Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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The Unchained

Tags:
Tor’r Tal’Verda Tor’r Tal’Verda , Kralmus Orr Kralmus Orr , Raus Garrat

Loadout: Mandalore's Lament, Regret, beskar'gam

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The reactions from some of those gathered, while not surprising, was something that Khamul found rather enlightening. In truth, the varying responses was exactly what he was looking for. There were those that still clung to the outdated fears and hatred toward the Force. They claimed it was something for cowards, not to be used by true warriors. It was pathetic. In Khamul's eyes, this fear was only further indication of the growing weakness among the Mandalorians...

He couldn't have gotten here soon enough.

Kralmus finally found himself joining the rather heated debate, calling out the others for their own mental frailty. The next move was a single shot, taking out the second to actively speak out against Death's Hand. A true killer, indeed. As soon as the second corpse fell limp to the floor, others began to jump into the center of the room... though not all in opposition. It appeared that there were those outside of Death's Hand that felt that same call from the past... that piece of their ancient heritage that told him a simple truth...

This was the way.

Khamul refrained from drawing his weapon, for now. Turning toward Kralmus, the Unchained gave him a simple order.

"Cull the weak."

His hand reached out again, this time aiming toward a pair of charging Dar'Manda. Reaching into the darkness within him, Khamul unleashing his rage upon them. Lightning began to arc from his fingertips, cascading across the room in a brilliant blue hue toward his assailants. As the hatred flowed freely through his body, the Sarrassian iron that held his mask together began to pulsate with crimson energy, helping to push the darkness through him even further. There would be no more time for talk... their would be either fealty, or death.

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The Unchained


Location: New Mandalore, New Keldabe
Tags: Khamul Kryze Khamul Kryze

  • Kralmus faces down a trio of Death Watch warriors


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Cull the weak, Mandalore commanded, and Kralmus was more than happy to obey. The greatest satisfaction in his life was to test himself against worthy foes and overcome them; battles that got his blood pumping were the best kind, for though there was a savage amusement to a one-sided slaughter, it quickly became dull if no one was able to fight back. Thankfully, these Death Watch were no slouches in combat. They might be misguided Mandalorians, the kind who had run and hid rather than fighting to carve out their place in the galaxy no matter the odds, but they were Mandalorians nonetheless. To underestimate them would have been a fatal mistake.

So as Kryze lashed out with his dark magic once again, crackling electricity leaping from the tips of his gauntlets to ravage the bodies of several oncoming warriors, Kralmus eagerly leapt into the fray. His axe, its blade a merging of beskar and songsteel, whistled through the air as his powerful arms heaved it onward. The first foe to meet him took the weapon in the shoulder, its sharp edge biting through his beskar'gam and drawing blood. But the Mandalorian armor was powerful, and the blow was not a killing - or even maiming - stroke. The fierce Death Watch soldier swung a vibroblade with his uninjured right arm, determined to strike back despite his wound.

Kralmus was ready for him. The cannibal twisted the haft of his axe into a guard position, bringing it across his body to deflect the incoming blow. The movement tore the head of the axe out of the wound it had dealt, spraying blood from the breached brachial artery. Even as he blocked the vibroblade, the impact vibrating up his well-muscled forearms, Kralmus brought his axe around to the right side of his opponent with a flourishing twirl. The back of the axe head was a vibro-mace, a weapon designed for cracking armor and pulping the bones within. Completing his rotation of the weapon, Kralmus smashed that hammer-like surface into his foe's helmet.

Snap. The impact jarred the Death Watch warrior's head to the side at an impossible angle, and he dropped.

Two more came in behind the first, moving more cautiously, covering each other. One raised a heavy blaster and shot Kralmus almost point-blank, a pair of powerful bolts slamming into his beskar chestplate. The armor held, but the impact pushed him back several steps, and in that moment when he was off-balance the other warrior was on him. She wielded a heavy vibrosword, and brought it down at him in an overhead chop. He could easily have countered if not for the blaster impacts, but as it was, he barely got his axe into position in time. His foe's blade crashed into his shoulder guard, a half-deflected blow that bruised and further unbalanced him. He snarled.

Kralmus was comfortable with uneven odds; he'd faced down more foes than this at once and come out on top. But these were no ordinary foes. If he let them maintain the upper hand, his armor would not be enough to save him for long, as he himself had just demonstrated on their comrade. To survive the next few seconds, he needed to shift momentum back in his favor. Letting go of his axe with his right hand, he went for his belt and pulled free a rounded metal sphere. Flicking the primer switch, he hurled the grenade to the ground just a few feet in front of him, between the two warriors attacking him. Then he lunged forward in an all-out tackle of the sword-wielder...

... bearing her to the ground her directly on top of the grenade.

"Night night," the cannibal crooned, his voice sickly sweet. Then the grenade exploded. The detonite charge within it was strong enough to rip through one layer of beskar plating at such close range, but not two layers and a body. The explosion that blew apart the other Mandalorian's spine and crisped her organs registered to him only as a jerk of her body, a last spasm that shook him slightly as he rode her like a bucking ronto. He didn't waste his forward momentum, or the element of surprise he'd just generated. Seizing his axe with both hands once more, he lifted it in a precise upward strike, slamming it into the gap between the leg and groin plates of the second warrior.

