Populate Death's Hand | BotM Populate of Empty Hex

[SCAR]

NEW MANDALORE '74

Related threads building to this:
Ashes to Ashes
Reclamation
Remember Your Place




Manda’yaim. The Mandalore-that-was is gone.
​

This truth was widely preached by Death Watch Crusaders, hidden vode of the Enclave, and by Death's Hand themselves. The planet was a cursed graveyard now, a tombstone of what was and could no longer b..ee.e..e..e.

BURN IT ALL DOWN
BURN IT ALL DOWN​

Mandalorians, once great warriors of Death Watch Crusade have settled within the depths of the Unknown Regions in the Brotherhood's very backyard. After the quashing of rebellion in the streets of Iol, Kralmus Orr and SCAR managed to uncover the location of this hidden redoubt. The planet hosts a great city known as New Keldabe, the home of the far traveling settlers from distant Mandalore, and countless villages of Taung whom survived their extinction by relocating to the Unknown Regions to live in seclusion. Our mighty march across the galaxy will not be impeded by any force, man or machine.We shall use this world as a stepping stone to expand our ever expanding reach into the heartlands of the Imperial once more. Nothing will stop us.

Mandalore the Unchained, Mighty Warlord Khamul Kryze , lays claim to this world as his own under the right of strength by Death's Hand. Those who do not submit are to be slaughtered. Prepare for glorious battle against the greatest warriors the galaxy has ever known.

The Unchained​

The leaders of the Death Watch gather within the center of New Keldabe, Mand'alor Khamul Kryze arrives to join them and proclaim to the wayward flock of his rightful claim to the throne. Equipped with Mandalore's Lament and the mighty Mask of Mandalore refitted and reforged using the arts alchemical, Khamul 's claim is near absolute.As long as he can convince the leaders of the crusader remnants to rally to his banner, the Brotherhood will find itself bolstered by warriors of unparalleled calibur.

Beware. Assassins lurk in every corner, warriros who wish to see the Mandalorian Sith Lord dead before he can bring the misguided vode into the fold of the greater Brotherhood of the Maw. They must be made to see the reality of the universe, WAR, DEATH, REBIRTH. They must be made to serve by show of strength as is written in the Gospel of the Hidden Maw.

So it will be.

Cleansing Flame​

New Keldabe is a city of great potential, a haven for those who still follow the ways of the Death Watch. Their crusade may have ended, but their warrior ways have not. We must rally those who would take up arms and bring about greatest conflict the galaxy has ever seen. Those who are not Mandalorian have no worth, those who trade here or settled from countless other worlds must be eliminated in the cleansing fire that has tasted Chiss blood. Those who resist regardless of their allegiance are to be destroyed.

Secure the city, take control over all communications and weapon caches. We must solidify our hold over this lost world so that we can expand outward into the edges of Chiss Space where our Imperial enemies lie in wait.

The Hunt​

The Taung of Clan Keldau live in the thick jungles of New Mandalore, in their glorious past they were revered for their abilities in taming the wild beasts as war mounts. Their skills are second to none, fighting such warriors in the jungles would be a guerilla war we cannot afford to wage. Mand'alor Khamul Kryze demands their allegiance to his crusade and to rally such breed of warrior to our cause we must prove our worth. Enter the jungles and begin the hunt. To walk the Way of the Mandalore you must be predator and prey, throw yourselves into the lion's den and face the wilds of the untamed world. Beasts of terrible ferocity rivaled only by the Demon Moon lurk in these depths, rumor has it that there is a beast here resembling the once mighty Mythosaur.

Bring the Taung a worthy prize, or do not come back at all.

​

 

[Milos Echo]

Cleansing Flame
Goal: Ruin Their Chances​

Commotions emerge in a clustered hall, far from the most active fighting there was. People were shouting from all across, people from all age groups, from the smallest children to the elders that barely can wield a stick to their name. Men in armor, shouting with intent to fight back with those of fancier clothing, opting to find ways to peace. There was no such thing as peace, not in times of harsh warfare and genocide. As the shouting started to reach a fever pitch, to the point where the Deaths Hand may not need to cleanse a battlefield with no survivors, a loud booming voice vibrated the whole hall.

"CHILDREN IN THE GRASS!"​

The voice said, slowly emerging from the crowd of a rather well armored, well hidden individual in the darkened armor. Almost resembling battle armor reserved only for Jedi of an extinct, bygone era, his footsteps would clatter on each footstep with intent, reaching towards a platform to rise from where two Mandalorians stood. Both were of opposite corners of the universe in their respective fields, but both were equally as useful. Ascending from the steps, his voice would be a bit more gentle, the Force projecting his voice onto the crowd still as he passed by the warrior of the pair, not even glancing him for a minute.

"Children in the Grass! That is all I see here, those flocking to be hidden in the grass, only to be hunted down by wolves in the fields and dragged to where no one can find them. Farmers that wish to rid the wolves devouring their children, sacrificing them to the flames of war to rid of their own threat. That...that is what I see here, people cowering and waiting for the wolves to pick them off one by one, and the Death's Hand turn to torch everything you know to the ground."

"I have however, a solution to your unique...problem. The skies are filled with your enemies, the streets filled with bolts of plasma and the walls listening to us all, I, myself have the solution to all your problems. All I require, is the loyalty of this hall, the people to follow each order to the letter and I will guarantee the survival of those who wish to live, to fight another day. Failure to do so, I will leave you to your fate."

There was a clamoring from the crowd as the two that represented their sides stared at one another. Confusion ran through the hall as someone from the crowd use their jetpack to ascend above the crowd, holding his rifle as he started to aim...only to find himself unable to move any portion of his body. There was a cracking noise from above and without much detail given, a splash of red coating the occupants below as some would scream. The darkened individual would glance to his left, noticing the shimmer in the light as he nodded. He had trained his apprentice very well, the Bothan appeared from view, along with five others in darkened garments that represented the Sith.

"Let that be a lesson to those that wish to oppose my word, my plan, or anything I even dare think. You will all listen to what I say, warriors will be sent to the front. Those who cannot lift a weapon, you will be placed for observation areas where I mark them. Those who have droids will be brought to me. Those that are more expertly trained, will speak to Delta Two for defensive setup, my Number Two for today. I will be in your under chambers, preparing for our escape."

"Today will be the day your freedom will be earned."

"Today, an Echo of Defiance will be Heard."​

 

[Kralmus Orr]

The Unchained​

Location: New Mandalore, New Keldabe
Tags: Khamul Kryze

Spoiler: TL;DR

• Kralmus stands guard for Khamul

​

"Honor Guard". Pfeh. How dreadfully boring this "place of honor" was proving to be.

At the center of New Keldabe, a city half aflame as the warriors of the Maw purged it of those unwilling to join their dark crusade, Kralmus Orr pondered the poor choices that had led him to be in here rather than out there. He was a marauder, a manhunter, an eater of still-warm flesh. All those years ago, in the post-apocalyptic ruins of Mandalore, he had set out to become the ultimate untamable predator. And he had become such a creature, had haunted the wilds of that broken world for a decade. The beast that was Kralmus Orr belonged out in the burning streets, hunting as he willed, killing at his own dark whim. Instead, here he was, part of the "Honor Guard".

He endured it only because the killing it would ultimately lead to was even greater than the killing of today.

Thinking beyond instant gratification was still a relatively new concept to Kralmus. He was sure his long-forgotten parents had done their best to drill it into him when he'd been a young lad, but many years of living like an animal had driven it right back out again, and he hadn't found any desire to relearn it. Not until the Dark Mandalore had come, had explained to him a way to drag their traditional, hidebound people back to their true legacy: fire, blood, and conquest. Too many of the Mandalorians had become like livestock, easily led, easily bound by their codes of "honor" and their endless, meaningless rituals of culture. But Khamul Kryze had promised to change all that.

