Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Private Just another Mandalorian, back in the Galaxy




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The planet of Gargon was much the same regardless of era; unchanged by war and devastation, it was forever a hub of scum and villainy concealed under the thinnest veil of legitimacy provided by whatever form of law enforcement existed at the time. It was the same assortment of villages spread across the mountains and valleys that continued to serve as hubs for whatever sense of community existed across the land, modest as it was compared to more infamous trading ports.

Walking through one such village, the name faded across a signpost in Bocce; a single figure strolled through the open gates made of timber and string from the local valley, his padded feet leaving a trail in the dusty road. A soft breeze of wind sent wispy flecks of dirt into the air, straight into his path, leaving a thin layer of grime across their blackened chest plate. One glove, five fingers in total, flicked a dark brown patch attached to their pauldron as they passed by a whizzing droid, their trill complaints ignored by the armoured man as he continued onwards through the settlement.

The sun's light, still high in the sky, caught the reflective surface of his visor as he approached his destination, a grey and worn building formed from the stone of a nearby quarry. There was no sign upon the wall or high above, nor was there a whisper of sound that leaked through the sealed door. It was a building for those who knew and those who were told. With a confident step, he closed the distance to the door, one hand close to his hip and the holster of his blaster pistol, and with the other, he slammed his knuckle against the door control.

It hissed open, releasing with a sharp exhale that revealed the mutter of conversation and poured drinks, visible from the bright light of the open doorway and the much dimmer lights that hung above the tables and alcoves surrounding a central bar. Faces turned in curiosity to the figure at the doorway, then just as quickly turned away as the door sealed behind him and his armour became visible. Just another Mandalorian in the Galaxy. A few, rarer than the rest, paused as they saw the unfamiliar wolf head painted in whites, its long fangs twisted into ceremonial daggers.

He stopped only long enough to look over the crowd, his eyes adapting to the change in light.

Drego Ruus Drego Ruus
 
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Ever since the fall of the Protectorate, Drego had become a wandering soul. A warmaster without a war to fight. A man without a battle. Gargon wasn't his usual hangout, but these days his usual spot was guarded by Crusaders calling themselves men.

Men did not stand like they did. Men did not fight like they did.

And so, he wandered. Waiting for the next war. The next righteous conflict. An empire to overthrow, a sith lord to put buckshot into.

For now though, he enjoyed a bit of tihaar at a not so swanky bar.


"New face." Drego said idly, his own scuffed up armor glaring against the slowly rocking light that hung from the ceiling. "You're not another crusader, are ya?"


 



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Sat apart from the others, not quite uncommon in a bar like this, the lonesome figure of Drego Russ was remarkable for the sheer amount of damage sustained over his Beskargam, the tales of dozens of battles and feats embedded in the ancient iron of their people. A veteran of wars that Itzhal had never heard of or could imagine—Lost and lonesome without a place to call their own, except at the end of a bottle.

He stepped forward just far enough to escape the doorway, the question unanswered for a moment.

The Crusaders were a relic of thought and concept over three thousand years old, shattered by the intent and command of Auretii, twisted and malleable to whoever declared themselves right. The Resol'nare was all that should have mattered, not what was tacked on later. Yet, that wasn't quite right, not anymore—three thousand years, no longer.

Yet, the man in front of him spoke as though they were a reality of this time, a factor to consider rather than a history lesson to reflect upon and dissect on the path to a better answer for their people.

"No," Itzhal responded, firm in the certainty that he had chosen no side. He had no intention to make a choice either; such was for the informed to make; a choice made without awareness was no choice at all.

Prepared for the worst as he kept his distance, Itzhal squared his shoulders, one hand close to the handle of his blaster. Not that it would do much against the bulkhead in front of him, a verifiable tank, solid and with only a few gaps that might be exploitable. He'd rather not shoot a drinking man in the head. It set a bad precedent.

"Is that going to be a problem?"

Drego Ruus Drego Ruus
 
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"Only if you make one." The mountain of a man quipped back. "Pop a squat, vode. If you're not here to kill me, you're certainly not my enemy."

To Drego, it was that simple. He'd seen every flavor of mandalorian since he had become one himself. For now, he was just a man and his bottle. "We got plenty of Tihaar to go around, and a few stories to tell. You look like you're a little lost. Tell an old soul your story, I got big ears."

A man like him was well enough to know how to make friends where he could. The vode before him looked to react to the idea of Crusaders as if they were old myth, a part of their history that had been long forgotten.

