First Reply Echoes of an Ancient Creed

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't flinch as the blast of Armel's jetpack shook loose dust and gravel from above. His helmet tilted slightly, visor glinting faintly in the torchlight that Armel carried.

"You know," he said, voice steady over the comms, "there's a reason I trust cables more than combustion thrusters in places older than recorded history." A hint of humor softened his words.

Cupcake's claws scraped on the edge above, and Rynar barely had time to brace before the Nexu leapt down. The beast landed against his shoulder, low growl rumbling, and Rynar steadied her with a careful hand. "Easy," he murmured, setting her down gently.

He activated a small flare canister from his belt, and the chamber was flooded with warm, flickering light. Dust motes danced, revealing carvings along the walls — warriors in rigid formation, sigils etched beneath them, and banners that looked freshly ceremonial despite the ruin around them.

Rynar ran a gloved hand across one of the carvings, brushing away centuries of dust. "Not a warhall… not exactly. More like a memorial," he said quietly, voice echoing off the stone. "Honoring victories, perhaps… and what was lost to achieve them."

He paused, gesturing toward a repeated crest at the far end of the hall — a stylized glyph resembling the sigil Korda's clan once bore. "These markings," he continued, "link it to Korda Veydran's ancestors. The same techniques, the same symbols. If he knew this place existed…" He shook his head faintly, "he'd either burn it or keep it hidden, depending on his mood."

Rynar straightened, scanning the room with practiced eyes. "I spotted this site through a combination of old maps, scattered records, and… a fair bit of luck. Most wouldn't have noticed the glyphs—they're subtle, deliberate."


He glanced at Armel. "So… careful with the rocks. Could be more than just history down here."

Armel

 

[Armel]

​

The Zeltron squinted as the flare lit up, far more powerful than the beam torches attatched to his helmet. He felt a shiver run down his spine as statues and carvings cast eerie shadows that danced as the flare flickered. It was plain to see how out of depth he was in a place like this.

"Memorial." He said aloud as he trudged over to one expansive wall carving. The warriors stood in neat lines, arrayed with weapons, both recognizable and exotic. He tried to take in every detail, searching for some hidden truth etched into the stone.

"Would they store the dead here too? Make it a tomb? It's got the atmosphere for it." he reached out to one of the carvings and gently traced along it, marvelling at the stonework. "We had no time to build stuff like this in the Crusade, every victory was followed by preparations for the next battle. Hell I don't think we even buried the dead. Burning 'em was easier."

As Rynar spoke of his friend Armel couldn't help but recognize the traits he had seen in Crusaders who had seen too much battle. "Sounds like your friend doesn't know when the battle stops."

Armel wandered over when Solde spotted the glyph to have a look at it as well. He couldn't recognize the clan. "Say Historian, this Korda fella. He one of them clan types or is he..." Armel paused to find the words. "More like you?"

Rynar Solde ​

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar crouched beside the glyph, the flare's glow painting his face in warm amber as he traced the lines of the symbol — a cracked krayt skull exploding into flame. He looked up at Armel, letting the flicker of light settle into his dark eyes.

"Korda Veydran," he began, voice low and measured. "Born into the dying embers of Clan Veydran — a minor cadre known for siege-craft and explosives. But from a young age, he showed no patience for siege ditches or tightening battlements. He wanted ruin. Total, absolute ruin."

He straightened, tapping his gauntlet against the wall so the echo carried. "They called him 'too savage.' Too unpredictable. At fifteen? Fifteen! He turned his own clanhold into ash. Men, women, forges, stores — all consumed because he believed if the tools of destruction weren't honoured, then they were unworthy. So he purged them."

Rynar paused, letting the words settle like distant thunder. "In exile, he found the The Majestic Flame of Manda — a death-cult dedicated to Kad Ha'Rangir, the Destroyer God. They preach chaos as renewal. Ruin as rebirth. And Korda? He embraced it. Explosives became ritual. Melee combat became sacrifice. Each scar on his body, each tanked formation he turned into slag—these are his offerings."

Rynar's voice softened, touched with something close to respect. "Destruction isn't hate for him. It's worship. It's the only truth he knows. His lover is the blast wave, his hymn the scream of collapsing stone."

Cupcake padded closer, tail flicking, sensing the gravity of the moment.

