Horned Devil
Location: Csaus, Citadel Caelitus Outskirts
Allies:
Tor’r Tal’Verda
|
Lurtz Null
Foes:
Shai Maji
|
Kranak Vizsla
There was a quiet moment, an exchange of pleasantries and of commands. Kralmus Orr didn't care for quiet moments, as a rule. He always wanted to be doing something, to be on the move or, better yet, on the hunt. In the ruined wilds of bombed-out Mandalore, where he'd lived for over a decade, staying still was a mistake punishable by death. Whether it was radiation, flesh-stripping windstorms, or mutant predators, something would get you if you stayed in one place for too long. He had learned to sleep in one-hour increments, snatches of rest between bursts of exertion, so that he was ready for whatever came at him, whenever it came.
Years of that had left him antsy, fidgety, easily bored. Every waking moment ought to be used, not wasted.
So Kralmus was relieved when the sudden NIO assault began, the Sixteens dropping down behind the Mawite defensive line to strike ahead of the main Imperial force. He was even more excited to see who the attackers were: Mandalorians, or so they called themselves. Here they were, lapdogs to another Empire, submitting to some government's authority and following its commands to produce order and stability. The thought made him sick. His people were meant to be conquerors, not some politician's enforcers of stagnation. They had burned Cathar and marched its people into the sea! They had nearly shattered the Republic and brought the Jedi to the brink!
He would teach these pretenders what it truly meant to be a warrior people, and he would do it with his axe.
The tactical focus of the drop troopers in this early stage of the battle was pretty clear: to destroy the Mawite artillery, allowing the NIO troops further down the valley to advance without volleys of thundahvelins raining down onto them from above. But by the fact that some of the Sixteens were taking up positions among the ruins of the old Chiss compound, it clearly went beyond that, too. They must be intending to dig in, becoming a persistent thorn in the side of the Mawite defenders, an irritation that - as the NIO legions advanced - could turn into a flanking force, or even a pincer strike. The Brotherhooded needed to dig out that thorn from its figurative paw.
Of course, Kralmus was no tactician anyway; he was just here to kill, to revel in his bloodsoaked heritage. Battle made him feel alive like nothing else did, and if you didn't take every opportunity to chase that feeling, what was the point of living? And when the battlefield lay strewn with the corpses of the enemy dead, he would walk among them and... sample the carrion delicacies left behind. He salivated within his horned helmet at the thought, running his split tongue along teeth filed down to points. Scarfing down the meat of his foes also made him feel alive, and powerful too. There was no meat so sweet and succulent as the flesh of a slain foe.
The ultimate feast, and the ultimate insult to those warriors who had proven to be lesser.
Kralmus's head snapped up as the shout reached his well-honed ears, and even amid the tumult that signaled the beginning of the fight, he managed to pick out where it was coming from: one of those ruined structures, probably once some Chiss administrator's office in the old compound of the local ruling house. Well, someone was cocky, weren't they? The cannibal Mandalorian grinned, then set off through the snow, twirling his massive axe one-handed. A few of his foes dared to get in his way, and he was glad for it; it'd been a terribly long shuttle ride, and he was more than ready to start the killing. Setting his other hand low on the handle, he went to work.
"You can take the other dropships, Tor'r," he said, grinning beneath his helmet. "I'll hack up these... pretenders."
A blaster bolt clanged off his beskar armor, clipping his right pauldron. He didn't break stride. A mighty two-handed blow buried the blade of his axe, forged of a light but razor-sharp blend of beskar and songsteel, deep in his foe's belly. He planted a boot on the dying man's groin, shoving him off the blade with a grunt of effort, then twirled the weapon over his head. The back of the axe was fashioned into a vibro-mace, and with Kralmus's powerful arms propelling it, the flat hammer fully pulped the helmeted head of the second attacker. The entire exchange, two kills with two blows (and maybe a half, if you counted the boot), took less than six seconds.
He fething loved when he could just let loose! But the novelty was fading. Time to find a challenge.
"Hellooooooooo," Kralmus called out as he rounded the corner of the ruined building, hunting for
Kranak Vizsla
. His voice was eerily singsong, as if he were an overgrown child rather than a flesh-eating monster. "I heard there's an Imperial lapdog about who wants to talk chit, so please do come on out." He whistled as if calling a pet, idly twirling his axe as he stalked around the ruin, ignoring the larger battle raging around him. "Heeeeere doggy, doggy, doggy," he mocked. "Tell me more about how enslaved we are, won't you, little pet?" He reached out with every well-honed sense, ready to spring into action as soon as he found his foe.