Goodbye, femoral artery. Goodbye, Death Watch warrior.

Pushing himself back to his feet and flicking blood from his axe head, Kralmus surveyed the battlefield. He'd bought himself a slight lull, a little gap in the battle line left by the three corpses in his wake. Almost corpses, anyway; it'd take a bit for the third Mando to bleed out. The cannibal helped him along by driving the sharpened spike at the bottom of his axe haft through the fallen warrior's visor, instantly ending his life. Around him, those who had chosen to follow Kryze were still outnumbered, but they were holding their own so far. Good. They'd be worth something when this was all over, then. Smiling to himself, Kralmus sought out another opponent.

Plenty of killing left to do before this little contest was done.
 

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The Unchained

Tags:
Tor’r Tal’Verda Tor’r Tal’Verda , Kralmus Orr Kralmus Orr , Raus Garrat

Loadout: Mandalore's Lament, Regret, beskar'gam

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Kralmus leapt into action as soon as the words left Khamul's mouth, bringing down multiple assailants in a beautiful and terrible display of violence. The barbarity of the kills stirred the rage within Khamul, wanting him to fan the flames even further. His own attack lashed out at several of the attackers, the burning plasmatic energy frying multiple of them as they charged. Some called out in agony, while others died in silence. In the end... they would all die.

Another pair came at Khamul, this time more cautiously than before. The Mandalorians of Death Watch weren't unfamiliar to combat by any means, nor were they strangers to the Hellhound of Mandalore. They had first encountered him upon the battlefield of Ninn, back when he was a mere small name warlords attempting to place his mark upon a small region of space. He fought them once again, at the great and deadly feast upon Mustafar. Each time they came at him, and each time they were only met with pain and death. It was either bravery, stupidity, or insanity, but for one reason or another, they simply wouldn't relent.

Khamul watched the pair as they circled around him, no doubt waiting for him to once again lash out with the Force. Khamul didn't share the qualms many of his people had in regards to harnessing the darkness, but he didn't display his abilities here solely as a show of power. No... it was merely one weapon in his arsenal, for he too was Mandalorian.

His hand finally reached for Mandalore's Lament, holding the hilt of the blade up for all to see. It hissed to life in a sickeningly rapturous display of black and crimson, its oh so familiar blade profile forming above his head. Several of the Mandalorians stopped fighting, if only for a moment. Many couldn't believe what they saw. Though clearly not the darksaber of old, there was no denying the significance of this new and terrifying weapon.

One of the pair that stalked him paused for a moment, attempting to find the words before calling out.

"SACRILEGE!!!"

The warrior was suddenly upon him, drawing his beskad as he sought to cut the Unchained down. Khamul could have used the Force to his advantage here. With a flick of his free hand, the man would have flown across the room. He would refrain, for now, as he knew that such an attack would be expected. Instead, he let his opponent come within striking range, only dodging the blade at the last moment. As his opponent followed through on the swing, an opening presented itself. Mandalore's Lament came at his foe's jetpack, cutting a piece of the attached missile with only the tip of his shadowy blade. The slice was followed up by a kick, sending the challenger crashing into the arms of his companion...

BOOM!

Shrapnel flew as the two Mandalorians blew into pieces, scattering their limbs across the floor. The slice to the missile had done its job, destabilizing it only just enough for it to explode once rattled enough. Khamul once again held his blade in the air, proclaiming his dominion in silence. If any more wished to attack, they would now know that they faced a true warrior. A true Mandalorian.

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Njal The Black

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Objective II: The Hunt
Tag: The Mongrel The Mongrel

"Kark this!", Njal screamed into the void - only to be answered by his own echo. Hearing his voice bounce back at him only infurated the pirate more, frenzying himself as he slammed the head of his vibro axe into the nearest rock again and again.​
When he was done his chest heaved, his knuckles sore and white from the strength of his grip. Sweat dripped from his brow, but if it was from the effort or the heat of this Balagoth Forsaken planet he couldn't be sure; all he knew that in this moment, everything pissed him off. His hunting companion, a local sent to guide the space viking through the wilderness made a tenuous, awkward side eye to him as he pretended to clean his gun - careful to avoid his gaze directly.​
"Where's the fucking beast?!", he growled as he pointed the tip of his blunted axe at the man.​
"You said he'd be here."​
"H-He's nearby, the trees are felled, his poodoo is warm - he can't be far.", the man said raising his arms into the air defensively, as though it would somehow calm the raging giant.​
"He better be, little man - or the handle of this axe," he gestured to it with his free hand.​
"Is finding itself a new home in your ass."​
The man gulped, stood, and walked further onto the trail without a word. Njal exhaled heavy as he let the last of his pent up stress drain for the moment; and then began to follow once more. He didn't have a point to prove here in the hunt, nor did he have some grand symbol to make of it. Addicted to more chems than he could count (literally), lost in so much blood lust during his time as a pirate and member of the Primeval, Njal was little more than a dog looking for a bone to chew on - and this bone would be a good one.​
"Balagoth will enjoy this sacrifice.", he mused to himself beneath the veridian ceiling above him.​
 


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Tor’r Tal’Verda | Death’s Hand
CLEANSING Flame


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W O L F



Smoke rolled from the stone rubble and ruin of the war-ravaged city block. The sounds of exchanging blaster fire and distant missile barrages fluttered through the air, Tor’r made his way through the wreckage of a once modest homestead. Eyes scanning his surroundings like
a violent predator under the haunting visage of his T-visor.