Rynar gestured deeper into the chamber. "We stand in the old memorial of his ancestors. The walls remember Clan Veydran's young ambitions before they were twisted. The symbols you see here? They link this place to that lineage. If Korda ever returned here… he wouldn't just claim it. He'd burn it, cleanse it, make it worth nothing unless it served his ruin."

He looked at Armel, tone firm but fair. "So when I say careful with the rocks — I mean it. This place holds memory. And if Korda gets wind of it, he won't ask questions. He'll act."

Rynar crouched again, his fingers resting lightly on the carving of a warrior with bowed head. "But we're not here to bury history. At least… not yet. We're here to recover it. Because even if the creed falters, even if the wars end, memory… that remains."


He offered a nod, almost a bow. "Ready when you are."

Armel

 

[Armel]

​

Armel turned to Rynar as he spoke, he didn't need to reach out with his mind to sense the fire in the historian as he spoke. He held his tongue when Rynar spoke of Kad Ha'rangir the way he did, it wasn't the time. It didn't stop his mechanical wrist spinning with whir in place.

"I've heard of men like this Korda. Always the first into the fray they'd wreck havoc on the enemy, enamour the fresh blood like myself. They were vicious men but they died quick, often at the head of the vanguard finding the glorious dead they seemed desperate for." he paused as he remembered them, names like Munin, Dryggo. "What made them dangerous was when they survived. Sounds like you got a survivor on your hand."

As Rynar gave his solemn warning about care for the rocks Armel took a step back from the carving, opting to study it from range.

He began to look around for the exit to the hall and trudged past Rynar with torches lit. "I'm ready Historian."

As they came across another dark hallway that led further on Armel turned back to Rynar, still curious as to how he knew Korda. "You seem to know this Korda well. You called him an ally before but you describe him like an enemy."

Rynar Solde ​

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar's gloved fingers trailed along the edge of the stone wall as he followed Armel's torchlight, the flare behind them now dying into a soft ember-glow. "Complicated," he echoed quietly, the word carrying a kind of fatigue, as though he'd said it too many times before.

He stepped alongside the Zeltron, his steps echoing softly in the memorial's vast chamber. "Korda Veydran and I… we share blood in battle, if not by lineage. I first met him during my exile—back when he was little more than a ghost with a weapon. He'd already burned his clan to ash by then. Not in rebellion or vengeance… but conviction. He was born into a line that praised restraint, diplomacy. They thought him too brutal, too reckless to carry their name."


Rynar's tone darkened as his gaze lifted toward the carvings above — warriors immortalized in stone, frozen mid-charge. "So he proved them right. At fifteen, he took up their ancestral forge-fire and fed it with their homestead. Men, women, even the armor they left behind — all turned to soot. He called it purification. I call it the first sermon of a boy who found faith in destruction." Not realizing he was repeating himself

He paused, kneeling to brush dust away from another etched sigil — faded but still pulsing faintly with trace minerals in the flare's light. "When I found him again years later, he'd already pledged himself to House Prime and to Domina. She gave him purpose — the shape to his fire. He follows her now, that cult of ruin she leads, believing destruction to be divine. But he's… calmer now. Learned to let the blade rest sometimes."

A quiet exhale left Rynar, almost like a laugh without mirth. "Though between us, I think he only ever sleeps because he dreams of the next thing he'll burn."

He looked up at Armel then, visor catching the dim reflection of the torches. "You asked if he's an enemy. No. He's my brother. The kind forged by survival, not by peace. He's chaos where I am dust — and in this galaxy, perhaps both are needed."


He straightened, patting Cupcake's flank as the Nexu prowled beside him. "Come, then. If the memorials end here, the real secrets lie deeper still. And if Korda ever hears of this find… may Kad help us both."

Armel

 

[Armel]

​

"One would hope a bond forged in battle would be enough to protect you from his wrath." He mused. "Then again, I've been told our history is marred with civil wars, brother against brother." Hell he'd even seen it from Dxun, the Siege of Onderon where Clan Kryze and its allies fought tooth and nail against the Crusade.

As they pushed on into the next chamber Armel couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. "It feels like we're descending yet again." his torch providing just enough light to brighten rooms that seemed to get darker and darker.

As he turned to the wall to examine a new set of carvings his comm link fizzled and glitched. Someone was trying to reach him but the tunnels had made all contact nigh impossible. He remembered the ship he wasn't meant to search for. Surely the others would be fine without me he thought.

