Infernal Crusade: Salute You (ME Rescue of Slaves on Ciutric IV)

[Ambrose Cadera]

Location: Daplona, Ciutric IV
Objective: Free the Mandalorian Gladiators
Allies: ME
Enemies: TSE - Slavers

The smuggler, who took the footage and evidence of Mandalorian slaves in the Sith gladiatorial ring lost more than his life. He was never found, after secreting the contraband into Agathe’s hand.

His husband, children, parents, cousins and last surviving grandparent were stains on the inferno, which roared across the small freight company he owned. Burned alive, shackled together. Yet, Agathe punched it to Junction, before the slavers on the back of her neck clenched their fingers. Fenced from New Junction to Noasis, the footage was confiscated by Death Watch, when a Noasian black market purveyor tried to sell it on.

Mandalorians in Sith Space were nothing new. Many Mandalorian Clans lived within the Sith Empire, and better for them to do so.

But Mandalorian slaves in a gladiatorial ring? No. This Kalmann Ordo would receive the rescue he desired. He would get it, because the ferocity of his last in-ring fight was so intense, footage of his citizenship was worth smuggling out to the one collection of people, who refused to let their people be taken without a fight.

Torrential rain clinked on my armour, as I crept through the streets of Daplona. Every Mandalorian I brought knew the score. Break in. Rescue the Mandalorians in the arena. Exfil.

If we got caught, if we didn’t make it out…

… no one else was coming.

Death Watch acometh, to take back our own. The Sith should remember that Mandalorians make poor slaves.

 

[Luca Donskoi]

Being a slave was never something someone got used to. Not when for their entire life, they’d only known of their freedom. When they’d fought for years against the tyranny such immoral acts offered. The dishonor ordained upon those that coddle and nurtured the perverse ideology. And this was something Kal had never suspected he’d come to be a part of. Not this. Not now. Not ever.

It was easy for one to say such things based on opinion and tell-tell, but one would never truly be able to understand it until they became a part of it. Until they became a pet to the mongrels and their perverse desires. Their insatiable lust for blood, and that unquenchable to thirst to see men forced to maul and bludgeon each other. The way they relished the path to dishonor, a way against everything a Mandalorian stood for. The complete contradiction of who one was simply for the sake of another’s entertainment. It was sickening and knotted his stomach to think he’d fallen to such means simply to survive.

His mind flashed to his first bout in the pits here. He recalled the very way the place smell. How it felt. The stale taste of the air. The roar of savages that sought nothing me than to see blood paint the stone walls and rain upon the coarse sands that glossed the ground. The clank of dull and misshapen blades against the duracrete pillars that decorate the place. How such vile putridness could be allowed to purvey through even the darkest of Empires. How such dishonor could be worship with such thunderous revelry. It was sickening and the very thought disgusted him.

His last match had ended with him in shackles after his refusal to take the life on a man that pleaded for mercy after defeat. A slave thrown at him for the jubilation of a crowd just as he had been weeks before. Neither wanted it, but to deny it spelled out both of their deaths. So . . . so they gave the crowd what they wanted. They fought and blood was shed, but when he was ordered to end the man, Kal had cast the crude blade aside, spitting out a string of Mando’a curses to the crowd and his captors as he did and for the mercy he’d shown to the men, he’d been shackled and beaten. Bloodied and bruised.

His cuts across his back still seeped blood from where the whip has lashed him. The blood poured from his nose and spat from his mouth, his eye was swollen, dark and bruised all from the beating his disobedience had wrought him. Yet still he smiled through the pain from his knees. His arms were spread out to the side, still shackled in the chains. He was stripped – naked and exposed in every regard other than the loin cloth that covered what little it could. Before his eyes and upon a table he’d not be able to reach, sat a reminder of who he was and what he’d come from. The yellow, black and maroon painted buy’ce that marked him a Mandalorian, with its cracked and splintered T-visor facing him. It was some way they’d used to remind him of what he was now – at least in their eyes. Broken. And they had done it in front of him as some kind of cruel symbolism of them breaking him just as they had his helm. In a lean-to fashion, his beskad sat against the same table, blade pointed to the ground.

Outside he could hear the clamoring of rainfall as it drummed over the ground and building. It splashed into the chamber in which he was shackled through the metal bars to let him look out and dream of a life free once more, but did not allow for his escape. It flowed into the chamber, making for a cold soup on the floor and around his exposed knees, shins and feet that ran along the floor. It pooled and rippled as more and more water flowed inward, even bathing the buy’ce and beskad that were placed in front of it.