He would grab them by their self-imposed bridle and guide them back to blood-soaked glory.

Kralmus seldom sought of others beyond the enjoyment he could get out of their torment - or the exquisite taste of their flesh - but this was one time he was willing to make an exception. He had sworn to follow Kryze to the ends of the galaxy in their quest to reclaim the true heritage of the Mandalorians, creating a new generation of Crusaders to crush known space and lay low all who dared to challenge them. When that war began, all of the boredom of following and searching and guarding would be worth it. It would mean gore and glory far beyond what Kralmus could ever claim on his own, and in his mind, those were the only worthy goals beyond instant gratification.

So the cannibal Mandalorian stood, leaning on his mighty axe, and waited for the... ugh, "diplomatic summit" to begin. His only hope was that at least some of these Death Watch would prove resistant to their offer, and he would get to carve them up as a butcher carves roast nerf on Life Day. And he was both eager and ready for that possibility. Though he appeared bored, slouched casually against a wall while the haft of his axe bore his weight, the yellow eyes beneath his horned helm were vigilant. If Kryze died now, claimed by some scuttling assassin or cowardly ambush, all those months - years, even - of searching for old masks and lost planets would be for nothing.

He would not allow that to happen. Not when they were so close to the war he craved.

 

[Darth Solipsis]

Whoops

 

[SCAR]

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

W O L F​

Only the Strong. The guiding tenet of the Brotherhood, the truth of the universe simplified down to a simple phrase. A statement more than anything.

New Keldabe was a city with boundless potential, an upstart colony founded by the wayward warrior kin that had abandoned their homeworld for greener pastures after taking their fight to the Sith and to those who would accept what had come to pass. The city sat along the river’s edge, it’s vicinity cleared of all thick brush, replaced with stumped plains and fertile fields. Beyond the titanic stone walls that separated civilization from the dangers of the savage world around them, the city was divided.

Clan banners adorned the homes of many, they grouped together neighboring one another into tight knit city blocks. Outsiders roamed the streets, the same denizens of the Unknown Regions who fled the wrath of the Brotherhood. Traders, refugees, and wandering vagrants had discovered the beauty that was New Mandalore. They were unwanted, even if given the protection of the Mando’ade they would not escape the Brotherhood twice.

Tor’r soared through the open streets alongside his vode. His jet pack roared, sputtering forth thick smoke and toxic smog as he led the way. Those who followed him did so away from the dark trail of death left in the wake of the Rally Master. Violence erupted around him, marauders poured into the city by the shipload with a appetite for blood and destruction. Those who would hear the call of Mand’alor and the Dark Voice’s Brotherhood would lay down their arms, those who would resist would be destroyed on sight.

Boom!

An explosion rocked the nearby quarter as a market square came tumbling down. Smoke and debris ripped through the air, flames sparked forth immediately upon the ground zero of the blast in the aftermath. Tor’r came to a halt mid-air and rallied his followers.

Flying toward the source they soon found themselves under fire by rebellious members of Death Watch, true warriors who were vode by creed. A worthy foe, the Horned Wolf came in hot firing with blasters in each hand as he descended. The rubble filled ruins offered little cover, they pushed forward to meet their enemies in close combat.

Glory or death. He would have his fill.

 

[Khamul Kryze]

The Unchained

Tags: SCAR , Kralmus Orr , Raus Garrat

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

Smoke and fire began rising across the skyline of New Keldabe, smoldering in the air as the cries of the weak echoed across the city. Khamul's first wish wasn't to kill the inhabitants of the planet; things would be much simpler if they saw the light. Unfortunately, reality was rarely that simple. Nevertheless, he would discern the strong from the weak, the Vode from the Dar'Manda. He stood next to Kralmus, his cold gaze fixed on the delegation forming in front of them.

"I sense frustration in you, Kralmus. Do not worry, I anticipate you'll have your share of killing before the day is done."

Kralmus had a taste for blood as much as he did for the flesh of those he killed, a true predator. A true killer. A true Mandalorian. Such were the reasons that Khamul asked him to join him at this gathering. Death's Hand would show the inhabitants of New Keldabe that they weren't some splinter group, but rather, a movement. They would prove themselves to be the banner behind which a crusade would be built, bringing their people back to the old ways.

The banners of the different clans could be seen, giving sign as to whom sat in the different sections of the delegation. Khamul recognized several as members of the Death Watch, the group that he had fought upon the battlefield of Ninn. It was they that had opened his eyes to the truth of his people, in a way. Before his first encounter with them, Khamul had hoped to unite the clans without unnecessary bloodshed. He believed that they were still his people... oh how wrong he was. It was only after he crossed swords with them that he had realized just how lost they had become.

He stepped forth, listening to the sound of the fighting that took place outside. His masked face peered around the room once more, making sure that everyone could see that he had claimed the birthright of Mand'alor. Eventually, his deep voice called out, carrying across the room with a commanding tone.

"Vode, I have come to you with a singular purpose. Long have the Mandalorians fought among themselves, bickering over the finer points of what makes us who we are. Where has that gotten us? Our old home, a wasteland. Our people, scattered. Many are living off of the scraps from the tables of others. And all because we have forgotten who we truly are. Why do we cower so? Why should we fear those that are meant to be our prey? Are we not Mandalorians? ARE WE NOT THE HUNTERS?"

Subtle whispers could be heard among those gathered, and Khamul let the words linger in the air. He would give them a moment to think, but only a moment. There was no time for talk. There was no time for debate. There would only be fealty, or death...

 

[Aegon of Vitria]

OBJECTIVE II CLEANSING FIRE
Tag(s):
​

Aegon was walking through the streets of New Keldabe, His leather boots cracking down on small pieces of glass being all over the place. They once belonged to windows of this colony of the Mandalorian civilisation. They could have also belonged to the city of some spice addicted, sanctified crusaders or glorified imperials, the Sith would not exactly mind or care. He was not here for a history lesson on some rag-tag people who were trying again and again to gain power.

He did not care two minutes ago when a group of them attacked him while He was baptising His hands in fresh blood on yet another day. It was a bunker for the inhabitants of the last hab-block, the old, sick, small and those too ignorant to understand they could be of greater use were gathered, flocked like livestock waiting for their butcher to arrive. Aegon did them a favour. Their death was quick and merciful, their agony only serving to fuel His most basic needs, their blood only saturating Him as an appetiser.

Then the warriors appeared, frenzied and driven to madness by the terror and maybe grief over lost loved ones, they attacked. Headlessly like amateurs, using their silly jetpacks to seemingly gain a height advantage, believing their armor to be a safe heaven from the attack of the Sith. It was an amused smile on Aegon's face when He met this minimal resistance, a warm up.

When they realised their blasters bolts hit an invisible wall time and time again, they decided to attack the Sith Lord in close combat. Still believing in the superiority of beskar and their combat proficiency. Aegon met them head on with a devilish smile adorning His face.

A flamethrower, crude and effective in close combat, especially in urban ares and to clear fortifications like trenches. The seriously concentrated ones of the Mandalorians in their gauntlets are only having a limited range but are a great distraction to the unknown.
Blades of beskar are very prestigious and precious to the Mandalorian culture, able to easily withstand a lightsaber they can go smoothly head on head in melee combat.
In combination these weapons, added by blasters and skill in unarmed combat, are making a serious threat to any proven warrior, the Mandalorians being a warrior-culture on their own. But, alas, as time shows, thats not enough. They rise and fall, rise and fall, just like petty imperial doctrines, average Sith Empires and both the corrupted Republic and pathetic Jedi. It is the cycle of life, of the universe. Of the Force. It is dictated by this mystical field of energy, this enveloping presence which dictated life it's balance. It was sickening to think about it. And Aegon thought about it, it agitated Him. In the middle of the fight it light His heart with anger, it filled his muscles with the heat of energy pulsating into every limb and vein.

