Character
| Location | Gorse, Inner Rim Territories
Piles of scrap lay discarded in disorderly rows, where their sheer presence marked the boundaries of makeshift paths. Ruined trails smothered in a thick layer of fallen debris, remnants of a time when the earth beneath was hard-packed and solid, now transformed into a rough, uneven surface, marred by years of relentless erosion. Pools of stagnant water formed precariously alongside ominous chemical slurries, seeping from fissures in the towering mountains of refuse.
In the distance, a faint, almost resonant hum of a magnetic clamp travelled through the stacks, its sound warped and twisted until it appeared to originate from every direction, a sound without a source. Against the eerie backdrop, Itzhal's inlaid boots—the underlay designed for an optimal blend of traction and discretion—made scarcely a sound as he cautiously stepped deeper into the labyrinth of civilisation's trash.
Dalvos trailed behind, a quiet spectre when he deemed it best to keep his mouth quiet—though that was admittedly rare. Most of the time, he preferred to break the silence with soft-spoken words, his voice muffled by the dense layers of scrap surrounding them.
In fact, one of the rare moments that the mercenary dared not speak was when words seemed to escape him as he released his hand from the sling strapped to his chest and extended his arm towards Itzhal's beskar-clad form. The expression on Dalvos's face was a complex blend of admiration and sheer desire—a striking look of envy that nonetheless filled Itzhal with a strange sense of nostalgia—as he continued their silent assessment of the Mandalorian's capabilities, or at least the arsenal he was packing.
Itzhal couldn't blame them.
Even without his skills and experience, Beskar'gam was something of a force multiplier; against a gang of scrappers it was positively overkill. It was amusing enough to almost elicit a chuckle, emotion bubbling up from somewhere in Itzhal's chest, before it was strangled back into place.
Crouched low to the ground, Itzhal halted as they arrived at a fork in their path. Before them, the mountains of scrap fractured into three uneven lines, forming a sequence of two distinct pathways that distorted into a couple of dozen side-lanes and dead-ends that would have left the two stumbling in the general direction of their target, if not for their previous eagle-eye view of the area.
"This way, right?"
In the shroud of the mountain, the Mandalorian nodded—sharp and swiftly—his steps confident as they moved down the left passage.
Ahead of them, the winding passage sprawled into a disorienting mess of dizzying twists and unexpected turns; vile lakes of unrecognisable chemicals that bubbled and roiled above the surface, uneven piles of debris that swayed in a non-existent wind, and the pitter-patter of multiple footsteps that would only endanger their mission, leaving the two men to divert around.
Itzhal's steps carried him around one turn after another, his eyes searching for threats, even as the sensors in his Buy'ce reduced the likelihood of an unexpected appearance to near-nothing. Until finally, with another turn that skittered around the ruined nosecone of a rusted starfighter, Itzhal slowed to a halt.
Tags:
Dalvos Thrakan
Dalvos Thrakan