A day was coming when he would be free. A day was coming where he would return home. And a day approached where he would have his revenge.

 

[Darth Banshee]

Objective: Buy Slaves

Darth Banshee had come here to buy slaves, for more slave battalions for the empire. She had Freighters docked, ready to be loaded and taken back to Serenno, for them to be indoctrinated. She had arrived on a Scorpion Assault Cruiser, as her new ship was still being built. She had a company of her Palace Guard with her, but she was not expecting trouble, so she was not dressed for it, and wearing her light armour with her Saber Staff by her side.

She was watching a gladiatorial contests in a private booth, after all she was proconsul of the sith, as well as the anointed Queen of Serenno, so that came with some privileges. She had meeting set up for later, with slave traders and pirates who have come here. She was watching the fight, she enjoyed seeing blood shed, especially when it was not her own. She could here the people talking, and placing bets.

I bet the little guy wins.
Na it always the big guy.
What do you know, I fought in them arenas.
I just do the maths.

Then the fight was over as the big guy, decapitated the smaller guy.
She bit lip, in excitement of the kill, she did get her kicks from this.
She was hoping her meeting would be late, as this was fun to watch.

 

[The Prowler]

The Prowler marched alongside Darth Banshee towards the Galditorial arena in all it's grandiose fashion. She wanted to buy slaves, he wanted to see blood. It was a win for both of them. So, whilst she watched the games in her private booth The Prowler went to inspect the stock and if he watched a game or two, what would be the harm in that? He cascaded down a set of steps towards the under layer of the arena.

It was dimly lit and stank of shit and piss.This is where the dredges came to see the fights. Where men were pitted against one another in small cages and the roaring crowd were those who could not afford seats above. Everywhere bouncers marched across the killing floor, large Gendai carrying swords and blaster canons the size of most men. The crowd around him stank of greed and depravity. Lone sharks wandered round offering money to those who had lost their own or those whom thought now might be their time to get lucky. Slightly intrigued, Prowler decided he might watch a fight before he went to inspect the slaves.

He marched to a tunnel cage and stood on the edge of it. Peering down into the pit curiously as it seemed a match was to begin. He watched silently as a frail man entered from the left and the apparent champion of this place entered from the right. It was short and sweet. With the champion raising the frail man above his head only to bring him crashing down upon his knee. The man layed their screaming in pain and horror as his back was broken. He stared up at the crowd and with pleading eyes cried out

Mercy please!

The crowd had other thoughts

Kill! Kill! Kill!

And with massive foot the champion crushed the small man's head, sending grey matter, a pair of eyes, and blood everywhere. The crowd cheered for all but a moment but the fight was expected to end in such a fashion. The Prowler rolled his eyes at such frivolity and reminded himself of the task at hand. He marched to the rear of the fighting pits and tapped once, twice, thrice, on a door that he knew would lead to his contact. The door swung open and he entered the candle lit torture room...

[member="Kaine Australis"]
[member="Darth Banshee"]
[member="Kalmann Ordo"]
[member="Ambrose Cadera"]

 

[Bailey Tyesko]

Ciutric IV​

Streets outside arena​

The roar of approval from the crowd signalled another kill. But that was all meaningless to the soldiers outside. It was a small distraction from the steady patter of rain against their visors.

"Lot of security for a game, Major. What gives?" Sergeant Tyesko asked her commanding officer.

The man gave a noncommittal shake of his head before gracing her with a reply. "Not every game has some of the finest killers in the galaxy as its main attraction. No more questions!" He barked suddenly as he opened the transport door and ushered the squad out.

"Roger that," The Sergeant acknowledged. A rifle was shoved into her arms by the Major a little too aggressively, earning a grunt from Tyesko, as her and her small team were ushered out of the transport.

The team they were relieving brushed past them. "Dull shift, good luck," Tyesko just heard one of the troopers murmur as they boarded. Then the transport was a gone with a hiss and a whizz as it sped through the streets leaving Sergeant Bailey alone in the staggered rain with her squad of ten.

Outside the influence of senior officers, the woman growled as she took a firmer grip on the rifle. "Getting real tired of being security guard." The soldiers around her didn't respond. She didn't know their names, only their numbers. They weren't 'buddy buddy' yet so it made sense they wouldn't risk even the most subtle criticism of command. They were likely raw, untested men and women too which would explain such a menial posting. Technically so was she but she was different to the others. She was a grown and built killing machine. So why these worthless postings? She wouldn't surprised to find out her father was responsible somehow, another way to keep her down and humiliated for her failure on not being a Sith.