His hand rose to the side antennae mounted on his beskar helm, it fell down before his face as his hand pressed against it clicking the scarcely visible button.

Scanning.

The Horned Wolf scowled under his breath, opening up a comm channel he radioed in Ves Fett Ves Fett .

“Rendezvous on me.”





 
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The Hunt

Location: New Mandalore, Deep Jungle
Tags: Njal The Black

  • The Mongrel encounters Njal... and the Verdnaast


With his cybernetic senses finely tuned to every small detail of the jungle - the quietest sound, the barest shake of the leaves, the slightest change in atmospheric pressure - Njal's harsh growls were like a thunderclap right beside The Mongrel's figurative ears. Stunned by the unexpected noise, it took him a moment to recognize it as speech, words spoken in a language he could understand. Whoever it was made little secret of their approach... which, in the hunt for a creature as deadly as the Verdnaast, was a very dangerous decision indeed.

But then again, such might be the perfect bait.

In any case, it would be necessary to investigate, to find out who else was on the hunt for this world's apex predator. Keeping low, The Mongrel moved swiftly through the thick foliage, a silent but viciously effective Huntsman Vibrospear clutched in his metallic grip. Whether the nasty weapon, as sharp as it was, could even pierce a Verdnaast's thick armor plating was yet to be determined... but it was a far better choice for hunting than the man-reaping warblade he usually carried into battle. Its reach was far greater, and it could be easily thrown.

It did not take long for two bio-signatures to pop up on the warlord's advanced sensor systems, no doubt the pair he had overheard moving through the jungle. There was no point in stalking them, trying to approach unseen; if they were to confront one another, they might as well do it openly, to see if they would be obstacles or allies to one another's hunt. So The Mongrel stepped out from among the trees right in front of them, spear in hand, making no secret of his presence. His tall, jagged-armored chassis was draped in vines it had ripped free.

One of the others, a true giant, was taller yet.

"The sounds of your rage carry far," the warlord told the giant, for it was obvious that he - and not the timid little man beside him - had been the one who had spoken. "Even a harsh whisper is like a shout to the beasts of this world, I am told. If so, they have surely heard your approach, as I did." The Mongrel's spiked, harsh-angled mask regarded Njal, taking in the man's obvious power... and bloodlust. "I suspect we hunt the same prey," he said, the wheels of his mind turning. "The Verdnaast. If so, then perhaps we should..."

He never got the chance to finish the thought, for at that moment a bone-chilling roar echoed across the jungle, shaking not just the leaves but the very branches with its power and intensity. An instant later came the sound of truly thunderous footfalls, a huge creature sprinting through the woodland, smashing trees aside. It had surely heard them now... and it was coming to face these interlopers into its domain. The bait of noise had worked, for within moments a loathsome, eyeless head loomed through the trees, thick tongue tasting the air.

"The Verdnaast," The Mongrel whispered, awestruck...



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The Unchained


Location: New Mandalore, New Keldabe
Tags: Khamul Kryze Khamul Kryze

  • Khamul manages to win the respect of the Death Watch
  • Kralmus watches for treachery


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In any other company, the brutality of Kralmus Orr would have been remarkable. The cannibal's abrupt and savage dispatching of four highly trained Mandalorian veterans over the course of sixty seconds, from the one he'd shot through the head through the next three who'd charged him, was an incredible feat of vile cunning, martial skill, and sheer physical strength. These warriors of the Death Watch were scarred and battle-hardened, not mere greenhorns. Each of them had no small number of kills to his or her name, a legacy of honorable combat tarnished and then erased when they encountered a man who cared nothing for their notions of honor and codes of conduct.

And yet Kralmus's display was nothing next to the power of the Hellhound of Mandalore.

Sorcery flew from the demon-warrior's hands, frying a half dozen elite troopers alive in an instant. And that was just the beginning, for in the hand of Khamul Kryze a new and terrible blade blazed to life. There was a collective intake of breath at the sight of it, a mixture of awe and horror and rapture so thick it seemed palpable among the crowd. Darksaber, the collective memory of the Death Watch cried out, but it was not. It was something new, crackling crimson and black, the sword of a rising conqueror rather than a relic of the past. It was a symbol of the change Death's Hand brought, inspired by the past without being bound by it, seizing new power to break old chains.

And the skill with which he wielded it? Devastating. Terrible to behold.

In the wake of the jetpack explosion, with Mandalore's Lament shimmering darkly in the air as Kryze held it high, a hush fell over the gathering. No longer did any warrior raise a blade against another, all of them transfixed by that crackling, humming blade. The energy sword, and the corpses its followers had left strewn across the floor of this sacred meeting place, showed all present beyond any doubt that the future had come to claim them. They could follow this Demon Mandalore to blood-soaked glory, or they could fall here at the galaxy's furthest corner and be forgotten. These were the only choices left to them... and those who would choose to fall already had.

