Reclaiming what was lost....

[Julius Sedaire]

Location: Abandoned House Mereel Mining Town on Concord Dawn​

​

In the end, there wasn't really a terrible lot to explain why Ijaat had begun reading through his fathers notes in the copy of the Supercommando Codex. Even less to say why exactly he had chased rumors of it out around the Galaxy. Ordo was the last one who had been in possession of what he was now hunting, and no one had seen him in a long while. To think it might end up in one of the 'shrines' of sorts that the books' notes mentioned was silly at best. But he had grabbed a fast ship and suited up anyway. He would die before he saw that particular relic fall in someone else's hands.

By all accounts, the mask was nothing special really. Just a beskar mask, with some decoration to it. Not much more than a standard buc'ye, and would likely need some hefty care and restoration. House Mereel had mobilized and cornered the Kyr'stad forces who were attempting to hold onto the relic. They wouldn't suceeed, of course, but he would have a helluva fight on his hands to make sure they didn't. Their leader was a name he recognized, and recognized quite well.

So for this venture, he had sent a message ahead, a personal challenge. He had sealed it with his first name. There was no titles on the missive, no seals or proclamations of past deeds. The man holding it was his cousin, and he wouldn't insult family by pretending they didn't know who he was, or what he was here for. If he truly held it, it would be obvious from the get-go this wasn't a social call. The Akun clan had never been terribly close knit, particularly his uncle's brood, but to have to kill someone of his blood rankled him. Worse so that the di'kut was Kyr'stad, AND one of their commanders.

And so, the work began, sliding on bits and pieces of armor he had long gone without, checking the fit of a simple sword in his scabbard. This saber wasn't the match of his Jatha'resa, but it would more than do the job. Softly he sat in the filtering light of the shuttered window, in some god forsaken backwater town on Concord Dawn. What would become of him after this fight would be told later, not now, and he was not eager to find out. But as the door creaked and a Guard of his house quietly walked in, he looked into the T-Visor of the helmet cradled in his hand, then nodded to the man.

“It's time, sir”

“It is time”

 

[Julius Sedaire]

With the two done speaking, Ijaat slid the white-and-bronze helmet onto his head, pressurized seals closing with a hiss and pop of atmosphere, and the black stripes of the cheeks seemed to drink the light as the bared bronze of the helmet, raw and burnished beskar, threw it to the air in a scream of light and color. His voice, when it came out from the amplified speaker systems of his buc'ye, was amazingly grating and electronic, almost an insectile buzz to it. At the edges of it, even past the distortion, was an unmistakable edge of a man coming to do violence to those who would betray him.

“Is he out there?”

The question hung, and the guard hesitated a moment before he merely nodded. Ijaat looked the commander of his House guard up and down with measured eyes, and nodded silently, and reached up. Around his shoulders hung a crimson cloak void of device, clasped at the neck with a short chain of beskar, each disc at the shoulder that held the chain bearing the device of his ancestors house, which powerfully resembled the emblem of the historical True Mandalorians.

With a twitch of his wrist, he drew the cloak off his shoulders and clasped it around the commanders, and slit his hand, the gauntlet of it laying on the table. Taking the right hands' fingers, he dipped the tips of his gauntleted appendage into the shallow cut on his left. From that, he swiftly jerked the crimson-stained gloves, and on the commanders' proud black and gold armor stood crude crimson jaig eyes, indicating command and gallantry in combat. It was done without grimace or reaction, and after a moment the commander nodded. If Ijaat fell, his house would continue.

“Get the men out.... To the ship... If I fall, you leave me here. You get back to Mandalore, back to the Council, and tell them what has happened. Understood?”

“Sir... I... Yes, sir”

 

[Julius Sedaire]

With the commanders' assent, Ijaat strolled forward, the rickety wooden door flying open from ill-fitting and rusty hinges that squealed in protest. His stance could not be more casual and relaxed, and his expression under the helmet was a wry smirk. A few people knew the expression. [member="Isley Verd"] was one. [member="Arrbi Betna"] and [member="Vilaz Munin"] would remember it well enough from his few missions with them. It was the expression he always wore into battle, one part cocksure omnipotence, two parts sardonic rage.

Sunlight streamed into his vision and flared off his armor, but the systems of his helmet adjusted, easily dampening the glare. Across from him stood a man outfitted in heavy, bulky beskar'gam almost the style of a Neo-Crusader, a large SMG type rifle cradled in one arm, and several fighting knives strapped about him, along with a pair of crushgauntlets that were deadly in their design, having once been crafted by Ijaat himself. Slung across his back was a massive hammer, and the air around him shimmered with a faint haze from a shield burning from his left wrist.

