Succession of Ka'ra [Mandalorians]

[Anija Betna]

[member="Siobhan Kerrigan"] | [member="Mia Monroe"] | [member="Verne Munin"] | [member="Arrbi Betna"] | [member="Ginnie Ordo"] | [member="Evi Sohl"] | [member="Titan"] | [member="Garith Darkhold JR"] | [member="Azrael"]

Shaking her head at Verne, Anija stepped back and squared her shoulders. Just then, the blade of a lightsaber sliced downwards, towards the barrel of Verne's shotgun. Ginnie. Anija gave her sister a fierce grin and a nod in thanks as she backed up another step. The sound of heavy footfalls sounded nearby, and her eyes widened as she spotted of all things... a rancor stalking up behind Verne. The creature wasn't it's full height, and she noticed a necklace around it's neck - which told her one thing. Evi. A grin split her face again, and she glanced around at the small crowd who had gathered.

Perhaps she was a bit out of line for doing what she had... but she felt justified. No one insulted her fellow Mando'ade - or her family in such a manner. Azrael had earned the right to challenge, many times over. And if the others felt they measured up to the task of leading the Mando'ade, so be it. Shaking her head at the situation, she sighed and backed up again... just as she heard the sound of Arrbi's .44 firing at near point blank range. She had no idea if the shot connected with Verne or not. Nor did she much care. Pointedly turning her back on the man, she moved her attention towards the combatants near the front of the hall.

As she turned around, her gaze was dawn to the throne at the front of the room. It hadn't been occupied before, except by Gilamar's armor. And yet, now someone occupied the seat. Her eyes widened momentarily, and then narrowed slightly as she gave the older woman a nod. 'Kandosii...' she whispered to Mia. 'Wonder how long it will take the others to notice.' Her gaze slid to Arrbi and the others for a moment, wsondering what would happen next.

 

[Charlyn Nairne]

Chloe could only sigh and shake her head as the two men fought. Now seriously was the time for this. Kal could go fight whomever he wished after this was over. Couldn't he behave himself for a few hours. Shaking her head she chose not to say anything but stay focused on the battle.

If her brother had said anything right it was that Atin wouldn't want them to revenge his death if he were to fall. She would be expected to not run away and hide. Chloe wasn't worried though as she firmly believed he would come out on top and if not he would still be alive. She had pulled him out of the jaws of death before and she would do it again if she had to.

While everyone else hooped and hollered she chose to stay silent after all when your offense was on the field you always stayed quiet so they could concentrate.

[member="Marrik Aloxum"][member="Atin Kandossii"][member="Kal Kandossii"]

 

[Azrael]

There was nothing else; there was no one else. The room had faded from it's populace of brothers and sisters. The lives of these armor plated family fell into a cloud of obscurity and single-minded focus. Vanishing into the darkness that swallowed up the entire hall, bearing only light transfixed on the platform of combat, and the epicenter of the skirmish between Atin and himself. The voices and thrumming beat of the vode barely echoed a din in the background, as Azrael shut out each and every one not directly involved in this proving ground. He'd missed the approach and bold claim of the throne by Monroe, or her current facsimile, and even the hot-headed remarks and Shi-do shifting into a minute sized Rancor. Atin was his world, his entire focus, and his purpose was as defined and unrelenting as the Mandalorian legacy. While on the battlefield such a narrow tunnel of focus could spell calamity, Azrael was confident that in this setting, the marshaling of his senses were to be attuned to one solitary target.

Sweeping arcs of the E'tad Kal ripped by the Mandalorian's form, driving him back and to the side with each passing stroke. The blade nearly sang as it shifted within his hands, drawing the strength from the press and pull of the staff, and ripping across the air space between them with violent intent. The curved and sharpened tusk of an animal known for Jedi hunting licked by inches closer each time while Atin attempted to avoid and evade the metallic menace. Azrael's advance wasn't slow, and it was quite methodical in its approach. Measuring each step in tandem with the length of his strike. He wasn't giving up ground, he was taking it. Foot by foot, swipe by swipe, drawing in the blonde Mandalorian's footwork to put him within the path of his weapon at every step. While it seemed to be something of a desire to shear the warrior's body limb from limb, this was more about a dance, a growth in combat than it was a determination to kill. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He was putting his best foot forward, and acting without hesitation as was only right given the circumstance.

