The Wolf
It was a rage. A pure blind, rage. Here he was. Keldabe. His homestead was emptied and things were taken to his new home. His mind was racing with the possibilities of what he was going to do. His eyes flared with rage, flared with hatred. They had all been cowards. They were voting now, to remain so. First, [member="Azrael"] had left- left without so much of as a notice or a goodbye. It cut him deeply. [member="Strider Garon"] followed suite, and his wife and child were swallowed into the bowels of hell. And he could never find a way to retrieve them. Preliat was a broken man, a shell, a ghost- a sleepwalking skeleton wasting away from his own hate and rage. He had been spared from hell, spared from the fire, but not those he cared about. Many Mandalorians he trained, many warriors died in fruitless campaigns. Many of them died because they were not faithful to their old ways. If they had been, then those men and women would still be alive, still have families that they could come home to.
The irony wasn't lost on Preliat that he was the reason that many families were broken, but he didn't care- Mandalorians were the only ones that mattered to him. If the rest of the galaxy was fire, the only reason he'd lift a bucket to put it out is if the heat was merely touching the edges of Mandalorian space. The street was well lit, and the bag under his arm was heavy. What was moreso heavy, was the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders. The weight of grief. The weight of rage. The weight of trying to help his people. So heavy- and so far, so fruitless. He laid the bag down, and curious Mandalorians stopped to see what the Wolf was doing. They were more fearful than respectful, more afraid than awed- and he was fine with that. He had grown to accept his role in the universe, in the galaxy, on the battlefield, and especially in the Mandalorians. He was a savage. He was a monster. He was a murderer. He was a bloodthirsty conqueror. He was a man of action- and he was taking it.
The device was of his own design, a nitrate-naplam producing device that would scorch in a specific pattern once, and only once. He reached up to his helmet, letting it drop to edges of his fingertips, before he slowly put his finger on the button on the device. It was a fantastic display of engineering, and a terrifying display of power. The side of the Mandalmotors building flared, scorching flames going about in the pattern in which they were designed to do. He let the helmet drop from his fingertips, the heavy Beskar'kandar plating hit the ground with a crack and a thud. The flames spread up the side of the building, not destroying, but impacting. There was nothing that Preliat could make in his garage that could destroy this powerful building- but he was sure to leave a mark that could not easily, if at all, erased.
As the flames went up and up, towards their guided path, the image became clear. Powerful claws- wings of such great strength that it could defend it's own nest any enemy that came forth to attack it. And those who had ventured beyond Keldabe of the crowd that had gathered, grew fearful of the memory of the beast that Preliat had laid upon the side of the Mandalmotors building. Preliat walked, the crowd parting from the Wolf's path. He stared ahead, and disappeared among the crowd, though many eyes did linger on him. He didn't care, come what may. He had made his point, and he was leaving. And if he came back, if he ever did decide to return, it would not be as a hero, it would not be as a son who had gone away, it would be as a monster. It would be as the man who burned it all down.
Eyes turned to the finish piece of scorch, marked on the wall. It was high and mighty, reaching upwards of 30 feet. It was the Shriek-Hawk, one of the most terrifying predators to ever grace the galaxy. It's meaning could be debated, but Preliat was obviously unhappy, obviously enraged- and showed it by a departing ship, and either a desire for vengeful retribution, or hateful exodus. Only time would tell of what came of the Wolf.