Another roar from the crowd. Another death. At least someone was having a fun night and then again, at least life was better outside that arena than inside it. She was no slave, that much she could be thankful for. "Stay close but spread out, keep eyes and ears out for trouble. Follow me." Sergeant Tyesko set off in a brisk march along the assigned patrol route around the arena, her squad not far behind.

[member="The Prowler"] | [member="Kaine Australis"] | [member="Darth Banshee"] | [member="Kalmann Ordo"] | [member="Ambrose Cadera"]​

 

[Mig Gred]

Mig and his sister, Liddin, followed behind Ambrose and Kaine. Both Mando'ad could feel the Dark Side in this place. It was almost... cold to them. Mig was never a fan of the Sith. They were brutal, giving in fully to there anger, fear, and hatred when using the Dark Side. Yes, it was true that most of Clan Gred would also tap into this side of the Force, but they did so with balance in mind and with control over their emotions. A Sith... not so much. Mig had seen from Junction the extent to which the Sith would go to get what they want. With that in mind, he and his sister were here. Liddin had come mostly to help any freed slaves who were injured. She wasn't a physically strong as the others, but she was a skilled pilot and Force Healer.

The alor's attention was caught when Kaine asked what the plan was. He was curious too, but he remained quiet and waited for the answer.

Allies: [member="Kaine Australis"] [member="Kalmann Ordo"] [member="Ambrose Cadera"]
Enemies: [member="Bailey Tyesko"] [member="The Prowler"] [member="Darth Banshee"]

 

[Darth Banshee]

Allies: [member="The Prowler"] [member="Bailey Tyesko"]
Enemies: [member="Mig Gred"] [member="Kaine Australis"] [member="Ambrose Cadera"]

Darth Banshee was smiling a lot, after watching so much wantum violence, these people really knew how to put a show on. Then it finally happened, the first of sellar came into her booth. She turned to him, he was just taller than her, oh well, she thought to herself. He had ebony skin, and balding hair, and toothless grin, from one too many fights. He was well known for selling slaves on mass, his reputation for grading them was good, so he was trustworthy slaver.

He sat down opposite her, and asked.
Enjoying our little display?
She grinned, and replied
You know how to entertain a girl.
He replied, in a pleasant voice.
I got special one for you, a vod.
He paused, to get measure of her interest.
He is a good fighter, and worth the extra cost.
Can you bring him to me?
She asked, as she didn't wish to miss any blood shed.
He shook his head, and then told her slightly dampened voice.
I am afraid not, slaves are not allowed up here.
He paused, and then added.
I can take you to him for a private audience?
She sighed.
Okay, but during the interval.
She didn't want miss a single drop of blood, or dismembered limb.
He nodded, in agreement.
Now to other matters, of bulk buying of slaves.
I have thirty thousand units, who are fit for combat.
and another hundred thousand of class c slaves
Class C where people who where given menial task
Class B was combat capable slaves.
Class A where educated slaves, but they where sold as individuals.
​I will pay the usual price for them.
He nodded, and there eyes turned onto next gladiator spectacle.
She then whispered into her aids ear.
Get guards to secure my path, I don't want any issues.
Also get them to make contact with the our people on ground.
She did not want be harassed by locals, or be stopped by over zealous guard. She want get stright there, and back.
After aid went to Palace Guardsmen, then he relayed the order.
They started making a secure root for her, and making sure all there people knew who they where and there task.

 

[Nicair Claden]

He'd been gone for months, hiding in whatever hell he could find. Thing was, when someone hides in Hell, Death can't find them, even if it's what they want. Unfortunately, speeding up the process wasn't doing much of anything. He'd heard stories about the Death Watch, had even sought them out once or twice to no real avail. But when Ambrose asked him to join, he couldn't refuse, no matter where he was or how deep he had fallen. The pair had an understanding, a sort of unspoken agreement. Nicair would do anything Ambrose told him so long as it was dangerous and risk intensive. Essentially, so long as Ambrose gave him missions that could very easily kill him if he made the wrong move. Freeing a fellow Mandalorian from slavery was just a bonus.

Nicair knew the arenas across the galaxy, he knew the underground venues even better. It was where he was made, where he was put together piece by piece, molded by the suffering, coagulated blood used as the grout. A psychologist might say he never truly left, it suits him. If he never really leaves, he never has to leave the people he left behind. His kind are capable of few attachments, even fewer last beyond their usefulness. There are two he won't let go, two that made him the man he is now whether he ever admits it to himself or not. Every slave breaks if held down long enough. It isn't always a physical break, it might not even be a psychological one that they are even aware of. But at some point something gives way for survival, it's only natural instinct. Nicair gave much for survival. It isn't a fate he would wish on warriors who still hold fast to their honor.