A contest of strength this pivotal and this ancient was nothing to shirk off, or give half of what you were. This contest was to prove that despite the ranks of the Mandalorians, there was something special and superior about the one who would lead them. They needed to dominate in every category, and earn the respect of the vode in a collective sense as well as on an individual basis. War was full of chaos and destruction - and their ruler had to weather those storms. There would be no proverbial chink in the armor that graced Mand'alor. He would be a figurehead, a leader and a king. The Mandalorians had put their stock in that belief for centuries upon centuries. For a large group of hot-blooded renegades, so overly independent that they would often scrap as look at you cross, there was a demand for a marshaling of resolve and a dedication to the culture. Mand'alor demanded that in every incarnation, and this one would prove no different. Whoever gained that title would have to deserve it.

The curved blade ripped through the air, carving a path for Atin's neck once more as the Mandalorian ducked in expectation to plow forward into a somersault. His gaze averted, watching the path and intended trajectory through the advanced display of his buy'ce. Curving the scythe to a horizontal position, Azrael grasped the high middle grip, and paused the motion. Instantly the feeling of the pressure to his shins as the clamp of both armored legs came to intersect his own, raced through his form and pushed out a tactic to counter-act the somewhat disheveled version of a true ground grapple. In an almost mirrored fashion, Azrael thrust his torso forward, leaving the ground, and drawing his hands over his head, keeping the staff in a tucked position. Both feet kicked up to further propel him through the manuver, scraping the sole of his besk'ar boots against Atin's kal, and landing in a somersault roll of his own. During the transition from shoulder, to back, to feet again, the blade's orientation was shifted, and it resumed it's original glaive status. Boots slid across the ground with the momentum he had gained, before the staff was whipped around and inverted. The curved blade of his staff dove at an angle and ripped towards the intersection of neck and collarbone of his opponent.

BANG!

A mere inch before it would even touch armor, the blade halted in an instant. Despite what some would think when watching this fight, Azrael had no intention to kill Atin. He would not rob his allit of their leader, Chloe's husband or any of the various 'ad he might have under his command. This man was an honorable warrior, and Azrael had the deepest respect for the vod. Others might contest it was the barking gunshot that echoed through the halls like thunderclap of sound. The jolting echo snapped his focus from the singular fight to that of the entire room. The darkness rushed away with the shockwave of sound, revealing every vod in their respective places, and in the midst of their current situations. Among them, he noticed for the first time someone seated upon the throne of Mand'alor, having pushed the armor to the side, and silently waiting. His hands clamped firmly to the weapon, the blade still well within striking distance did not budge or advance. While the Field Marshal gave a glance back and forth, his visor remained fixed forward and unyielding.


[member="Atin Kandossii"] | [member="Vilaz Munin"] | [member="Nolan Detta"] | [member="Devorah Khaladan"] | [member="Mia Monroe"]

 

[Muad Dib]

His shoulder throbbed. To the beat of his heart. As time seemed to slow as only the battle awareness enhanced by experience and instincts honed Atin rolled from his side, his right arm and shoulder incapacitated, to his back as his eyes tracked the speedy and unhampered movements of Azrael. As the blow fell toward him Atin whipped up his left hand and the beskar kal still coated with a layer of his opponent's blood to block the incoming strike.

But he was to slow.

Even as the blade fell toward his neck Atin refused to accept surrender and strove to bring the knife into the path of the incoming strike even as an echo of a gunshot echoed in the air around the two combatants. Yet he would not have enough time to stop the inevitable assault that would pierce the seal of his armor and slip between the gap of plates.

But the the weapon paused, poised just above, a testament to the strength and calculation of his opponent's ability with his chosen weapon. Without following through with the strike the fierce battle was over. As Azrael's blade was steady Atin knew that this was a man, a vod, worthy of the title. "I yield." Slowly he rose to his knees and pushed to his feet the kal still in his hand. Raising it to his chest he held t over his heart a vow on his lips. "My blade, my life, is yours ner vod. Whether you were to be mand'alor or not. Your honor and prose has garnered my respect and my friendship in not striking a fatal blow, where another might. Your cause is my cause. Your foe my foe. Your joy and sorrow mine own."

