Ironback

[Cato Fett]

The world swayed with heat and the sulfur stench was unavoidable. Cato tightened the rebreather fitted underneath his helm, somewhat glad the brimstone stench hid his own. His fatigue sleeves were rolled and he was stained with sweat marks down his shoulders and torso, socks damp in his boots like the sweat-band roped tight across his brow. He was managing shale screen coming down off the edge of a lesser butte, making for the slim pathways winding past the sulfur lakes to the far lava fields. Temperature was fifty degrees centigrade, sure to climb. Kor Bareesh was a sight of Hell no matter the season.

The lowlands he traversed had a lost name in Huttese, more gutturally named ‘Meggido’ in Basic. Here, ancient mineral pools had been turned rankly acidic, in a constant roil and spit from unseen heat springs agitating the waters from below. Yellowed vapour runoffs climbed into low overcast banks that sheltered Meggido from the sun. Light was somehow constant and omnipresent. The vale spanned fifteen kilometres, the ash deposits in atmosphere demanding Cato trek on foot from the butte. He kept up a light jog, trudging against the choking warmth, constantly rechecking reserves in the small oxygen tanks secured to the back of his belt harness. His frame was laden with further kit and strung with web-harnesses. At the end of the vale, terrain paused at a short mesa drop onto piled diluvium-like soot and obsidian scree. Cato hopped from the ledge, landed at the peak of a steep pile, and surfed to the shoreland.

An immense vein of running lava burned and roared before him. The sound was a constant pulsate, liquid rock rolling over super-heated, super-smoothed beds of igneous formations that thickened and calcified with the seasons. Now, in the lava’s proximity, the heat was immense. Cato slipped a secondary jumpsuit from its vacuum-packed seal on his web-gear, dressed into heat-shielded textiles that would help negate the bight of fever in the air. Fifty yards from the shore of pumice, a band of black-glass hide broke the lava before driving itself back down.

The Mandalorian readied: Cato planted down a three-meter fighting harpoon tipped jaggedly in honed beskar, the butt roped with a tie of treated cabling, checked the shot for an immense breach-load gun taller than himself, and cocked a heavy steel shaft into the nave of an ancient crossbow. Throaty avalanche-roars sounded from the lava river. Liquid fire spumed off the backs of raging coils lashing free from the shimmering surface tension. Behind his visor, Cato smiled at the sound of growling Fireworms.

…Now where was that boy?

[member="Alaric"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Alaric had been scouting ahead, checking the tunnels left behind, or caverns elsewhere. A slughthrower pistol of a heavy variant strapped to his thigh, and dual shortswords scabbarded by his hips. A rifle was cradled in his arms, and he was particularly wary. The cave he was approaching threw shadows across his armor, which he had at the least made some alterations to fit better, but had left the colors as a tribute to his mentor who had left it behind. Given it was not beskar, and he had not known to keep the body, it was the best advice an aging armor smith could give him for paying homage to his savior.

Thankful that Cato had advised him of the dangers of the atmosphere, he breathed in deep through the rebreather, knowing that without it the air would have reeked of ammonia and sulfur. At current, there was no roaring of the fire worms. Not yet. But he remained on alert until he kicked a rock by trying to stay to the shadows. The rock rolled down into the cave, echoing and banging in hollow reverberations. In response, Alaric felt the heat wave blast into him and had seconds to roll aside to dodge the passage of the worm, and only further seconds to roll onto it's back.

It roared out of the cave breaking off low hanging rock ledges and showering dust and splinters of slate. As it cleared the mouth of it, Alaric leapt up and over the beasts maw, turning to fire off wild shots with his rifle and yelp for Cato, trying to land on his feet or his back, and unsure of which.

Only the very young, and borderline cocky, would do something so risky and dumb.

[member="Cato Fett"]

 

[Cato Fett]

Heavy-bore shot ripped the smoke of a young fumarole smoking by the mouth of the cavern. Cato came after it, chasing along the shore-line, lava glow to one side and the shade of broken volcanic stone on the other. The old war gear weighed him and made his footfalls plunge in places through deceptively fine silt. Alaric’s alarm had patched over their shared comm-line, told that he’d ran into something unexpectedly, was in a mire of thickening shid, would do his best to extricate free but wouldn’t be smarting if some help came his way. Cato plucked the harpoon and gun and crossbow out of the ash and broke into full sprint.

