THE UNDEFEATED
He remained silent, biting on his tongue as his employer moved to dress his wound. He fought against his instinct to push her away, unable to hold eye contact as she touched him. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling a tinge of pain as the makeshift sling pulled tight against his bare skin. He felt the torn flesh subdued under the repurposed cloak, grinding uncomfortable with every moment.
Yet more so than anything, he despised how she lay his hands on him. Yet he kept silent, listening to her words and following them in reluctant submission. He felt his heart pounding against his chest, it's heavy Dravalan beat beginning to slow as his adrenaline left him. His eyes shifted to his employer picked up cloth, moving with the quick succinct movements of a soldier to manage his wound. He was irritated, and entirely surprised by the precise nature of the strike. The thin blade had slipped through the crimson plates into his arm, though his own movement had done the majority of the damage. However it was the only certain way to achieve victory.
The Matador followed in toe, there wasn't a Echani in sight. If they had perhaps pressed harder on the Veranda, they might've succeeded in capturing his employer unless he resorted to killing them. Perhaps they were separated into groups around the city, however he was inclined to believe that they had perhaps retreated. His left cheek moved in response to a small grin on his face. Though it quickly dissipated as he quietened his mind, ignoring the pain that surged from his arm. Weakness felt like a cold violation of his body, his arm feeling as though it were a sickly child's, falling limply at his side as feeling left him. It was the same arm the Feoorin had struck previously.
Drifting.
Fading.
Determination.
Strength.
He followed her into the taxi, barely fitting as he leaned against the door. Luckily, transports were used to various sized creatures. Even still, he kept his distance from his employer; the residual emotions from the aftermath of the conflict still lingering. He felt the burning sensation of the Keeper's watchful presence in the back of his mind. He quieted his thoughts, allowing his years of training to flow over him. Calm, met his mind. Thinking back of how the Butcher would hold them in perpetual mental pain for hours, if you made as much as a wince, a whimper. You failed. He knew discipline, yet he failed to exercise it in the heat of the battle. He felt a sense of shame, but soon that feeling dissipated as well.
The door of the transport opened, the Matador left eagerly. Not wanting to remain in a confined space for too long, but as he left his countenance had once again shifted. He returned to calm, surveying the area. Once more, nothing. He waited on his employer, shadowing her every footstep until they entered the building. Beyond that she led him to a small room. However, likely normally used by another species as the roof reached to nearly eight feet. The Matador was amused by her assumptions, he had been trained to medicate himself. He stood still, nearby the chair as he unhindered arm worked at the tight buckles and magnetised plating. The wound itself was almost hidden between the heavy plates of Crimson Iron.
His shoulder plates were made of five crimson plates that curved into tips, the connector was located on the foremost plate that rested nearby his forearms joint. The armour component was built in like a magnetised lock that kept the plate tightly closed against his body glove. Beskar fingers met the small latch, clicking it upward with the force so that his index finger and thumb could pull the latch back entirely, the shoulder plate shuffled, becoming slightly loose; hanging by the two bucklers independent of the magnetised lock.
He quickly undid them as he had may time before, he clasped his hand on the Pauldron. Setting it carefully on the closest bed, his hand was steady and calm. But it also revealed the massive gash on his arm, he then looked to his hand. He felt some strength in it still, his hand rising to pull the torn body glove tight as his other hand grasped the material, pulling the body glove back; allowing the wound to breath. Blood, continued to gush out of the wound.
"You're assistance is unnecessary." He spoke, removing the gauntlet of his injured hand with a little frustration. He then leaned down to remove a Vibro-Dagger from his calve. His bare and scaled hand gripped onto the small delicate blade, his eyes closing as the blade began to glow a dim orange, the blade simmered with heat. He brought the flaming metal up to his wound, pressing down the sizzling blade on the thick of his wound.
The only visible reaction was the slight dipping of his chin, holding the blade still as it simmered and his blood boiled. He lifted the blade, thinking of the other burns on his body he'd endured in this practice. Though it was what he knew, and he did not trust nor wish for his employer to lay her hands on him once more. Dependency was weakness.
He relayed this message to himself, his mind soothing as he felt the Keeper was pleased in his choice. He found himself slowly descending into the metal chair, he could feel his sickly heart beating heavily in his chest. He reached for a pouch on his thigh, opening and removing its contents with some visible effort. He could feel his head swimming as his heart beat faster and faster. He had lost control for but a moment and it had cost him. The contents of the pouch was a syringe, with a chemical content of specialised and modified Bacta. It was his own prescribed medicine, he injected the syringe into his exposed flesh. He ignored the enflamed pain he felt, even though he had stopped the bleeding. The wound was still very much there, it would take some time to heal.
He let out a low sigh, slightly scrambled through the voice box of his helm. He felt his heart steady, allowing him to return to a calm sense of awareness. His eyes shifting to his Employer. "You may rest for a few hours. Your hunters will no doubt track us as they did before." The Matador sat forward in the chair, reluctant to recline whatsoever.