Wiping his kal clean he sheathed it and he bent and retrieved his beskad with his uninjured left arm. Standing to the side of Azrael he looked over to the throne where another sat and watched. Around him he began to filter the noise and reactions of the crowd before his face turned to his riduur's searching her's out knowing that their would be concern there. And love. The same love he felt within.

[member="Azrael"] [member="Chloe Kandossii"] [member="Anija Ordo"] [member="Arrbi Betna"] [member="Mia Monroe"]

 

[Vilaz Munin]

'Damn it,' was what the Redneck thought of when what he thought would happen didn't occurred. After from doing the headbutt and leaning in towards Nolan at the same time the fellow Mando'ade used the momentum from Vilaz to get himself on top of Vilaz. Very clever, indeed. The Rally Master then let go of the beskad by throwing it with little force from his left hand, as well as the knife that was in his right hand. Now, the Mandalorian warriors that were surrounding and still keeping the beat of the rhythm alive they had thought that Nolan had the advantage over Vilaz, but there was always a way to escape a mount during wrestling.

The fight that was happening between his brother and those that confronted him got worse, and worse, and worse. It appeared to be a handicap match, meaning, yo Vilaz, that it took a lot of people to take down one man. To his mind he thought that they were weak, and he would've said something offensive at them if he was not in the current position that he was in. A humanoid rancor that wasn't fully grown step into the fight and it's footsteps and size caught the attention of many, distracting them from creating the music that was a factor of the noise filling the Great Hall. To add to that fact the sound of a firearm sounded off as everyone could hear it, knowing that the user had fired a single round of the weapon ending the music that was being produced. If it was meant for his older brother, then that only meant that the attacker was too cowardly to put his face at Verne's and confront him like an actual man. The Redneck's list of who to fight with got longer, and longer, and longer.

Vilaz couldn't move his head to see who had fired the shot in the Great Hall. Assuming that Nolan got distracted with the sound that would alert or not alert his stimulus the Warrior would take advantage of it. Both legs were inward, meaning that they were right underneath Nolan, and his left leg was still wrapped around Nolan's leg. His left leg was also bent since he was laying on the floor, right leg was straight out, the left arm was being unoccupied, and so as his right arm. What the actions of the Rally Master were next was that he had his left foot connected and wrapped around Nolan's right foot. Then, both arms would grab the upper arm of the arm opposite to the foot that Vilaz had wrapped around. Now, that he was in the correct and right position the Redneck Rally Master then turned towards his right. Nolan would, with no doubt, lose his balance since he was on top of Vilaz, and at the same time Vilaz would pull the left arm of Nolan with his left shoulder turning to the right.

At the end, Vilaz would come out on top of Nolan, and not only that, but the vod would be in a tough position to escape the mount of Vilaz due to one important fact: Nolan's legs. It was essential to have your legs inwards if you wanted to escape a mount, but in this case his opponent's legs would be outward. The odds, at the moment, would be in favor for Vilaz.

[member="Nolan Detta"]

 

[Nolan Detta]

Nolan felt himself rise to the top of the pile after the initial roll, but now, he was unable to use his positioning to his advantage as Vilaz was already on the offensive.

Vilaz rolled to his right after trapping his left arm and leg. Intending to reverse the control of the situation, but again Nolan had a counter to this maneuver. He extended his right leg straight out to resist the trap. With his left leg available, he swung it up and planted his boot by Vilaz's chest. His left arm was being tugged with the roll, he let his elbow collapse into the rednecks chest. He made to latch onto the front of his opponents collar, then with his right arm still free, he then made to grasp the back of Vilaz's amor by the collar with his crushgaunt.

Nolan tapped into the anger and pain inside his, boosting his strength immensely. He then, in one movement, made to lift up, pressing up with left leg, sinking his hips as much as he could, to put all of the power straight upwards. While he thrusted up with his leg, Nolan was to lift with both arms, like a kettle ball squat...

[member="Vilaz Munin"]

 

[Lina Djo]

Mia inclined her head slightly to Anija. "Too long." Was her answer. Too long they were taking to notice that while they fought for a title, an apparent stranger had walked in and snatched it from them already. Too long they were observed in their own battle to notice the fights erupting around them. She tore her eys from it all and lifted the buy'ce from her lap and turned it so the t-visor was facing her. Her own reflection stared back at her, lit by the flickering fires that lined the Great Hall.