Like woken myth, the fireworm was slithering free of its burrow, rounding on Alaric. It was nineteen metres, from snout to tail, a sub-adult still requiring another handful of molts before it matured to full adult-hood. Some stories had lingered into legend about truly monstrous adults, the mature bull-worms and sow-adders that occupied the deepest pits of roiling, liquid mantle. Cato rammed a fresh cartridge into the rifle breech and then sagged into firing posture, bracing the weight. The gun was more heirloom than weapon. A brawny thing of old walnut stock, rust, and cast metal. He squeezed on the narrow trigger, wincing at both its recoil and cracking report. The shot smashed into the worm’s underbite, managing to briefly stun it.

“Move, burc’ya, get out of its reach!” He called.

[member="Alaric"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ClQcUyhoxTg​

Move he did, like a shot from a rocket. Legs churning, as soon as he hit the ground he was running, firing the rifle until it clicked dry and dropping it, the lanyard on his gorget keeping it near as he turned and whipped the pistols out, doing the same to them as he drug it in a circle. The thing was becoming enraged by now, and Alaric was huffing and puffing a bit. As he was also thanking his lucky stars the plate fit better so he could move easier and not chafe so badly. First the left-handed pistol clicked, and then the right, and he dropped them to holsters and spun, drawing two short beskad and with a shout actually charged at the fire worm with swords in hand.

What seemed a last stand was in reality a final bit of distraction. He had been hoping that he had been drawing it's attention for Cato to wound it. And that it was enraged enough at this point to have a tunnel focus on him. And in that hope, was the trust Cato would bring it down, or cripple it. The last half a dozen feet the young warrior leaped, lost to bloodlust and frenzy, and sailed towards the beast with an almost impossible height and distance, sword raised to the sky. Had it not been for the sort of life and conditioning he led, no one would believe the feat. Or the insanity that lead up to it.

[member="Cato Fett"]

 

[Cato Fett]

Some peripheral blur snagged the Fireworm’s attentions and it snapped from the ‘nuisance’ running circles round its looped coils to look. A heavy, wrought-iron bolt shot and caught under a row of scale-plating, shaving them off its belly along with skin-molt, blood, and tears of long tissue. Cato dropped the colossal crossbow onto a pile of volcanic glass and pumice, grasped the tall fighting harpoon. Its beskar spear-end was dull, unreflective, and caught no light as he charged in at the site of the wound. The Fireworm had lurched back in pain and looked almost dizzied. First, agonized taste of mortality, he thought, savoured by fighters. At once sweet and bitter.

He found solid purchase on a pack of gnarled, cooled lava and jousted the harpoon high. Its jagged edge sliced into the exposed under-flesh, then jousted deeper as Cato’s hands switched their hold and had a grasp on the spear-butt, levering it with his not-inconsiderable strength. The spear point snagged on a fang-like rib, broke free with a cruel twist, and sank deeper into the Fireworm. The creature twisted and nearly yanked the haft out of Cato’s hands. Almost dragging his arms free of their sockets.

“Leave the running and help me put this thing down!” He grunted over the comm-channel.

[member="Alaric"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

He landed on the thing. And not on the tail or the back. Right on it's face, and with a flourish more suited for pleasing the crowds from when he was a pit fighter, he spun the swords to a reversed and downward grip, and plunged both straight into the eyes of the beast with a mighty heave. It proceeded to screech, wail, roar an than thrash. As he was thrown from the things head, he managed to grab and yank free one sword, stabbing it into the hinged joint of the creatures mandible. It roared in more pain, and jerked away, just as Alaric got caught by the pin on his grenade harness. A thermal detonator began beeping, smoke and reek from the beasts blood and more wafting, and he landed with a thud that might have broken bones in others.

The beast, for the moment, was moaning in pain and disorientation. Blind, bleeding heavily, and a bandoleer of explosives caught on a sword rammed into it's jaw. With luck, the other had fallen, and Alaric scampered up, and gripped it, then ran past Cato shouting for him to follow. A half dozen grenades might not leave them a carcass, but they' live. Or maybe it would. He hadn't hunted fireworms.

[member="Cato Fett"]

 

[Cato Fett]

Cato swore, abandoned the harpoon stuck through the Fireworm’s clenching ribs, turned on his boot-toes and tore after Alaric in a dead sprint. The bolt-quiver was tossed to the ash and the old crossbow left where it was amongst the pumice stone. Further weight was shrugged off his web-gear, lightening his pace to outrun the fragmentation blast range. He partly and wordlessly cursed Alaric, his youth, impetuousness, gung-ho rodomontade, smiling anyway that his stunt had succeeded despite the force of chance and odds fixed against him. They slid behind a fallen slab of hardened ebonstone and obsidian jetsam piled like sand. Cato tuned helm aural-dampeners to high.