"Mand'alor! Mand'alor! Mand'alor!" The chant began among the younger warriors, those glory hounds among the Death Watch who had leapt into the fray on Kryze's side from the start of the fracas. But it spread from there, creeping through the crowd of those who had stood back and watched. They were beginning to become convinced that this outsider, this strange warlord from the galaxy they had tried to leave behind, really could lead them to renewed conquest. In the end, countless voices became one, cheering the man they now accepted as their leader, a role bought in blood. They would follow him back toward the Core. They would be his new Crusaders.

Not everyone joined in, of course. Some of the wary elders at the edges of the crowd remained silent, holding back, still watching. Kralmus watched each of them in turn, memorizing faces (or helmets, for those still covered), remembering who might still question his Mand'alor... who might prove to be a threat. He did not mind that internal divisions persisted, of course; he looked forward to paying each and every one of these dissenters a visit, to either bring them into line or - better yet - rend and consume their flesh. "Yes," he mused under his rancid breath, "I do so hope that you'll be disloyal. I enjoy the taste of treachery. It gives the tissues a distinctive sour flavor."

But for now, the day was one. Kryze had the respect of the Death Watch, and their rapt attention.
 

Njal The Black

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As The Mongrel The Mongrel exited the cover of the foliage, the guide nearly jumped out of his skin - but in his panic bumped backwards into Njal. The giant peered from their new guest down to the guide and frowned. Darkness in his eyes - but it could wait a moment longer.​
"It karking better, I'm pissed.", he said, as though it was obvious. Even in his casual tone, there was a growl - the lightest indication that he was always a time bomb with a short fuse. Just waiting for a reason to explode.​
Admist his request, however, Njal interrupted with a shake of his hand and his axe;​
"Why do you talk like that?", he said with a furrowed brow.​
"Fancy. Hoity toity. You better than me or somethin'?"​
But before he could make good on his challenge - the sound of the roar and ensuing predator searching for prey broke any attempt he had at an impromptu fight. The guide was quiet and low, The Mongrel much the Same, but Njal stood like an oak facing death. Without so much as a hesitation - he lifted the handle of his axe and slammed it into the guides head pommel first. The Crack of bone set the beast off; but Njal used his free hand to toss the man's corpse forward as bait;​
"You're up, kid!", he laughed loud and hearty - already charging forward to take advantage of the beasts likely split attention. The vibro axe was heavy, violently sharp, and the size of two men. It slammed into the flesh of the beat with a satisfying shlick- but it stopped heavy in bone.​
The smile Njal had faded as he quickly realized his axe was stuck - and the beast was no longer distracted, pain stealing its attention. It's head looked back at him, and it's tail whipped forward. Njal was slammed by it - stabbed and pressed against its flesh as the air left him.​
As soon as he was pressed tight against it - it through him back, deep into the cover of the forest without so much as a chance for the giant to scream.​
 



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OBJECTIVE II CLEANSING FIRE
Tag(s): Darth Ptolemis Darth Ptolemis , open

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New Mandalore, New Keldabe, Concordia Square - 874 ABY
The Wolf Among Sheep IV


The Mandalorian erupted in a fierce offensive, using his blasters to unleash a storm of yellow bolts at the Sith warrior, their high pitched screaming noise traveling fast and across the plaza, making some civilians and children shrug in surprise. They should have gotten used to it by now was all Aegon thought while His blade whirled around like scheme, barely visible, only a shadow of metal rushing through the air and deflecting shots back at the attacker and into the air.

Aegon was slowly moving backwards in weird circles and directions, fainting His retreat to give more of an impression to be forced into the defensive by the volume of bolts hissing at Him. He was building His focus, slowly but steadily swelling the energies of the Dark side, drawing from the terror, the fear, the grief and hate of those around, devouring their emotions to fuel His own passion, to forge it through focus into a tool He could use to do whatever He liked.

The Mandalorian apparently realised that his attack were not achieving anything against the bladesman and he changed his tactic, rushing towards the white haird man, the jetpack catapulting him forward as the blasters still spit out their yellow shots. It was the cover he used to engage Aegon in melee combat, holstering a pistol to draw a blade and start a combination of shots and strikes, as swift and trained as he was handling himself, he could have overwhelmed experience fighters. It was the proof which the Sorcerer needed, the proof that these people were worthy of His attention and to serve Him.

With movements which seemed a lot quicker than possible for a man His stature, the bastard was evading and blocking the professional onslaught of the beskar clad attacker. His sword dancing around Him, deflecting a shot here, parrying a blade there, but only just in time. It was a well timed game which Aegon could dominate any moment, instead He made it look like the Alor actually had the upper hand in his offensive.

Aegon had to draw the fight out further, the incantations needed a moment to be spoken and the noise of the heavily armed rowdy was perfect to cover His spoken words. So He kept Himself locked in the close combat, sensing that the opponent grew both impatient and tired quickly. It was good, they would end it in a few moments. Only a single thing was left to do.

During His seemingly last stand defense, Aegon's sword suddenly touched the clanleaders flesh between the joints below His armpit. It was a meagre cut, not deadly or even enough to cause a proper infection or major bleeding. But that was not the intention. The blade did its work. Its dark sorcery did its work. Against His will and better conscious, the Mandalorian gave Himself to His rage and hate, becoming wild and furious instead of accurate and professional. It was the final pawn sacrificed in Aegons big game, the fall of a soul below the lowest standards. An avatar of rage, purified of values, morals and conscience.