"Say Historian, is there something specific you're looking for? Or are we here to just examine these rocks?"

Rynar Solde​

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar slowed as Armel's comm cut out, the faint static echoing through the stone like a warning. Cupcake's ears flicked, muscles tense beneath her fur as she looked back the way they'd come. The air down here felt heavier — not dangerous, not yet, but old. Expectant.

He ran a gloved hand along another carved panel as Armel spoke, the grooves shallow with age.

"Memorials like this…" Rynar murmured, stepping further in until the darkness swallowed half his silhouette. "They were never built just to honor the dead. Not by Mandalorians."

He tapped the wall—three dull thuds, one hollow one. Cupcake's head snapped toward the sound immediately.

"If this is a remembrance level, then below it—" he gestured downward with two fingers, "—there should be the place where they kept what truly mattered. Archives. Armories. Sometimes power cores, depending on how old the design really is."

He stepped past Armel, scanning the floor until he found it—subtle scoring marks from something heavy being dragged centuries ago.

"We're not here just to look at rocks," he said, tone warming with the faint spark of academic excitement he couldn't quite hide. "We're here to find whoever these warriors wanted the future to remember. People don't carve out warhalls unless there's a story they were terrified of losing."

He paused, glancing back at Armel.

"And if we're lucky? There might still be power systems deeper in. Even dormant ones can tell us the true age of the place. Long as my friend up there—" he pointed at the ceiling, meaning the site itself, "—doesn't decide to drop on our heads first."

Cupcake brushed against Armel's leg as she passed, her tail flicking once as if to say keep up.


"Come on," Rynar added, lifting his torch toward the sloping passage. "If they built an archive, it'll be below the memorial — and Mandalorians never built anything simple."

Armel

 

[Armel]

​

Armel watched with curious eyes as he tapped the wall, found the marks on the floor. Skills of an archivist, skills he had no idea even existed, his whole life spent only honing the skills used to kill.

As Rynar looked up to the ceiling, offering a half hearted warning he shifted in his armour uncomfortably. He'd seen bodies trapped under rubble before. As if on cue a few rocks clattered from above and Armel could now clearly see the cracks in the masonry. He made sure every step was lighter from this point onwards.

"Don't fancy dying trapped down here." he grumbled. "No way for a warrior to go."

As Rynar moved on either uncaring or use to the danger Armel breifly hesitated until cupcake brushed up against his leg. He sighed before taking another step forward. He'd be lying to himself if he said he wanted to turn back. An archive, the stories he could learn. When would he ever get a chance like this? Learn history as Carduul had no doubt done before.

"This clan, is there history storied? We had venerable clan's in the crusade but we often had little time to trade tales."

Rynar Solde ​

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar slowed as Armel spoke, the beam of his wrist-torch sweeping across another cracked wall. More carvings — but these were harsher, angular, etched in deep gouges rather than smooth chisel-cuts. Siege marks. War marks.

"Storied?" Rynar echoed softly. "Clan Veydran was built on stories. Bloody ones. They were siege-breakers, wall-crackers, the kind of clan you called when a fortress refused to fall and patience had run thin."

He crouched, running gloved fingers along a relief of a massive tower being pulled apart by shaped charges.

"They weren't craftsmen… not in the way most clans meant it. Their craft was pressure, detonation, collapse. If it could crumble, they learned how to make it crumble faster. Their records were half battle-memoirs and half engineering logs — breach calculations, tunnel layouts, explosive compositions. Some were practically instructional guides on how to erase a city from the map."

He rose again, tapping dust from his gloves.
"It's why Korda is the way he is. His clan shaped him long before the galaxy ever got a chance to."

They passed beneath another cracked archway, Cupcake keeping close at their heels, sniffing the stale air. The floor sloped even more clearly downward now — not by accident, but by design. A descending corridor meant something important below.

"If this place follows the pattern of other Veydran sites," Rynar continued, voice lowering with a mixture of focus and reverence, "the memorial chambers sit above the true vault. The archives… the forges… even power conduits."
He stopped, casting the light forward into a deeper darkness.

"Meaning what we're looking for should be—"
A faint metallic glint caught in the beam ahead. Not stone. Not rubble. Something crafted.
"—just a little further," he finished, stepping forward with renewed purpose.

