The Neophyte

Wistril, Outer Rim Territories
While the galaxy looked to the core as the Alliance and Empire fought a war of annihilation in the periphery forgotten conflicts and violent power struggles had become a staple. Wistril was no different; raiders, colonists and farmers fought short but violent turf wars across the grassy plains, a problem that had worsened by a growing number of foreign fighters.
The farmlands were bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, an eerily beautiful end to what had been an incredibly violent day. Walking amongst knee-high grass an armoured Neo-crusader stalked and with a shouldered rifle he scanned the horizon for any movement. The day's fighting had ended and town which refused to swear fealty to the local warlord had been reduced to rubble. Armel had now taken on the long and unenviable task of hunting down the survivors. Of course he was not without the right tools for the job.
"Sibak! Untota!" he called out.
Grass began to rustle and the sound pounding paws against dirt filled the air. Darting out in front of the crusader two massiffs skidded to a halt, their paws digging into the roots of the long grass. Dropping to one knee Armel pet one of the massiffs on the head, the spines on its back bristled as he did so. The Zeltron reached into his utility belt and produced a bloody bandage that had been left on the battlefield. The darker of the two, Untota, approached, nose twitching Armel held it out to him. The massiff seemed to bury his face in it as he sniffed, the other watching curiously and after a few brief seconds it lifted its head with its nose pointed up in the air. Then in an instant it took off with the other trailing closely behind. Armel looked up and watched the twin wakes of bent stalks and wheat as they snaked across the field before turning sharply towards a farmhouse.
A devilish grin formed under his T-visor; his quarry was close and now the hunt would get exciting. He lowered his rifle, a cybernetic arm gripping it tightly as his jetpack began to sputter. After a few brief fwoomps from the nozzles an orange jet spewed out, propelling him into the air and he rocketed straight towards the farm.
OOC: Be the survivor, be someone caught in the middle, be the farmer, be whoever you wanna be gang.
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