// Raxus System // Raxus Prime // Planetary Junkyards //
// Bryn'adul-controlled Territory - Threat Level: Extreme //
// Quested by the Crusade // Scour the Junkyard //
There were no grand expectations about the quality of the establishment. The Cantina was situated on a sparsely populated world, rife with generations of detritus, and within the sphere of Bryn’adul’s influence. It was a miracle the structure still stood, let alone play host to a collection of patrons. Many would’ve fled the coming of the beasts, seeking to hold onto whatever remained of their short, insignificant lives. Yet, these people remained for reasons unknown. Rynn couldn’t help but respect their stones, even if it was idiotic. But, what could he say to such people that wouldn’t make him out to be a hypocrite? He was here, just as they were.
Thus, the Rally Master merely bit his tongue and shook his mind free from such thoughts. There would be a time and place for such notions, but they were far from necessary. He was on a mission here, and it was for the best to see it through - before things got dicey. Without hesitation, as the man finally arrived before the sealed portal, Rynn palmed the access terminal with an armoured digit. The doors before him parted with relative ease, despite their oxidized appearance, bathing the Mandalorian in a rush of fetid and recycled atmosphere. At that moment, as his armour’s olfactory sensors were triggered, the young Vizsla was glad that he was wearing his helmet.
His first steps into the establishment were coldly greeted by swivelling heads and hushed whispers. Like many Cantinas across the Galaxy, it was often worrisome when an armed and armoured individual strode in, even more so when they were Mandalorian as well. There was a negative stigma attached to his people, as many of his predecessors believed that destroying another’s property whilst drunk held the true measure of a person’s worth. Sadly, such notions did little to save those drunken fools from catching stray bolts on the battlefield - making Rynn wonder if it was truly worth soiling their reputation in the end.
But, as common as such cold greetings became - what was even more regular was that every Cantina that Rynn visited played host to a small collection of his scattered peoples.
There were three armoured kindred situated throughout the entirety of the Cantina. Two were at the bar, whilst another hung in the background - playing what seemed like Sabaac with a small coterie of aliens. In many respects, it was nothing out of the ordinary. But, as Rynn began to take several steps towards the Bar, the man noticed something odd about the two figures positioned beside one another. The woman, standing to the seated person’s side and placed a hand on their shoulder, was vaguely familiar. Likely they had met once before, but the young Vizsla couldn’t quite put a finger on it. The memory would undoubtedly return as they reintroduced themselves, but it wouldn’t be of much consequence.
The person that was seated, however, caused Rynn’s brow to lift. He recognized that configuration from somewhere, and it took him a moment to recall the memory. It was a Bounty that some minor House in the Guild posted, which was enhanced by a collection of Mandalorian splinter groups. Apparently, this figure made themselves unpopular with the wrong people, and they wanted them in custody, likely to answer for whatever crimes they committed. But, as the false fire-light of his visor drank in their measure - something seemed off about their figure. The armour was sagging in some places and seemed to pinch in others. A Warrior’s armour was painstakingly fitted and modified to suit the wearer’s body-type and prowess.
What this person wore... suited them like an ill-fitting glove.
There were a few possibilities as to what could explain this discrepancy. Either this person had gone through an extreme training regime to hone their figure and didn’t have the funds to adjust their armour accordingly. Or, the suit was taken from the dead and worn like a trophy. As the Rally Master reached the Bar - the man began to suspect it was the latter. A part of him wanted to draw his weapon to make them give him an answer at gunpoint before forcibly stripping them of the armour. It wasn’t uncommon to see common thugs and mercenaries using the unrecovered suits of armour from fallen Mandalorians, seeking to lay claim to a legacy and reputation that wasn’t theirs. But, Rynn swallowed his pride to quell the rising anger in his veins.
This wasn’t the place to start a fight, not when there could be enemies lurking nearby. The man had to play it cool, as his mission was prioritized above his people’s stained honour. His Clan, as it were, was in trouble and needed spare parts. While the recovery of any relics pertaining to their culture was important - so was breathing clean air in the depths of space aboard a working starship. The lives of the many outweighed the honour of the few.
:: Barkeep, :: Rynn spoke with measured ease. :: I need some information. ::
Whilst keeping a wary eye on the two Mandalorians within each other’s embrace, the Barkeep wandered over to the crimson-clad crusader with a glass in one hand and a cleaning rag in the other. “There’s little I can give these days, Mandalorian. What are you looking for?”
:: A Lictor-Class, or parts there-to. ::
“That’s an ancient ship, but - I’m sure we’ve got one around these parts. I just can’t seem to recall where.”
Rynn rolled his eyes before producing a small handful of credits.
:: This should jog your memory, :: He stated, with a twinge of frustration coating his words.
“Ah,” the Barkeep replied, gathering up their newfound spoils. “Yes. A Lictor-Class, you say? I remember one of our salvage teams coming across just such a vessel, not three days past. They said it was just outside the settlement, buried beneath some wreckage that you couldn't miss. But, uh, I think you’ll be able to see it when you leave and head to the west.”
Rynn nodded. :: My thanks. ::
It was then that the Rally Master turned his attention towards the two Mandalorians situated nearby.
:: It’s not often you run into both a Bounty Hunter and their Prey at the same time. Tell me, :: Rynn said as he began to lean atop the counter. The iconic T-visor tilted itself to the side as the man looked towards the seated warrior with the ill-fitting armour. Had his noble face been visible, the young Vizsla’s eyes would’ve been narrowed with contempt as he glared down at the figure.
:: Where did you get that armour? ::
Vyca Durren
Dezorath