So long as this Ordo still spares his victims, there is hope he and Nicair's paths diverge. When it mattered most for Nicair to stay his blade, when it would shatter his very being to strike his chosen enemy down, it didn't stop him. It was what had to happen for not only his survival, but both he and his victim's vengeance. Part of him is still trying to get it though any responsible are long since dead.

He stayed low, pulling up the rear of the group. Rear guards, while not at the front of a strike team, have large amounts of responsibility. Prevention of an ambush for one, and the widest view of the force as another. Would he very much like to take point like he often does for assaults? Most definitely. But what better position for an assassin than a counter assassin? If it were an assault he'd barrel in helmet first with no care for personal safety, this was different. A more subtle hand was needed. The chance of death was certainly the same if not higher, just a quieter one. All the same.

Letting his body naturally turn about so that he was facing away from the stealth team he let a knee fall to the ground, rifle slung onto his shoulder. The weapon felt almost unnatural in his arms, so used he was to a pistol and bladed weapon, or two bladed weapons. He still had them with him, nothing would part him from them. They would simply have to wait their turns.

He turned his head to the side just enough that he could watch the surroundings and listen to the relayed plan at the same time.

His pulse quickened in his ears. A small grin cracked his face.

Allies: [member="Mig Gred"] | [member="Kaine Australis"] | [member="Kalmann Ordo"] | [member="Ambrose Cadera"]
Enemies: [member="Darth Banshee"] | [member="Bailey Tyesko"] | [member="The Prowler"]

 

[Ambrose Cadera]

Location: Daplona Back-streets
Objective: Rescue Kalmann Ordo
Allies: ME [member="Kaine Australis"] [member="Kalmann Ordo"] [member="Mig Gred"] [member="Nicair Claden"]
Enemies: [member="Darth Banshee"] [member="The Prowler"] [member="Bailey Tyesko"]

“The dar’jetiise use a series of lethal animals under the arena to spice up the fights. I’ll pose as a loose creature, gain entry, then unlock the underground supply entrance for our squad. Eliminate resistance one at a time as you can, I’m assuming your Night Witches can change their appearance to match the dead guards. Once inside, we use Claden’s familiarity with gladiatorial pits to locate the target and extract him, as if he’s been sold to a high bidder… then we get the feth to Stygeon Prime, and once we know the dar’jetiise aren’t on our tail, home.” It was as simple a plan as I knew would fail. No plan goes from instigation to conclusion without a few detours, but this was enough to tell Australis and the others.

I slink into the shadow, as a transport ([member="Bailey Tyesko"]) I hadn’t accounted for switches out heightened security guards. My fist goes up, the hand-sign for ‘hold’.

“That patrol wasn’t in the intel… Gred. You’re up. See if there’s a way around, or a chance to take them out without being made. Claden, there’s another way around the arena’s service intakes… you know what to do.” I set my weapons on Vano’s back webbing, and roll my shoulders, which pop and shift in size. My armour falls into Vano’s hand. Soon, I have no limbs at all, instead the form of a hooded Mandalorian sand viper. My belly slithers along the wet, if I don’t get inside, the cold could clam me up.

So I move, slithering through the shadows into the ductwork and hopefully past the guards.

 

[Nicair Claden]

He knew what to do. If this facility followed the "standard", if there truly was a word, underground pit format, the supplies would be brought in away from main entrances, almost near service hatches. At the very least, his pit ran the supply tunnel alongside the isolation chambers for slaves causing trouble. For the most part such beings would simply be killed of in the arena, but on occasion they presented merit and had to be adequately broken. A facility like this would have far better food brought in through the tunnel than the one Nicair had been imprisoned for the first fifteen to sixteen years of his life. He couldn't much remember, time moved differently down there, days and weeks blended together.

Even in Nicair's case, the food he was forced to watch go passed was spades better than what he was being fed. What most people don't know is that if something akin to brainwashing is required, it can often be best to give the victim nothing but sugar and electrolytes to make them complacent. Without protein the body has trouble functioning and thinking clearly, it makes it easier to break people. Humans at least, Nicair isn't a standard human, he could take it better than the others. In any case, even if what is being eaten is sugary, true hunger wants genuine food. Do what the slavers want, and you can taste the far better food being marched passed you every day or so. Whether it actually happens or not.

There usually isn't much in the way of guards inside the facility in this section. This isn't to say there aren't any, but most of the prisoners are in various stages of confusion and compliance. Nicair knew of one or two who had trouble standing on their own. A few died from some sort of illness he couldn't recall.