Suddenly the blade began to shine, its runes pulsating as Aegon drained the man in front of Him of all life, the weapon burried deep in the Alors chest. The shock of the sudden death not having entirely reached the surrounding people, but that was to expected. Everything started to slow down. During His duel the Sith sorcerer had drawn supporting runes into the dust and dirt of the plaza, supporting His magic the moment He unleashed it.

Invisible for the Mandalorians, absolutely sensible for Darth Ptolemis Darth Ptolemis was the immense wave of Dark side energy unleashed, creating a ring, where Orlov was just at the edge, like earlier, slowing time for everyone but Aegon Himself. The final cantations being spoken . . . .

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New Mandalore, New Keldabe, Concordia Square - 874 ABY
Unrelenting Passion I


Concordia Square was surrounded by two or three leveled buildings, fountains and some shrubbery spread across the place. It was meant as a place to meet, dwell and enjoy, taking time off of the urban areas and taking some nature and art in. To support the idea and make it more appealing for the local inhabitants, many of the houses around held very large windows, offering a beautiful view on the square itself.

The war had ended this beauty, low flying high speed interceptors, artillery shells and more direct impacts had ended most of the glass fronts and spread the glass all over the square. Just with the dust and dirt of crumbled houses, dead bodies and the smoke of guns were now omnipresent all over the plaza and city itself.

Many shards of this shattered glass suddenly started to glow in impossible shifts of green, orange and purple, their shine getting stronger by every moment passing. Infused with arcane magic, with the essence of the Dark side, they reacted, they became active themselves and rose from the shattered asphalt, levitating.

In the midst of all of the spectacle stood the Epicanthix-half bred, His eyes glowing, His blade dripping with thick nearly black blood, the mouth speaking soundless words, impossible to hear for those around, sticking in time and space. Aegon was hyper-focused, His senses expanded vastly, His powers flowing through the people around and feeding off of them. He had prepared this ritual for some time, it was the binding of souls and bodies to His will by the massed unleashing of emotions, in this case the families gathered would serve the purpose of giving the Mandalorians the right amount of motivation.

The glassshards turned, each gaining a focus, a target and would then hurl themselves at it. Mandalorian warriors hit all over the courtyard with these Force imbued projectiles, serving to establish a connection for Aegon to manipulate. His Dark side energies were flowing through them, allowing Him a direct path into their hearts and minds. But there was more needed.



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The Hunt

Location: New Mandalore, Deep Jungle
Tags: Njal The Black

  • The Mongrel tries to wound the Verdnaast with a spear, but fails
  • Charged by the creature, he grabs onto Njal's embedded axe to dodge its feet
  • He and the axe tumble free, sprawling in the Verdnaast's wake


The man was unafraid, unworried by what the sounds of his rage might draw to them. That was good when hunting a Verdnaast. Those who were fearful would stand no chance at surviving the creature's attacks, let alone bringing it down. But the man's rage was... undirected. It spilled out of him more like a cloud than an arrow, hanging around him, ready to consume anyone who crossed its threshold. Many marauders were the same way, so The Mongrel knew such a temperament well. Ordinarily he might have relished a challenge...

... but at present, it'd be a suicidal distraction.

The Mongrel chuckled at Njal's questioning of his speech patterns, a deep, metallic rasp that sounded more like the grinding of internal gears than true human mirth. Why indeed? In his barely-remembered life before the Maw, he had been a humble speeder mechanic. After they had broken him, he had become a half-crazed slave-soldier. Neither was the kind that tended to the formal language he now used. Perhaps it had crept in from the Heathen Priests as he listened to their endless sermons, or perhaps from the implants on his brain.

But even if he had been willing to muse on such things with a dangerous stranger, he never got the chance; the arrival of the Verdnaast, all ten tons of armored flesh and powerful muscle, interrupted their little meeting. Njal reacted quickly, adopting the pose of a gladiatorial challenger rather than a stealthy hunter. Then he casually bashed his guide's head in, flinging the cringing whelp to the ground at the Verdnaast's feet. The towering carnivore bent at the waist, its eyeless head snuffling at the corpse as the scent of blood hit its nostrils.

In that moment, Njal charged, his axe sinking deep into the distracted creature's flesh. It must be a sharp blade indeed, to so cleanly pierce the beast's armored hide, and Njal incredibly strong to wield it so! But the mighty strike did not go unanswered. The Verdnaast's tail, thick as a tree trunk and sheathed in layer upon layer of muscle, lashed out. It caught the tall warrior with its slap and sent him flying - though, to The Mongrel's surprise and admiration, Njal did not cry out. Perhaps he simply had no time, or no wind left in his lungs.

Well, that was quick. The Verdnaast's tail was not only powerful, it carried a line of two-foot razors along the top, more than capable of rending flesh and bone. Even if he had evaded being punctured by those, Njal had suffered a thunderous impact, and would suffer another when he inevitably fell back to earth. The Mongrel was not counting on the raging warrior to survive; it would take an incredibly tough man to pull through after that. Which left him back where he had begun the day: hunting the Verdnaast alone. A dangerous task.

It would be on him in seconds, its keen sensory organs echolocating his position without any need for eyes. With only an instant to act, The Mongrel cocked back a powerful cybernetic arm and hurled his vibrospear with all his might, aiming for the sensitive snout. But alas. Clang. The Verdnaast shifted its head at the last instant, and the spear's sharp point glanced off the creature's armored crest, doing no more damage than drawing a long, thin line along the glossy black armor. Then, with a roar to shake the jungle, the thing charged.