The arkanian half-bred did not notice how he tore through the warriors. The first one came flying in like a meteor, his twin blaster pistols spitting plasma bolts into the direction of the tall invader, the picture itself would be memorable. The atmosphere in the background a result of the unrestricted, unforgiving and total warfare of the Brotherhood, the proud warrior descending like a vengeful angel from the burning skies. He was the fasted to attack, the best shooter and maybe even the best melee fighter of them. And he was the first to die. A mere pulse made his heart burst and instantly kill him. It was not His direct intention, just a result of His thoughts. The second and third met a clankingly crushing fate, their jetpacks carrying them with extreme speed, and against their will, into the next duracrete wall, smearing it with the remnants of armor and body parts and liquids, slowly dripping down from the fifth floor. Aegon was not done and the remaining warriors very much neither. But now He focused.

Purple mist was forming around His hands and lower arms, a smoke, a darkness which was making the Mandalorian warriors hesitate for mere milliseconds, but their sense for revenge, their desire for retribution driving them to act against their instinct of survival. They pushed on, relentlessly, bravely, skilled, foolishly. Forming quick gestures, the Man-Witch raised a circle of roughly ten meters around Him, it's outlines marked by the same purple mist, including all of the five warriors which saw themselves pushing, forced to push on. Aegon's smile broadened, they were trapped, their souls were already His. For Him the next seconds passed in slow motion, the beskar-clad opponents basically telepathically announcing each of their actions, allowing Him to move between them, killing one after the other.

The first one got a telepathic spike right burning through his cortex, He imagined it like a spear of pure, black ice, so cold that it just burned through matter and Force. The second one Aegon confronted with a Force reinforced kick right on the knee, shattering it along with the protective pad, then turning to the third, just to fix her in her location, slowly applying pressure on her windpipe. The woman was strangling under her t-visor, the eyes screaming pain, her mouth wide open but no tone would escape it as her face would slowly turn red and purple, strangled by the will of Him, choked on the powers of balance. The fourth and fifth met a lot more gory end, Aegon unclipping His butchers hook, His trophy carrier, as it pierced through the armpit of the first, the man screamed into his helmet, coughing blood into the interior of his visor, the lung being pierced. With a swift and controlled pull and push movement, He got His weapon out, accompanied by a stream of blood, it already clumping, thanks to the self-created poison on it's pointy end. The man choking on his own blood as it was not able to run through veins anymore and not even through his throat. With His hook freed, Aegon let it meet the small gap between helmet and back armor, right away killing the last man without a lot of effort or cruelty. Only the one with the shattered knee was still alive, but once the circle of sorcery extinguished, his life would be drained to feed the Dark powers.

Aegon would walk on, after all they were here to find those willing to submit, willing to sacrifice for the greater good the Maw represents. A primordial devourer, a man-made force of nature. They could submit, kneel and join or burn. The purge would not be held be back by pathetic warrior codes or morale values. Everyone can serve a purpose, either as the executing hand of correction or as the executed.

Putting His butchers hook back to His belt, Aegon moved on, a report coming in via com that another gathering of warriors was spotted nearby. With a confirmation the single Sith headed towards them, the burning city of New Keldabe His theatre, the agony and pain of its inhabitants His orchestra, His powers His instruments.

​

​

 

[Kralmus Orr]

The Unchained​

Location: New Mandalore, New Keldabe
Tags: Khamul Kryze

Spoiler: TL;DR

• A challenger to Kryze's speech appears

​

He forgot sometimes that the Demon Mandalore could sense his thoughts. Kryze was no ordinary man.

"As you say, Mandalore," Kralmus replied, inclining his helmeted head. He was... unaccustomed to showing deference to anyone. In the wild, admitting that another was superior was the last act of a wounded prey animal, not something ever performed by a predator that intended to keep on living. But "civilized" space dealt with far more rules, complexities, and nuances than the untamed wildernesss. And if Kralmus wanted his grand unification and Mandalorian war of galactic conquest, he was going to have to learn to put up with all these codes of behavior, starting with accepting that he was now part of a hierarchy in which others stood above him.

Privately, he merely hoped that Kryze was right. He hungered for blood and excitement.

The Demon Mandalore stepped forward, into the center of the gathering of clans, and Kralmus found his gauntleted hands tightening on the haft of his axe. He was also unaccustomed to bodyguard duty. For virtually all his life, the only person he'd concerned himself with protecting was himself. His senses were keenly tuned to detect any danger to his own person, but extending that vigilance so that he could watch over another? That was new to him. And Kryze had just stepped into the center of a circle of some of the galaxy's most dangerous warriors, many of whom viewed him as an invader, unwelcome in this refuge. No doubt many wanted him dead.

It was Kralmus's job to ensure that no such short-sighted fool succeeded in such an attempt.

A creature of the wild and a man of action, the cannibal Mandalorian put little stock in speeches. Kryze's tone was stirring, his words well-chosen, but it all just washed over Kralmus. Besides, he was already convinced, and did not need to listen closely. Instead, he spent his attention on watching the crowd, waiting for the telltale glint of a weapon or the beginnings of an aggressive pose. It was hard to gauge the reaction of the assembled clans as a whole, he found. There were some, mostly younger warriors by the look of them, who were eager to gain the glory and renewed power that Kryze promised. Others, especially the older ones, were... less enthused.

"Such words are the reason we are broken and scattered," came a steely voice from across the gathering. Its owner stepped forward, and others present inclined their heads in respect. She was tall, broad with muscle, her face scarred but proud. She carried her polished helmet under one arm, letting her steely eyes and silver hair be seen - as well as the marks of war, the often-broken nose, the vibroblade gash along her cheek, the old burn above her left eye. "You come to our refuge, the New Mandalore we have built for ourselves, and demand we return to the ways that made us lose the old one? You speak of future glories without remembering past costs."

Kralmus leaned in toward Kryze, already bored. "Shall I kill her?" he asked, matter-of-factly.

 

[Darth Ptolemis]

Cleansing Flame
New Mandalore / New Keldabe

Equipment: 3 × Smoke Grenade | Lightsaber | Ornate Dagger​

A lone stranger is silently walking towards the center of one of New Keldabe's empty squares. The needlessly long folds of his pitch-black robes drag dirt and rubble as he moves; his calm, steady gait exudes a sense of uncanny suspense. His face is completely obscured by his low-hanging hood. The diminished shockwave of a distant explosion flutters the frayed edges of his bleak garments like a warm breeze under the sun. Despite the bright and mild local weather, his features are constantly hidden by the moving shadows cast by his oversized clothing – only his scuffed boots emerge with each step from within the crawling darkness that is the Sith apprentice, Orlov Ansonnir.

Out of the three profane maxims, death and rebirth are the ones the hooded stranger is most obsessed with, however he understands the importance of the impetus, the ground zero needed to ignite the process that eventually leads to understanding; war. And war requires warriors. Many could be injected into the Death's Hand ranks from the populace of this planet – at least those that bow to the Brotherhood. These cold statistics were enough to convince the apprentice to join the battle. He came, reluctantly, to partake in the cleansing of the city and crush the resistance as fast as possible – however his continued participation in frontline Mawite activities was also fueled by his ambition to rise through their ranks. Not only to gain power; but knowledge. The only value in this marred universe.

For that, however, he needed to prove himself. Rather than backroom politics, he spoke through his presence, his actions – for now. The hooded stranger came to a halt at the dead center of the square. Exposed and clearly visible under the blue sky of New Mandalore, he turns his head to gaze back toward the landing pad in the distance, where his personal ship is located. A perfect place to hold – one that shall attract attention purely by its strategic location. A fact he was sure the local resistance was also already aware of. He could sense it. He is being watched.