A beat passed. Then hot, broken air surged over their cover. Concussive sub-sonics shook the ebonstone and slapped through their stomachs. Broken pyroclastic scale, fire cured gore, halves of shattered ribbing like crystalline gristle watered onto their shoulders. One gross chunk of flash-burned tongue plinked and slid off Cato’s visor plate. He looked to Alaric through lurching, steaming blood, as ash began clotting on their collars.

“…Karma,” Cato uttered. “You’ve your bags? Good. Let’s get those scales. …We’ll discuss ‘tactics’ later, when we’re involved with a bit of cold water. Tell me; why an interest in the Fireworms?”

[member="Alaric"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Perhaps he didn't duck his head, and his expression couldn't be seen through the helm. But, the posture showed a bit of chagrin and genuine embarrassment at his flair for the dramatic just now. Nodding, he stood up and flicked gore off, absently pocketing a few teeth with an almost after thought. Mostly large, curved fangs suitable for back up or assassination daggers. Then he turned to address Cato as he began picking up scales.

"I was a pit fighter, and slave before I was adopte into the Mando'ade by the same man who freed me from that life. My master would only pay for hardened leather scales at first, overlapped in the old styles, of armor. Didn't think I was worth more at first, then became a way to belittle and control my self-worth and ego. I excelled despite the deficit, in large part because of the fire that such behavior lit under me. I grew used to the mobility it offers. And beskar is not something I can realistically claim. I have no clan, no money. No deeds to my name. I am of nowhere and no one, as I like to say when I introduce myself. Besides, our people's iron is notoriously heavy, and if you haven't noticed, I rely on precision strikes in bursts of strength. I need mobility and speed to be at my full best. The Fire Worm scales will give me a chance at that. This hunt alone could make us full suits of the armor. Just treated, it will serve well. If I can earn enough to find an Alchemist, it can turn aside lightsabers as goo as beskar, but at a lower weight and with minor flexibility. "

Then he shrugged and smiled, still sorting scales to pick the best. If they didn't have enough, he would take damaged ones. An idea of a gift for his friend came to mind, for his help in this and more. He owed Cato more than just a thank you and his share of the spoils. The Mandalorian culture didn't work that way per se, but Alaric did.

"Besides, how many green Mando'ad manage to take down a fire-worm in just one go, hmmmm? Think of the story that will make!"

[member="Cato Fett"]

 

[Cato Fett]

“The tenet says: ‘wear armour.’ That is all. Scale-hide or beskar or duraplast or steel or what have you,” Cato said, knelt down in the ash. Fireworm ichor still bled from the ruined cadaver; in places, the seepage had quickened into the silt, turning the ash ruddy as swamp mire. He minded his step, clutching and peeling flakes at the worm’s tail-end. His pack bulged with weight; a solid thirteen kilos, piled and ordered neatly then secured with hemp-rope. He tested the duffel-pack over his shoulder and trudged near Alaric, pausing until the man had collected his full take.

“Wager few enough,” He offered, pausing with a foot against a rise of clastic magma-glass. “Those scales will earn you drink, song, attention. Imagine the tale will grow with each sequel. First a single Fireworm, a pair, a trio, then a vile foursome. Alaric the Wormslayer wakes up, content at being immortalized by the bards. All I might say is take renown for what it is, and be mindful. Do you have enough scales now?”

[member="Alaric"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Picking up a final one, he nodded and slipped it to a stack and into a bag. With care he picked a vial from his pouch and bent down to a hunk of the creature, scraping a hunk of meat and blood into it and several smalls bits of scale. A click of the cap showed a hermetic stasis seal, and he tucked it back in, and then flipped a fang to Cato. The thing was followed by another. Both were front canines, and though the worm was just into maturity, they were wickedly curved and razor sharp, and would make fine daggers once hilted.

Then, with a grunt, he sat about digging in the meat to recover his other sword, muttering.

"Wonder if you can eat these things?"

Finding the blade, he wiped it clean and sheathed it, then nodded his consent to leaving.

[member="Cato Fett"]

 

[Cato Fett]

Cato didn’t reckon on their taste. Propped with weight, heat-shielded haversacks and duffel-bags secured and anchored to their webgear, they pulled their way up from the shoreland along the inclined black sand and began the march back across the ammonia fields. Rapid dehydration simmered its threat; Cato wanted for drink, something nourishing, cold, sipping tea from a hip flask that tasted like bracken from the heat. Constant chemical eruptions in the simmering, multi-coloured pools burped and sang. The sulfur reek swarmed his helmet’s olfactory scrubs. He judged sunfall with a hand, measuring three hours local ‘till dark. They jaunted into a quicker march, double-down on conversation until the acid lakes were cleared.