If only that were true, still.


 



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"Then I have no issue with you," Itzhal acknowledged. He had no reason to fight; whether it be creed or history, there was nothing that stood between them. A blank slate. It was a relationship that the Mandalorian had grown frustratingly used to in the passing few weeks.

The fixer he'd come for sat in the corner, their form shadowed by the shape of the booth and another client. Without moving his helmet, Itzhal glanced at them before he stepped towards Drego. His target could wait for a drink or two.

Another couple of steps brought him to the bar and the Mandalorian, who sat under a rickety light fixture, "Does this old soul have a mouth as well, or does he only listen?"

"Tihaar,"
he requested with the offering of a couple of credits; more than half the drinks here were worth, although the price tag stated otherwise. Still, he was willing to sit here and drink. Maybe that said more about his tastes than anything else. He wondered what it said about him that he could enter a bar like this and still find himself headed towards a figure getting as many stares as himself. On an outsider, that wasn't too unusual, with how long his new acquaintance had been drinking, Itzhal suspected there was another reason for the attention turned their way.

Sitting down beside his fellow Mandalorian, Itzhal paused long enough to consider his thoughts and how much he could tell when the stories he had were from a time so long passed. "I ain't got many fun stories; a few hunts turned poorly and a couple of skirmishes, not much to brag about, though I'll do my duty if that's the payment. I take it there's a couple more than skirmishing tales across that armour of yours."

Drego Ruus Drego Ruus
 
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"More than a few." Drego couldn't help but smirk. "Started out as spec ops for the Alliance. Whole team got wiped, and it was Clan Bralor who pulled me out of that hellhole. They took me in as a foundling then and there."

He smirked, pointing to a large scorch mark on his chestplate. "That's from when I got smacked by some sith assassin. Back when my boys at Clan Ruus were just a ragtag break off from the Enclave." He then pointed to a scuff on his helm, that sat on the bar. "That one is from when I sparred with my fellow Protector's leadership. Girl could swing a beskad like no one's business, but she couldn't deal with someone who can reattach his arms."

He paused, his eyes glancing over to the Fixer in the corner for just a moment.

He knew that bastard well enough to know he was dirty.

Then again, he also knew better than to tell a Vode what to do when it came to making credits.

He pointed to one last scar on his armor. This one, along his shoulder plate, seemed to be an actual scar in the metal.
"This was when I fought Darth Empyrean Darth Empyrean . Sith lords like him hit hard, but a warmaster like me knows better than to let him get a killshot."


 



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Itzhal tilted his head slowly towards Drego as the other Mandalorian began to tell his tale, a story that wasn't uncommon nor far from his own, as the former lawman listened intently. He didn't know much of the Alliance, apart from the general disgust that most people on the planet seemed to carry for them, although that wasn't much of a detractor. Mandalorians happened to dislike quite a lot of people, themselves included when the mood hit them. Until he'd dealt with a few of them, he'd reserve his judgment, though a couple of statements he'd heard about the Republic's successor didn't leave him with much hope for a favourable opinion. It didn't help that he would have liked to see the whole thing burn himself instead of watching the Republic's descendants try to create something out of the ashes.

Glass rattled against the bar as a drink landed aside Itzhal's hand, his helmet turned to face the newly dispensed drink. He hadn't even noticed it being poured, for all the bartender had remained in sight; a flicker of blue eyes to the corner of his HUD and back down brought up a recording that showed nothing out of the ordinary; the drink had been poured and untouched.

He took a moment to gauge Drego, the Mandalorian now lost in his story of past marks and the trials that had left them. It was a shame that he knew so little of the context, though most of it made sense. He wasn't quite so lost to be unable to pick up the clue that the Enclave was a former unification of Mandalorians. Whether it was clans or something more informal, he couldn't quite say. There were far too many unknowns and even more to add to the pile with every day that passed. The Protector's were obvious enough, at least.

In the pause that followed, Itzhal lifted two hands to his helmet and the seals that kept it in place. A soft hiss was the only hint that something more intricate was involved in the mechanics hidden beneath, as a twist and a lift-up removed the bucket. Even made of Beskar, the Morellian treated it with care as it was laid softly against the bar, within arms reach.

He didn't notice the glance sent his fixer's way.

