Private Can You Clarify That?

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| 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."

Tags: Aselia Verd​

 

[Aselia Verd]

She did not turn immediately. Her attention remained fixed downrange, both hands wrapped around the grip of the heavy blaster pistol as another bolt tore across the distance and burned through the center of the target. The weapon stayed level for another heartbeat before she lowered it.

She thumbed the safety into place and set the blaster down on the bench in front of her, then reached up to pull the hearing protection away from one ear. Without her buy'ce, the range was almost painfully loud, every discharge layering over the next until the whole space seemed to vibrate with it. She had come without the helmet on purpose. There was value in stripping away the conveniences beskar gave her now and then, if only to make sure the person underneath it had not grown lazy.

"Aether's busy," she repeated, glancing toward Itzhal at last.

There was just enough dry amusement in her voice to suggest that this was not especially surprising news. Her eyes moved over him once, taking in the armor, the posture, the tone. Whatever had brought him here, it was not casual, and from the way he had phrased it, it was not something meant to be shouted over a firing line either.

Aselia reached for the rest of her gear.

"Come on."

She slung the strap over one shoulder, collected the blaster from the bench, and stepped out of the booth. The noise followed them at first, sharp reports and the electrical crack of plasma rolling together behind them as she led the way toward the corridor beyond the range.

"Walk and talk."

Only once the firing line had begun to fade behind them did she look over at him again. Her expression had settled, the easy trace of amusement gone now that they were somewhere a conversation could actually happen.

"If the Protectorate has something that can't wait, I'm listening."

She adjusted the strap at her shoulder as they moved.

"What happened?"

TAG: Itzhal Volkihar
​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

With his arrival noticed, the old Morellian stood patiently, his weathered hands resting on the curved contours of his hips, where the frame of his utility belt tucked into the metal plates and the bodysuit beneath. His fingers hovered just above the sturdy grips of his blaster pistols, securely nestled in their leather holsters. Beneath the visor, his eyes narrowed, focused intently on the target that Aselia had carefully selected. Under his chestplate, his lungs filled with air in a slow inhale that matched the beat of his heart. A moment later, in sequence with his exhale, a sharp crack of blaster fire erupted, a spark of light, and a new hole bored through the target's centre, its edges singed and smouldering.

It was a good shot, well executed, he noted—the lack of Buy'ce proved it was her skill, rather than an array of targeting data leashed to a reticule—even if it wasn't particularly difficult. A test of consistency, not a grasp at the very edge of what she was capable of. If it had been, there were better places to test, even in this building. Regardless, he wasn't here to judge her abilities.

Slowly, he tilted his helm forward, not quite a nod but a sign of recognition of the statement spoken with amusement. Aether was busy, and so the hand was needed.

He followed, his steps falling into sequence with his fellow Mandalorians as they wove their way through the bustling assembly of eager recruits and battle-hardened veterans. The air was thick with the crackle of plasma and the unmistakable scent of burnt ozone, while the rare ping of a slugthrower rattled underneath, each shot leaving their mark upon the firing range. He marked a few for later, either for assessment of their skills or as referral to further training.

Later, he would have the time.

For now, he had another matter to deal with: "At the moment, nothing beyond the Mandalore's declaration—the call for Jedi hunts, purges, if you wish to be accurate." his voice was measured, deliberate in a way that he made no attempt to hide. It would be a lie to say he didn't have opinions on the intended smothering of the light. "The Protectors have heard the call to act, and many of them are willing to do so, but without a clear understanding of the situation, I am weary of authorising their movements."

With a step that brought him closer to a security console, he activated the next door, closing off the last sounds of the firing range with a sharp snap.

"So, I seek clarity. We have been ordered to hunt the light, to crush the Jedi within our borders, but even then there are exceptions: former Jedi who still hold to many of their ideals, even if they are willing to join our ranks," measured, always measured. "How far does the Mandalore's Edict stretch? What do I tell my Protectors? What makes a Jedi, and what makes their existence a sin to purge? Where is the line?"

Tags: Aselia Verd​