Davon Karr said:
Objective: 1
Location: Stygeon Prime
Allies: [member="Davon Karr"] | [member="Rex Cholo"] | [member="Arla Balor"] | [member="Ronan Vizsla"]
Davon crested the wall and pulled his ageing bones up onto the walkway of the inner wall. There was a single walkway that connected this to the inner tower. Davon looked up at that slender, angular structure that jutted up above them. Their target was up there, but they needed to reach him with minimal fuss.
"Arla, give us some cover. We're going to be exposed crossing into the inner keep. Are you going to follow us in, or hold position in the outer guard tower?" He asked. Whilst Davon held no qualms about giving out orders, he also knew to rely on his people. Right now she had the best view to make that call. If she had a grapple line they could perhaps get her in through the windows a few floors above their already lofty height.
He unfolded his carbine and prepared to rush the inner structure.
O'saam be Echoy'la.
Objective: BYOO
Location: Stygeon Prime
Supporting Davon and Team (Initially)
Enemies: Anything not wearing Beskar'gam, or backing it up.
Murder Spree in the end more then likely.
He came out of a snowdrift, above where he could see all of them. Snuggling the butt of his rifle into his elbow he'd sight down something...Knowing they were about to come under fire. He'd been following the team for a bit, deciding to stay in the back unannounced. Generally, the enemy couldn't prepare for an asset nobody knew existed. He'd placed himself on their far side, noting they were about to enter a vector of fire he himself wouldn't be fond of either.
Admirable. Perhaps a bit reckless but the call of glory cannot be ignored. He'd think to himself. Pulling the silencer off of the long-barreled weapon, he'd brace the ancient weapon against a rock. The Pulse rifle would almost be noticeable by anything left alive from the initial sniper fire from Arla. The old warrior sized her work up as he bode his time.
Impressive. She reminds me of Siha. The word entered his thoughts without self control, evoking memories of pain and anger. He'd nudge himself closer to the blackened rock, making sure to stay in the ice cave he'd made. A flicker of movement, he covered his scope. Buildings like this always had some sort of alarm. And alarms, when in the open to allow the sirens best covered for audio, were kill-zones. The rage bubbled to the surface, clawing and scratching it's way as his receding hairline and graying hair. And after a few moments, it made itself known.
In the sickest, most perverse way he could imagine, her tone entered his head again as if she sat next to him.
Do it, Cyar'ika. Just a few more bodies and maybe you can touch the top of the hole you've sunk into. Do it, just because you can. I thought you were a warrior, O'saam.
His lips became taught, and his brow narrowed under his obsidian colored helmet. It was an urge unlike any other and one he'd learned well.
"The rifle is not a weapon of your Clan. It is seen as a cowards way of killing," The voice called. It was not wrong. He'd set it down before shifting to a bevii'ragir he'd had since his
childhood.
There'd be the bright burn of a jetpack as he leaped into the air, his kama flapping around him and shielding his lower body from the flames and the heat. He'd come down with a crunch on the poor sap who'd went for the alarm after finding his dead comrades. A sickening crunch emitted between his feet, the traditional hunting spear being jabbed into the chords running from the alarm's switch to the siren itself. Around him stood whomever had heard, or had the same idea.
"Good, lover, kill them all. For us,"
In the brief moment, his life flashed before his eyes as his adrenaline began to surge like a river across the rocks. Building into the pace of a rapids, he remembered the last time he'd killed a man with the spear. The Beserker rage that filled his frame, what he'd had beat into him on Dxun, it produced something that the Galaxy had not heard from his family in many centuries.
A war-cry echoed through the area, followed by whoops of exertion and anger. Gurgling, as he ripped the Bevii'ragir from the spot he'd buried it, catching him in the throat with the bladed weapon. Planting a foot, he'd rotate and hurl the body with the sturdy weapon into another man, pushing them back into a door and blockading it. After a moment, he'd sprint towards another man who went to brandish his rifle, lunging the spear ahead of his body and catching him across the thumb and into the armpit. Shoulder charging him as a fine meat shield, the gristled warrior then planted him firmly into a wall.
One more, lover.
He heard her voice again. Turning, he'd plant his fingers at the end of his spear before snapping it out of his hands. It soared across the courtyard, making a loud whistling noise as it did so. It was iconic, something ingrained into Mandalorian Children who were trained to fight against projectile using enemies. And as the spear was designed to be aerodynamic, it flew at a decent pace with a spin. A bolt came from the man who'd drawn down on him, and then another before the Spear impacted his head into a wall. They slammed into O'saam's pectoral plating, and then his gut plates. The impacts were heavy enough it sent him off his feet, the black-clad verd sliding across the ground for a moment. Instinctively, he reached for his trench knife. Something jumped on his front, and he'd lock blades with it. After a few moments of grunting and exertion, the being tried shifting over him. He'd tilt his shoulders to the side, sending the two knives into the stone beneath their feet. A hand moved from his hilt to the man's face, slamming into the being's ear twice. Once they'd both been disoriented, he straddled the man-
No. It's not a man. It's a boy. He kept driving the knife down anyways, against the arms that fought to hold him off. He'd plant his other hand above the trench-knife's hilt and firmly slam it down into his chesty cavity. The child couldn't have been Eighteen. Hell, even Sixteen was stretching it. Instinct kicked in, the boy had assaulted him with intent to kill. And after a few moments more of grunting and shouting, O'saam drove his weapon into the younger fellow's heart. The giving away of sinew and flesh and the spurts of blood confirmed what he knew. He'd twist the blade, before kneeling with heavy breathing.
It's been a while since we've spilled blood for another cause.
The voice echoed in his head again. But he was lost in another memory while he had freedom to be so. "Magnetize," He growled out, adjusting his hand so the Bevii'Ragir's mag-strip met it palm on. He'd wrap his gloved fingers around the weapon he held so dearly.
A Teenager's voice replaced the former lovers.
"Teach me how to fight, Old Man!" He was shook from the memory when he punched above where the bolts had hit his gear. The sharp pain against his torso broke the stupor he felt.
He'd open comms, letting out a static burst akin to Morse Code that Mandalorians were fond of, praying people remembered how to use it.
"This is The Black Death. Proceed freely, my wings have spread over you,"
http://s927.photobucket.com/user/MikeBullian/media/NDFCBD01.jpg.html
[[Good Aesthetic for O'saam's Gear, Minus the axe.]]
[[For Now.]]
