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​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ordo, Outer Rim Territory

Itzhal tilted his head towards the newcomer, strands of hair cascading across his fingers like silk in shades of black and speckled grey. Scars and nicks lined their interlinked fingers, concealed by the silhouette of his head, firmly cradled by weathered hands. Blue eyes traced over the pitted plates, assessing stories of old showdowns and tense firefights; for a second, they lingered upon a blow across the chest that would have torn apart lesser armour and left a man drowning in his own blood. It looked old, though the desert had a way of making most things look older than they were. It did not change the shape of the man before him. Violence followed Drexan like an old friend.

He waited patiently, his gaze fixed on the Warden of Ordo, their attention reflected in the weighted glare of the infamous T-Visor.

When Drexan finally spoke, the old Morellian listened, his focus settled upon the man before him. They spoke of the quiet that came before the storm, the hungry eyes that followed their bait, and the ticking tock that drew to a close.

With a deep sigh that filled his lungs to the brim, Itzhal's chest rose, his elbows stretched to press against the headboard, and a sequence of soft cracks echoed down their spine. Interlinked fingers, slowly departed with a shrug of his shoulders, the limbs falling loose as they dropped to his sides, and Itzhal rose to his feet.

A thin shaft of light that leaked through the wooden shutters crawled over his ancient armour; moulded to his frame, blackened plates of beskar, meticulously crafted and overlapping in intricate patterns, allowed for mobility despite the sturdy weight of the famous metal. The rest of the plates were no less grand, with flexible crimson layers around his lower torso sheltering the sheath of organs, and raised bindings on either side of his throat forming the impression of a gorget. Strangely, his armour was scarcely marked—a showpiece marred by the faintest of imperfections, a scrape of claws around the left vambrace, and faintly scorched marks across the torso and right side.

His hands reached for the buy'ce clasped at his waist; a flick of the thumb released the helmet, which settled into his hands on either side. Then, without a moment to wait, he lifted it over his head and slid it into place, the seals hissing as the connection was made.

"Lead the way," Itzhal gestured towards the door, vocalizer tainting the steady rhythm with a metallic tint.

Diagnostics blurred the side of his HuD in a scrawl of information; combat respiratory apparatus linked and ready for use, thermal cloak functional, sensor rig operational, energy cells at full capacity, gauntlet feeding mechanisms reported operational.

The last thing he did as he stepped out was reach down towards the jetpack at his feet and seal it to his back with a metallic clang.

Tags: Drexan Ordo​

 

[Drexan Ordo]

H O P E​

Location: Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

Drexan did not interrupt the assessment.

He let Itzhal look.

The T-visor stayed fixed as eyes traced the scars written into his beskar, old impacts, near-fatal blows, the kind that only time and stubborn survival could smooth into something like history. Drexan had learned long ago that warriors read armor the way others read faces. It told them who you were, what you endured, and whether you were worth fearing.

When Itzhal rose, sealed his helm, and offered the quiet invitation to lead, Drexan answered not with haste, but with motion.

He turned first, cloak shifting as he stepped out into the narrow corridor of the train. The durasteel car creaked beneath its own weight as it rolled steadily across Ordo’s badlands, rails humming with a low, constant thrum. Through the narrow windows, the world slid by in long strokes of dust and sun, wind-carved mesas, scrub plains broken by half-buried homesteads, moisture towers standing alone like sentinels that had outlived the wars that built them.

Only once they were moving did the modulator rasp to life.

“You saw the marks.”

The voice was rough, distorted by damage, but unmistakably Mandalorian in its restraint.

“This route makes more.”

He led them forward through the cars, past crates lashed down with mag-clamps, medpacks stamped with clan sigils, ration containers stacked with deliberate care. Supplies meant to last. Supplies meant to matter.

“The front villages don’t trade.”

A pause as the train swayed, metal groaning softly.

“Too far from the ports. Too poor for guilds.”

They passed families huddled close, farmers in dust-stained coats, children watching armored figures with wide, uncertain eyes. Drexan did not look away.

“Commercial regions thrive. Credits circulate.”

Another pause, heavier this time.

“Out here, they ration hope.”

He slowed near the forward car, placing one gauntleted hand against the bulkhead as if feeling the pulse of the machine beneath it.

“This train keeps them alive through dry seasons. Through raids. Through neglect.”

The modulator crackled faintly as he turned his helmet toward Itzhal.

“If it doesn’t arrive, they don’t last.”

The engine growl deepened as they neared the front, the rails stretching ahead into open, lawless distance.

“That’s why we ride point.”

A final pause.

“And why we don’t fail.”

Drexan stepped forward again, toward the engine, toward the frontier, where Mandalorians were still the only law the dust respected.

Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

Itzhal followed a step behind Drexan, boots tapping lightly against the faded laminate—old stains marred the surface, black and amber marks creeping across the once grey floor. His calloused hands pressed against the outside of his thigh holsters—the leather rough and weathered—a thumb settled on either side, ready to pop the release catch.