There was only one chance, an opening that Njal had unintentionally provided. The axe still protruded from the Verdnaast's hide, stuck fast in the bone. Throwing himself to the side, The Mongrel barely twisted past the apex predator's snapping jaws... and managed to seize the weapon's haft, holding on for dear life. It took only three jerks of the beast's powerful body, three thunderous steps, to shake this added burden free. Warlord and axe tumbled from the wound, The Mongrel losing his grip on the weapon as he fell hard.

Sprawled in the Verdnaast's wake, he was vulnerable...
 

DOG_OF_WAR
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"I hear you loud and clear vod," A sly familiar response from the mouth of a Fett who'd spent a lifetime in exile, far from the clutches of the old ways and home. Ves kept close rank with Tor'r ever since they'd arrived on the planet, strolling behind the larger Mando as she let out an indignant snort at the mans lack of awareness.

"You need to work on watching your back horned one; I've been following you this entire time."

Ves cradled her helmet in her arms, its olive green paint job the same since the day she got it, only it had faded with time and scarred with battle as she had. She carried a larger blaster rifle modified for close quarters, and a small mace that had accompanied her ever since the glory days of Clan Fett. The mace found much use in fighting others of her own kind, with the blunt force braining many a Mando and hospitalising others.

"What do you see."
Tor’r Tal’Verda Tor’r Tal’Verda
 

Njal The Black

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A drink, a drink - his life for a drink.​
The thought rolled around in Njal's head as his eyes opened, as pain began to flood back into his senses. He groaned and leaned forward, blood pooling underneath him from the stab, cuts, and internal bleeding he had from the heavy tail strike. A second later and he was standing - the wounds already beginning to heal, one of the few gifts of his race as a Firrerreo.​
He squeezed his hands and looked for his axe - but it seemed to have been separated from him. Wordlessly, he growled into the foliage and began to make his way back to the fight - nearly tripping over the latent roots and brush. It threatened to overtake him, threatened to drag him back down - and if he did, he likely wouldn't get back up for a few hours. That was assuming the beast didn't find him first.​
So instead he bit his tongue - felt the pain surge anew as blood filled his mouth. He let out a scream through the forest and charged. Foot fall after foot fall, he broke into the clearing dripping blood from his entire body; but he charged nevertheless, ever onward to the fight. He gripped the handle of his axe as he passed by - almost completely unaware of The Mongrel The Mongrel - and swung it in a devastating upward arc into the chin of the beast.​
It would prove to be less than fatal - but the resounding crack made it clear the weight of the strike broke bone. It'd at least make the creature less lethal - besides that damndable tail. This time, Njal would get his axe back, and the cries of the beast felt like sweet music on his ears; but it was short lived. Before a second strike could be had, it slammed its head into him - leaving him gasping for air as he flew through the air towards a tree on the edge of the clearing.​
Once more he dropped the axe, once more he sat huddled near a tree - only this time he was awake, and he could feel the hot breath of the creature hovering over him. So he did all that he could - he beared his teeth back it, showed it that in the end he was just as much an animal as it. It wouldn't be a good death, he supposed;​
But what death really was?​
 
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The Hunt

Location: New Mandalore, Deep Jungle
Tags: Njal The Black

  • The Mongrel uses his flamethrower to hold the Verdnaast back briefly
  • He returns Njal's fallen axe and bids him use it well


It might all have ended right there, The Mongrel's whole blood-soaked career, with a casual stamp of the Verdnaast's armored foot or a snap of its bone-crushing jaws. The warlord struggled to rise in the creature's wake, damage warnings flashing across his cybernetic awareness, bent actuators struggling to engage his limbs and get him back to his feet. Internal repair systems scrambled into action, trying desperately to patch up his subsystems enough to get him out of the way... but the beast was quick, and now it was angry, too.

He would have been out of time, had not Njal made his dramatic return. Bloodied but unbroken, the towering warrior dragged himself back into the fight, keeping himself from unconsciousness or collapse by sheer force of will. Distracted though he was by the likelihood of his own imminent death, The Mongrel had to admit that he was impressed. He had written the Firrerreo off as a dead man the moment that tail had slammed into him, yet here he was, his pain and rage and determination fueling him to go on no matter his body's wounds.

The warlord grew even more impressed as Njal seized his fallen axe and, with the Verdnaast's head descending for a brutal and certainly fatal chomp, slammed the blade into the underside of the creature's jaw. Crack. The roar-howl-whine that issued from the beast's throat, spraying the surrounding jungle with a gallon of blood-flecked spittle, was both terrifying and piteous at the same time. It stumbled back several steps, mewling like a dropped felinx... only forty times the size, and with a mouth full of razors. Then, enraged, it struck back.

The Verdnaast's neck was even thicker with corded muscle than its tail; it probably could have pushed over a light freighter with the strength of its head alone. That head slammed into Njal, sending him flying once more. He tumbled to a halt beside a tree, leaving a trail of broken branches and bloodied rocks in his wake. Somehow he was still conscious, but the knocks he was taking seemed to be overwhelming even his incredible rage, dragging him down toward sleep or death. And he was the only one who had really hurt this thing so far.