I dragged you out of your death bed, and you died on the battlefield. Now our people are more broken than ever ba'buir.

Mia lifted her gaze. She'd been broken and remade a handful of times, but a handful of times was more than enough. She knew her limits, her strengths and weaknesses. She looked towards those fighting for the title. [member="Nolan Detta"] and [member="Vilaz Munin"] did not have the experience required for this title, she fully expected [member="Azrael"] to take it.

Could he take it from her?

As [member="Atin Kandossii"] yielded below her, she settled her gaze upon the two Rally Masters. "Anija," she spoke her neice's name softly "find me a weapon."

[member="Anija Ordo"]

 

[Olivia Dem'adas]

Olivia retained her position against the pillar as she watched the many armored bodies move and dance about the room. Official duels were started in the center of the room, while what looked like drunken brawls threatened to erupt along the edges. The woman's eyebrow arched as an unarmored sister strolled across the room, shifted and mutated into a hideous beast, and then became a young woman again. <A were-Rancor?> Olivia asked herself in silent thought. <I didn't know we had those...>

Ignorant fools opened their mouths, only to quickly be forced shut by those around them. And-


Olivia did a double take as her eyes passed over the Mand'alor's throne. Some honorless swine of a woman had disgraced Mand'alor Skirata's legacy by bodily discarding the hollow armor upon the floor, planting her flat arse on the throne, and toying with the helmet of the beloved and departed father of the clans.

The unmistakable screech of metal on metal erupted from Olivia's waste as she drew her saber with one angry hand and secured helmet to head with the other. Long, powerful strides pulled Olivia's body through the crowd of mando'ade and deposited it at the foot of the throne.

"On your knees wench!" She barked at the filth that sat upon the throne, Beskar saber held before her and pointing at the woman's chest. Her other hand clenched soundly into a fist.


[member="Mia Monroe"]

 

[Lina Djo]

Mia raised an eyebrow, her eyes flicking from the saber pointed at her chest and then to its wielder.

It had still taken far too long for someone to notice.

"I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon." She replied, setting the buy'ce on the arm of the throne to peer down at Olivia with her. "Do you?"

A hand reached forward, grasping Olivia's saber hand in the force and shoving it downwards. "You've no idea who I am, nor what I am capable of. Perhaps you should take a step back and observe, rather than charging in head first."

Firelight reflected eerily in Mia's eyes.

[member="Olivia Dem'adas"]

 

[Siobhan Kerrigan]

[member="Mia Monroe"]


A stream of smoke escaped into the air as Siobhan exhaled, still smoking. Apparently the contest had just become a hell of a lot more interesting. Well, call Siobhan biased but she was sort of fixated. Of course, this was not her fight - nor had it been her throne - and so she just stayed put and watched. This was allll Mia.

 

[Anija Betna]

[member="Siobhan Kerrigan"] | [member="Mia Monroe"] | [member="Verne Munin"] | [member="Arrbi Betna"] | [member="Ginnie Ordo"] | [member="Evi Sohl"] | [member="Titan"] | [member="Garith Darkhold JR"] | [member="Azrael"] | [member="Olivia Dem'adas"]

Anija's gaze locked with that of Mia across the vastness of the Great Hall. They were separated by an expanse of stone flooring and the shifting bodies of the crowd and the combatants. Even so, Mia's voice reached her clearly. The words sounded as a whisper to her ears, but she still heard them clearly over the sounds of combat. Another nod, and Anija reached out to grip Arrbi's shoulder for a moment and to get his attention before she moved back and away from the group surrounding Verne. Once she was clear of the small crowd, she skirted around the combatants in the center of the room.

It was as she was approaching the throne upon which Mia sat that she heard the sound of metal scraping against metal as a sword was drawn. Her gaze snapped towards the sound, even as she kept moving. Her left hand drifted down to rest near her ripper, but not on it as she watched the exchange between Olivia and Mia with narrowed eyes. It did not, however, deter her from the task which Mia had requested of her. 'Manda give me strength...' she breathed as she moved ever closer to the throne - and thus Mia and Olivia.