At first, the aging Allit'buir said and did nothing, but then he stepped forward, into the ring of guards of both combatants. Idly he drummed fingers across the grip of one of his DE-10s, then he nodded to his cousin. Idle boasting would be common amongst the younger crowd undertaking this endeavor, but in the end, it was worth noting that he was hardly young, and his name was such he didn't really need to boast. Particularly to this one.

“Tinaj.... You have no right to that mask you are wearing... It belongs to the mando'ade, not some dar'manda Kyr'stad filth like you. Hand it over and we can go have a beer and talk about the kids some.”

It was a weak attempt, but Tinaj was his blood. He owed him at least something, even if only a token mercy.

“Ijaat, cousin, you wound me... If anyone has a right to it, it is us... We want to return Mandalore to glory, and this mask is the rally point we will do it from. Why don't you tell us where you're keeping that book of my uncle dearest?”

 

[Julius Sedaire]

It was impossible that Tinaj would know of the book, or so he had thought. But here his cousin was, bragging and showing he knew Ijaat and his branch of the Clan had possession of it. And hinting that he might have known what Ijaat's father had done in altering it to include theories, tales, and legends of the resting place of relics of the Mandalorian people. Were he a betting man, he'd have laid his last credit on Tinaj angling to use the relics to lend legitimacy to the Kyr'stad campaign.

Well that just wouldn't stand.

Without a further word to his cousin, Ijaat drew his pistols in two smooth motions. Easy movements, with nary a twitch to betray his intent. The smooth, gleaming barrels rose up and his fingers squeezed custom weighted and drawn triggers. Bursts of crimson light bloomed from the barrels as they leveled at their target. There were few quicker with a pistol than Ijaat, but the rub lay in the fact he had been taught the pistol by his uncle... Who happened to be Tinaj's father. Nothing would be achieved, but the point was there. No more talking.

As the bolts from the blaster pistol impacted his cousin, he began to stalk forward, firing them over and over, the tips of the barrels smoking and reeking as he did so. The barrage drove his cousin to kneel on one knee, raising his shield up and bracing the emitter-arm with his free forearm in an almost X like formation to keep the shield propped up from the impact of the heavy hitting blasters. Each shot brought Ijaat a step closer, until finally the shield began to flicker. With only a few steps to go, the pistols flared and died, and Ijaat threw them to the side and drew his blade, preparing to strike.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

With the man before him on his knees, the single-edged blade of perhaps some of the purest and finest beskar, wrought by arguably one of the best smiths in the Galaxy, and without a doubt one of the best experts on beskar, flew from its' scabbard. An audible roar filtered out through the helmet vox-system as Ijaat leaped and brought the sword up and over his head, and then back down in a mighty two handed chop. There was no elegance, no speed, no planning in this strike. It was a fight of pure rage and hatred, and for once Ijaat relaxed the binds on his rage and anger, feeling it fuel him, making muscles quiver in anticipation.

Behind his visor, his honey-gold eyes narrowed in frustration as Tinaj managed to bring up a beskar gauntlet and deflect the keen-edge of the saber away and into the dirt. Not one to be caught open, Ijaat lashed out with a devastating kick to his cousins' chest, knocking him into the dirt on his back as he tried to move forward and finish the job. However, Death Watch without honor or not, they had grown and sometimes trained together as young children. Tinaj knew Ijaat in ways few others ever would really. And so as he fell backwards, Ijaat heard a click, and barely managed to throw himself to the ground as crimson and yellow flame erupted from the gauntlet of his foe in gouts and spurts, threatening to envelop him.

Barely the combat roll carried him under and to the side of the counter, ruining his chance to end the fight quickly. As he scrambled and rose, he bit back a curse. Sliding into a ready stance as quickly as he could, the pristine armor now showed a few scorch marks, and dirt was smeared across its' snowy surface. Likewise his as his cousin rose, one could see him favoring his left arm, the one the shield had emitted from, and the one the very same side that had taken Ijaats heavy-hitting door kick to the chest. He would be moving slower and more thoughtfully because of it, but the blistering on Ijaat's chest and stomach, even under the armor, ensured he would too.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

The two now stood, both a little worse for the initial flurry of blows, and both perhaps much more wary of the other warrior. This was more than a simple sparring match as children, training under their fathers' watchful eyes as they tested and probed. There were no dulled edges to these blades, and no admonishments or encouragement from prideful paternal figures. There was simply death and life, the dance and effort of kill or be killed. Nothing more or less in this particular crossing, and it was perfectly fine to both of them to meet in this dance in this day.