Out of nowhere, barrages of blaster fire explode from three directions; one from a street ahead, one from the West, and one from the East. A single crimson blade erupts from its hilt in the gloved hand of the apprentice, a blurred form seen deflecting each shot from all three directions. The suppressing fire keeps the shadowy figure occupied as the projectiles impact into nearby buildings. All three armored assailants are capable; advancing fast as they continue to fire. The violent movements of the apprentice ripple through his robe, tentacles of fabric writhing on the ground with each shift in stance, each evasive slide. The blaster bolts keep colliding with the solid, stable beam of his battle-scarred weapon, and then, a sudden snap of his arm at the Western assailant. The resisting Mandalorian is frozen in time, and so are his projectiles. A quick step backward, and a twitch of his fingers. The myriad bolts continue on their previous trajectory, no longer in stasis – but instead of the intended victim, showering the warrior to the right of the apprentice with supercharged plasma. All these events happen so fast that the two advancing enemies skid to a halt in horror, watching helplessly as the lifeless body of their comrade is flung back by the barrage.
​

​

The apprentice's lightsaber fills the abrupt pause with its foreboding, deep hum. Random scraps and burnt pieces of newspaper float across the suspenseful expanse as the apprentice takes a single step sideways to adjust to the new situation; two enemies remain. The two look at each other in shock and then, the hooded stranger's menacing, yet cool voice is heard. – Lay down your weapons, and you may yet serve a greater purpose. I shall say no more. – Through the Force, he felt his offer festering within the minds of the two Mandalorian warriors. Cognitive dissonance spiked with the fear of the unknown. A couple of seconds pass, and eventually one kneels down and concedes. The other, angered by the betrayal of his comrade, wails and opens fire again at the apprentice, whom by this point had already decided the fate of the engaging soldier. One, then two bolts clash with his brilliant blade, but no more. He clenches his fist in front of him, wrenching the attacking man from his feet and dragging his body violently towards himself through the air – the warrior's helpless form takes a breakneck stop an arm's length away from the hooded stranger's face, as Orlov's left hand clutches him by the neck, and his right hand pushes the crimson blade through his abdomen with great vengeance. The lifeless body is dropped on the ground, a puff of dirt pulsing outward like rings on a pond. – Follow the smoke. – He says to the one on his knees. His blade is extinguished as he points with the dormant hilt toward the main Brotherhood forces. – Present yourself to the Death's Hand.

As the battle rages on in the streets, the stiff frame of Orlov waits apathetically for whatever the Force may throw at him; which it soon does. A growing inkblot within his mind grows ever stronger as he begins to sense an approaching entity, one that is unquestionably strong in the Force. He slowly turns his gaze East, in their general direction, and waits for them to appear.​

Aegon of Vitria ​

 

[Aegon of Vitria]

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

Accompanied by the crumbling and cracking of dust and glass, Aegon continued His path towards the reported group of Mandalorians. His blood was heated, His body feeling the tickle of adrenaline, just the start, not even the full force of the embraceful hormone. Yet. There would be many possibilities to come, many opportunities to take, many lifes to spend to aspire ever higher levels of it's undisputable beauty. No drug, not even the smooth and warm touch of alcohol running down His throat, ever reached the fuzzy feeling of being alive as adrenaline does. It had its own taste, its own smell. For the Epicanthix bastard it was similar to that of blood, it was its equivalent, two sides of a coin, the real life.

As He moved on, in front He could hear more blaster fire, very close and the melodic hum of a lightsaber swung. It was unlikely to encounter any non-allied Dark siders on this planet, even less so Light siders, the former actually not to far from the realms of possibility. The Maw was a grouping of warlords, fanatics, zealots and Sith, the latter not exluding the first ones, and everyone would search for their advantage, for power. That is the way. Life needs challenge, challenge through change, change through conflict, otherwise there is no evolution. A mantra no Lightsider could comprehend, an idea so distant to the word of harmony, that they basically become one and the same.

Soon Aegon spots the origin of the blaster fire and lightsaber noises. A dark robed individual, intentionally deep in the black hooded cape which was quite too big for him. He radiated a Dark side aura, smelling of ambition and eagerness. Aegon had no idea who he was, but was quite sure that He would very soon find out. He was wearing the traditional dark robes or capes as well from time to time, but during an operation, He believed them not to be entirely useful. Tradition and aesthetics have their place, but should never harm pragmatism and efficiency.

For Darth Ptolemis it would be apparent that the approaching Lord of the Sith seemed to have no lightsaber on His belt, but two hilts of swords extending from over His right shoulder, themselves pulsating with the energies of the Dark, emitting the touch of the desecrated Force, forged and baptized by the touch of blood of countless of innocents. The simple leather and chainmail armor on Him probably gave a lot of agility and manoeuvrability in combat, perfectly fitting onto His muscular body. Only a butchers hook, dripping with very sick looking thick blood and a small hunters knife were completing the obvious equipment, no hidden weapons or tricks seemed apparent.

The man Himself was far beyond two meters tall, broad shouldered and seemed in His best shape. Long, white hair was bound to fall on the back of his head, the same hair also framing His face with a beard. The face itself was strongly weathered, only hinting at the pale arkanian origin, long days, weeks and months spend in harsh nature and wilderness have given it a tough and rough surface, cracked by a deep scar over His left cheek, eye and eyebrow and another one below His right eye. Eyes which were on fire, burning with endless hunger of a white flame which was feeding on whatever nature served it. Whatever they served themselves.

"Hrrmmhhh." Aegon hummed as He calmly approached the 'ally', more seeming like He would close in on prey.

"And who are you?"

His arms were hanging low, no doubt that He would be able to unsheath one of His swords in no time, if He required them. The hard leather gloves cracking when He was clenching them into fists, keeping them smooth and warm. He was a warrior, no question, His entire behaviour screaming it. Cold, controlled and with a focused view He was used to assert and take measure of who He was dealing with, friend or foe.

Aegon was keeping His distance of several meters, the voice being carried clear and rough, no elegance or eloquence, just straight to the point. With a look He regarded the kneeling individual and the two dead Mandalorians, the yellow eyes remaining on the kneeling for a moment longer than on the dead.

"Why do you submit?"

​

​

 

[Darth Ptolemis]

Cleansing Flame
New Mandalore / New Keldabe

Aegon of Vitria | Tags open!

Equipment: 3 × Smoke Grenade | Lightsaber | Ornate Dagger

With the cold, black durite hilt still within his grasp, the hooded stranger awaited the manifestation of the one whose arrival was foreshadowed by the Force. The sounds of distant, ongoing explosions created an eerily serene calm within the storm that was the derelict square of New Keldabe. Yet another breeze dug into his occultish robes just as the approaching danger finally took form before Orlov's eyes.

The Sith apprentice remained completely still, except for an upward tilt to adjust his gaze to the absolutely robust warrior that emerged from the shadows. Wearing a warrior's arms and armor, the unknown person appeared grizzled and experienced, complemented by an aura of darkness that emanated both from himself, as well as the cruel weapons on his back. His steps dangerously quiet, his walk more of a mobile battle stance than an unassuming approach. The white-maned darksider had yellow, serpent-like eyes, which emphasized his beastly impression even more. Orlov was bold and determined, but knew when to be cautious. Now was such a time.
​

"And who are you?"

The grim warrior's raspy voice cut through the warm air, its tone carrying weight and solemnity. The apprentice lets a couple of silent, suspenseful seconds pass, just to test the waters. Then, the cold voice of the Fondorian phantom is heard. – I am Sith, and I am Maw. – A beat. – Who are you, predator? – Yet before he would answer, the menacing warrior first turns to the defeated Mandalorian, who was just in the process of leaving the unnerving scene.
​

"Why do you submit?"

