Character
| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories
The firing range was loud.
Various gases, compressed in vibrant hues, rattled against an odd assortment of blaster housings that concealed the volatile ammunition, their weapon shapes as eccentric as their wielders lined in a haze of colours and armaments that was almost dazzling to observe—even as an avid eye noted the sheer amount of them packing heat that could, and in truth had, decimated a battlefield many times before. Vapours coursed with a noticeable hum through heter-valves, each a crucial conduit in the journey to the pulsating conversion chambers, filled to the brim with the raw, empowering promise of energy, just waiting to burst forth from the barrel.
All of that paled in comparison to the moment a trigger was pulled and a blaster fired.
Tendrils of superheated plasma twisted and coiled, sealed around galven circuits that compressed the energy tighter and tighter, until the blaster bolt erupted from the barrel. Tortured layers of ozone screeched with the outpour, the sound in-beat with a shimmering afterimage of the brilliant arc of light that sliced through the atmosphere, so easily mistaken as the bolt itself, but it was merely a lie, a shift of perspective that even nowadays led to the rumour that blaster bolts could be easily dodged. The truth was more fatal. With an explosive release of the containment field, the instantaneous burst of energy rippled back to them in a minuscule shockwave that couldn't even ruffle the gunner's hair. The target was another matter; now sporting a hole bored through the centre, and charred around the edges of the impact point.
And then another bolt fired, and another, and another as blasters across the range let loose.
All of which didn't even cover the common sight of a slugthrower—spewing an assortment of different projectiles; some blazing with the light of internal gyrojets, while others flew by the guidance of their weapon platforms. A cacophony of sound without even the semblance of restraint. A man could go deaf in minutes, their ears bleeding as the resonating wave of roars and screeches tore through the air—but then, a man like that was a fool to ever enter a place like this without protection.
In a place like this, Itzhal's step should have been silent.
They weren't.
Out of the assortment of reasons that a Mandalorian could treasure their buy'ce, few could match the sheer value of a properly equipped sensor-rig—with audio fidelity that could hear a voice from over a hundred meters away, and the ability to filter out sounds that would debilitate a wielder in real time—leaving an individual that by normal standards was supernaturally aware of their surroundings, even without mentioning the more exotic readings.
His steps were a whisper against the duracrete, his stride carrying him confidently to his target and the booth that stood a little farther from the rest of the field. Unrushed, he waited, examining the black plates of beskar that gleamed with a promise of justice and were traced with the blood of those who deserved honour, assuming the figure who wore the armour would consider the value of their colours—not all did; sometimes, a colour was just a colour.
"Apologies to interrupt," he began, his voice calm in a way that only those who had burned through every emotion in their path could reach at the very end. "But Aether's preoccupied with his latest batch of contracts and negotiations, and the Protectorate's got matters to deal with that really can't be delayed anymore."
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Aselia Verd
Aselia Verd