Shaking his head, Tinaj spoke through the vox of the Mask of Mandalore the Ultimate. The modulation of the voice was deep, almost rumbly, like a far of thunder. However, evidence of poor maintenance and care were evident even there, with the crackle and pop of the systems, and the slight feedback whine when the wearer paused long enough. Obviously though it was intact and functioning, the mask had suffered over the years and decades and even centuries and millennium of its' existence. There would be some work for sure for the beskar smith if he managed to wrest this relic from Tinaj.

Shifting slightly to try and take pressure off his gut and chest, Ijaat lunged forward with a thrust to the mid-section of Tinaj. The blow was intended to throw his cousin off his feet, unsteady him and keep him off his footing. However, it was easily knocked aside as Tinaj wrested a pair of long trench knives from bandoleers at his chest. The knuckle-guards of these knives were cruelly spiked and thick and heavy-hitting like, made of what Ijaat would bet was an impossibly dense and heavy metal. As Tinajs' blade skittered alongside Ijaat's sword and he stepped to the side, the other knife slashed at throat level.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Lurching back, he moved quick as he could to avoid the bowie-like blade of the knife arcing for his throat, craning his head back. Luckily, the edge skittered off the mandible of his helmet, and only the tip scored a hit, hitting his chin and piercing the pressure seal of his buc'ye with a hiss and rush of escaping air. Something, somehow, somewhere was watching out for him. But, nevertheless, however lucky he was, Tinaj had drew first blood in the bout, and it rankled Ijaat to know that particular fact. Something must be done to rectify that.

So, as the sword swung by one handed in a lazy side cut as Ijaat crab-stepped to the right side, forcing Tinaj to dance with him to keep him in range, Ijaat kicked at the loose dirt in their area. With a helmet, it was an almost wasteful move. But Tinaj had been hurt once as a child, and this Ijaat remembered quite faithfully, so he figured the phobia still remained. The cousin of the Alor of House Mereel bore a cybernetic eye from playing with one of those damnable knives of his, and there was a paranoia about such an injury again, or at least there was.

As the dirt flew up at the mask that had seen so much of the Mandalorians' own history play out, often from the forefront of the charge of it, Ijaat grinned as his cousin recoiled and twitched away. As he did, a swift left hook lashed out, a knuckle-plate popping out a durasteel punch knife from it's confines. The swinging blow connected right in the ribs. In particular, it hit it's mark between the third and forth rib, and as Ijaat felt the hit connect with flesh, he twisted his hand cruelly, and blood spurted out before Tinaj could react. Finally he did, a knife arcing out towards Ijaat and sinking into his right hip before they both disengaged, limping heavily away from the other.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Both were breathing heavy now, and the sun was beginning to sink and slink downwards, slung low and heavy across the horizon in the little mining town they stood in. He could see the few guards he had allowed to stay looking antsy, rifles scanning as they looked to and fro. It wasn't often Ijaat was injured so much so, or so quickly. But Tinaj was a worthy opponent, and there was no dismissing or diminishing that in any shape or form. So with a grimace, Ijaat blocked the pain and resisted the temptation to summon the biot brimming beneath his skin and humming in his very bones. This was personal, and bound by honor, and he refused to sink to tricks and the like. At least of that variety.

Stalking forward, the swordsman and ori'ramikad swung his saber in a long, slow arc at about mid-section height, as if aiming to cut his opponent from hip to hip horizontally. The move was lazy, and he played up the limp on his hip, dragging his foot a bit. Tinaj, as expected, took the bait. If there was any flaw to his childhood friend and partner in crime, it was a ruthless streak, and impatience to go along with it. Nothing could be said or done to counter it. Some warriors were just flawed in certain ways beyond compensation. Realistically, they all had such flaws, admitting it or not was the crux. So when Tinaj stepped inside the arc of the blade and spun to stab each knife at Ijaat, he thought it was over.