The Mandalorian freezes, turns back toward the two dark figures, his body language professing careful respect as he first looks at the robed figure, seemingly looking for a permission to speak. The Sith apprentice himself turns his head indifferently toward the local soldier, and waits patiently for his answer, allowing him to speak for himself without any verbal or non-verbal indication. The Mandalorian ultimately turns back toward the snake-eyed man and answers. – I know when I'm defeated. Sir. – He alternates eye contact between the two figures, and speaks again. – If I may… – The local man offers a militaristic nod and slowly starts walking away from them, toward the billowing smokes a couple blocks from their position, as he was ordered before. Orlov slowly shifts his gaze back toward the emergent predator and stares at him stoically, keeping the mysterious warrior guessing through his own lack of movements and hidden features. Should the situation devolve into conflict, he shall need every advantage he can seize, and remaining an enigma in the eyes of a potential enemy was a good place to start.​

 

[Aegon of Vitria]

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

– I know when I'm defeated. Sir. –

The Sith's eyes remained mere seconds longer on the defeated and submitted. They are puppets, puppets in a war they don´t understand, living in the ignorance of fighting for culture, for honor or political gains. Morra. They are so ignorant and unworthy of a higher recognition, all of these baskar-clad simpletons. Their will too easy to break with only a show of combat prowess, no advanced reaches of mental or educational understanding necessary. They are puppets whos threads were cut, believing themselves to be individuals and noteworthy beings now.

Aegon had plans, if worthy, some Mandalorians might play a role in them, not to their knowledge or within their decision making, but as minions, as pawns to enforce and execute. Servants, soldiers, slaves, three sides of the pyramid where the power of Sith was seated upon. Simple on the outside, but complex and giant on the inside, filled with knowledge and aspirations of the future and the past. It was a symbol of Sith ideology, of authority and not to be mistaken with simplicity.

He turned His eyes back to the Sith, the Maw-follower as he introduced himself. Aegon was carrying the ambience of unrelenting force, of a primordial devourer, hunting and feasting on everything slower and weaker than Himself. His expressions were contrasting, His face giving a far more casual and even friendly look than His eyes or aura hint at. He was lusting to feed, lusting to hunt, to kill.

– Who are you, predator? –

The question was simple to answer. His name was Aegon, He was half-arkanian and half-epicanthix. He was Sith. Was it sufficient? The hooded man refused to answer His question directly, he prefered to either signal being an ally or to deny a proper answer. The Lord of the Sith was not here to play games of guessing and assuming, He did not care enough to ask. He sad His sight into the direction of the earlier report, the gathering of warriors and families was still nearby.

"Aegon of Vitria." His rough voice responded, absently.

Names were not important, goals were, ambitions were. With the dead Mandalorians at his feet, He assumed that the hooded man was following at least a roughly similar goal of submitting this city. Aegon was here to recruit, not for the the Maw alone, but His needs. He now had the possibility to do what He desired, what He strived for. But He would need more figures on His board, more pawns to sacrifice to move forward.

"There is a report about a gathering of warriors and their families some blocks from here. Will you join me?"

He had His hunter eyes turned back to the other Sith. The offer or rather request was neutrally pronounced, there was no tone hearable which would suggest anything suspicious. Either because He was a perfect liar or because there was none. Aegon would proceed without the Sith, He was pretty confident that he was not threat to Him, even if he tried to kill Him. Knowledge is power and to learn who this was, might be much more valuable, might be much more of an opportunity than to just leave him standing where he was.

It might also prove useful to have another Dark side adept nearby. The Gutji Vazona would required a good amount of focus and someone to cover His back or support with his spirit would be welcome. Hopefully it would not burn the Mawite out, would be a shame, wouldn´t it? The thought gave Aegon a slight smirk as He looked down and rolled His eyes over His very own considerations. It was a ridiculously human thing to do, even more contradicting the nature of His aura and behaviour.

​

​

 

[The Mongrel]

The Hunt​

Location: New Mandalore, Deep Jungle
Tags: Open

Spoiler: TL;DR

• The Mongrel hunts for a jungle beast

To survive as a warlord, one must command respect.

Respect, The Mongrel had found, was about more than just battlefield victory. Many commanders who were often victorious were still despised by their troops, resented by the men they had fed into the meat grinder of war in order to win glory for themselves. To win true respect, one had to prove willing to endure the same dangers one asked of one's soldiers, to stand among them under fire and never falter. That was how The Mongrel himself had risen from lowly slave-soldier to warlord of one of the Maw's most powerful marauder tribes.

But to gain the respect of new allies, one had to engage in new deeds. The fierce Taung of Clan Keldau had not fought beside The Mongrel on the battlefield. They knew his prowess only secondhand, by the tales that surrounded him... and that was not nearly enough to win their admiration. With the Scar Hounds (and no doubt the other tribes) badly depleted by the ongoing war, slowly bled dry of manpower on a dozen battlefields across known space and beyond, the Brotherhood needed fresh allies. It needed to earn Clan Keldau's allegiance.

It could ill afford to fight them on their home ground.

That was why The Mongrel stalked through the deep jungles of New Mandalore, hacking vines aside with his vibro-machete, crushing strange leaves and creepers under his mechanical tread. He was here to show that he was a great hunter as well as a legendary warleader, a man who possessed all the qualities that the Taungs respected. He needed to do this himself, without the aid of his tribe... which was just as well, for they needed the time to rest and recuperate. The forges and training grounds of Mar'Zambul were busy rebuilding their strength.

That left him to engage in the only kind of diplomacy he enjoyed: proving himself through deeds. He had already crossed paths with a number of beasts, some native, some imported; the cannok blood dripping from his naked blade revealed as much. But though he could have taken many trophy heads already, he knew that they would not be enough to truly impress the great hunters of Clan Keldau. They could do the same in far less time than he had. These jungles were their home, and they knew how to stalk such prey with ease.

No, he needed prey that even they feared to hunt.

Many millennia earlier, when the Taung warlord Mandalore the First had arrived on the planet soon to be known as Mandalore, the ancient Mandalorians had discovered the planet's apex predator: the mythosaur. In a great struggle that was as much military campaign as hunt, they had driven the creatures to extinction, fashioning their bones into weapons and armor. They took the skull of the mythosaur as their symbol, a symbol that echoed down countless generations. And though these creatures were long dead, they had something of a successor.

The locals called them Verdnaasts, translating from Mando'a to mean something like "warrior-breaker". Though they were not as large as the great mythosaurs were said to have been - legend held that mythosaurs had been the size of cities - they were still colossal creatures, beasts that shook the jungle when they walked. A single Verdnaast - and they were, thankfully, solitary - could wipe out an entire town without much trouble, and it had the appetite to do it. In general they were simply steered away from settlements. They were too difficult to kill.

The head of a Verdnaast would be a worthy trophy.

Could The Mongrel slay one alone? Perhaps, perhaps not. He would have to find one before he discovered whether he was up to the challenge. And perhaps in the time it took him to do so, he would be joined by others from the Maw, others seeking to earn glory in the eyes of the Taung and add their strength to the Brotherhood. For now, his only concern was tracking. His cybernetic eyes, equipped with sophisticated sensors, combed the jungle for signs of a colossal beast's passing. Titanic footprints, preserved in the muck. Claw marks gouged into spires of rock. Huge, steaming piles of scat.

And, of course, trees felled in its destructive wake.

 

[Darth Ptolemis]

​

Cleansing Flame
New Mandalore / New Keldabe

Aegon of Vitria | Tags open!

Equipment: 3 × Smoke Grenade | Lightsaber | Ornate Dagger
​

"Aegon of Vitria."

- I see. - Noted the fallen Fondorian cryptically upon hearing the menacing warrior's name. It meant nothing to him – Orlov wasn't even fully acquainted with most of his Mawite allies, let alone those outside of it. His lightsaber hilt, and as a matter of fact, his arms disappeared silently into his robes as he gazed over the horizon, expecting to continue his task of holding this section of the city. However, an interesting proposition was presented by the man from Vitria.
​

"There is a report about a gathering of warriors and their families some blocks from here. Will you join me?"