He glanced back at Armel.
"Careful with your steps. If this really is a Veydran archive… there might still be traps."
Cupcake's ears twitched as if in agreement.

Armel

 

[Armel]

​

"I've never seen a real siege. I'm sure it's a beautiful sight." he said with the naivety of an inexperienced soldier. "Only ever took part in raids, Keshi, Naboo." he said, listing off the brief but fiery battles he had seen.

"From the stories I've heard though we could've used men like this clan on Onderon. The rally masters told tales of being entrenched for years on Dxun." he continued as the walls told histories of this near-extinct clan.

Armel's attention seemed to perk at the mention of a vault. He tried to dismiss the idea of defiling such a holy place but he and his comrades were hungry and ill-equipped. Armel wondered how much longer they could live off of ambushing unarmed agri-freighters. "This vault..." he said, trying to mask any hint of desire. "What would the clan keep there?"

As he waited for an answer he noticed the corridor pitching downwards. Armel found his mechanical hand reach out to the wall to hold him steady. He still wasn't use to the strength it afforded. He cringed as he gripped one carving too hard, mossy rock crumbling in his hand as he accidently disfigured what looked to be a the face of a long dead A'lor. He offered Rynar a sheepish look from behind his T-visor.

Before he could even offer an apology a single loud crack echoed down the hallway. The passageway jolted with the noise as the stone around them slipped loose, like two tectonic plates finally giving out. Small rocks tumbled past at first, soon increasing from pebbles to stones. The sound of tumbling boulders and debris began to get louder and louder.

"Dang ferrik." Armel said before breaking into a full sprint down the hallway.

Rynar Solde ​

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar opened his mouth to answer, brushing his glove over a row of glyphs as he searched for the right phrasing.

"Clan Veydran's vaults weren't for trinkets," he began, voice low but certain. "Siege clans kept the things that mattered—war-logs of conquered fortresses, breach patterns, schematic-drafts for engines and shaped charges, journals from their alor'ad lines. Knowledge more dangerous than any blade. If it survived intact, it could—"

A fist-sized chunk of stone clipped the side of his helmet with a hard, metallic CRACK that turned his sentence into a grunt. His head snapped sideways from the blow, lights dancing briefly across his vision.

"That—means we run. Now."

The hallway lurched with another grinding shudder, dust exploding from the ceiling. Rynar was already moving, boots slamming against the slanted floor as he pushed into a sprint. Cupcake bolted after him, all four eyes wide, her fur bristling like quills as she kept perfectly at his flank.

"Keep your head down!" he shouted over the roar of falling stone.

Armel's footfalls thundered behind him, the chamber collapsing in a staggered, hungry rhythm—like the ruin itself was trying to swallow them whole.

They hit the widening mouth of the passage just as a final tremor rolled beneath their feet. Rynar twisted toward safety—too slow for the last fragment of ceiling that snapped free. The boulder clipped his shin, slamming into the duraplate with a jarring CRUNCH that sent him stumbling to one knee. Pain flared white-hot, a breath punched out of him.

Cupcake wheeled instantly, teeth bared, nudging her shoulder under his arm as if to hold him upright.

"I'm—" he hissed through grit teeth, forcing air back into his lungs, "—fine. Move. The whole damn hall's coming down."

He braced a hand on Cupcake's shoulder, dragging himself up with a grunt, favoring the injured leg but refusing to stop.


"Vault's ahead," he rasped. "We just need to—get clear first."

Armel

 

[Armel]

​

Rynar reacted even faster than he did, Armel trailing behind. He felt rocks bouncing off his armour and just out of sight he could feel the weight of thousands of stones bearing down on him. As they raced to safety Armel watched as Rynar smashed his shin and before he knew it another chunk of ceiling came bearing down on him. A metallic arm reached up before it could hit his head, and he used his momentum to push it and himself in opposite directions.

The next thing he knew Armel was flat against the floor. The historian was already moving ahead, his injuries obvious even to the blind but urging them on until they were safe. He struggled to his feet and broke into a jog until he was back behind Rynar.

It had been another few minutes of walking until the rumbling had grown distant enough for Armel to slow his pace. He ripped off his helmet, panting away and covered in sweat. Looking around they had made it far enough to reach some sort of grand door, covered in ancient carvings. The vault if he had to guess.