But the older of the two was smiling as soon as the Kyr'stad commander moved, knowing the sequence of events. With a sudden strength that belied the apparent injury he had received, he dropped back for a moment and rocked to his heels. Just enough to bring the tip of the sword back behind his cousins' advance. As it slid past the moving knife-fighter and lined up with him, with a brutal lunge, Ijaat leaped forward, and the blade slide right between the left pectoral plate and the abdomen. The workings of the Jal Shey had powered and enhanced his instincts, particularly with a foe he knew so well, and the almost rowdy conversation suddenly hushed as the scrape of beskar against beskar sounded, and the beak of the beskad erupted from the back of Tinaj, dripping blood and viscera.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Suddenly, his cousin coughed, hacking, his body spasming and convulsing. The striked had likely pierced and lacerated his small bowel, his liver, possibly nicked the inferior aorta and almost certainly clipped the lung and maybe the spine. While with the positively miraculous powers of todays healers, he might live, he would need immediate attention of some of the best kind. And it was doubtful he would get it, particularly with his opponent looming over him. Seconds turned into almost minutes as the other fell to his knees again. Real fights never lasted hours and hundreds of blows like in the holo-vids. Rarely did they last more than a handful of hits, and a three minute fight was normal, with five minutes being exhausting.

Reaching up, Ijaat removed his helmet as House Mereel guards trained weapons on the others of his cousins Kyr'stad coterie. Ijaat had insisted on equal numbers and such for both participants, and of that he was now extremely grateful. The guards kept the followers of his cousin in check, and Ijaat nodded grimly as his buc'ye thudded to the ground with a heavy and final sound. It rolled to his cousin and sort of rocked to a stop, oddly enough right-side up, just between his knees. Ijaat reached forward, and grabbed his sword in a reverse grip as his off-foot on the left side reared up and kicked his cousin square in the chest again, arms tensing and pulling back on the blade embedded in the body of his opponent and oldest child-hood friend.

Wrenching the blade free, he whipped it around and in a display of classic elegance of technique dropped to one knee and the blade went from two hand to one as he spun three sixty. Easily the sharpened edge parted flesh, sinew, muscle and bone and severed the head from his foe with deadly accuracy. As the maneuver finished, it found Ijaat kneeling, one armed in a clenched fist in the center of his chest, and another holding the blade straight out at shoulder high, bare head drenching with blood on the right side of the face as his cousins' severed arteries gush life blood out. There was not even a gurgle as the masked head plopped down and in front of the body, which sagged and seemed to almost sit back on its haunches.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Rising, Ijaat speared the saber of his own make into the loose soil of the combatants' circle he stood in, and advanced forward to look at the severed head in the Mask of the Mandalore. Moments ticked by in golden silence, his face flickering from disappointment to regret then to pure contempt. Reaching down, sunlight glinting off the saber hilt and into his eyes, he grasped the top of the mask in one hand, and jerked the head free of the mask with his free hand. A moment of silence followed as he gazed into eyes that had once lit up with conspiratorial mirth when they had both dreamt of sneaking into the kitchens to try and swipe just one more piece of sweet-cake before their mothers caught them.

Then, without any emotional display, he flung the head at his commander, who caught it deftly in both of his hands and stared to his Alor. With measured and deliberate movements, Ijaat avoided putting the mask on, and instead folded it under his arm as best he could, before yanking the blade he had let free from the ground. He spun in a loose circle, giving clear challenge to any who would wish it. It was the way of things for his people, or it used to be. They might have lost their leader, but he would give them all fair chance to say they had won back their prestige and reputation. One by one though, the Kyr'stad lowered their heads and began to retreat after throwing down arms. They had no chance and they knew it. Even know, masses of Protectors and House guards would be flocking to the site.

Unfurling the Mask of Mandalore, Ijaat held it up, the bare beskar shaped almost like an ancient taungs face, glimmering and glittering in the light as he continued turning to the circle. There was still not even an attempt to don the mask, or hand it to anyone, or lay any personal claim to it really. This was a relic of his people, and a mark of their Manda'lor. He would not lay claim to that title with any sort of eagerness, but the mask itself belonged in the custody of actual Mandalorians. And so, he would keep stewardship of it, or seek out Ordo to turn it back over if he could. Either way, it would be kept from the hands of those who would abuse it and use it for selfish and manipulative ends.

For now? He turned and limped towards his commander and a rank and file member of the guard scrambled to retrieve his helmet and catch up to him. He stumbled a bit, the shock and pain of the burns, his hip, and other wounds settling in. He would need a few weeks of taking it easy for that hip injury to heal. Likely some solid conditioning and rehab to strengthen it. A jetti'se could probably patch him up quick, but he was loathe to use such methods unless life threatening injuries were the imperative. Some things you needed to let linger and pain you, for the sensations drove home lessons. As they worked towards the ship they came in, already his mind was evaluating what do do to update the helmet and restore it.

"Burn the body... Post a squad in the town to defend the people and synch with the Protectors. And make sure to keep the Kyr'stad from leaving, if you can. For now, prepare my room. I need to speak with the Alor'e Council, or someone on it, immediately"