Allies:
Tor’r Tal’Verda
|
Lurtz Null
Foes:
Shai Maji
|
Kranak Vizsla
- Kralmus joins the fray against the Sixteenth
- He goes hunting for
Kranak Vizsla
after hearing his shout
Years of that had left him antsy, fidgety, easily bored. Every waking moment ought to be used, not wasted.
So Kralmus was relieved when the sudden NIO assault began, the Sixteens dropping down behind the Mawite defensive line to strike ahead of the main Imperial force. He was even more excited to see who the attackers were: Mandalorians, or so they called themselves. Here they were, lapdogs to another Empire, submitting to some government's authority and following its commands to produce order and stability. The thought made him sick. His people were meant to be conquerors, not some politician's enforcers of stagnation. They had burned Cathar and marched its people into the sea! They had nearly shattered the Republic and brought the Jedi to the brink!
He would teach these pretenders what it truly meant to be a warrior people, and he would do it with his axe.
The tactical focus of the drop troopers in this early stage of the battle was pretty clear: to destroy the Mawite artillery, allowing the NIO troops further down the valley to advance without volleys of thundahvelins raining down onto them from above. But by the fact that some of the Sixteens were taking up positions among the ruins of the old Chiss compound, it clearly went beyond that, too. They must be intending to dig in, becoming a persistent thorn in the side of the Mawite defenders, an irritation that - as the NIO legions advanced - could turn into a flanking force, or even a pincer strike. The Brotherhooded needed to dig out that thorn from its figurative paw.
Of course, Kralmus was no tactician anyway; he was just here to kill, to revel in his bloodsoaked heritage. Battle made him feel alive like nothing else did, and if you didn't take every opportunity to chase that feeling, what was the point of living? And when the battlefield lay strewn with the corpses of the enemy dead, he would walk among them and... sample the carrion delicacies left behind. He salivated within his horned helmet at the thought, running his split tongue along teeth filed down to points. Scarfing down the meat of his foes also made him feel alive, and powerful too. There was no meat so sweet and succulent as the flesh of a slain foe.
The ultimate feast, and the ultimate insult to those warriors who had proven to be lesser.
Kralmus's head snapped up as the shout reached his well-honed ears, and even amid the tumult that signaled the beginning of the fight, he managed to pick out where it was coming from: one of those ruined structures, probably once some Chiss administrator's office in the old compound of the local ruling house. Well, someone was cocky, weren't they? The cannibal Mandalorian grinned, then set off through the snow, twirling his massive axe one-handed. A few of his foes dared to get in his way, and he was glad for it; it'd been a terribly long shuttle ride, and he was more than ready to start the killing. Setting his other hand low on the handle, he went to work.
"You can take the other dropships, Tor'r," he said, grinning beneath his helmet. "I'll hack up these... pretenders."
A blaster bolt clanged off his beskar armor, clipping his right pauldron. He didn't break stride. A mighty two-handed blow buried the blade of his axe, forged of a light but razor-sharp blend of beskar and songsteel, deep in his foe's belly. He planted a boot on the dying man's groin, shoving him off the blade with a grunt of effort, then twirled the weapon over his head. The back of the axe was fashioned into a vibro-mace, and with Kralmus's powerful arms propelling it, the flat hammer fully pulped the helmeted head of the second attacker. The entire exchange, two kills with two blows (and maybe a half, if you counted the boot), took less than six seconds.
He fething loved when he could just let loose! But the novelty was fading. Time to find a challenge.
"Hellooooooooo," Kralmus called out as he rounded the corner of the ruined building, hunting for
Kranak Vizsla
. His voice was eerily singsong, as if he were an overgrown child rather than a flesh-eating monster. "I heard there's an Imperial lapdog about who wants to talk chit, so please do come on out." He whistled as if calling a pet, idly twirling his axe as he stalked around the ruin, ignoring the larger battle raging around him. "Heeeeere doggy, doggy, doggy," he mocked. "Tell me more about how enslaved we are, won't you, little pet?" He reached out with every well-honed sense, ready to spring into action as soon as he found his foe.
