashion...

 

With strong emotion, Blackwraith nodded carefully, smiling coldly as she listened to the Hadrian’s words, her locks of brown hair whirling in the dusty wind as it moved through the deserted streets, carrying with it the smells of Mandalore and its inhabitants. From the smell carried upon it, the wind was coming off the southern prairie, which had apparently been recently fertilized by the nerfs. Her ice blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight as she knelt down, upon one knee in the dirt, and placed her bare hand into the pooling blood that ran in a stream from the dar'manda’s severed neck. With an insane, brutish smile, Blackwraith placed her dripping, crimson-stained hand upon her face, letting the blood stain her skin scarlet. The elders of the Ironborn followed suit, in their traditional manner. Rising in one voice, they cried like banshees into the wind, to honour their Mand’alor.

 

Oya! Oya! Oya!

Terra

To the Death...

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Hadrian smiled and nodded to the leader of the great clan of Ironborn. "We have a task for you, there is a bounty currently placed upon senatorial heads of state. As Calvin and I begin work upon solidifying our holdings here, travel to the planet Coruscant, and meet our brother Hallas there. He will know more. Be wary, for we are still a secret movement, do not spill our identities."

 

He turned to Calvin next. "Good friend, will you come with me to the Capitol? WE have work to do...."

 

He smiled at the lady Cythera.

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Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur

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With her ice-blue eyes shining in the fading light, Blackwraith raised her gauntleted hand in salute, and turned to the elders of the Ironborn. She was smiling, but within her smile lay a seed on insanity, deeply buried beneath a calm, cool exterior. Letting the blood drip down her face, she stepped past the elders, and motioned them to follow at her heel.

 

“Prep my ship... I go to Bakura, to carry out the will of Mand’alor.”

 

With a final nod towards Mand’alor, Blackwraith made her way to the docking platform and awaited her ship’s arrival. She had hidden the one she had whilst Black Sun, and now had procured a M12-L Kimogila Heavy Fighter, courtesy of Clan Greyjoy, who called it The Jai'galaar, or the Shriek-Hawk in basic, which had become the symbol of the Deathwatch many years before. As she jumped into the ship, Blackwraith slipped on her Buy’ce, letting the blood dry upon her skin, in a burgundy stain, in the shape of a hand. Departing the orbit of Mandalore, she let The Jai’galaar slip into hyperspace, it’s destination designated as Bakura.

Terra

To the Death...

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Calvin paid for the helmet and slapped his friend's armored shoulder with his gauntleted hand. "Sure thing, boss." He slid the helmet on, let it connect with the rest of his armor's systems, and began the process of syncing it up and customizing it. Nobody would recognize him in this new helmet and his armor was nondescript and bland. It could easily be changed and nobody would know the difference. "Let's cause some damage!" he said enthusiastically.

Mandalorian honor? What is that? All I want to do is to kill a bunch of people, get drunk whenever I want, and have my pick of the women at the end of the day.

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  • 2 weeks later...

The trip to the capitol was a short one. Hadrian and the rest of his clan were closed followed by Cythrea and Calvin's clans. They were not here for war however, they were here to collect recruits for their cause, citizen soldiers, and awaken them to the coming crusades. Hadrian stood before a gathering of the clans and spoke in high mandoa.

 

"Mandalorians have fallen from their once high grace, we have remained trapped on this world, serving the wishes of others, I tell you this, We must rise again!"

 

A few scattered claps and shouts.

 

"We suffered under the wrath of too many for too long! A new crusade will begin in short, come forward clans that call themselves warriors! We have a mighty task before us! Let the war chants come forth again, and light the fires of forges long dark, for we soon march to

!"

 

Hadrian drew his sword as the shouts and chants began to fill meeting place. Mandalorians had been awakened. And there would be no end to their ire.

 

"I Hadrian of Clan Augustus, Declare as unopposed Mand'alor of these clans, the amnesty of the exiles, and the return of our mighty empire!"

 

The applause was akin to thunder.

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Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur

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Calvin didn't like speeches or pomp, he just wanted to fight, drink, and have plenty of wenches from various seedy taverns and cantinas the Galaxy over. At least Hadrian didn't seem to feel it necessary to have a long speech or anything, so that was good.

 

Though, on retrospect, he might not have been so open about the desire to march out to war. There were spies everywhere and the last thing he wanted was to have someone come here and give them a fair fight. He didn't like fair fights because those were no fun and would much rather get the drop on the Galaxy. Still, he wasn't going to question the Mand'alor when it came to strategy. Hadrian had always been better at those things, it came with his being drearily serious and mature most of the time. The poor chap needed to get out and drink more often, but since he didn't, that meant more for Calvin.

 

Despite no obvious resistance, Calvin kept his eyes out for trouble. He had always been good at spotting trouble because he got so much practice at it from looking in the mirror. Anyone wanted to challenge Hadrian was going to have to go through him first.

Mandalorian honor? What is that? All I want to do is to kill a bunch of people, get drunk whenever I want, and have my pick of the women at the end of the day.

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  • 3 weeks later...

The Mandalorians had been shattered ever since the old ruler, ShadowFett had dispersed the clans. A once proud and robust people left to ruin by a man who simply did not have the time or will to properly govern the great clans of Mandalorians. And as such, had been replaced in a bloodless coup, and Hadrian of the clan Augustus had taken his place. In the process of several months, the clans had been re unified under Augustus, and he had begun the process of preparing Mandalore for WAR.

 

He built their structure much as he could remember from the days of youth and lore. A triangular approach, two lieutenants beneath him, Calvin and Blackwraith, then two sergeants below them. It would look altogether military In appearance. Crusaders they would be, mighty as their ancestors in Reven's time. Preferably this crusade would not end with the complete and utter end of the Mandalorian fleets, but even then, the last crusades had taught the galaxy to fear the wrath of the crusaders. The sacking of Cathar and Serreno were even talked about to this day...five thousand years afterwards. So, it was his destiny to show the Mandalorians weren't a weak people as they were under the incompetent ShadowFett.

 

The few buildings destroyed by the Black Sun Expeditionary force were quickly rebuilt, the fighters and heavy ships were assembled, and the defensive satellites reactivated. The Mandalorian homeworld was firmly under Hadrian's control. Completely unopposed, the Death Watch ideal had taken over Mandalore. Whatever Mandalorians followed the old and deposed Mandalore were now to be shunned and exiled. It was time for the Crusades to begin anew.

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Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur

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