Actually getting in would be the biggest challenge. The rifle with him was the only thing even closed to being silenced. With some timing and some luck if he had to shoot it the rain could cover the sound. Otherwise he'd remove the threats with his hands and assortment of blades. The tomahawk he kept strapped to his left thigh so as to avoid it clanging against his armor was a gift presented by Isley Verd many years ago when Nicair was an even younger man and just working out the kinks of being a Mandalorian. It had been gifted to him in the heat of battle during a dark time of Mandalorian Crusaders. He didn't often care to remember it, and always told himself he would place the weapons of those days on display somewhere, trophies of a bygone era. The wounds of the past are still being put to rest, but will never heal completely. No reason Nicair should hold onto them.

In any case, it had proven useful to him, and had bloodied itself frequently since he'd been given it. The beskad given him by Ronan Vizsla, member of a faction eventually directly opposed to Isley's had also been used in situations such as this. And yes, he was more than aware of the irony, but it was alright. He hadn't fought in that civil war.

It didn't take him long to reach the entrance to the tunnel, he always enjoyed climbing on buildings and jumping across gaps. Made him feel.. heroic at the very best, predatory at worst. The rain pinged on what armor was exposed. During this particular outing most of it was covered in a cloak to absorb the pelting rain. Made less noise. His helmet could pick up some in the way of heartbeats. The quality and quantity grew as he got closer to his goal. By the time he had made his perch he had keyed in on around half a dozen guards in different stages of either patrol or stagnation. While the reading was faint, he could pick up on one or two prisoners near the area that hadn't moved for some time. One even had two hearts, interesting. The time for being right wasn't now. He climbed up to a slightly taller position to get a better view of the land.

A message came in from Kaine as he settled in.

Good. He thought to himself. Wouldn't be a Mandalorian rescue without being overwhelmed at least once.

Allies: [member="Kaine Australis"] | [member="Ambrose Cadera"] | [member="Mig Gred"] | [member="Kalmann Ordo"]
Enemies: [member="Darth Banshee"] | [member="Bailey Tyesko"] | [member="The Prowler"]

 

[Mig Gred]

Mig nodded to [member="Ambrose Cadera"] , then motioned for his sister to follow. The pair quickly got up one of the buildings, being sure to not be spotted as they checked out the situation. Liddin lowered a binocular set mounted to her helmet, while Mig pulled a set from his belt. He watched as [member="Bailey Tyesko"] 's unit patrolled the arena exterior. The two Greds tried to find any opening, or at least see them going through an ally where it would be easier to deal with them. There had to be somewhere they were vulnerable! Anywhere! If not... Mig honestly didn't know what was next. He didn't think anyone had a particularly quiet weapon. Then again, if there was a spot not guarded for some time, that could be there way in, otherwise Mig's only other idea was a smelly one. The pair watched as long as they needed to, then quickly rejoined the group, with Mig relaying the information to everyone.

(I'll let Bailey and the others describe what Mig and Liddin saw.)

[member="Nicair Claden"] [member="Kaine Australis"] [member="Darth Banshee"] [member="The Prowler"] [member="Kalmann Ordo"]

 

[Luca Donskoi]

Location: Gladiatorial Pits (slave cells), Daplona, Ciutric IV
Objective: Survive!
Allies: None known yet ([member=’Mig Gred’] | [member=’Kaine Australis’] | [member=’Nicair Claden’] | [member=’Ambrose Cadera’]
Enemies: Sith Empire/Slavers/Gladiator(s) ([member=’Darth Banshee’] | [member=’Bailey Tyesko’] | [member=’The Prowler’]

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Time passed slowly here, especially when you were shackled with nothing but a broken buy’ce and stolen beskad to stare at to pass your time. The thunderous roared of the crowd as the spectacles of blood and sand washed over them grew to deafening levels at points, being subdued only in times of monologue and between pivotal points of the fights the mongrels rejoiced to see. Not even the downpour of rain kept these feral beasts from their blood sport. Kal scoffed and grimaced as he picked himself back to his feet just as the pounding of the metal door erupted around his insignificant cell. It grinded and creaked as it opened, allowing for two armed and armored guards to file into the chamber followed closely by the old hag which had been the latest to purchase him. It seemed he was a commodity to be had by all as this had been the third of these hellish goons to make purchase of him since he was thrown into the hell. Fight, beaten, shackled, eat, repeat. It was the life he’d come to know quite well and as his new feral mistress came to look upon her prized possession, he scowled and spit to the floor next to him, an action not received well by one of the two guards evidenced when he laid into Kal’s exposed and unprotected abdomen with a plated fist.