On the other side of the cabin doors, armoured figures perched like vultures over brutish ammunition crates—half-cracked open, gutted by ravenous scavengers and opportunistic hunters. Payloads littered overloaded tables, the rich, dark wood straining under the weight. Blasters and slugthrowers alike lay in organised piles, their frames stripped and the fragile parts within exposed, the sand scrubbed away by frayed cloths and bristled brushes—a steel-faced gauntlet to the padded glove that fed Ordo's desolate outskirts.

The light tap of laminate shifted with a single stride to the clatter of durasteel, harsh and echoing throughout the corridor as the door sealed closed behind them.

"It reminds me of home. A little more honest, perhaps," he admitted, the words slow and thoughtful, drifting on a nonexistent wind.

It was funny how the strangest of things could make you long for a world you hadn't seen in centuries: cold knives of ice carrying the freshest of air down battered lungs, the warmth of truly terrible ale, and rugged people who knew that nice didn't always mean helpful.

Beneath the T-Visor, eyes closed, hazed over in the tinted memory of nostalgia. Gargon would cure that quickly; it always had before. Milliseconds later, his eyes flickered open, stride unbroken.

"As you said, they need this," Itzhal remarked, his voice steady, measured confidence—each word weighed twice. "Rest assured that our people will not starve today, nor any day that follows, as long as we stand. The Empire exists for days like this."

The carriage swayed to the left with a thunderous bump, momentum carrying through his feet. Itzhal's next step swung to the centre, following Drexan through to the front carriage. Sensors in his helmet watched the sides, his buy'ce faced forward in an undaunted march.

His voice was soft as he said, "The last train wasn't your fault."

Tags: Drexan Ordo​

 

[Drexan Ordo]

S U R V I V A L​

Location: Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

Drexan did not answer at once.

The engine’s rumble filled the space between them, a low, constant growl that vibrated through the durasteel deck and up through his greaves. Beyond the narrow forward slits, the land rolled past in long, empty stretches, hard earth, scattered homesteads, nothing close enough to help if things went wrong. He took it in the way a Warden always did: distances measured, response times judged, consequences already tallied.

Then the modulator breathed to life.

“The last train…”

The words came rough, dragged through damaged flesh, but steady.

“I know.”

He did not turn immediately. One gauntlet rested against the bulkhead, feeling the shudder of the engine beneath his palm.

“Fault doesn’t change outcome.”

A pause, heavier than the rest.

“It didn’t arrive.”

Drexan finally angled his helmet toward Itzhal, the T-visor catching the cabin light.

“We cannot slip again.”

The distortion sharpened slightly, not with anger, but resolve.

“Not for pride. Not for comfort. Not for excuses.”

Outside, the track bent toward open ground, the horizon stretching thin and merciless.

“These villages don’t defend themselves.”

Another pause, deliberate.

“They can’t.”

He gestured forward with two fingers, indicating the supplies, the armored figures, the moving lifeline they guarded.

“If we fail, they don’t adapt. They perish.”

The modulator crackled softly as he exhaled.

“So we don’t fail.”

Drexan turned back to the front, stance widening slightly as the train swayed again.

“Stay sharp. Watch the line.”

A breath.

“For them.”

The engine thundered on, carrying steel, hope, and obligation into the dust, while the Warden of Ordo stood ready to ensure it arrived.

Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

Slowly, Itzhal turned his head to the side, offering a measure of privacy that was nothing more than an illusion.

The world rolled on regardless, unaware or simply uncaring of the mistakes of men. And why would it?

Golden grains of sand danced through the humid air, shimmering in the vague allusion of a mirage that, in truth, covered nothing, swirling playfully with the breeze as it swept across the horizon, past sprawling swaths of endless dunes that shifted with the mercurial whims of the desert. Memories buried beneath the golden sea revealed themselves for but a moment, sandstone shapes visible amongst the valleys, that collapsed with the slightest touch from the billowing wind.

No, the world of Ordo cared little for the people who called it home. It was hardly a surprise that it produced men such as Drexan—individuals whose words were measured like precious droplets of water, burdened with the knowledge that their failures harmed more than just themselves, and yet carrying on regardless, resilient as the bedrock hidden beneath their feet.

A haze of golden light floated past the shuttered windows, lifted by the steady hum of repulsorlifts above and below.

With a slight tilt of his buy'ce, Itzhal turned his attention towards Drexan. The man's words poured forth, harsh but rhythmic, like the relentless ebb and flow of the cutting wind pressed against the mountain cliff, each phrase a declaration that wore its presence into the face of fate itself.

"We will," he continued, Drexan's buy'ce reflected in the gleam of his faceplate. "In the meantime, the report on the last train wasn't on the local database when I arrived. Do we know anything more about the incident?"