[member="Srina Talon"]
Yet more so than anything, he despised how she lay his hands on him. Yet he kept silent, listening to her words and following them in reluctant submission. He felt his heart pounding against his chest, it's heavy Dravalan beat beginning to slow as his adrenaline left him. His eyes shifted to his employer picked up cloth, moving with the quick succinct movements of a soldier to manage his wound. He was irritated, and entirely surprised by the precise nature of the strike. The thin blade had slipped through the crimson plates into his arm, though his own movement had done the majority of the damage. However it was the only certain way to achieve victory.
The Matador followed in toe, there wasn't a Echani in sight. If they had perhaps pressed harder on the Veranda, they might've succeeded in capturing his employer unless he resorted to killing them. Perhaps they were separated into groups around the city, however he was inclined to believe that they had perhaps retreated. His left cheek moved in response to a small grin on his face. Though it quickly dissipated as he quietened his mind, ignoring the pain that surged from his arm. Weakness felt like a cold violation of his body, his arm feeling as though it were a sickly child's, falling limply at his side as feeling left him. It was the same arm the Feoorin had struck previously.
Drifting.
Fading.
Determination.
Strength.
He followed her into the taxi, barely fitting as he leaned against the door. Luckily, transports were used to various sized creatures. Even still, he kept his distance from his employer; the residual emotions from the aftermath of the conflict still lingering. He felt the burning sensation of the Keeper's watchful presence in the back of his mind. He quieted his thoughts, allowing his years of training to flow over him. Calm, met his mind. Thinking back of how the Butcher would hold them in perpetual mental pain for hours, if you made as much as a wince, a whimper. You failed. He knew discipline, yet he failed to exercise it in the heat of the battle. He felt a sense of shame, but soon that feeling dissipated as well.
The door of the transport opened, the Matador left eagerly. Not wanting to remain in a confined space for too long, but as he left his countenance had once again shifted. He returned to calm, surveying the area. Once more, nothing. He waited on his employer, shadowing her every footstep until they entered the building. Beyond that she led him to a small room. However, likely normally used by another species as the roof reached to nearly eight feet. The Matador was amused by her assumptions, he had been trained to medicate himself. He stood still, nearby the chair as he unhindered arm worked at the tight buckles and magnetised plating. The wound itself was almost hidden between the heavy plates of Crimson Iron.
His shoulder plates were made of five crimson plates that curved into tips, the connector was located on the foremost plate that rested nearby his forearms joint. The armour component was built in like a magnetised lock that kept the plate tightly closed against his body glove. Beskar fingers met the small latch, clicking it upward with the force so that his index finger and thumb could pull the latch back entirely, the shoulder plate shuffled, becoming slightly loose; hanging by the two bucklers independent of the magnetised lock.
He quickly undid them as he had may time before, he clasped his hand on the Pauldron. Setting it carefully on the closest bed, his hand was steady and calm. But it also revealed the massive gash on his arm, he then looked to his hand. He felt some strength in it still, his hand rising to pull the torn body glove tight as his other hand grasped the material, pulling the body glove back; allowing the wound to breath. Blood, continued to gush out of the wound.
"You're assistance is unnecessary." He spoke, removing the gauntlet of his injured hand with a little frustration. He then leaned down to remove a Vibro-Dagger from his calve. His bare and scaled hand gripped onto the small delicate blade, his eyes closing as the blade began to glow a dim orange, the blade simmered with heat. He brought the flaming metal up to his wound, pressing down the sizzling blade on the thick of his wound.
The only visible reaction was the slight dipping of his chin, holding the blade still as it simmered and his blood boiled. He lifted the blade, thinking of the other burns on his body he'd endured in this practice. Though it was what he knew, and he did not trust nor wish for his employer to lay her hands on him once more. Dependency was weakness.
He relayed this message to himself, his mind soothing as he felt the Keeper was pleased in his choice. He found himself slowly descending into the metal chair, he could feel his sickly heart beating heavily in his chest. He reached for a pouch on his thigh, opening and removing its contents with some visible effort. He could feel his head swimming as his heart beat faster and faster. He had lost control for but a moment and it had cost him. The contents of the pouch was a syringe, with a chemical content of specialised and modified Bacta. It was his own prescribed medicine, he injected the syringe into his exposed flesh. He ignored the enflamed pain he felt, even though he had stopped the bleeding. The wound was still very much there, it would take some time to heal.
He let out a low sigh, slightly scrambled through the voice box of his helm. He felt his heart steady, allowing him to return to a calm sense of awareness. His eyes shifting to his Employer. "You may rest for a few hours. Your hunters will no doubt track us as they did before." The Matador sat forward in the chair, reluctant to recline whatsoever.
[member="Srina Talon"]