Home-base was a boxy bulk-freighter retrofitted with additional gun-turret emplacements and ample SCRAM thrusters tied into the engine cluster. Cato tongued a key on the lip of his chin-guard; the underbelly hatch receded and ejected an entry ramp. Warmer flood-lamps bathed them, the pair jogging into the hold and the ramp tonguing back into place. A cool draught cycled on as heat and brimstone stink were shunted out of the cargo space. Cato sat atop an empty grate, discarding the heat gown, and most importantly, undoing his boot straps.

“Just my custom,” Cato said, not adding that it was an adopted one, that he detested uncleanliness where it could be helped, and ordinarily wouldn’t let even a Mando’ad aboard if there wasn’t an implicit ensure they’d respect his habit. “Fresher’s up the concourse and second hatch on your left. Take your time; I have my own. Wash up and I’ll see you in the mess.”

[member="Alaric"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Watching, a rare glimmer of instinct seemed to kick in for the young hybrid, and he removed his boots and helmet, taking care to set the boots aside almost formally. With a curl of his arm, he took the helmet under his shoulder and nodded, inclining his head in respect to Cato, That the young warrior had left his weapons belt next to the armored boots spoke a silent phrase. He trusted the member of Clan Fett, and would go at ease with just the small belt knife. To go weaponless would be arrogant, but to de-kit from war showed trust of his host and respect for the home. Both messages he wanted to send to his new friend and comrade.

Making his way to the fresher, he took time to wash off grime, dirt, guts and more. His back was a mass of whip scars and abuse, and unless Cato had followed him and pressed, the k'paur would remain mum on the patchwork history of his torso. Instead, he would gather a clean tunic of off-white and brown breeches, slipping into soft leather shoes from a duffel he had brought, and making his way to the mess hall with a bes'bev in one hand, and a handful of chapbooks and sheets in the other. Finding his host not there, he propped himself on a chair, a sheet in front of him, and began playing a simple marching turn on the war-flute he had acquired, the tune haunting and almost bag-pipe like, but more lyrical and sweet.

[member="Cato Fett"]

 

[Cato Fett]

The trilling notes reached through the hold and set a mood on the bones of the scaffolding and bulkhead bracers. Ghosts came and went, following the lure of the music unseen, until hairs stood on end and aged sighs caught the ear whenever they paused or turned round too sharply. Cato emerged soon, washed and freshly shaved, in short dark trousers and long tabi socks, comfortable in a sleeveless jacket and tunic, arranged with blank Asahian crests. He held up a hand, waving conversation aside, keeping Alaric distracted by his own playing while preparations started for mealtime.

He worked the modest galley, lost in thought and ingredients. The galley itself was an adhoc addition; Corellian configuration, and sliced and transplanted out of the belly of a disused private hauler. Cato set the gas stove to warm, re-sharpened the selection of cutting knives, fetched a proud mullet from its oxygenated bath near the larder, and set to gutting. Dinner would be between the fish, the leftover pork, and whatever dried chicken he could salvage from the foodstuff packs and make palatable. He couldn’t afford a hydroponic module. Vegetables were freeze-dried, virtually tasteless. They counted only for vitamin and mineral values. Cato wanted for a proper kitchen, near a proper garden with proper maturing ponds and good territory to cull modest game. Rather than every breakfast, lunch, and dinner being substandard fare. Only care to their composition saved any of it from being little better than pet food.

Patience, he thought, dashing on spice and soya over the whitened mullet cutlets. Steam blasted up against his face from the pan. Such proper things are reserved for those meriting it. And you do not merit it, not yet. So, now, look to what you can, and trust the boy to mind himself and be grateful and equally humble about sharing the quiet with given food. Even if the meals are unworthy of you, certainly unworthy of him. What did they serve him in the killing pits? Chicken and beef, I bet. You should have restocked. I couldn’t afford it, Cato lamented. Could barely afford the return fuel. We’ve poor food, poor accommodations, poor arms and armament. Focus! Why does that distract you? Wealth is contemptible!

“Fish with noodles again, I’m afraid,” Cato said later, serving Alaric his bowl. He broke chopsticks over his own, whispered a soft prayer under his tongue, and set to eating. “You’re happy with your scales?”

[member="Alaric"]