The Mongrel needed him alive, or he was finished too.

No matter how fierce or towering the wild beast, almost all have an instinctive aversion to one of civilization's most basic tools: fire. Finally managing to rise, his self-repair systems getting his limbs unstuck from the jumble of mangled metal they had briefly become, The Mongrel prepared to wield that tool to his advantage. Even as the Verdnaast loomed over Njal, preparing a bite that would no doubt rend the mighty warrior in half if it didn't swallow him whole, the Mawite warlord sprinted forward. He had to intercept that final blow.

As he ran, he snatched up that deadly axe again.

Just before the Verdnaast's teeth could snap shut, The Mongrel slid between the creature and Njal, raising his right arm. A jet of flame, a weapon he had often used against Jedi and their ilk, shot forth from internal chemical hoses, terrible heat washing over the beast's sensitive snout. The creature reared back, more from shock and instinctive revulsion than pain... and bought them a few seconds. "Get up," the warlord bellowed, a metallic growl that sounded like gears grinding together. He threw the mighty axe down at Njal's feet.

"Only you can hurt it. Finish it now, or we die!"
 

Njal The Black

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Objective I

Njal forced words from his bleeding maw as he stood -​
"Don't tell me what to karking do!", he said.​
Realistically, it wasn't that the man had said anything truly pointed or in oppoisition of Njal's own intentions - but there was a matter of pride sprinkled on a monument of rage he had to consider. In this moment, Njal couldn't care less who saved him, who killed him, who threw flames into whatever gaping teeth pit that threatened to kill them - all the great giant could imagine was ripping off everyone's head for even the briefest satisfaction.​
He stood - slower than he had before. Bones shifted beneath the skin implying a few in the ribs were broken, more than likely his femur had a chip taken out of it, and if he had any inkling - his collarbone was mush. In that moment he was a sack of jelly walking; but he could deal with that in a moment. His genes fought against mortality itself as wounds visibly began to heal before them; and Njal moved forward with the axe now in hand.​
The great beast twisted its head back around to finish them; but Njal swung the axe with his full force to meet it just behind the jaw. Two hands brought the great axe into the creatures neck then back out again - and once more it pulled its head back only to try again, but again it met only the axe. The creature bellowed a scream that shook the mountains, sent leaves down from the tree tops -​
And Njal screamed back. Primal and rage filled, it fit more a rabid beast than a man - but Njal was more the former than the latter. His grip was white knuckled as the axe came back around a later time to slam directly into the beast's jaw line. It was a titantic creature, and it didn't fall before them so quickly - but the blood that spilled on the ground now made it clear the wounds were stacking - and the ones to the neck were soon to be mortal.​
 

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Cleansing Flame
New Mandalore / New Keldabe

Aegon of Vitria Aegon of Vitria | Tags open!

Equipment: 3 × Smoke Grenade | Lightsaber | Ornate Dagger


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Crouched atop a building close by, the stone cold apprentice kept watch as the Sith sorcerer battled the chosen Mandalorian. Obviously, both of them were being watched and targeted by barrels hidden from sight. With the Force as one's servant, however, blindness in any form simply did not exist. The more Orlov was stationary, the further he reached with his mind, observing the patterns of life in the vicinity. The atmosphere was turbulent.

Right from the beginning of the life-or-death duel down below, the apprentice felt that something was out of the ordinary, and the fact that this Sith warrior seemed to somehow play with his opponent further raised the hooded stranger's curiosity. A danse macabre was unfolding in front of him, right on the streets of New Keldabe. With each passing second the predator's signature in the Force bloomed, and equally did the wind pick up between the buildings. The tension was palpable – Orlov could almost see it in the air. Spectators emotionally invested in what was happening.

Yet it was a ruse. Even the apprentice raised his eyebrows when the sorcery, the trick, was eventually revealed. It was done. When they met, he did mention something along the lines of an incantation to corrupt, a game to twist others to his will. A staple of the Dark Side.

The apprentice brooding up above suddenly got up, sensing a significant slow within the flow of destiny, the operator of which seemed to be the dark warrior, enshrined in forbidden magic.

There it glowed. A ringed anomaly in the Force.
Remarkable... The now ensnared Mandalorians were bound to him, but more was needed. The sorcerous warrior won Orlov over with his skill in forbidden magicks, mysteries which he himself would love to obtain. Eager to gain insight, the apprentice quickly decided to open himself up in the Force, fixing his gaze on the white-haired man, but otherwise remaining physically still. Reaching out telepathically, the apprentice imagined a shifting stream of shadowy limbs slowly linking the two dark siders together. Tortured, shapeless fingers passing along a message on its waves...
~ Snare them all. Unleash your malice. ~

Cautious enough to stop any possible exploitation of this Force-imbued support he was establishing – should the man turn on him for some reason – the apprentice offered to arm the man with even more power. Orlov held no ulterior motives. His intentions were deliberately transparent in the Force. His goal is simply to learn. A temporary connection beneficial to both; the Sith warrior's will would now be absolute over the others, and Orlov would see behind the curtain. Witness his secrets and take them for himself. What the predator did with this lent strength, however, depended only on him.
 