Kal grunted before letting out a string of curses in his native tongue, which turned out to be an act the other guard seemed to take offense to as he wailed a heavy, wrapped fist across his jaw. Blood spattered upon the ground to his right as it flew out of his mouth with the impact. Kal smiled, mocking both of the guards’ actions, even so far as letting out a small chuckle. But that was when the craven woman, rounded him so his eyes would fall upon her repulsive figure. She looked – well – a lot like how this place smelled. Needless to say, it wasn’t what someone would want to be compared to. She certainly was not pleasant to behold with glowing, amber eyes and aged skin so pale you could everything vein that pumped blood throughout her frail frame. Wispy, unkept, graying hair fought to free itself from the caress of her dull, gray robes which were trimmed in an unpolished gold color. She reached out a crooked, thin hand and caressed the side of his face with it, lifting his head until his eyes met her own. A chill ran down his spine as he was forced to endure it as he remained shackled.

“Your previous masters may have allowed you to embarrass them with disobedience, but I am not them,” she said, her voice cold, and raspy. It seemed to carry and pain and cruelty with it too. “You disobey my command, or even that of the crowd, and it will be the last time you have a mind to revel in such pathetic tantrums. You will obey my every command or you will find that life can be far crueler to you than you could imagine.” Satisfied with her threat, she patted his cheek and gave him a dim smile, before turning and making her way toward the door to the cell where she stopped. “Ready him for his next fight. He’s next and he fights not one, but two men this time.” Her next comment came directly for him, a new seriousness carried with it. “Do not fail me. And do NOT disobey.” She walked out of the cell and he was left to be attended to by the two guards that remained behind.

 

[The Prowler]

The Prowler stepped into the torture chamber and found the smell delightful. It was rank with blood, decay, and filth. It made him famished. It was dark and lit by a dim ceiling light. Shackled to the walls were several men. Supposedly the best this place had to offer. Around the floor was covered in a thin puddle of water and the Prowler could make out a film of blood that floated atop it. Mixing in, it developed a concoction of filth and ambrosia. The Prowler watched as a decrepit woman accompanied by guards made a hasty exit. He thought he could sense the Darkside on her, but that easily could've been his master Banshee's own radiance.

He made a note of her and stuffed it in a mental filing cabinet. The Prowler's contact hoveled over to him and tugged on his sleeve. He looked at the gimp almost curiously. The man was tanned with a short head of hair. He smiled revealing pristine teeth and his eyes spoke of someone who had his wits about him. He pointed to the men chained to the walls and as if to emphasize his point the crowd erupted in roars as another kill was made.

"These are the finest warriors my master is willing to sell. All of them Grade A stock," The Prowler eyed them up and down carefully, but found them all lacking in true tenacity. They'd need a little oompf if they were to serve.

"Darth Banshee will buy them all," The man spoke and the gimp nodded in delight.

The Prowler brought up his datapad and transferred the credits to the man's master's account. Then stuffing the device back in his pocket he withdrew his sword. Methodically making his way down the line of warriors he stabbed each in the heart. The last man cried in terror as the Prowler approached with blood drenched sword. But didn't he know, he would find rapture in death.... As the last man died the Prowler turned to face the gimp and ran his finger along the blade, then he stuck it in his mouth tasting of their blood.

"Unchain them and ready them for the next fight," The stunned gimp simply stared horrified and did not hop into action until he received a growl from the Prowler.

The Gimp went quick to work unshackling the men and their forms slumped to the earth with each twist of the key. The Prowler smiled.

"Now show me the stock your master does not wish to sell,"

The gimp stared at him inquisitively, half terrified by the man in front of him and half scared of displeasing his master he seemed to be at a loss. Finally resolving to let the man into the back room he opened the door revealing [member="Kalmann Ordo"] and a pair of guards. The man looked battle hardened, a true warrior. The Prowler offered him a simple smile.

"He will fight my warriors," The Prowler spoke in his monotonous voice.

"But sir he's already scheduled to fight and your warriors are..." His voice trailed off as the men the Prowler had purchased walked into the room, their eyes glazed over in undeath.

"He will fight my warriors, and if he survives he'll be worthy enough to serve the Sith Empire..." The Prowler studied the room for a moment. Looking at the broken armor on the table in the center, then back towards the man.

A Mandalorian then... Even better.