The face revealed was pale, worn away by months underneath the helmet and little sunlight against their skin. His frown lines were thicker than what appeared to be normal, with a slight heaviness to the bags underneath his eyes. Still, he took the first sip of his Tihaar with only a pleased twist to his lips as the horrid liquid went down his throat.

It was a welcome distraction to the mention of Sith, a tale of boogeymen that had worn out in his time. Never outright gone, despite the claims made by some, the Darjetii had still been around. They'd just been a little more subtle about it and how the jetii'dral seemed to turn them insane over time. The mention that he was conversing with a Warmaster was somehow easier to deal with than the fact the former were still around; he'd expected it to all come tumbling down eventually. He would have to visit sometime. See the madhouse in person.

"I can't say I've ever faced something on that scale," Itzhal confessed without a thought for lies or attempts to brag. Children could scream with all the bluster they desired, but the reality was that his time had never faced such danger. The challenges of the past had faded, and the future had been hopeful. Neither of those statements were true anymore.

"Shot a Rancor once," He offered when all the other stories seemed so much more difficult to handle; how did he speak of the dead far gone when only he remained to cherish their memory? Did he remember the faults, or only what they would have wanted to be remembered?

It wasn't a question Itzhal had much of an answer to. Not yet, at least, but maybe this would be a trial, "Started simple enough: we were part of a salvage crew and had been hired to locate a valuable storage box. The good news was everyone knew where it was; it just happened to be on a jungle planet with a recently crashed ship. The bad news was everyone knew. So, we find it after far too long mucking around in canyons and crevices before running into a Mantigrue that tried to take one of the Vod on a journey into the stratosphere."

He still remembered the idiot's face as he was pounced upon, thick claws unable to tear into his armour but more than strong enough to lift him up and into the air. It only felt right to drink to that.

"Eventually, one of us got the grand idea to use a guide, which somehow led to us watching a Chironian try to walk four-legged down a ravine as he negotiates permission to fly a spaceship for a couple of hours," He shook his head, unable to hide the humour that danced across his face as the memories sparked. "He even got his way after he found the vessel for us. A couple of hours trying to fit four legs and a horse's backside into a cockpit while we're busy delving into the remains of a hyperspace scattershot, which would have been fine if, halfway through, we didn't start feeling the metal underneath us shake..."

He trailed off, judging how the story was being received and whether there was much point to continuing.
 
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Drego listened intently as the man took off his helm, and began his own story. The Warmaster pitied the vode if a rancor was the worst of his encounters. The galaxy had changed a lot in the last 30 years, and simple beasts were no longer the threat they once were. Not to say they weren't a problem to be handled with care, but in a galaxy where The Maw's horrid creations, and people like Darth Empyrean Darth Empyrean and Darth Carnifex Darth Carnifex exist, a Rancor was small pickings.

He let out a chuckle as the man finished, blowing out a breath.
"You're gonna have to tell me that Rancors are the least of your encounters to impress me, Vode. Just a couple months ago, I was riding a 500 meter Worm through the streets of Coruscant, smashing it into the lines of the Imperial Assault. Didn't help that it was their worm. There's plenty of glory to be had Vode, but you need to be find a way to be bold in this day and age."


 



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It didn't take Itzhal long to realise that his fellow Mandalorian wasn't impressed, though he couldn't help but continue the story regardless, unable to stop as the tale flew from his lips without much concern for the memories that flashed across his eyes. The smile that crossed his lips was soft, worn away with a sadness that reached his eyes and had little to do with the mission itself. A dozen years passed, and he still remembered the sheer confusion of dealing with that Chironian; it still didn't quite feel real knowing they were long gone, their descendants following in his footsteps.

He was fortunate that Drego was willing to listen, their chuckle a bright spot further away from the thoughts that followed as Itzhal's unfocused eyes centred upon him. In contrast to the Warmaster, there wasn't much a Mandalorian like him had to brag about; his enemies were little more than memories, his people ghosts upon his back.

"I'll take your advice, and maybe in a couple of years, I'll have a few stories worth telling," Itzhal promised, head tilted in a nod that wasn't quite right, overexaggerated without the extra bulk of his buy'ce. As he reached down for his drink to quench the thirst of his throat, "Now, do I need to buy you another drink to hear what crazy thoughts must have been going through your head to ride a monster that size?"
 