Report? So he does seem to be an ally. Intriguing – the hooded Sith thought. He looked back at Aegon and sensed the incredible power behind the terrifying eyes of the man in front of him. Something he was willing to take a risk for to acquire more of. The Fondorian was still an apprentice. This part of his journey was straightforward. Push on. Learn more. Dive deeper. From a single flame blooms the inferno.

Orlov nodded as he began to speak. – I assume we are… allies, then. You may call me Orlov. – His former name rang hollow, like echoes in a glass cave. It was more of a distant memory than a representation of his identity. He was now… much more. This was the reason for why he rarely introduced himself by name. – Lead the way.

He did not trust the man for a second, but followed him – for now. The apprentice is determined to wring every drop of advantage out of this curious circumstance. He was apathetic to the plight of the locals anyway, and he needed not fear. The dark side pulsed under his skin; the sounds of his every step a dreadful omen, his appearance a conflux of black streams.​

 

[Aegon of Vitria]

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

New Mandalore, New Keldabe, Street Crossing - 874 ABY
Meeting the Hooded Stranger II

​

– I assume we are… allies, then. You may call me Orlov. –

Allies. Aegon was not sure what the words exact meaning was anymore. An alliance was a pact for mutual benefit, assistance and support. It was made for stability, respect and defense. He would only be to spit out those words, they were poison, the poison of progress and conflict. There were only tools and those that were using them, who was the tool and who was the user would be decided in the eternal and infinite sturggle of being better, stronger and more powerful. Aegon would not be used unless His gains were higher than of the one who was using Him.

He hasn´t heard the name Orlov yet, it was an unwritten paper, hopefuly just as Aegon was for him. Fame was not important, popularity and renown the tastes of junk food for the lesser Sith. He seemed capable, bu was too keen on his mystical and secretive behaviour, trying to come across as distant and cold, the Dark side which pulsated within him giving an idea of his lust for more. More was what every Sith should want, never be satisfied, never dormant, never stable. Aegon wanted more as well and maybe this lonely hooded figure might serve His purpose for a short time.

– Lead the way.

The bastard nods, barely recogniseable. The stranger agreed, probably in deep argument about it, weighing suspicion and curiosity against each other and deciding that he should utilize some of his bravery or confidence to satisfy the latter. Aegon would have done the same, he thought, accompanying Him seemed like an opportunity one should not leave untested, no stone unturned. Craving whatever was possible, seeking every opportunity opening is what every Dark sider should. There were too many who were satisfied in their seats, too many content with ruling, delegating and just resting on laurels of triumphs past.

The New Sith Order seemed to attempt to abandon the decadence of the late Sith Empire, supporting the doctrines of the Order of the Sith Lords and the ideology of Darth Bane. Darth Solipsis proclaimed the rule of the mightiest, the most powerful and that the strongest shall dominate the weaker. Aegon could not yet judge if this was the case, He would find out, eventually and ultimately. He would also find out where His newest companion was in this system or if he was just a mere puppet of some proper Sith Lord.

With a gnarling of leather, Aegon would start walking. His pace is slow, calm even a bit casual as His steps stride across the dusted surface of the streets of New Keldabe. They would be walking in the middle of the street, exposed to any ambush, exposed to heavy fire or whatever the foolish defenders would come up with in case they find their guts to attack the duo.

​

New Mandalore, New Keldabe, Walking Down a Street - 874 ABY
The Smell of War

The air was filled with smoke and the smell of cracked concrete and metal, a byproduct of the smell of war. It had its own smell, once Aegon left a ship and entered a breathable atmosphere, He could right away tell if there was a war on the planet. Not a small conflict or some law enforcement combat, no, if there was an actual war, just because of hte smell. It was not the taste of iron and cordite when you were breathing through the mouth, it was not the smell of blood and sweat, it was something own, something earthy. The soil moistered with blood and atmoshpered in an explosion, the masses adrenaline pumped out by stressed bodies, the nuissance of fear. War was a combination of all of that. Aegon loved the smell, it was an incarnation, a proof of that conflict was natural. He was accustomed to a great variety of impressions for His nose, for His tongue and for all His other senses.

He loved it. His eyes were looking at the houses to the left and right, some corpses laying desolated and abandoned on the pavewalks, somewhere in the distance of an apartment above the weiling of a woman could be heard, her surfacing emotions showing that she lost her daughter and was holding the shattered corpse in her arms, the mind destroyed and distorted upon the psychological trauma of seeing her five year old child being killed by the murderer of her husband, who died a few seconds earlier. It was this agony which fueled Aegon with ecstasy, He felt it, He it took it all in.

New Mandalore, New Keldabe, Walking Down A Street - 874 ABY
The Wolf Among Sheep I

The sounds of the ongoing battle for the Mawite version of occupation and integration were echoing through the alleys of the refugee settlement. Screams and explosions were regularly joined by the high pitched hissing of blasters and deep tak-tak-tak of automated cannon spilling high explosive ammo into some poor fellas hab or bunker. The occasional roar or scream, depending on the pilots preference, of a passing interceptor or bomber passed by in high speeds.

Aegon and His hooded companion kept walking down the street, unimpressed by the ongoings around them. They kept a reasonable distance to each other, Ageon being ahead several meters, while Darth Ptolemis stayed behind, cautious and sceptical for this new found comrade. Despite their mutual doubts, the distance served a purpose. Spacing was a military thing and meant to reduce the possible effects of grenades or other area of effect weaponry, Mandalorians are known to be professionals with any weapon type.

In front of the two Sith appeared a barricade, piled up rubble, half-destroyed speeder wrecks, metal bars and furniture from nearby apartments and houses which would most likely not withstand a dedicated attack with heavy weapons. But its guards would.

Aegon felt the amount of barrels pointing at Him, from holes behind the barricade, not visisble except you know they are there, from the darkness of apartments at the flanks, warriors remaining in the shadows and not doing the amateur move of letting their weapon point out of the window and after multiple WOOOOOSH!s there were a dozen Mandalorians in the air, their blasters pointing at Aegon and Orlov while their jetpacks kept them high. Whoever they were, they were good.

Not a match for Me, Aegon would think, but He was not here to spread carnage and death. Not only at least.

Most likely to the total and utter surprise of His mysterious companion, Aegon extended His arms upwards, showing open palms in a gesture of peace. This was a seemingly united and professional collection of Mandalorians and of potential interest to Aegon and His plans. He needed warriors, soldiers to do His bidding and these seemed perfect. And He was not going to just slaughter them without taking the opportunity to turn them.

"My name is Aegon and I am here to offer you an option instead of dying for nothing. Take it, you will not get a second chance to be able to enact revenge on those who drove you from your home, to pursue those that wronged you. The Maw offers you change, offers you backup to strive for strength and skill, I offer you opportunity to test your strength, to show your abilities. I offer you a purpose."

Aegon's voice had a more soft tone, though it kept its rough characteristics, just more diplomatic and even charismatic. His words sounded empty to Himself, they were not entirely a lie, but they were far from the truth. His intentions were not to gather a volunatary fighting force, but one bound to Him, bound by more than just words.

​

​

 

[Darth Ptolemis]

Cleansing Flame
New Mandalore / New Keldabe

Aegon of Vitria | Tags open!

Equipment: 3 × Smoke Grenade | Lightsaber | Ornate Dagger
​

The two figures marched on like heralds of the end. Harbingers of the Dark Side. Recently orphaned children scurried away into narrow alleyways and beneath sewer grates. Orlov caught glimpses of them on the edges of his vision but paid them no mind; always preferring a cerebral approach to overcoming obstacles rather than mindless slaugher, the Sith apprentice fed on the fears of his enemies. Their essences within the Force. Those children shall soon become perfectly radicalized elements of the Maw War Machine. The terrorized cries of local civilians painted the overhead clouds a dark maroon in the corrupted mind of the Fondorian as he passed building after building, subsequently closing in on the purported group of opposing forces.