[member="Mig Gred"]
[member="Nicair Claden"]
[member="Kaine Australis"]
[member="Darth Banshee"]
[member="Bailey Tyesko"]

 

[Darth Banshee]

Her slaves had been bought, and soon will begin to be loaded. The fights had finished, and the interval had begun, and it was time for her to see this vod. She rose out her seat, and her servants started to get her booth ready for after of the interval. She was flanked by her palace guards, and they where now lining her route to slave pens, anyone looking in that area, would no doubt see them, and possibly know who they are there to protecting. She was not exactly an unknown, though she was not the most famous of her brethren. She saw the streets, and people being moved out of her way as she moved towards, the belly of gladiatorial cells. She was going to see if he was worth, what slaver said, or was he talking out of his rear end. She was quite excited, possibly due to amount blood shed she just witnessed.

As she entered the area, she could smell the blood the sweat, the excrement, the rotting corpses, she did not cover her nose. These where familiar smells, ones she had created herself past. Though they might want to invest in more ventilation. As they entered her, guards, pushed someone out way, who tried to turn on him, and true style, he slapped him down, with his metal gauntlet, and they guy fell flat on face. She then was going down into pits, and soon she would be at her possible slave. As she turned to final corridor she saw [member="The Prowler"], go into the cell. She decide to give him a minute, but she would be there soon.

[member="Kalmann Ordo"] [member="Mig Gred"] [member="Nicair Claden"] [member="Kaine Australis"] [member="Ambrose Cadera"] [member="Bailey Tyesko"]

 

[Bailey Tyesko]

Location: Streets outside the arena​

Allies: The Sith Empire - [member="Darth Banshee"] | [member="The Prowler"]​

Enemies: Mandalorians - [member="Kalmann Ordo"] | [member="Nicair Claden"] | [member="Mig Gred"] | [member="Kaine Australis"] | [member="Ambrose Cadera"]​

A small rustling sound. It would be beyond the hearing of most humans but Sgt Bailey Tyesko was not most humans. The acute sensitivity of her hearing was yet another advantage of her engineering. The woman spun on the spot, sneering to herself beneath the helmet. Who needs the Force? I can sense things just fine.

The flashlight at the end of her barrel illuminated her target. It was... a snake. How disappointing, she was hoping to find something more interesting. The sergeant's finger rested on the trigger for a moment more, contemplating lighting the creature up with plasma for a moment's entertainment. Better not. Her finger moved back to rest on the side of the rifle. The story of Corporal Ceyrish was a well known tale at her barracks. The soldier allegedly protected a small farming village from a savage Vornskr. He was treated as a hero for a few days until the Sith Lord who owned the creature killed him for murdering his 'beloved' pet. Bailey certainly wasn't going to risk her death over a dumb animal. She gave a tch of indignation as she watched the creature slither away and turned her attention to more important things.

To [member="Mig Gred"] and his sister, observing unnoticed from the rooftops, a few things would stand out. Security may seem tight but it was far from a military fortress. A few members of Tyesko's untested patrol had spaced out, either forgetting or not applying their training to what seemed a dull affair. Corners were unchecked and lines of sight with one another lost frequently however the Sergeant herself continued to display discipline to her training, keeping a core handful of soldier by her side. Back alleys were left unguarded even for brief moments as a soldier turned his or her back. It would be obvious to most observers that Sgt Tyesko and her squad were not deployed as an impenetrable defence but a deterance to small time trouble makers and to act as first responders. The soldiers were not prepared not expecting a squad of dedicated Mandalorians and had no reason to.

 

[Ambrose Cadera]

Location: Daplona Back-streets
Objective: Rescue Kalmann Ordo
Allies: ME [member="Kaine Australis"] [member="Kalmann Ordo"] [member="Mig Gred"] [member="Nicair Claden"]
Enemies: [member="Darth Banshee"] [member="The Prowler"] [member="Bailey Tyesko"]

Australis bumbled away, one less body to concern myself with aside from the voice in my comm. Claden disappeared into the rain. Gred and his sister were beyond my potential to aide. Clan Gred didn’t need it. If I thought babysitting was part of this job, I wouldn’t have brought them. Australis again pinged us with proximities… good. Smell alone was getting me ready to pitch myself into little Adara’s scented princess tea sets. I wonder if this Ordo was better left dead, after days in this stench, even a gurlanin’s stomach would curl with rot.

The hag smelled of anise lozenges all elderly humanoids seemed to inherit, when they reached a decade past decrepit. A sting to my tongue, my olfactory senses flicking from it in this serpentine form. I wait in the ceiling, slither with my belly against clammy, damp metal.