He tried to reach down to check his gear but all that came from his cybernetic arm was twisted bits of metal and sparking wires. That was sure to complicate things. With his remaining hand he ripped off the flailing bits of durasteel until his arm was nothing more than twisted metal that formed into a rather crude looking spike.

"I uh-" he struggled to find the words, it was hard to after the mess he had just caused.

"You're injured historian." he finally let out. He jogged until he was alongside Rynar. "You can't go on until you've at least had a look at that leg." he motioned with his spike like arm.

Rynar Solde ​

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar didn't answer immediately.

He stood with one hand braced against the ancient stone doorframe, breath steadying, jaw tight with the kind of pain he refused to acknowledge out loud. Dust still clung to his hair and shoulders in pale streaks. For a moment he didn't even look at Armel—just at the floor beneath them, as if listening for the next betrayal of shifting rock.

Only when he was sure the cave had settled did he finally turn.

His gaze flicked down to Armel's ruined arm. The twisted metal, the frayed wires, the crude spike that remained. Something in Rynar's expression shifted—concern, guilt, and resignation all tangled together.

"You're right," he said quietly. "But not about me."

He moved stiffly toward the collapsed debris pile, wincing when weight pressed onto his injured leg. He didn't mention it; he didn't have to. A limp that pronounced spoke for him.

Rynar crouched, sifted through fallen rubble, and came up with a length of ancient support pole—lightweight, surprisingly intact. A moment later, he pulled a coil of rope from his satchel, dusting it off with a few brisk flicks.

"Hold still," he murmured.

If Armel expected argument or pride, he didn't get it. Rynar simply set the pole alongside his shin, tying the rope with methodical, almost clinical precision. The knots were secure, tight, and practiced—someone who had done this more times than he cared to count.

Once finished, he rocked back onto his heels, testing his own weight with a controlled exhale. The splint would hold well enough.

Then he looked back at Armel's arm. At the metal spike in place of a hand. At the quiet shame in the man's face.
Rynar stepped closer.
"Let me see it."

His tone wasn't commanding, but it wasn't a request either. He lifted both hands, waiting for Armel to offer the damaged limb.
"Your arm's not done," Rynar said, softer this time. "We can stabilize it. Maybe even make it useful until we're out of here."
A faint edge of humor ghosted across his mouth, barely there.

"Besides… you saved my skull back there. Least I can do is pay you back by making sure you don't stab yourself with that thing."
He held his hands open, patient.
"Come here. I'll help you fix it."

Armel

 

[Armel]

​

Armel was about to protest until Rynar tended to his leg with a splint. It was crude and makeshift, more importantly temporary. How many times had he seen wounds tended like this? Soldiers tended only until they could fight again. This was the way. Still he could at least offer some way to ease the pain.

With his remaining arm he reached into his utility belt before pulling out medical stim. "For the pain." he said holding it out to Rynar. "Back in the Crusade one vial of this stuff would have a warrior with his legs blown off running to get back in the fight." he said. His joke of course thinly masked the more sinister purpose of this stim in turning fatally injured Mandalorians into beserkers before they would expire.

Whether Rynar would take it or not Armel would turn his attention back to his ruined metal arm. As Rynar offered to fix it his face twisted as he hesitated. "I'm sure..." he trailed off looking for any excuse before eventually relenting and holding it out to Rynar.

With his free hand he grabbed a fusion cutter from his belt and began to cut away at errant metal rods that looked like they would slice him open if he wasn't careful.

After a minute of silence and work he finally spoke up again. "Perhaps I should thank the lizard that tore it off. We'd be in a much bigger mess if had still had my real arm eh?"

Rynar Solde ​

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar accepted the vial only long enough to look at it, gloved thumb brushing over the label as if measuring the weight of an old temptation. Then he pressed it gently back into Armel's palm.


"I appreciate it," he said, voice low, steady. "But I don't use stims unless it's life-or-death. Haven't in a long time." A faint exhale through his nose — almost a laugh, almost not. "The craving sticks with you. Better I stay clear."


He cinched the last knot of the splint tighter, impatiently brushing dust from his gauntlets as he sat back on his heels. The pain throbbed sharp through his shin, but he didn't let it bleed into his voice.


