His eyes gleamed over when
Aiden Porte
spoke, challenging him, beckoning him almost. He was clearly excited by the idea of a challenge, a battle, a fight. With a
Jedi, no less. Though, one of his bouts with a Jedi ended up with his prosthetic.
It was remarkable, his arm. Shaped exactly like his other arm, a Beskar example of Mandalorian craftsmanship. It flexed, it moved, it bent just like his right arm, he had fingers, he had a rotating hand, range of motion the same as his other- if not for the black Beskar weave and artificial muscle and plating covering it, one could barely tell. He was offered synthflesh- but found it's smell rather unpleasant.
That same arm had taken many lives on it's own. Deflected blows, cast down his foes. Infact, it led him to near victory in the Kaggath- where he defeated not only one Jedi, but a Sith as well.
Delsin Shaw
and
Balun Dashiell
were his foes, and they were both found wanting. He lavished the fight, the brutality of their combat. He loved it. He lived for it. He wanted it.
However, he did not want to do that
here. Despite his love of combat, of battles worthy of death and acclaim, he was not one to start fights everywhere. Fenn was a lot of things, but he wasn't an nerf herder. Insane, maybe, but not an nerf herder. Which-
When
Sibylla Abrantes
spoke again, shame washed over him, but only reached his eyes when his giddiness in picturing his hand ripping Aiden's spinal column out faded from his mind. He realized what he had said, and what he had done. Perhaps on purpose, or perhaps accidentally. His mind slipped, his mind was not his often now- voices, actions that were unlike him. He was not a cruel man. He was not vindictive. He was honorable. He was duty-bound. He was Ori'Ramikad. The best of the best. Supercommando. Without equal.
He was still him, he was
Right?
Don't fight it all too hard, you're doing fine
She looks pretty in that dress
FREAK
She knows she can hear she has to die
He has to die
they have to die
they don't want you there anymore, Fenn
bite
kill
punch
rip
tear
until it's over
thumbs in eyes, hands around throat
break the trachea, watch them choke find a knife find a weapon use the glass use the bottle
Fenn Stag. He was touched by her words. His malice, his attempt at it, met with malice. What a man he had become. Frightening pretty women. He was no better than his enemies with that.
His eyes diverted from her, not in fear, but in shame. They were returned when she spoke again.
"Tell me, are most Nar Shaddaa functions this lively, or have we stumbled into something especially extravagant?"
"N-no. These are... especially unique. Miss Mauve is... eccentric in that regard, to a degree. She is... changing things. Changing how the galaxy sees this place. The Hutts did their work to make it... hedonistic. Focused on the wrong things. She wants decadence, more than vice. If I am correct to believe so, at least." His voice returned to a more... normal tone. Quiet, low, but still carrying that razor's edge of violence. It was somewhat unlike men of his size and his position, his experience at least, of speaking so softly and rather quietly. He carried some words longer than others, to make sure that he was heard above the noise. It was odd, really- he seemed to be quiet, but was able to be heard in the immense noise of the place.
"Our lady is concerned with business, a machine to operate beneath the shadows of Empires, Republics. We sit beneath the shadows of giants.. better men than us." Regret. Introspection. A harsh reality. Fenn believed himself to be too far gone. That this work was not beneath him, that the Supercommando had resolved himself to a life of crime and violence as a means of penance, perhaps punishment to himself. He had no honor, no Empire, no clan, no brothers, no sisters, no family to speak of. He was a drifter, alone in the universe. And-
Growing more and more insane. The virus, the Dark Harvest, lingered at his mind, a festering shadow of Sith design enveloping the crevices of his soul. He fought it every minute of every day, a voice that was not his own, a sickness. He fought it in his sleep, in his dreams and in his nightmares. He was beset by troubles, beset by doubts- but. Fenn was a loyal soldier, an enforcer, a tool of the Black Sun. That was without question. There was no turning back for him. There was no redemption for what he did. He was a monster. He knew it would only get worse.
"I am sure she will be speaking with you both shortly. She, after all, is most gracious of a host."
Translation:
Mauve du Vain gave Fenn a purpose, a presence, and means, credits, and status. His loyalty to her, and to the Black Sun, was unparalleled by his peers. Call it Mandalorian honor, call it foolishness. Either way, the chain that bound him to the darkness of the Black Sun's harsh shine was unbroken.