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"Another drink wouldn't hurt, if you're paying for it." Drego laughed, before smirking. "Honestly, my only thought was 'how do I kill this thing', which eventually morphed into 'how do I fuck over the imps?'. If being Manda has taught me anything, it's that in the heat of battle, there's not a lot of time to plan. You need to act quickly, and decisively. Sometimes that means jumping on top of a worm alongside your walker, and steering the big fucker into an imperial AT-AT." He let out a chuckle. "Only way to make waves around the galaxy these days. No one remembers a random GADF member, but everyone remembers the guy who tore a Mawite head off with his bare hands."

 



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"Of course, I'd be a poor guest asking without something to give," Itzhal conceded, a slight smile offered in return as he gestured to the bartender for another round of drinks. He wasn't swimming in credits by any means, but a few drinks wouldn't be a hardship—They were much cheaper than the wargear that had burned a hole in what little wealth he could scavenge. And what a story it was, told through the perspective of a man who was either brilliant or mad, with the potential for both. The type of man who would burn bright, a beacon of adventure and hardships, until eventually, some ridiculous feat ended it all in a blaze of glory.

"And is that what matters to you," Itzhal asked, curious despite himself. "To be remembered for those flashes of brilliance in a storied life?"

Was it better to be seen across the galaxy, known by a billion faces as the legend that did it all, or to settle something else, a legacy that would be remembered far beyond their time? Itzhal wasn't sure; he hadn't done either. His name might be lost in databanks buried in the rubble of some forsaken world, but his deeds came during a time of recovery; the true legends retreated into myths, and only the Jetti were left to wander freely while their shadowed counterparts scurried away. As for a legacy of his own, he had no children, and the opportunity was lost in a wave of turbolasers that swallowed Mandalore.

 
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Drego frowned at that thought.

"No. If I'm to be remembered for anything it's..." He paused, thinking to Zandra Ruus Zandra Ruus for a moment. The girl who had slipped through the cracks, and had let Crusader mentality cloud her mind. The cheap thrill of glory was easy to find when you cause pain upon others. Easy to call it glory when it makes you feel strong. "It's knowing that I helped my clan, my vode, when they needed it. I can speak on my moments of exceptionalism all I want, my feats of strength and courage...but those don't matter if the moments inbetween don't either. True glory is finding your place in your clan, and building your community to be stronger."

The Warmaster took a swig of the drink his vode had bought him, offering the man a friendly nod of approval. "But I'm sure you're not as interested in that as you are my feats of insanity."


 

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Itzhal observed intently as his question elicited a frown from his drinking companion, their features shifting into a mask of deep contemplation. Drego's troubled thoughts were concealed behind wary eyes filled with past regrets, the source unknown, though painful enough to gleam something from what lingered in the Warmaster's expression. Itzhal almost regretted the question before the other Mandalorian spoke again, more confident for whatever hardship he faced.

In the quiet between voices, Itzhal took a soft sip of his drink as Drego nodded in his direction.

"I'd argue it's more interesting to know the man behind the tales than whatever feats of strength made his legend; most of that I can hear from any bar or war camp that dares to speak of glory. True, I won't know the truth of what went through their head or the reason they thought a suicide mission was an excellent idea, but there will always be stories of battle and war. It's part of our culture, for better or for worse," With a soft smile hidden behind the trim of his greying beard, Itzhal tipped his drink slightly up towards Drego before he finished the glass. "So maybe I prefer the tales that become harder and harder to find, but I'm not here to interrogate you, and you've done the favour of being friendly when a stranger shows."

Checking over his equipment as he prepared to put on his helmet, Itzhal took a quick glance towards the Fixer he'd come to see, already piling in the credits from another deal with a kid who looked barely old enough to drink, then just as quickly the hooded figure's attention focused on a new source of wealth as their datapad flickered with updates.

 

Drego let out a hearty chuckle at that. "I'm not all that interesting behind the mask. I throw myself at a problem, and fix it when I can. You'll find my small talk lacking. The insane stories I tell are just...stories to me. A mandalorian should act like that, in my eyes. Do what people tell them is insane. Impossible. Stand tall, and fight the fight that needs to be won. Even if it does mean another broken bone, or another scar. My clan leader used to tell me, 'Wounds heal, chicks dig scars, glory lasts forever.'. I live by that phrase. Don't let the daunting threats of the galaxy scare you, hit them with your shovel and scream in defiance. The armor will protect you, and your body will do what needs to be done."

Drego paused, as his fellow mando looked over to the Fixer in the back of the bar. "...don't trust him." Drego whispered. "He gives bad deals. Worked with him once, he led to into a krayt dragon nest."