"Besides—" he jerked his chin at the stim, "—you may need that before I do."


"You're lucky this didn't shear clean off the mount," Rynar muttered. "And luck doesn't seem to be something that favors us today."
Armel's joke about the lizard earned a short huff — the closest thing to a laugh Rynar had given him since they met.
"Maybe," he said. "But losing a limb… that leaves more than metal behind."
then paused — studying Armel's face through the dim light of the vault corridor.


"If you don't mind me asking…" His tone softened, edged with honest curiosity rather than judgment. "How did you lose the original? Not many creatures out there can tear through beskar—and fewer who get the chance."
Almost respectfully.
"You don't have to tell me if you'd rather not," he added. "But stories like that… they tend to shape the man more than the wound ever did."

Armel

 

[Armel]

​

Armel withdrew the stim and placed it back into his belt. Smart choice, the Zeltron wasn't much of a fan either with the stim like a wrecking ball through his psyche. He'd find himself doing things he'd never think to do before, like make use of his pheromones.

He braced his arm as Rynar began to work alongside him. It didn't take long for the inevitable question to come up. Over the years he'd done his best to dodge it the best he could, Armel was not a fan of going over his defeats. But down here in this dark and holy place? He felt more inclined to share.

"Naboo." he started, shifting his weight in his legs as he begun to remember. "It was meant to be a cut and dry raid, target was the plasma refineries. Bastards were dug in like ticks and they had some... off-world help."

His brow furrowed as he began to hear the echoes of the battlefield. "We crashed way off course and I found myself facing down another Mandalorian, a heretic who was in the company of a Ssi-ruu. Me and my squad had them cornered in a building when they sprung an ambush, before I knew I had two meters of lizard bearing down on me."

"Thought she'd go at me with a blade." he said with a chuckle. "Didn't expect the teeth."

He pointed up at his neck. "She was going for the throat. Got the arm instead. I made it out the others didn't."

He pulled his arm back and gave it a once over, letting it fall to his side he tried to move it. After a tense few seconds it finally responded, and the Zeltron raised it up in front of him and checked the joints.

"That's about as much as we'll get out of it. At least it isn't dead weight anymore."

 

[Rynar Solde]

Rynar let out a low breath through his teeth, a sound that might've been a chuckle if it weren't so tired.
"Trandoshan, then? Nasty things. Bite down harder than a hydraulic press."

He tightened one last bolt on Armel's arm before sitting back on his heels. His voice shifted — quieter, not softer, but carrying a weight that hadn't been there a moment before.

"And… I'm sorry about your squad."
He paused, eyes drifting somewhere far past the vault door. "I know what that kind of loss feels like."

Rynar rested his splinted leg carefully against the stone, jaw shifting once as if deciding whether he really wanted to say the next part.

"Sometimes surviving is the hardest thing you ever do," he muttered. "You close your eyes and see them standing there. You hear the last things they said in every moment of silence. And every time you look at your gloves you remember who you held onto… and who didn't get back up."

His fingers tapped once against the metal of his gauntlet — a steadying habit.

"You wake up in the middle of the night because that damned mission keeps replaying in your head. Over and over. Like it refuses to let you walk away."
Rynar cleared his throat, pushing the ghosts aside with visible effort.
"You're not the only one carrying something out here, vod. Just means we carry it together now — at least until we get out of this place."

Armel

 

[Armel]

​

Armel chuckled as Rynar mentioned Trandoshans. "Almost. I thought so too when I first saw her. Ssi-ruu are worse, think Trandoshan but with three hundred and fifty kilos of muscle."

He took a step ahead as he continued to test his arms mechanisms, the remaining servos audibly whizzing and grinding when he moved it too fast. As Rynar spoke of his squad Armel remained silent for a moment, thinking on them.

"Many of us were slaves when the Crusade freed us. They got to die free men, a better fate than any of us could have hoped for."

"We all knew what we were signing on for too, the Rallymasters did little to hide the fact most of us wouldn't see the end of the Crusade." he continued, a fervor in his voice began to take hold, as if it was not his own. "Besides, they're the lucky ones. To die in battle in service of the holy war."

His remaining hand was clenched in a fist as he spoke but had started to loosen.

"As for the dreams..." he trailed off, his brow furrowed. The words would not materialize, as if a subconscious had taken over.

After a minute of silence Armel simply marched forward towards the vault.