Tags: Drexan Ordo​

 

[Drexan Ordo]

R E P O R T​

Location: Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

The question lingered between them like heat over open sand.

Drexan did not answer immediately.

Outside, the desert shifted in endless motion, dunes swallowing old roads, wind erasing the memory of tracks within minutes. Ordo did not preserve history. It buried it. That was why Wardens wrote their lessons in iron instead.

The modulator rasped to life.

“We know enough.”

He adjusted his stance as the train swayed, one hand resting near the magnetic seal of his sidearm.

“First train was struck thirty klicks from the Red Mesa bend.”

A sigh.

“Attack lasted four minutes. Precise. Controlled.”

His helmet turned slightly toward Itzhal.

“Not Mandalorian.”

There was no hesitation in that assessment.

“No clan signatures. No challenge broadcast. No claim of honor.”

The distortion sharpened faintly with the next words.

“They hid. They took cargo. They fled.”

The forward viewport showed a distant rock outcropping, high ground, natural cover. Drexan’s visor lingered on it a fraction longer than necessary.

“Local bandit cell.”

A beath.

“Organized. Disciplined enough to breach a moving train.”

His gauntlet tightened subtly.

“They disabled the forward coupling. Hit two cargo cars. Extracted high-value supplies only.”

A slight crackle as the modulator compensated for his breath.

“Medical packs. Power cells. Preserved rations.”

Not random. Not desperate.

“They are capable.”

The engine roared louder as the train climbed a slight incline, metal straining.

Drexan faced forward again.

“And they will attempt it again.”

A deliberate pause.

“Success breeds repetition.”

His visor flicked briefly toward Itzhal.

“This time, they find Mandalorians waiting.”

The desert outside shimmered gold and merciless.

“Adjust sensors for elevated positions. Watch the ridgelines.”

A final note, calm and certain.

“They favor surprise. We deny it.”

The train thundered onward, unaware, or perhaps uncaring, that somewhere beyond the dunes, men who had tasted victory were likely preparing to taste it again.

Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

Stood side by side with his fellow Mandalorian, Itzhal listened to Drexan's assessment as he pieced together what had happened, drawing from known facts and details that remained obscure. Drexan spoke of Mandalorians—defined by their codes of honour and insignias that had endured over time, carried from person to person, until the symbol became more than just the mark of a single person, and yet, neither had ever shielded their people from the sins they committed or elevated them above the common bandit. The Resol'nare united their culture through six principles, treasured lessons that had allowed them to survive Galactic Wars and campaigns of eradication, but these principles were rooted in survival; they did not teach people to be good.

They knew exactly what to target: Medical packs, energy cells and preserved rations—valuable lifelines in a harsh environment, high-value assets, as Drexan termed them. Their actions spoke not of cowardice, though the shape of it was there; meticulous strategy and seasoned experience had turned what should have been a desperate strike into a swift raid, conserving vital resources and gathering all they required, before a retaliatory strike could ever manifest. He was almost impressed. It wouldn't stop him from doing what needed to be done.

Their only saving grace was that they hadn't burned the rest of the supplies, leaving what little remained to ration hope for those stranded at the border. Silently, he hoped this was a sign that the bandits were a local problem, rather than an indication of external threats looking to exploit weakness.

Either way, if they dared to act, this train would be their final mistake.

Itzhal nodded in quiet acknowledgement, letting his disagreements float away like wisps on the wind, and allowing the heavy silence to envelop them as they gazed into the distance. Dreary dunes stretched further than his eyes could see, the repulsorlift beneath their feet swallowing the miles as minutes passed and the horizon gradually changed. Grains of sand, once golden, darkened to a crimson shade under the looming silhouette of the Red Mesa, its jagged outline rising defiantly against the sky. Shadows danced across its rocky surface, moulding to the shape of deep crevices and towering cliffs that guarded those who lingered within its dark embrace. The repulsorlift tracks wound like a serpent around its base, searching for purchase where the rest of the dunes buckled beneath its weight.

"Marked a lookout," Itzhal stated, a hand raised to the base of his rangefinder.

Time slipped away.

With a swift press of his thumbs, the release catches on his finely crafted leather holsters snapped open—twin echoes in the tense silence.

Tags: Drexan Ordo​

 

[Drexan Ordo]

C O N T A C T​

Location: Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

The wind changed first.

Drexan felt it through the vibration of the deck plating more than heard it, the subtle shift in pressure as the Red Mesa swallowed sound and returned only echoes.

“I see him.”

The modulator carried low and steady as his visor locked onto the speck Itzhal had marked. A flick of his gauntlet tagged the position on his HUD, transmitting the coordinate to the armored figures further back in the carriage.

“High right ridge. Two hundred meters. Scoped optics.”
A sigh.
“Patient.”

Drexan watched the silhouette without urgency. A lookout meant organization. Discipline. Not desperate scavengers.

The train thundered forward, crimson shadows crawling across its armored flanks.