As she drew closer, she stopped a few feet short of the steps to the throne upon which Mia stood and drew her beskad, pulling her buy'ce off with her other hand and clipping it to her belt. Carefully laying the blade flat across her open palms, she approached Mia slowly, trying to broadcast calm. She was not here to attack anyone. Not anymore. When she was a few steps from Mia and Olivia, she stopped and bowed her head to Mia... who she began to realize was her...aunt. The thought caused a smile to tug at the corner of her mouth for a moment. "Your weapon, Ori'vod..." she said softly... respectfully.

 

[Azrael]

The Great Hall had not seen such activity in it's hallowed and lofty embrace in quite sometime. For as long as Azrael had been acquainted with the culture, he had seen order in this place, and a structure to those that stood at attention as Mand'alor (in any incarnation) spoke out their rulings. Even during the judgement of Deathwatch there had been order, and now there was chaos. Among the show of force and strength, another pair of feuding Mando'ade were in heated combat toiling to find firm footing and turn the tables on their bout. Various armored warriors cheered at the display while others watched in silence. Still there were other distractions, other issues that cropped up back and forth. If someone didn't take the reigns, true anarchy could break out fanning the flame of discord and blazing through the meeting place to spark what could amount to war in earnest. Judgement had to come - as the purpose of this calling had originally been to see who would triumph as the new Mand'alor. As much as it was a dismal mess of bravado and ego within the walls - it was a true proving ground that would take a leader to reign in the madness into order and discipline. Who, though, held the sway of the vode enough to do this?

Atin, upon his back rested, pinned by the threat of the blade near his throat listening to the words of allegiance spill from his lips, conceding their bout with honor and loyalty. A jerk of movement drew the staff upright and vertical. His right arm drew out, and grasped Atin's wrist, pulling him forward, and up to his feet. A solitary nod was offered in respect to the man who had done well in his abilities, and made the Field Marshal work to gain ground. Hand to hand, grasping his gloved left, and tugging that lock tightly to their armor's breastplate in a sign of admiration for the warrior spirit he displayed. This was far from over though, the night had just begun, and if there was going to be a decision made, every situation would have to dealt with and measured in the hall. A glance invisible towards the brunette on the sidelines had him resolved to continue and see this through. He made the challenge, and it would meet every obstacle in his way.

"Vor'e ner'vod. Gar'ba mandokarla. Oya." A bang of his fist to his chest plate as Atin dismissed himself to find his wife and stand by her side and with his respective clan. His attention shifted putting the crimson visor to rest on the form of the one at the throne. He didn't recognize her, neither her voice, her posture, or her face were understood. For a moment of silence he pondered the situation here. She must be vod, that much was clear, she understood the situation, but she had taken the throne without thought or hesitation. Things were not adding up, but the scrape of the blade from Olivia had him reacting as the brunette stepped down, demanding a weapon be brought forward. Drawing his glaive up, and shifting it to the side before the Olivia's form. Not to exactly ward the woman off, but to direct Mia's attention to himself, and focus it. Anija's words struck the Field Marshal, and his brows creased within the buy'ce. "We are Mando'ade, deception does not become us. Identify yourself ner'vod, show honor to the vode." The glaive slowly rose with one hand, drawing the tip to point in accusation towards the woman before him. "Who are you?"

Anija seemed to know her, enough to not only relinquish the weapon at her side, but to address her in the self-same fashion that he addressed Ordo. The Force was a mystery to Azrael, and while he had experience in fighting against it, he'd never be able to actually use it. Had he understood the laws of nature that could be bent by the practice of the 'dark arts' he might have had some inclination to this figure before him. Such as the case was, the mysterious figure remained a mystery. This was just one mystery however he'd have to unravel. There was still Nolan and Vilaz in the background, and even further beyond that, the case of Munun's loud mouth brother who'd just been the target of a thundering gunshot. There was much to be done, and he wasn't going to mince words or he'd never accomplish that which he set out to do.