The massive warrior ahead, Aegon, continued on without a word, a sense of obvious, mutual distrust lingering between them as they went – yet a cold, unspoken truce was also palpable. Orlov was wary, but planned not to backstab the tall marauder. Orlov wanted to be in and out of this place as swiftly as possible, without any major confrontations.

Occasionally, the hooded apprentice checks his datapad for tactical information that the Death's Hand uploaded, but the occupation of the city appears to continue as planned. The offensive is absolute. Overwhelming. Soon, the two darksiders find themselves in front of a makeshift barricade. The apprentice quickly slows down and stops, well away from the barricade, and watches Aegon take a few more steps in its direction, no doubt also feeling the presence of the hiding figures through the Force. Orlov immediately begins counting the options in his mind; a leaking speeder battery. Rudimentary, inert pieces of technology with exposed energy cells piled on top of each other. Weakened and cracked walls all around them. The list went on, but Orlov stayed. Cold. Calculating. Thinking one step ahead.

Even still, these are not ordinary insurgents they have come to quell. No bounty hunters from a backwater planet. Most of them were Mandalorians. Fierce combatants that should never be underestimated. A group of them sprang up toward the sky with their jetpacks, their synchronized movements revealing their experienced natures. They appeared quickly and repositioned themselves in a way that would, in every other case, result in an unrecoverable situation on their enemies' part. But they were facing Sith.
​

​

Anything could happen.​

The impressively choreographed skyward maneuver, honestly, caught Orlov somewhat off guard. He didn't flinch, but instinctively widened his stance, should they unleash a volley of explosives at the two Force users. He wouldn't be able to freeze so many projectiles at once mid-air. But then, an even more unexpected thing happens. Aegon, the predator, raises his arms and begins to speak.
​

"My name is Aegon and I am here to offer you an option instead of dying for nothing. Take it, you will not get a second chance to be able to enact revenge on those who drove you from your home, to pursue those that wronged you. The Maw offers you change, offers you backup to strive for strength and skill, I offer you opportunity to test your strength, to show your abilities. I offer you a purpose."​

By the time Aegon's soliloquy concludes, Orlov is nowhere to be seen. He, in fact, slipped away between the shadows, through the short window of opportunity created by his fellow Sith, silently repositioning to a more advantageous position inside an abandoned building. Shifting between the shadows, the Fondorian phantom ascends the stairs of a nearby multy-story derelict building, one that has a view of the enemy, as well as Aegon. Although it may appear to be a treacherous move, he in fact believes they need an advantage here. Should the situation devolve into open warfare, Orlov will explode onto the scene from atop the building roof he's hiding on with an offensive of his own.

The hooded Sith does not mask his personal signature, letting Aegon register his location through the Force and waits within the shadow of a chimney for whatever plan the predator wishes to see through.​

 

[Khamul Kryze]

The Unchained

Tags: SCAR , Kralmus Orr , Raus Garrat

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

Khamul anticipated that not all would be so willing to join under his banner. In fact, he expected it. It mattered little to him, as he would soon cull the weak from the greater heard. The first to step forward was a woman that carried the weight of command in her step. Khamul let her speak her peace, knowing that it would only end in her own suffering. Behind his mask, a wicked grin began to produce itself. Kralmus, ever the true predator, offered to end the woman's life. There was a sense of anxiousness, likely from him wanting to spill some blood sooner rather than later. Though Khamul chose Kralmus to accompany him as a bodyguard, the true reason for his presence was a simple one...

He was a cold killer.

Khamul motioned for his companion to stay his hand, his voice growing quiet so the others wouldn't be able to hear.

"This one is mine. Once I take her life, others will undoubtedly attack. That, my friend, is when you will strike."

Khamul would have to establish his strength to those present, if he were to earn their respect. As such, he would make sure that this one would suffer for her insolence and poisonous words. Turning his full attention back to the woman, Khamul began to once again speak so that all could hear his voice.

"The costs of the past were due to our own weakness. Petty squabbles led us into servitude, even going as far as to kill each other for those that aren't even our people. The likes of you are feeble of both body and mind. You do not deserve to wear the beskar."

His hand stretched forth, reaching through the empyrean as he began to strangle her through the Force. His grip tightened around her throat as he began closing in toward her. The woman's face was one of confusion, then of pain, then finally, of fear. As she scrambled for breath, Khamul closed the gap, only remaining a few feet away from her.

"You do not deserve to lead our people!"

CRACK!

The woman's windpipe caved in completely, her corpse falling to the floor with a resound thud as a hush went over the room. The act would encourage some to bend the knee, but Khamul understood the inevitability of retaliation. Soon, it wouldn't matter. Soon, everything would fall into place. Those stupid enough to attack would be cut down, either by him, or by Kralmus. Once enough were dead, the rest would finally understand...

Their Mand'alor had come home.

 

[Aegon of Vitria]

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

New Mandalore, New Keldabe, Walking Down A Street - 874 ABY
The Wolf Among Sheep II



But words were what was needed right now. To kill all of these pathetic warrior caste would be preferable over trying to teach them what was right and what was wrong. They were a step on His path to get what He needed, one brick in a wall, not more and not less. He needed them, He hated that, but He would not ruin His opportunities by hubris and arrogance.

"Why would we believe a single word of what you are saying? You are murderers, reapers and destroyers." It was one of the guards who appeared on the barricade itself.

"The question is not if you can believe me, but if you want. Why would I offer you the opportunity to talk in first place if I would just want to kill you?" Aegon's voice was very objective, His eyebrows raised as he stood exposed to more than a few dozen guns. "I have no benefit in talking to you first, I killed dozens of your people today without talking, they were weak, barely regocniseable to be of Mandalorian origin and honor. I don´t need to talk if I don´t have to or see reason to." He shrugged, His hands still in the air.

"And your friend? Disappeared? Taking elevated ambush position in the house?" His heavy beskar gauntlet was pointing at the buildings, wrist blade and flamer visible.

"So? Did you do anything else? Readied yourself for battle? Rather be prepared than sorry." With His held up fingers He pointed at the flying Mandalorians.

Aegon could sense their conflict, He was right with every word He had said so far, He made sense, as much as they wouldn´t want to accept that. Why would He walk there and talk? Of course they were not aware of His actual intentions and He would not reveal it to them until it was too late for them already. They would not have a choice anymore, no choice but to follow and to obey, or perish. And most would perish, either way, eventually all would.

"Be honest with yourself, if you would have wanted to kill me, you would have done so already." Aegon stared at every each of them, His yellow, reptilian eyes jumping from one warrior to the next. "Do you want to die today, together with your families? Do you want to have lived and survived in vain, just to perish at the hands of those that offer you a second chance? You do not want to be mindless killers, marauders and looters, good, I offer you to be honorable warriors. Fighting for a goal, fighting with code, fighting alongside like-minded brothers and sisters."

He sensed their crumbling heistation, He had them where He wanted them and now everything would be easy. If He assessed the situation correctly, they would send a warrior to duel Him, to show that He was worthy that He was leading them. He would quickly defeat their champion, spare his life and give them an impression of His mercy and benevolence. It was like playing with children who could only think from Aurek to Besh, from Besh to Cresh and so on, but were not able to call all of it alpabet or use it to make actual words, then sentences, then stories. Their view was so limited.

They were looking at their leader, some lowering their weapons and growing seemingly relaxed, as relaxed as you can get in a siege based on the idea of annihilation. Slowly Aegon was lowering His arms as well and kept His piercing view on their leader, building up tension in this street, tension which could be cut with a knife already as it was on the edge of violence. The Bastard was confident though that nothing of the sort would happen, they were not willing to die for nothing when such gracious terms were offered.

With a nod, very short and minor, the leader on the barricade agreed. Aegon was working hard not to show a smile but just nod. The flying Mandos stayed up in the air for a while, some warriors became visible in the windows and the leader just stared at Aegon.