“An Empire can stretch across systems…” he began, voice roughened by the modulator but heavy with something older than static.

“…and still forget the smallest name on its ledger.”

His visor swept the horizon slowly, deliberately.

“Ports prosper. Capitals shine.”

A faint crackle accompanied the next words.

“But the man at the edge of the map always eats last.”

The mesa loomed larger now, jagged teeth of stone rising into a pale sky. Drexan’s tone did not change, but something in it tightened.

“I’ve seen it before. Worlds that say they are united.”

A beath.

“Until the dust settles on the wrong people.”

He rested a hand briefly against the bulkhead, grounding himself in the rumble of the engine.

“All I want…”

The modulator strained slightly as he drew breath.

“…is to make it easier for those who call Ordo home.”

Not glory. Not expansion.

Just survival with dignity.

His visor shifted left.

And then,

Movement.

Low and fast.

A thin line of dust cutting across the flats beyond the mesa’s base.

“Contact.”

The word sharpened instantly.

Three. No... four shapes cresting a dune, repulsor signatures flaring.

Speeder bikes.

Moving to intercept.

Drexan’s stance widened as he keyed the comms.

“Forward elements, prepare for engagement. Riders inbound from port side.”

The lookout had done his job.

Now the rest would try to do theirs.

“Let them come.”​

Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

"You've seen Empire's fail," Itzhal stated. There was no recrimination in his voice, only an understanding that time had worn into the marrow of his bones, wary eyes that had seen it all. "Hope is a fickle thing; it raises nations as easily as it crushes dreams."

His footsteps were barely audible, a soft whisper lost beneath the relentless rumble of the train, as durasteel clattered against itself in a furious rush of speed. The gap between them and the approaching riders shrank rapidly, their forms mere silhouettes against the rising storm of dust that unfurled in their wake, highlighted by the soft glow of his rangefinder and sensors spread across his armour.

At the front, a figure swathed in loose fabric charged forward, the wind wrapping around their clothes and whipping outwards in a flare of smudged tans and faded whites. Their fingers clenched around the raised handles of the speeder, and a thumb lay close to the switch of the primary blaster cannon underneath.

Silently, Itzhal watched as they started to shift towards the left side of the train—targeting software tracking their positions and adjusting markers across his HuD.

"I do not begrudge your view," He shook his head, twisting the buy'ce from side to side in a gesture that ended with his faceplate pointed towards the port side, "Ordo is a harsh world; it has suffered much for little gain, its loyalty should be commended, not exploited."

Repulsorlift engines whined, an incordant screech of different engines that grew louder with every second.

"But they are not voiceless, Warden."

With deliberate slowness, he lifted his arm, tension unfurling in the muscles concealed beneath the sturdy plates of beskar that encased his form. As the familiar weight of his blaster settled into position, the barrel pointed towards the window and the target beyond.

"Your voice was heard."

Then, he pulled the trigger.

Tags: Drexan Ordo​

 

[Drexan Ordo]

E N G A G E​

Location: Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

The first shot cracked through the glass like lightning splitting dry sky.

Itzhal’s bolt tore across the flats and struck the lead rider’s flank, sending the speeder fishtailing in a violent spray of sand. The bandits did not scatter.

They accelerated.

Repulsorlift engines screamed as the group split wide, two peeling hard to port, another cutting straight for the forward cars, the last hanging back, cover fire.

Blaster bolts stitched red lines through the air, striking the armored plating of the train in sharp, staccato bursts. Sparks spat from the hull. One shot ricocheted off the forward brace near Drexan’s shoulder, flaring bright before dissipating.

Drexan was already moving.

“Engage. Controlled volleys.”

The modulator cut through the roar of engines and gunfire, steady as bedrock.

Behind them, Mandalorians leaned into firing slits and open ports, rifles braced. The response was immediate, measured bursts, not panic. Crimson and blue lances reached outward with disciplined rhythm.

One rider jerked violently as a bolt punched through their chest plate, tumbling from the saddle and vanishing beneath the train’s wake.

Another speeder erupted in sparks as a rifle shot severed its steering assembly, sending it spinning into the dune in a plume of sand and fire.

The remaining riders returned fire with fury.

A heavy cannon mounted beneath one bike spat rapid bolts toward the engine car, chewing a line across the forward plating.

Drexan drew.

The blaster pistol cleared leather in a smooth motion, his stance widening against the sway of the train. He did not fire immediately. His visor tracked.

Speed.

Angle.

Engine housing.

He exhaled.

The first shot struck low, just beneath the rider’s knee, glancing off plating but forcing a correction. The second bolt followed half a breath later, precise and surgical, punching into the exposed repulsor intake.

The speeder’s engine flared white.

It detonated in a violent blossom of heat and shrapnel, the rider thrown clear as twisted metal cartwheeled across the sand.

Drexan pivoted.

Another rider had closed too near, trying to angle toward the coupling between cars. Drexan fired twice in rapid succession, both bolts slamming into the engine block at the rear housing.