Two guards, and the hag. It would take me all of eleven seconds… then he arrived. The other man, and his body smelled of the taint we cured on Mandalore before Yasha took kindly to the forcies.

The hag goes by. I do not follow. The Sith with his fixation on the blood on his sword was better company. His proximity, and the guards were too close for me to get to Kalmann. Nothing but the head of a gigantic cobra drifting in the shadows would tell the shackled Mandalorian that there was further presence in the room at all.

“You’ll know my signal when you see it… the fight’s all men. My skin will be blue.” I hiss, drifting into the room where the Gimp prepared the corpses for delivery to the ring. Little did the Sith know, their Chiss corpse was replaced by a shapeshifting Mandalorian with a taste for the freedom of slaves.

The arena burst with caterwauling citizens screaming from their seats. I roll my shoulder, the Chiss was small and my natural bulk is restrained. Shackles removed by the guards at the entrance to the tunnel, I rush the arena and search for a weapon not broken enough on the ground.

There. The Mandalorian. I track forward and around, attempting to get to the man we came to rescue.

 

[Nicair Claden]

His HUD told him Ambrose and Kaine were inside and all the others, either waiting for the signal or getting into positions themselves were going about their business. He'd taken his time learning the routines of the few guards present at the supply entrance, wasn't planning on getting killed by a stray blaster shot because he wasn't checking his corners.

The guards, on the other hand, weren't checking theirs. Nothing unexpected must happen over here, completely natural to let discipline go if it isn't needed. Understandable, but not forgivable. And it certainly won't save them. He climbed down from his perch on an outlying building, having memorized to the extent of his ability, the disorder patterns of the wandering guards. The one farthest on his right usually favored turning left at corners and only glanced right in the middle of the turn. Farthest left would often trip up over his feet or something lying on the ground. While it didn't seem like they were paying much attention to what they were doing, creatures, humans in particular, usually develop a pattern eventually. Too many lefts and they'll take a right otherwise they'll start going in circles. It was leaving a lot to chance, but that was where the fun was.

The two stationary guards at the very entrance were going to be the ones that required the fastest action, but nothing he hadn't done before, no matter how different the spacing between them was. He chose to go left first, and, once on the ground he lowered himself into a crouch. Hours spent in this position, either waiting on an ambush or his possibly masochistic training left his legs conditioned to the strain. His armor, while still proper 'gam, albeit with some styling choice of his own, was only slightly lighter than standard; he needed the mobility.

It didn't take him long to stalk his victim, he didn't have much time. Putting some loose debris near his feet and snapping his neck didn't cause him to lose much, even if a proper neck break wasn't as smooth and easy as most people think it is. The furthest guard he'd have to leave be for now, if just for efficiency's sake. He'd have to do a sort of bowl movement in his killings, starting from one end and working his way towards the other. He'd have to kill all of them so as to avoid raising an alarm too early by taking the chance one of them would encounter the corpse of one of their compatriots. The two in the middle of his bowl, the soup if you will, would often take opposing paths only to come back together after a few minutes.

Nicair followed the nearest for a few meters, only to grab him by his collar and plunge his beksad through the guard's ribs and into his heart. There were other techniques he could do in order to dispatch the remaining four, but speed was becoming needed, he expected a fresh fight would be started soon and more often than not trouble slaves were fought time after time to break them down. A running tomahawk to the skull left another guard dead without breaking stride.

Three. The guard on the other "lip" of the bowl was slammed into a freestanding piece of machinery. The blows followed in quick succession. Legs, ribs, and head. All before being finished off by another tomahawk. He needed the release.

Two. Overwhelming force was needed, his years working on the front of an assault team came back. A jack of all trades of killing potential. The beskad slipped into the heart of the guard standing to the right of the entrance. Using the momentum garnered by both twisting his body with the added weight of a corpse, Nicair sent his tomahawk end over end into the skull of the last guard. Usually risky when using throwing weapons to assume they can puncture or pierce bone. He'd had practice. Besides, when throwing any sort of hatchet style weapon, one should always aim for the head.

Counting down was never his thing, felt like it built up too much unneeded tension. Walking in when everyone else is dead doesn't have the same effect at reaching zero. Without the proper device, opening the isolation cells could be challenging or even dangerous. He made a note to come back for them if he could.

::Escape route open.::

Once the alarm was already triggered they could do what they could. These slaves weren't what they were here for.

Allies: [member="Ambrose Cadera"] | [member="Kaine Australis"] | [member="Kalmann Ordo"] | [member="Mig Gred"]
Enemies: [member="Bailey Tyesko"] | [member="Darth Banshee"] | [member="The Prowler"]