[member="Anija Ordo"] | [member="Mia Monroe"] | [member="Olivia Dem'adas"] | [member="Nolan Detta"] | [member="Vilaz Munin"] | [member="Atin Kandossii"] | [member="Devorah Khaladan"]

 

[Devorah Verd]

There was something strange about the woman sitting upon the throne of the Mand'alor. Her chestnut gaze roved over her features for a brief moment, taking in the sight of her staring down at the helmet she held. A contender, perhaps, but one that knew Gilamar well, judging by the care with which she held the helm. The urge to reach out with her mind was strong, but it was an impulse the woman resisted in spite of the Force that trilled across her senses.

Devorah sighed softly, hands folded in front of her as she instead looked to the vode that were still contesting for the honor of leading their people. One of the pair that still fought had drawn upon the Force to give him strength, but it was tainted with a darkness she could practically taste. Her expression remained neutral as she watched him, his technique raw and untrained in her estimation. It was disconcerting to sense, and tested her resolved to remain apart from the proceedings.

But in as much as Azrael seemed to draw strength from her presence, she too drew the same in return. Chestnut eyes met his helmeted gaze for the moment it turned towards her, a soft smile curling her lips. His attention returned to the woman on the throne and to Olivia, who had risen to take issue with her position. Another woman approached and bent knee to proffer her beskad even as Azrael himself drew closer and spoke to the one standing over them all.

With attentive eyes fixed upon those arrayed on the stairs. Devorah remained by the pillar, leaning against it as her senses remained alert and her mind open.

| [member="Azrael"] | [member="Atin Kandossii"] | [member="Anija Ordo"] | [member="Mia Monroe"] | [member="Siobhan Kerrigan"] | [member="Olivia Dem'adas"] | [member="Vilaz Munin"] | [member="Nolan Detta"] |​

 

[Charlyn Nairne]

Mand'alor or not Chloe loved Atin. While she knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself she still worried about him. He tended to at times put himself into dangerous situations. She had already watched someone she loved die in front of her, she was not going to allow the love of her life to do that.

Taking a step forward she went forward to where he stood. "Are you ok?" She knew he was going to lie to her and say he was just fine but all the same she had to ask. There were times such as now that she wished she had gone to med school or the very least paid attention in basic med training. He was always seemingly getting himself hurt which was something that she was definitely not a fan of.

She would have to check him out for wounds later as in front of everyone seemed unneeded and embarrassing for him. As long as he wasn't bleeding out he would be fine unless he told her otherwise.

[member="Atin Kandossii"]

 

[Garrus Garon]

...he'd been standing in silence ever since entering the Great Hall. The initiation of combat and the appearance of his wife seems to have done little to change that though the large hands of Anita seemed to cause him to shift comfortably for a moment. Even in his armor Garrus could feel the strength of Anita via her touch alone, the amazonian Mandalorian was powerful just like her sisters, and he would turn his head to look back over his shoulder and smile thinly at her...

...it must have looked a tad funny as the Field Marshal looked up at the imposing woman. Unlike many he did not fear her. They had a special connection for one another, an appreciation and he felt true affection for her. Looking ahead once again he would only make a mused remark..."Azrael will be the new Mand'alor."...Garrus said this as though it were a matter of fact seeing that the man had the most martial skill amongst the other contenders that were now engrossed in combat. Had Garrus himself challenged for the right to lead the Mandalorians he felt Azrael would be his only true competition unless Basaba participated for the right as well. No matter at this point though...

...then he heard a woman he didn't recognize ask for a weapon and Garrus grew a tad more interested as his gaze turned in her direction. The Warrior had an odd feeling about this woman, like he might have known her. He considered who he would prefer to take the title of Mand'alor, who he would support though he remained silent on the subject for now. It was at this point he'd have added..."The challenge may become more interesting now. Azrael and this woman. A good match, perhaps."...then he took a slow breath and went silent again waiting to see what would happen. The Beskad was still sheathed over his back, the hilt extending up over his left shoulder indicating that if Garrus desired he could join the competition at his leisure...​

​

[member="Anita Willamina"] [member="Azrael"] [member="Mia Monroe"]

 

[Not Ordo]

Verne ducked to the side as the round whizzed by where his head had just been. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize he was not going to win against the whole room.

"Yer all a bunch of sorry sons of gutter trash." He said as he got up from the ground and walked to his bike. He grabbed his helmet as he moved to the old tech vehicle and pushed the big meat head's foot off. Some protectors. "Vilaz you better get yer shebs in gear and finish what ya started before these 'traded bunch of hippies start huggin."