The bike sputtered, whined, then died mid-sprint. Momentum carried it forward before it dug nose-first into the sand, flipping end over end.

Blasterfire still flashed from the final bandit hanging back.

Drexan adjusted, firing once more.

The bolt struck true, piercing the side vent of the engine assembly. Smoke billowed instantly as the bike spiraled out of control, skidding across the flats until it lay still.

Silence returned in fragments, first the absence of cannon fire, then the fading whine of repulsors, until only the thunder of the train remained.

Drexan kept his pistol raised for a beat longer, scanning the dunes.

“Riders neutralized. Maintain watch.”

The modulator carried no triumph.

Only certainty.

If this was only the opening strike, the real test was still waiting in the dark.

Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

Cold metal yielded under the press of Itzhal's finger, delivering a blur of light—blistering heat burning at the barely contained energy envelope—that shattered against his target. Armour plates beneath the folds of fabric melted, the surrounding skin scarred black, organs boiling in a flicker of deadly precision that left only a corpse behind. Another shot, bored through the window, spider-web-like cracks spreading outwards from where only a hole remained; outlining the shape of a rider as they fell slack over the side of their handlebars. His attention already focused elsewhere, Itzhal barely registered the spurt of sand that swallowed the vehicle whole.

Red light enveloped the corridor as a blaster bolt smashed through durasteel and the wooden interior of the nearby cabins, splinters shooting outwards in a hail of burning shards, not unlike a scatterblaster. Ducking down to one knee, Itzhal twisted away from the shards that scattered over his armour, his view of the incoming field obscured for a crucial moment; the whine of their engines grew louder, grating against the screech of blaster bolts and trembling structure.

Another bolt punched through and skimmed over his pauldron, a blaze of red that was gone before it fully registered, the trail of heat and fire dissipating against the durasteel plates on the other side.

Itzhal forced himself to move.

Swaying around the rubble and debris that littered the floor, he leaned back, avoiding a bolt that flew past his visor; a crack in the windows revealed the rifleman and their modified swoop bike, their rifle still raised, a second shot tearing through the space between them, Itzhal pivoted, his chest plate angled to take the blow that skittered off the beskar. He fired back, a bolt from his pistol disintegrating what remained of the window before it speared forward. Slamming down on the handlebars, the rider spun, red light gleaming past their shoulder rather than through their neck. A second shot, adjusted for the movement, slammed into the side of their ride, shrapnel tearing its way out in a wave of heat and sound. The swoop spluttered, thrusters flaring and melting the sand beneath them, erratic and uncontrolled, the rider screamed, buckling for control. The third bolt took them in the chest, body sliding over the side, as the engine spiralled off into the dunes.

The silence that followed was almost haunting; the faint murmur of activity elsewhere echoed down the train.

With a quick assessment of their remaining power, Itzhal sheathed both blasters and approached the swaying wooden door, its trembling hinges barely able to hold upright. A gust of wind howled as he neared, pushing the door ajar and revealing a scene of chaos within. Fragments of shattered glass, splintered wood and twisted metal lay scattered across the torn couches and the remnants of a once-stately table, covered in a layer of sand that leaked in through the window, now more akin to shattered teeth glinting around the edges of a hollow grin.

In the distance, silhouettes danced across the weathered mesa.

Itzhal watched as they watched in turn.

Until, as all things do, they disappeared beyond the distant horizon.

Footsteps glided over the rubble behind him.

"They're not here for the supplies," Itzhal said, his voice thoughtful. Staring out across the dunes that passed them by, the Mandalorian tilted his buy'ce. "At least, not to steal them; whatever reason they raided last time, this is different. It's not need. There would have been larger transports if that were the case."

Tags: Drexan Ordo​

 

[Drexan Ordo]

L A R G E R​

Location: Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

The wind pushed through the shattered window in long, low breaths.

Drexan stepped up beside Itzhal, boots grinding broken glass into finer ruin. His visor tracked the mesa where the silhouettes had lingered—too many shapes to be stray scavengers, too disciplined to be opportunists.

He did not holster his pistol.

“You’re right.”

The modulator carried quieter now, but tighter.

“This wasn’t a raid.”

His gauntlet rose, magnification tightening across his HUD. The ridgeline was empty again, too empty.

“Probe attack.”

A beath.

“Range test. Response time. Weapons profile.”

He lowered his arm slowly.

“They wanted to see how we fight.”

The train thundered onward, but the desert no longer felt open. It felt measured. Calculated.

Drexan turned slightly, scanning the dunes opposite the mesa now.

“Last time was theft.”

A faint crackle underlined the next words.

“This time is preparation.”

His stance widened as another gust of sand lashed through the opening, carrying with it the distant hum of engines—faint, layered beneath the wind.

Not retreating.

Circling.

“There is more.”

The modulator hardened, command threading through the distortion.