"Nobody leads us without having proven himself. I challenge you for the leadership of my people, if you win, we will be yours. If I win, you will die." His voice was not entirely happy or enthusiastic, if he would win, they would most likely all die or be enslaved. If he would loose, he would die by their own traditions but his people would live, yet a meagre performance would mean dishonor.

Come. No fight. Aegon was not the most telepathically skilled, but it would serve His purpose to communicate with the Sith adept. If that individual should prove an imbecile and ruin His progress, He would kill him. The half-arkanian set Himself into motion, walking towards the barricade.

"I accept the challenge." His voice confident, but He put a bit of acting in to show that He was not happy with fighting them. Doesn´t matter if they bought it or not, they were already webbed into His trap. Now all He needed was some more patience and focus. The fight would be a welcome meditation, preparing Himself for the more demanding task which was coming.

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

Mandalorians were very dedicated warriors, honoring the code which put family, their armor and their skills into the foreground. They were a superpower once, maybe that Enclave in the East offering a repitition of the Neo Crusader story, but that remains to be seen. Aegon believes they have downgraded themselves, becoming bounty hunters, mercenaries and not following a united goal, a single purpose. The teachings of Cassus Fett forgotten. A shame, but also one obstacle less. The democratic and imperial peasants with their Jedi and whatever-Knight lackeys they had would be more than enough. And today defeating a minor clan-leader was not an obstacle, just the time required He needed to meditate.

Aegon was cracking His neck and rolling His shoulder to prepare for the fight, also shaking the arms a bit to increase the blood flow. It was show, this fight could be over in a second, but He wanted to maintain the impression that the Mandalorians were worth something and that their leader was worthy of making a decision like this. If He would just break his neck or decapitate him, the question of validity would arise.

With a leathery sound He would unsheath Agash, not a metallic, because the sheath was made of boiled leather and was swinging the sword around, a whirling sound accompanying it. Its runes were relatively inactive, just engrave and glowing very subtly in an orange tone. It was singing, Darth Ptolemis could hear it. The blade was thirsty, extremely thirsty and would echo through the Force as a bloodletter, it was tainted with darkness, with corruption and past slaughter. The blade itself was in a dark metal, not matte, but the light breaking in impossible ways with weird colours, the runes seemingly whirling and twirling when one looked too long on them.

The Mandalorian warrior was setting up opposite of Him, they were fighting in the middle of the square, dust, glass and rubble forming the surface. Perfect. He had two blasters, a short-sword and his wrist-weapons plus the ability to jump thanks to his jetpack. Good, he should touch the ground as few times as possible, Aegon needed every bit of it for His own purposes.

The Bastard Sith offered a nod, to His challenger and the people around. It was not only the warriors anymore, the families were also watching, from within windows and standing behind the circle of warriors, children looking between armored legs, T-vizors staring emotionlessly from above. They were watching, nearly the entire clan which was not on guard duty.

Aegon put His sword up in readied stance, the blade pointing at the Alor from a two handed grip, the blade a centimeter above his left biceps, His body turned sideways. He would offer the challenger the first move.

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[Darth Ptolemis]

Cleansing Flame
New Mandalore / New Keldabe

Aegon of Vitria | Tags open!

Equipment: 3 × Smoke Grenade | Lightsaber | Ornate Dagger
​

The hooded stranger could hear the muffled conversation as he ascended the stairs, his long robes crawling in his wake. One of the Mandalorians somehow spotted the shadowy figure, so instead of playing this hiding game further, he stepped out of the shadows and onto the sunlit roof of the building for everyone to see him. The corrupted Fondorian appeared unfazed, only the wind ruffling the overlong fabrics of his clothing and his gaze occasionally switching between Aegon and the Mandalorians.

As he listened to the conversation between the predatory Sith and the leader of the present Mandalorians, Orlov was becoming rather unsure as to how useful his presence here was. He sure didn't learn anything yet – knowledge was his ultimate goal, after all. He remained patient for now, but was, of course, unaware of what his newfound acquaintance was planning in the long run. Was the Sith apprentice just a puppet? A useful tool to watch Aegon's back while he toyed with the enemy? Perhaps the predator's plan was even more sinister. Whatever the near future held, he grew more and more suspicious and counted his possible exits out of this situation. For now, he let his mind explore every nook and cranny of their immediate surroundings; looking for possible ambushes or any indications of a surprise attack waiting for them in the dark.

After a while, he took out his datapad and reported everything of note to Maw central intelligence. Their position, the number of enemies and any knowledge he had of this peculiar man.​

// OOC note: in this timeline, Darth Ptolemis is still Orlov Ansonnir, the Sith apprentice. //​

 

[Kralmus Orr]

The Unchained​

Location: New Mandalore, New Keldabe
Tags: Khamul Kryze

Spoiler: TL;DR

• Some Mandalorians are outraged by Khamul's use of sorcery
• Kralmus pours oil on the situation
• Violence erupts, with some Mandalorisn jumping in on each side

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Kralmus suppressed a sigh at the inevitable this one is mine the Demon Mandalore uttered. It was no surprise; the man had to meet such challenges directly, without help from his underlings, or he would be perceived as weak. So Kralmus could only hope that Kryze was correct, and that others would follow this fool in her defiance. He was itching to kill someone; it'd been a long shuttle ride, and the entire idea of diplomacy bored him. Still, he obeyed, doing his best to remind himself that staying his hand now would lead to far greater opportunities for slaughter in the future. Hopefully the near future, because he wasn't sure how much more of this he could take.

Kryze didn't kill his challenger without lifting a finger, per se - he had to use an entire hand to focus his power - but he did kill her without drawing a weapon or taking a single step. As his gauntlet closed into a fist, the aged warrior woman choked, gasped, and then broke beneath his invisible attack, her head lolling on a snapped neck as she collapsed to the chamber floor. Interesting choice, Kralmus reflected. Use of the Force had always been... controversial among his people. Many considered it to be un-Mandalorian, the weapon of Jedi and Sith rather than true warriors. But Kryze was an unapologetic master of dark magic, so they might as well start getting used to it.

Predictably, the act of sorcerous homicide was met with cries of outrage. "Sacrilege!" shouted one voice. Its owner stepped forward, a younger man, brawny but dull-looking. His Beskar was painted in swirling lines of purple and blue, with black tally marks on his chest that no doubt indicated kills. He carried his helmet under one arm, as did many of those present, so that his face - flat, broad, unhandsome - could be seen. He stood beside the body of the dead woman, shock and anger written on his thick features. "The challenge was never issued, the blood duel never invoked, the Mandalorian Code utterly ignored! This is simple murder, bereft of honor!"

Kralmus rolled his eyes so hard he thought they might pop right out of their sockets.

"Oh, come on now," the cannibal replied, speaking to the whole gathering for the first time. "Is this really what you've become? What you've sunk to?! You're like children squabbling over juvenile games. 'Mommy, he's not allowed to tag me, I called time out!'" Kralmus pulled off his horned helmet, revealing his yellow eyes and the sharpened teeth beneath his thin lips, and spat pointedly on the ground. "Is this how we lost our homeworld? Because we kept waiting for someone to play by our made-up rules, and no one ever did, because they're not idiots?! We can pillage this galaxy. We've done it before. But not if your vaunted code gets in the way."

And then he calmly raised his bracer... and shot the man who'd spoken straight through the head.

The result was instantaneous: the gathering erupted into violence. But not everyone was against the Demon Mandalore. Many stood back, watching the carnage that was about to unfold, no doubt planning to grant their allegiance to the winner of this inevitable little contest. Cowards. And a few others, mostly young glory hounds, jumped into the fray with cries of "Kryze!" The rest - a small but formidable group - charged toward Khamul and his escort, evidently determined to end this upstart before he could cause further disruption to their culture. Kralmus smiled; finally they were getting somewhere. He dropped his helmet and lowered his bracer...

... so that he could put both hands on his axe. "This is where the fun begins," he told his Mandalore.