"The vault is further ahead according to your map. Lets get going before this ruin tries to kill us again." his voice had grown colder although he tried to hide it. It had been a long time since he had reflected on the war and it awoke things deep inside.

Rynar Solde ​

 

[Rynar Solde]

Cupcake padded forward first—silent despite her size, paws barely whispering against the stone. The pale-furred nexu lifted her head toward Armel, pupils narrowing to thin vertical slits as she studied him. Then, with an almost too-deliberate gentleness for a creature made of fangs and muscle, she pressed her shoulder to his thigh.


A slow blink.
Head tilt.
That eerie, feline kind of sympathy she seemed to reserve only for moments when a person's mind wandered someplace dark.


Rynar watched it with a faint exhale, not quite a laugh but close.
"She's got good sense," he murmured.
He limped a step closer, splint creaking faintly as he adjusted his weight. His voice stayed even, but quieter than before—level in the way people get when they've walked the same road someone else is on.


He adjusted the strap on his makeshift splint, wincing, then glanced back at Armel with a small, understanding nod. "And… about your Ssi-ruu. Nasty business. Big one if she took your arm clean like that."
He tapped his helm lightly as if recalling something.


"I've had my run-in with 'em too. Thought I was dead the moment I heard the hiss—they like to savor it, you know? Make you feel it." A brief, humorless scoff. "Only reason I walked away was luck. Big thing. Scales like armor plating. And ambush tactics that'd make a Trando jealous."


He paused, rubbing a thumb over the worn metal of his gauntlet.
"But the second time…"
A beat.
"The second time it was wounded. Cornered. Jaw hanging wrong. Could barely keep its weapon raised."


He shrugged faintly, almost ashamed of the memory—not because of guilt, but because of how much it revealed about him.
"Only reason it's still alive is because I don't strike the wounded unless I've got no other choice. Learned that lesson young."
Another soft breath.


"Thing didn't know what to make of mercy. Thought I was playing with it. Took hours before it realized I wasn't waiting for it to bleed out."
He huffed—something between amusement and memory.
"Whole mess ended with it letting me drag it out of a collapsed trench. Oddest alliance I've ever had, but… it worked."


He finally looked toward Armel, level and steady.
"So trust me when I say I know what sort they are. And I know you walked out of something most don't."
His gaze dropped briefly to Armel's ruined arm, then back up.


"And that you didn't walk out for nothing."
Cupcake bumped Armel's shin again, chirping softly.
Rynar straightened, pulling his map back up on his wrist display as the corridor sloped deeper into shadow.


"Come on," he said, voice firming back into its usual tone. "Vault's not far. And if this place is going to try and crush us again, I'd rather it wait until we've actually found something worth dying next to."
He limped forward, Cupcake, as if proving his point, swept her red-striped tail once across Armel's boot, then started ahead with her predatory but somehow comforting stride.

Armel

 

[Armel]

​

Armel's stance shifted as the feline approached and while he didn't reach for a weapon he seemed on guard. He was unfamiliar with Nexu but his time on Dxun had taught him to recognize a jungle predator when he saw one. When Cupcake brushed up along his side he sat frozen for a brief few seconds before he extended a hand down to put the feline.

"Don't know if I'm convinced on cats yet." he said with a soft smile that betrayed his words.

As Rynar recanted his own experience with the Ssi-ruu he had a confused expression plastered to his face. "Don't know if I'd be able to do the same in your shoes."

He rolled the shoulder of his mechanical arm, feeling pins and needles as they talked more of the Ssi-ruu.

"Especially if I ever come across that one again. She owes me an arm." his voice was tinged with venom as he spoke of Mal.

As Rynar continued on Armel quickly followed, this time doing his best to avoid straying behind. Ever so often he'd look over his shoulder, half expecting the roof to come collapsing down on them again. He would take Rynar's earlier warning to heart now and when he was not watching the rear his eyes scanned every crack and crevice for any hint of a trap.

As they rounded a long corner Armel could see the door to the vault come into sight in the distance. But before he could take another step he stopped in his tracks and shined a beam of light at the floor ahead. Various stone tiles had faint markings on them, mismatched in an uneven pattern.

"Don't quite like the look of that." he said with a head turned to Rynar, deferring on his expertise of the ruins.

Rynar Solde ​