Private Bloody Water On The Sands

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

Itzhal leaned back into the broad expanse of fabric covering the seats, sinking into the comfort it offered. With the same movement, his head rested between interlinked fingers rather than against the wooden headboard behind them. His legs stretched along the floor, recently cleaned treads searching for purchase amongst the luxurious carpet, though his limbs never seemed to stretch quite as much as he'd like, with the table that sprawled from the window almost to the doorway. His boots lifted for a second, a frown on the old man's lips, before he forced them back down onto the ground. It would be a shame to dirty the old oak texture, though the thought crossed his mind more than once.

With a slow tilt of his neck towards the small shaft of light that leaked through the room, Itzhal turned towards the window, and the warmth of the world outside, barely restrained by the soft hum of ventilation units above. Richly stained olegan shutters framed the window, their surface smooth to the touch, with an inlaid pattern of fables and legends embellished across the slats, retelling their stories every time they shifted with the command of the rhinestone cord that drifted faintly on the gentle breeze.

It was a bit much, all things considered.

Then again, perhaps that was what made it the perfect bait.

Tags: Drexan Ordo​

 

[Drexan Ordo]

F R O N T I E R​

Location: Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

Drexan Ordo did not arrive with ceremony.

He arrived like a man who belonged to the land.

The doorway framed him in dust and sun, beskar scarred by wind and old fire. His armor bore the marks of Ordo’s frontier, pitted plates, sand-polished edges, and a muted clan sigil worn down by years of patrols beneath a relentless sky. Outside, the world stretched wide and unforgiving: redstone flats and broken mesas, moisture towers rising like iron cacti, repulsor tracks etched through the dirt as if the planet itself had been wounded and left to heal crooked. It was as if it had been reborn in durasteel and blaster smoke, a place where distance killed faster than bullets, and law was whatever could be enforced.

Drexan stepped inside, boots striking the floor once, solid and unhurried. His helmet turned toward Itzhal, the T-visor settling on him with the steady weight of a man accustomed to command. He said nothing at first. Let silence do the work. Let presence speak where his voice no longer could.

When he finally spoke, the modulator rasped to life, rough, metallic, but unmistakably human beneath the damage.

The words came slow, measured, edged with a faint static distortion, as if dragged through old scars.

“It's too clean. Too quiet.”

He moved deeper into the room, ignoring the luxury, eyes tracking angles, exits, reflections in the glass. A Warden’s habit. A hunter’s patience.

“Bait draws eyes.”

A pause, visor flicking briefly toward the window and the endless frontier beyond.

“Eyes draw trouble.”

Drexan stopped beside Itzhal, close enough that the presence of beskar was impossible to ignore.

“We’re done waiting.”

The modulator crackled softly as he exhaled.

“Check your gear. Saddle up.”

Outside, wind rolled across Ordo’s plains, carrying heat, dust, and the promise of violence yet to come.

The frontier always noticed, eventually.

Drexan Ordo intended to be moving when it did.

Itzhal Volkihar​