Private Deeds Endure

[Vara Rasha]

THE FOUNDLING
The Mythos Fleet | Aboard the Buureenaar’gam | Medbay
TAG: Kjartan Hammer-Hand

In My Head​

Survival.

Its guises were many. But to Cuyan’ika, it first came to her in waves of pain. Embraced her fur on all sides like a blanket too thick.

Armor and hide, both were marred with fresh scars. Each carried a tale of their own. All of it a witness to her mettle.

Vara sat idly at the examination table. Her bodyglove tied around her waist, durasteel cuirass resting on the edge of the medical bed. The white of her crop tanktop blotted with pools of blood. Her crimson eyes followed the baar’ur’s touch under the white fluorescent lights. She lifted her arm, in spite of another flare up of pain. The cool kiss of bacta spread across her fur shortly after. Soothing, like a cool glass of water in the bristling heat.

The bacta laced bandage wrapped and sat snugly atop a lightsaber wound on her midriff. <“Good,”> cloth swished in a final knot, wringing out a gentle breath from her maw. His calloused grumble offered little warmth, yet the sympathy was unmistakable. <“Don’t get yerself killed now,”> her kin said as he turned and stepped away.

Her snout dipped for a nod. ”Thanks, doc.” she reached down, untying the bodyglove, and slipping its top back on. The familiar weight of her cuirass and the webbing found their place on her once again. Her gaze trailed after the season medic. His boots scraped across the durasteel as he turned towards her with a pivot.

Her eyes glinted at the sight of an auto-injector in his grasp.

She tipped her head to the side. Lips peeled back to a crooked grin, a golden fang winked under the bright lights. The needle found purchase with her neck a moment later. The injector faintly hissed in the next breath.

Relief washed over her instantly.

Pain quickly became a fading memory. Another breath poured from her lips, tranquil and content. ”That’s the stuff…” She reached a hand up to her neck. Long slender digits, calloused through years of back-breaking labor, caressed the needle’s kiss while she stood up. The durasteel floor rushed up to meet the soles of her boot. She reached for her helm at the edge of the examination table, tucking it under one arm and took her leave from the examination room.

The door before her split across the center. The halves peeled away into the floor and the ceiling with a soft hydraulic hiss. She straightened, her footfalls guiding her back into the wider medical wing.

More of her kin poured in. Their severity differed. Some could only walk with help. Some were rushed inside on stretchers and gurneys. Blood marked the otherwise pristine, clean floor. The coppery scent filled her snout with every breath. Pained groans and yelps cut through the din amidst the shouts for a medic.

They all bled today. Wounded. Battered, yet unbroken.

But the sight was not any less damning to witness...

Her pace let up. Her heart sank, wide-eyed gaze shifting past faces and helmet visors. The sinkhole in her core grew. A wordless prayer. Please. Not anyone I know-...

And then, she saw him.

The faint glimmer of hope she’d not find a friend here was quickly swept away. The infamous Pirate Lord. The master of the Buureenaar’gam. Each tale of his spoils a legend of their own. Kjartan Hammer-Hand .

A man larger than life, she’d never thought any harm could ever come to him.

And yet here they were.

The Harpy moved, each step taken in deliberation. Her eyes shifted to the bloody stump where his arm once was. Even now she could feel the lump in her throat grow larger as she carried herself with a lopsided grin, the light of which failed to reach her eyes. Vara stopped beside him. Her eyes lingered on the cybernetics before settling on him again. ”...Suppose you’re halfway lookin’ like a real pirate now, huh?” A chuckle rolled from her throat. Hoarse and rough. ”Yer ooonly missin’ the peg leg.”

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[Kjartan Hammer-Hand]

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MYTHOS FLEET | BUUREENAAR’GAM MEDBAY
TAG: Vara Rasha​

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KJARTAN HAMMER-HAND​

THEME​

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“RAARGH!” A furious roar burst out from Kjartan as he fought against the arms of his men to charge at the Sith schutta who cleaved his forearm from his body. When her lightsaber struck free his limb, pain racked his entire side. Yet the adrenaline pushed him onward after his companion tackled her to the side. He was about to charge after her to finish the job, yet his strength would expend itself struggling against the frantic force retreat.

“LET ME GO!” he roared, his feral rage filling his veins as bloodlust began to take over. Yet, his blood would run cold as a familiar voice echoed in his memory - as though frozen in time.

<“The data is on the way out.”>

<“It’s been an honor, vod. It’s been an honor to serve.”>

“NO! NOOO!” His reckless fury turned into an equally reckless impulse to charge in - to brave the inevitable death of the Spirit Breaker in some vainglorious notion of rescuing his warriors through strength of will alone. His own voice melded into the muffled noise of implosion around him, where his rescuers had thankfully taken control of the situation despite his temporary madness.

*****

They saved his life, despite himself. Yet the same feeling welled up within Kjartan’s heart now that formed the very hour of his rescue. A feeling of guilt that he had survived, and they had not.

Of the hundreds of warriors who boarded the Star Destroyer, nearly a third did not come back. Kjartan was not new to ordering others into situations they would not return from. But he was not accustomed to defeat.

Kjartan Hammer-hand was a figure people rallied around, and leaned upon for his skill and good fortune. While their objective was ultimately accomplished, the bitter taste of defeat was laced all throughout this ‘victory’ - due to the loss of several vode he had fought and bled alongside for years, and also due to the loss of his own left forearm, along with its accompanying hammer.

The span of time that followed his rescue was a blur, for he passed out aboard the boarding pod from the trauma and exertion of it all. He awoke submerged in a bacta tank, an oxygen mask fastned over his face. Tubes were attached to his form, pumping supplementary fluids within his body as it healed throughout the day after his experience. He was removed from the tank, cleaned by a medical droid, and led into the main medbay where several crewmen cast concerned, yet relieved glances at him; several whom patted his undamaged shoulder gingerly in support. He would not fully appreciate until later that many feared he was dead when he was led unconscious into the medical bay.

Shortly after being seated into a cushioned inclineable chair, the medical droid began deadening his freshly healed stump, and fitting him with a cybernetic limb. It all seemed very hurried to him, having only just suffered the loss of the appendage. Yet the old pirate resigned himself to the process, losing himself in the hazy memory of the day prior.

As the droid set about its work, a familiar voice could be heard off to the side.

The Harpy moved, each step taken in deliberation. Her eyes shifted to the bloody stump where his arm once was. Even now she could feel the lump in her throat grow larger as she carried herself with a lopsided grin, the light of which failed to reach her eyes. Vara stopped beside him. Her eyes lingered on the cybernetics before settling on him again. ”...Suppose you’re halfway lookin’ like a real pirate now, huh?” A chuckle rolled from her throat. Hoarse and rough. ”Yer ooonly missin’ the peg leg.”

Soberly, Kjartan looked in the direction of the voice and offered a wearily faint and forced smirk. “Aye... I’m... I’m glad I look the part now.”

In very uncharacteristic fashion, that was all the old pirate had to say about the subject. His eyes skimmed over to the foundling, a distant pain in his eyes which betrayed the show of levity lining his lips via a smile. “I see you got into a bit of a scrap yourself lass. You almost look like a proper warrior.”

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