 

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Itzhal hesitated as his hand curled into the tired groove of the bar. His rough, worn fingers pressed deeper into the chipped surface of the ferrostone, where calloused flesh felt friction and the edge of pain. All the better to hide the frustration that boiled beneath his skin as tired blue eyes looked upon the man who would offer him a favour without expecting anything in return. Perhaps it was payback for whatever problem the man had led Drego into, but personally, Itzhal doubted it.

"Sounds like a hok'videk, surprised he's still around," Itzhal whispered, his voice kept low and shared between the two as he pushed his drink away.

He squeezed his hands beneath the bar, hidden by the width of his shoulders and Beskar's inflexible weight that caressed his frame.

The barman, while passing by for another round, did so without even sparing another word to the two Mandalorians, unwilling to confront whatever expression must have crossed Itzhal's face. His hands braced on either side of his buy'ce; quietly, he raised it to his face, the solemn visor shaded in a dark tint that reflected the light of his eyes and the grim thoughts that surfaced beneath them. It settled upon his head with a violent hiss of the seals locking into place as Itzhal turned his head towards Drego.

"Tion'solet kaysh ke'gyce atin'nas gar cuy?"

 

"Too many." Drego said simply. "Are you gonna be the next, or you gonna take the high road?"

While Drego was more than capable of using Mando'a, he also wasn't scared to be heard. The fixer had already made the mistake of pissing him off once, and had been put through a table for his trouble. Drego was just waiting for the excuse to put him through a table again.


 

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"No, I think my plans have changed," Itzhal stated, voice harsh as the grim line of his mouth was covered by an opaque visor that did little to hide the displeasure in the stiffness of his frame. "I ain't sure what the high road looks like, though."

Slowly, Itzhal's helm turned away from Drego as he looked over the bar. His blue eyes gazed past the patrons minding their own business and the joy of a cup in hand and focused on those turned towards him, the weary looks of those prepared for a fight or a confrontation they might have to deal with either to intervene or get out of the firing line. Two closer to the fixer had their hands close to their thighs, the position almost casual in the way they lounged across their chairs, near enough to the release catch of their holsters without directly touching their weapons.

In response, Itzhal's hands drifted closer to his blasters, the inherent threat unspoken. "I could check on a few rumours, see how many add up and where incompetence stretches into callousness, but that doesn't really solve the problem; it just makes sure it's there to deal with later. Assuming I don't give them time to run," He paused, helm coming to a stop on Drego. "Suppose, I could walk away, but it sounds a little too much like leaving a disease to spread."

 

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"Nothing permanent without evidence," Itzhal warned before he flicked the switch on the side of his aftermarket blaster, the edges worn and rusted, though still functional enough to do the job as he lifted his blaster and fired at one of the bodyguards, their attention raised, but utterly unprepared for the speed of his draw. In a blue flare, a stun bolt slammed into the Abyssin's bloodshot eye as they stumbled forward, half out of their chair before a second bolt followed in behind, and they slumped to the ground with their hands grasping for a blaster they never even got the chance to wield.

He trusted the shell of beskar and his new ally to shrug off any new strikes as he twisted around, his other pistol aimed towards the hooded figure, their features shrouded in shadow and the dim light of the bar, now silenced after the sudden barrage of violence.

With a couple of steps, Itzhal crossed the room, sights pinned upon their target's chest as his eyes lingered upon the datapad in their hand. He fired another stun bolt the moment he was close enough to cross the distance, a quick shift of his feet bringing him close enough to scoop the device from their limp grip before they could drop it. The soft light of the screen revealed eyes that remained a single shade of black throughout, and with the tilt of his head, Itzhal noticed the shape of a rigid horn that the curve of his hood had intentionally disguised. An Advozse, if he recognised the features, though it mattered little to the Mandalorian, the only thing he needed from them was the truth.

Surrounded by tense patrons and more than one figure reaching for their own blaster, Itzhal started to scroll through the open device.

 

It was only a blink of an eye as Drego raised his own pistol, firing on one of the other bodyguards, who had been stationed near the door, and fired a particle bolt right through his head.

Gargon wasn't exactly a place of peace, but the other patrons still turned and stared. Drego didn't seem to mind, picking up his helm and putting it back on as he walked over to the fixer, his now monotone voice coming through his helm speaker.
"Looks like you're finally at the end of your robe, bub."


 

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