Seydon of Arda
Raquor'daan
[Shid me,] Someone on the skeleton team cursed in pidgin Huttese, stepping off the debarkation ramp. [We going to war or something?]
Prudent foresight warned off stowing all of the available Dunaan resources aboard the now-lost Relentless exclusively. A small tidal cave on one of Arda’s many thousand beaches, accessible via a grease-trap tunnel line only at a specific hour before morning, had housed spare materials and one or two full sets of hard-earned or otherwise crafted hunting armour. The D’oemir of Midvinter and Tenpue favoured weighty materials and a combat philosophy emphasizing very direct approaches to given targets. Their diagrams called for a mixture of metals, alloys, akk dog hides and nashtah fangs, with uller bones, alchemized together according to written and oral tradition.
The set weighed a small ton. D’oemir bragged any of their good fittings was akin to a comfortable glove. Even for Seydon, there was noticeable ballast hanging off his shoulders and hips, collecting down by his knees and boot soles. Save for his brow, though, there was a sense of comprehensive protection. The long overcoat of chainmail, leather, padded leather and quilting could soak abuse as well if not better than any Mandalorian power suit. Treading down from the Hive, Seydon made final adjustments and slung a pair of weighted satchels over his side. Paired, Winterfang and Razorlight gleamed keenly across his back.
A measure of fury still roiled in his belly. Brought heat up his throat, goading his gorge. Nibelungen was an obscene exaggeration of every wrong quality that chased him out the Jedi Orders too many years before. He remembered the pharisaic Iudex. Dead eyed throngs. Sapped colour, corpse-like life, tenacious adherence to broken dogma, crowds of wandering billions relegated to a life spent in service of a fething machine that did nothing for them. It breaks them, he thought, recycles them afterword.
Another crewman pointed him toward a readied exit. It was a bare stairwell lined with sensor baffling nets and a great deal of sound dampening materials. Sick light poured down from a slitted grate far above. Seydon keyed his collar mic for three ‘pips’, signalling Jorus’ comm network. He was out, and going up. The freshly reinforced hatchway closed behind him.
[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]
Prudent foresight warned off stowing all of the available Dunaan resources aboard the now-lost Relentless exclusively. A small tidal cave on one of Arda’s many thousand beaches, accessible via a grease-trap tunnel line only at a specific hour before morning, had housed spare materials and one or two full sets of hard-earned or otherwise crafted hunting armour. The D’oemir of Midvinter and Tenpue favoured weighty materials and a combat philosophy emphasizing very direct approaches to given targets. Their diagrams called for a mixture of metals, alloys, akk dog hides and nashtah fangs, with uller bones, alchemized together according to written and oral tradition.
The set weighed a small ton. D’oemir bragged any of their good fittings was akin to a comfortable glove. Even for Seydon, there was noticeable ballast hanging off his shoulders and hips, collecting down by his knees and boot soles. Save for his brow, though, there was a sense of comprehensive protection. The long overcoat of chainmail, leather, padded leather and quilting could soak abuse as well if not better than any Mandalorian power suit. Treading down from the Hive, Seydon made final adjustments and slung a pair of weighted satchels over his side. Paired, Winterfang and Razorlight gleamed keenly across his back.
A measure of fury still roiled in his belly. Brought heat up his throat, goading his gorge. Nibelungen was an obscene exaggeration of every wrong quality that chased him out the Jedi Orders too many years before. He remembered the pharisaic Iudex. Dead eyed throngs. Sapped colour, corpse-like life, tenacious adherence to broken dogma, crowds of wandering billions relegated to a life spent in service of a fething machine that did nothing for them. It breaks them, he thought, recycles them afterword.
Another crewman pointed him toward a readied exit. It was a bare stairwell lined with sensor baffling nets and a great deal of sound dampening materials. Sick light poured down from a slitted grate far above. Seydon keyed his collar mic for three ‘pips’, signalling Jorus’ comm network. He was out, and going up. The freshly reinforced hatchway closed behind him.
[member="Jaxton Ravos"] [member="Jorus Merrill"]