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The Hunt

Location: New Mandalore, Deep Jungle
Tags: Njal The Black

  • The Mongrel blows up the wound Njal inflicted with an explosive dart
  • He is impaled by the Verdnaast's tail as it thrashes in its death throes


"Don't tell me what to karking do!"

The Mongrel paused, servos grinding as his mechanical head turned to regard Njal. If he could have blinked slowly at the man, he would have. As it was, he had no eyelids, so he settled for a blank stare - the only kind of stare he could give without pupils or irises. A thousand retorts, each of them half-amused and half-frustrated, surfaced in his mind. Fine, then, he almost said, sit there pouting and die. But though he was a warrior through and through, more accustomed to rage and bloodshed than tact, he managed to hold his nonexistent tongue.

Snapping at the barbarian wouldn't help him.

So the warlord ignored the petulant response and focused instead on surviving this encounter for a few seconds more. As Njal rose, pushing past what had to be a true plethora of shattered bones, The Mongrel kept up the very literal stream of fire he was directing into the jaws of the Verdnaast. He was starting to get diminishing returns, though. At first the flames had triggered the creature's natural revulsion to the sudden burst of light and heat, the natural instinct that caused it to flee from forest fires - the rare foe its jagged teeth could not conquer.

But the Verdnaast was not a stupid beast, or it would not have been a true apex predator, size or not. The plume of fire was small compared to its hulking body, and as the initial shock faded it began to realize this fact. Something so much tinier than it, and incapable of melting or even scorching its thickly-armored hide, was not something it had to fear. A moment after the thought percolated through its bestial brain, it surged forward again, ducking its head left to avoid the worst of the heat - it was still sensitive, even if it wasn't being truly harmed.

Fortunately, Njal was already getting in its way.

Wham-snickt. The barbarian's axe bit deep into the flesh behind the creature's manible-like jaw, cracking armor plate and ripping into tendons. Then again, a second time, deepening the bleeding hollow the huge weapon had gouged out. The Verdnaast roared in pain and rage, leaking vile ichor over the jungle floor... and Njal roared with equal ferocity, if not lung capacity. Here were two wounded beasts, two predators whose clash had left them both bloodied. Though the outcome was still uncertain, this battle was entering its final stages.

Letting his flamethrower gutter out, The Mongrel clenched his fist, cycling through the weapons built into his cybernetic arm. The nozzle he'd been deploying retracted, and a smaller, sleeker launcher emerged in its place. The warlord zoomed in his vision, employing his sophisticated suite of sensors and targeting computers, locking onto the neck wound that Njal had just left. He would get only one shot at this, and if he fethed it up, he would probably be shredded as the creature rolled and lashed about, raging as it bled. Here goes nothing.

The explosive dart streaked out of the launcher, embedding itself in the raw, riven flesh that Njal had split open. The little projectile's payload was too small to crack the armor plating, but the soft flesh beneath was another matter. Boom. Great gobbets of viscera burst from the impact site as the dart went up, its detonite shaft exploding in a fireball that seemed disproportionate to its small size. The Verdnaast staggered, suddenly gasping; its trachea was gone, its lower jaw shredded, its barbed tongue hanging from a fresh hole in its neck.

But the blood-mad creature did not fall.

The Mongrel scarcely had time to duck as the thing began to writhe and thrash, slamming into trees, its howls of pain and rage turning into vile sucking sounds as blood rushed into its voicebox. He was quick enough to dodge a swipe of its claws and a stamp of its taloned feet... but not quite quick enough to mind the tail. And he was less lucky than Njal on that count, for when that huge muscled appendage whipped into him, the spikes atop it bit deep. One moment he was standing on the forest floor, scrambling to find some cover...

... and the next his chassis was impaled on two spikes.
 

Njal The Black

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Tag: The Mongrel The Mongrel

Njal didn't move to help The Mongrel like the man had him - he was far too petulant for such honorifics. Instead he watched as the man was hit, slammed, stabbed, and thrown just as he was; quietly asking if it hurt as much as it should have. The beast was great - but as great as the beast was, the beast was dead. Even if it didn't know it yet, the blood that it trailed on the ground was forming mud, a river of viscera that threatened to wash away anything nearby; and the thrashing wasn't helping.​
It had started to trip in its own blood mud mix. Struggling on the ground, fighting for a life that had been stolen from it - and Njal simply watched until it fell, its breath slowing to heavy heaves at his feet. He looked down with a bit of disgust - quietly offered a prayer, then slammed his axe handle into its eye and past the ocular bone. The beast shuddered, then sat still - a good sacrifice to Balagoth.​
Stepping away he walked to the Mongrel and found him somewhere near the rear of the creature - stabbed and fighting for his own life. Njal spoke hearty - or at least attempted to before the wounds in his stomach flared again. All the confidence in his words fell by the second word;​
"Hurts, don't it?", he said before coughing up blood himself.​
Hunched forward, he slowly moved to rest a foot on the man's chest - then forced the tail up and out of his wounds. Let it never be said Njal was a doctor - he wasn't sure if that was the right thing to do, but who wanted to live with a 10 ton monsters spiked tail in your chest for your last moments? That certainly wouldn't be a good death. Instead he'd offer him some fresh air through his new breathing holes, and find a seat himself.​
He fell against a tree and let his axe rest on his lap as he struggled to suck in breaths himself.​
"You fight well for a toaster.", he finally offered the man.​
 

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