“Signal the rear cars. Defensive posture. Close exposed positions.”

A moment.

“Hunker down.”

He angled his helmet toward Itzhal, visor catching the fractured light from the ruined interior.

“Something larger is about to hit.”

As if summoned by the words, the low horizon shimmered again, dust rising not in a thin line this time, but in a broad, advancing wall.

Drexan keyed the squad channel.

“All elements, brace for mass contact. Hold fire until targets commit.”

The mesa loomed behind them.

The dunes ahead were no longer empty.

And the quiet between engine pulses had turned into a promise.

Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

The beskar plating of the Morellian's buy'ce creaked softly as internal mechanisms whirred to life, gracefully lowering the elongated antenna of Itzhal's rangefinder to eye-level. His gaze shifted across the rugged terrain stretching out before him. Distortions in the area from wavering pockets of fluctuating temperatures left the dunes ahead spotted with inconsistent hazes, golden light from the sun above, twisted and stored within fluttering grains of sand. His HuD magnified, stretching off into the distance, where dust clouds bloomed to life, growing larger by the moment.

His fingers tapped a pattern against the butt of his sheathed pistol.

Metal glinted on the horizon, curving over the angled plates of a sand-scraped box littered in a patchwork of different metals, bolted together and wielded with cruel scars, hurdling across the dunes. His HuD flickered, a soft light in the corner of his vision—target pinpointed, path determined and distance measured. Thirty Three kilometers away. Ten seconds passed. Half a kilometre was consumed. Silently, Itzhal ran the numbers, his fingers tapping a consistent beat. Two Hundred Kilometers per hour, less than ten minutes before they reached the train, significantly less before their weapons were in range.

His eyes trailed across the horizon, over the swoop bikes and ramshackle vehicles that dotted the landscape, riders battering a call to arms that reverberated through the air.

Adrenaline trickled through his veins, a slow pulse growing by the moment. His chestplate shifted with the force of his inhale, demanding what little air remained to seep into his lungs, slow and burning with the pressure. The path ahead formalised, a trail of crimson blood carved into the steps to safety—peace was a rare moment on the sands of Ordo, today would not be that moment. With an exhale that hissed against the winds, Itzhal discarded the notion of mercy.

Information poured across his visor: a torrent of data flowing seamlessly, illuminating the silhouettes of the approaching threats. In the corner of his vision, energy cell readings were displayed, with exact numbers and estimated percentages conveyed by proportional bars in an array of colours from green to red. His ammunition supplies, primarily those attached to his gauntlet, were shown in a similar manner, though they flickered from one to the next before they were eventually discarded. All visual clutter gradually reduced to the bare minimum required over the tense minutes of their approach.

He dropped low, one knee pressed against the wall that led into the ruined cabin, allowing him to peek out of the shattered windows and over the dunes beyond. Oath and Honour found their way into his hands.

Tags: Drexan Ordo​

 

[Drexan Ordo]

H O L D​

Location Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

The dust wall did not break apart.

It thickened.

Drexan watched it roll across the dunes like a rising storm front, the glare of sunlight catching on metal plating stitched together from scrap and salvage. The ramshackle carrier Itzhal had marked surged ahead of the pack, an armored hauler plated in mismatched durasteel, flanked by swoop bikes and lighter outriders fanning wide.

Not a raid.

A strike force.

“There it is.”

The modulator carried low, controlled. No surprise. Only confirmation.

He keyed the squad channel.

“All elements, brace. Target priority: engines and gunners. Disable mobility first.”

The train thundered forward, but the gap was closing fast. At two hundred kilometers per hour, the bandits devoured distance like predators tasting blood.

The first volley came from them.

Long-range cannons mounted on the lead hauler spat heavy red bolts that hammered into the side of the train. One shot tore into the forward plating, blowing out another section of wood and glass in a shower of splinters and sparks. The car lurched violently.

Drexan absorbed the sway, boots grinding into durasteel.

“Return fire.”

Mandalorian rifles answered in disciplined bursts. Crimson lances streaked across the dunes, striking the outriders first. One swoop detonated mid-charge, flipping end over end in a blossom of flame. Another rider was punched clean from their saddle, tumbling lifeless into the sand.

But the bulk of them kept coming.

The armored hauler angled slightly, presenting its reinforced prow. Its top hatch slid open, two gunners rising with mounted repeaters.

Drexan raised his pistol.

He did not waste shots on armor.

The first bolt cracked against the edge of the gun mount, forcing one operator to flinch. The second followed half a heartbeat later, slipping through the gap in plating beneath the repeater housing.

The engine intake beneath the hauler’s front chassis flared.

Smoke bled from the venting ports.

“Left intake compromised. Keep pressure there.”

A Mandalorian beside him adjusted fire, two rifles focusing on the weakened section. Metal buckled under sustained hits.

The hauler answered with fury. A stream of heavy bolts raked the forward car, one slamming into the rail coupling with enough force to rattle the entire train.