With that he fired up his bike and rode away.

 

[Muad Dib]

"I'll live ner riduur." With his helmet now clipped to his belt he placed his left arm around her waist as he held his injured right tight to his chest. She worried about him and stepping forward for the title of mand'alor wasn't something he wanted. But he sure as shab wasn't going to stand by with no on contesting it. It had to be earned. And so he stepped forward to either win it or ensure that whomever won the title earned it the hard way.

Looking to Azrael as he challenged the one sitting on the throne he knew that he would be one he would follow. But that still was something he must finish winning from the others.

But for now he was an observer. So he held Chloe to him in the midst of their aliit.

[member="Chloe Kandossii"]

 

[Kal Kandossii]

Kal stepped forward, opposite Chloe, and looked over at Atin. "I see you're still alive. Just couldn't manage to win huh? Tough luck." Turning to walk away he froze as Chloe's words from before hit him. Looking back at her with surprise he whispered, "You're pregnant?"

[member="Atin Kandossii"] [member="Chloe Kandossii"]

 

[Charlyn Nairne]

She would have to check Atin later to ensure that he was "ok". She knew he was hurt from the battle just wasn't going to say anything right now.

Chloe hadn't noticed it until now however there was someone sitting on the throne already. Azrael was now going to deal with them so it seemed that the title had not yet been won.

Smiling Chloe nodded in response to Kal's question. It wasn't any big secret just she hadn't really told many this yet. It didn't seem appropriate with the death of Gil and than this event.

[member="Kal Kandossii"][member="Atin Kandossii"]

 

[Vilaz Munin]

It didn't matter what Nolan did to evade the reverse. His balance was lost which would screw up Nolan's position, and he was being tugged towards Vilaz's right which would put the Rally Master's opponent on the ground, leaving Vilaz above him on his knees, but not literally on top of him. The left leg of Nolan did connected with the Warrior's right side of the chest, and his right hand was at the back of his collar. Both arms of the Redneck were still grabbing Nolan's left arm, and he still had his left foot and leg over the opponent's right leg, but that would soon change quickly.

He was on his knees, between Nolan's leg, making it easy for him to do what he was about to do next. Quickly, he had his whole left leg shift to the right which would bring it closer to Vilaz, himself, but this also meant that Nolan's right leg was no loner trapped or underneath of the Redneck's left leg. As soon as he done that he had both arms let go of the left arm of the fellow Mando'ade, and had his left arm and hand, with a crushgaunt, push the left leg that was being connected with Vilaz's chest to the right. He had done this to try and get Nolan's leg under Vilaz's arm, but most importantly Vilaz intended to get Nolan's left ankle underneath Vilaz's armpit that was on the right. And, to add to that, Nolan's boot would slip since it was hard to maintain what he was doing against the force of Vilaz's push, which would have little friction of the boot against the surface of the Redneck's armored chest. Almost at the same time, close to being simultaneously, Vilaz used his right hand that was free, at the moment, to push Nolan's right forearm, that had the hand grappling on the back collar of Vilaz, towards Vilaz's left with force that was similar to what his left arm did, and was also wearing crushgaunts.. But, he was doing something else that was occurring of what Vilaz was doing. As he had thrown his right arm at Nolan's right forearm the open space that was in the area of the Rally Master's right arm would suddenly close, making a hard, tight grip on Nolan's left leg which would make it very, very difficult to escape, and as soon as Vilaz's right arm was across his chest he had his hand grabbed on the upper arm of his left arm, so he could have something to grab on and make his grapple on Nolan's left ankle more effective.

"Give me a damn second, Verne! Almost done with this screw up, Sith drinking hooker, piece of kark!" He yelled back at his older brother before he biked off at of the Great Hall.

If all of these actions succeeded, which highly and likely would, then Vilaz would shift his right knee first and have himself standing on his right foot and, after that. the same would be done on his left. Both knees were sandwiching Nolan's left leg and his left leg would be in between of the free right leg of his opponent and the incarcerated left leg. Then he would bend his back backwards towards the ground and, simultaneously, the ankle lock would be finally executed as Vilaz would bend the left, trapped ankle forward as he would continue to bend backwards.

[member="Verne Munin"] [member="Nolan Detta"]