Drexan pivoted, firing twice more, both shots precise, both targeting the exposed repeater mounts. One gunner jerked backward and vanished from sight.

The second ducked, but the next volley from the Mandalorians tore into the mount itself, shredding its stabilizers.

The dunes were alive now, bikes circling, dust choking the air, blasterfire carving bright scars through the haze.

Drexan widened his stance.

“Hold the line. Don’t chase. Make them break against us.”

The storm had arrived.

And Clan Ordo would meet it head-on.

Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

With blaster pistols gripped tightly in his hands, Itzhal crept along the crumbling remnants of the shattered wall—speckled with ruptured holes, the wooden interior jagged and uneven—until he reached the corner, mere inches from the ruined cabin, torn to pieces, and utterly unrecognisable with the sheer amount of debris that littered the floor and bowing walls that groaned with the weight of the roof above. The sun's rays burned brightly through the gaping hole, where shifting fragments of the interior skittered over the side, lost to the dunes below. Itzhal's visor adjusted to the glare with a gradual dimming, leaving the dunes beyond in a glittering haze of greyscale metal, luminous crimson lights, and the rumbling dust storm carried by the raiders' approach.

"Return fire."

Itzhal curled his body around the ruined wall, pauldron pressed against the battered wood for support, one arm stretched outwards, lining up the shot; his fingers wrapped around the trigger, then pulled. The crimson bolt slammed into the control fins of a swoop bike, which disappeared in a flash, shrapnel skittering off in all directions. A moment later, the vehicle shuddered to the left in an uncontrolled spiral, the engine screaming alongside their pilot as they smashed into another vessel, then into the dunes beneath them, with a blinding flare of light and heat.

There was no time to celebrate the shot, throwing himself to the side as another barrage of bolts tore through his cover. His feet scrambling for purchase in the rubble and scorched durasteel below, the entire room was swallowed in red, his stride keeping him just ahead of the devastation that tore through the first train cart.

Mandalorian counterfire silenced the repeaters, their assault delayed for a precious moment. Itzhal pivoted, one treaded boot grinding into the durasteel beneath him as he turned to face the charge of the armoured hauler.

Oath cleared the way, three bolts tearing through the remainder of the glass and wooden interior in his way; his left gauntlet pointed towards the open hatches. The MM9 mini concussion rocket launcher fired with a hissed word that transitioned into the screech of the rocket tearing through the smoke-clogged air, straight into the indent curve of the hatch, where the anti-infantry warhead detonated above the heads of those unfortunate enough to be crawling below.

It didn't stop the charge.

"Brace for impact," Itzhal alerted the rest, jumping between the links of the first and second cart as the hauler finished its charge—metal plates buckled and shattered, splintered into jagged shards that flew through the air, far more deadly than their wooden counterpart, the train buckled, repulsorlifts whining under the sudden weight as the front of the hauler pushed deeper into the first cart, metal scraping under the force of the impact, a terrible screech filled the air.

Tags: Drexan Ordo​

 

[Drexan Ordo]

B O A R D​

Location: Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

The impact was like a hammer strike from a god.

Drexan felt it through his boots before he heard it, the violent jolt as the armored hauler slammed into the forward cart. Durasteel shrieked. The train lurched sideways on its repulsor track, metal grinding against metal in a scream that drowned out the wind and gunfire alike.

He staggered once, caught himself, and moved.

“Status. Report.”

The modulator cut through the chaos, steady despite the tremor running through the carriage.

The nose of the hauler had buried itself halfway into the first cart, its prow crumpling through plating and timber alike. Smoke poured from the fractured seam, and through it came movement, figures spilling from side hatches, weapons raised, using the wrecked contact point as a breach.

Drexan stepped into the opening line of fire.

“They’re boarding.”

Blaster pistol up, he fired twice in quick succession. The first bolt struck a bandit mid-leap, hurling them backward into the twisted hull. The second took another in the throat before their boots hit the deck between cars.

Shrapnel rained down from the ruptured ceiling. A bolt glanced off his shoulder plate in a flare of heat, dissipating against beskar. He didn’t flinch.

“Second car, seal the rear access. Contain the breach.”

Another bandit clambered through the smoke, slugthrower barking in deafening cracks. A round ricocheted off Drexan’s chest plate, the force enough to rock him half a step.

He answered with precision, one shot to the weapon, the second to the engine pack strapped to the raider’s back. The detonation blew the body sideways into the ruined wall.

The hauler’s engines still whined, straining, trying to push deeper into the train’s spine.

Drexan pivoted toward the crumpled front seam.

“Disable that engine block. Now.”

Mandalorians shifted, disciplined even amid wreckage, blasterfire concentrating on the exposed intake where Itzhal’s rocket had already scarred the plating. Sparks erupted as bolts hammered the weakened section.

The engine sputtered.

The whine turned ragged.

Drexan stepped forward through smoke and falling debris, placing himself squarely at the breach.

“They wanted more than supplies.”

His voice lowered, iron beneath distortion.

“Now they’ve committed.”

Another shadow moved in the smoke.

Drexan raised his pistol.

“Hold. The. Line.”

Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

As the door opened to allow Itzhal to leap between the two carts, a terrible screech tore through the compartment, the chorus of whining repulsorlifts and timber that snapped like the crack of bone following in his wake. He leapt between the short gap, his feet airborne for a moment, before the harsh pull of gravity pulled him back to the ground with the slam of treaded boots against the scraped mesh of laminate flooring and durasteel beneath.

The train shuddered with the impact, vibrations quivering up through the Mandalorian's toes and into the marrow of his bones, burrowing upwards in a trembling push, all the way to deep within his chest, where his heart skipped a beat. Momentum slammed into his feet. Up and down, down and up—direction lost meaning in the moment, knocked into the air, without a stable foot to call home.

Milliseconds passed, the blink of an eye, then, without hesitation, the same uncaring hand sent him slamming to the ground with a dull thud of beskar plates.

Crimson lances of light danced across the dimmed plane of his visor, his blue eyes blinked, staring upwards towards the hole in the ceiling where crumbling timber and steel bowed inwards. Pain throbbed over the crumpled stretch of his back and shoulders, the muscles tight with remembered impact. He shifted to the side, an elbow braced against the surface, impact gel wobbled against the compact press of his backplate, down into the expanded length of his limbs. Another bolt skittered over his head, deflected against the worn and scarred beskar-plates that covered Drexan's frame, his blaster returning fire.

Empty hands glided through the debris-strewn landscape, sweeping aside mounds of shattered furniture and fragments of fallen ceiling. Dust swirled in the air—a shroud of smoke and ash settled over the ruined corridor.

Another silhouette moved through the smoke, one of many, their weapon raised towards the incoming Mandalorian line. Itzhal raised his arm, a word hissed with the venom of a snake, fibercorp snapped forward, coiling around the shadow's leg before the lawman pulled back with a violent tug and a surprised yelp. A muffled thump tore through the air, whishing past, before the sky above was illuminated with the spark of an explosive shell.

With a whirl of retracting fibercorp, the bandit screamed on their journey across the ruined floor of the first cart, then, into the gap between both, where there was a sudden yank, and Itzhal detached the cord. In the rubble, lashed aside by the detached length of fibercorp—rapidly disappearing out of view—a familiar set of grips poked out.

Itzhal crawled to reach them, drawing both as another set of bandits crawled through the holes in their former transport, only to find their lives cut short in a blaze of super-heated crimson light.

"What's the status on the speeders?"

Tags: Drexan Ordo​

 

[Drexan Ordo]

S T R I K E​

Location: Ordo, Outer Rim Territories

Drexan stood firm at the breach while the train groaned around him, boots planted wide against the violent sway. Smoke and dust curled through the shattered seam where the hauler had bitten into the forward cart, turning every shape into a ghost until it moved. His pistol tracked the shifting haze, bolts snapping out in measured rhythm whenever a silhouette resolved into flesh and armor. One bandit collapsed halfway through the opening, another stumbled back into the wreckage clutching a ruined shoulder plate.

A bolt skipped across his chest plate in a brief flare of heat, the energy dissipating harmlessly against beskar. He did not acknowledge it. His attention remained outward, watching the dunes beyond the crushed nose of the hauler.

Itzhal’s question cut through the noise.

Drexan keyed his comm briefly before answering, the modulator rasping beneath the thunder of engines and blasterfire.

“Outer riders broken.”

He shifted a half-step, firing once through the smoke. The shot struck the exposed intake of a damaged swoop still skidding alongside the train. The engine flared and died, the bike tumbling into the sand in a trail of sparks.

“Most destroyed. Two… maybe three still mobile.”

Beyond the wreckage, shapes moved through the dust, smaller signatures circling at distance, keeping pace rather than committing. Waiting.

“They’re not withdrawing.”

He fired again, forcing a bandit back from the breach before they could clear the twisted plating.

“Remaining speeders are screening. Holding position outside rifle range.”

That bothered him more than the boarding attempt.

Raiders who survived a failed charge usually scattered.

These did not.

The train shuddered again as the crippled hauler scraped against its flank, metal grinding in a drawn-out shriek. Drexan steadied himself with one gauntleted hand against the bulkhead, pistol never lowering.

His visor flicked briefly toward Itzhal.

“They’re coordinating.”

A beat passed as another distant engine whine threaded through the wind beyond the dunes.

“Expect reinforcement or extraction attempt.”

He turned back toward the breach, raising his weapon as another shadow appeared in the smoke.

“Speeders are contained for now.”

A pause, then quieter:

“Boarders are the priority. Keep them off the train.”

The next bandit came through firing.

Drexan answered first.

Itzhal Volkihar​