// Outer Rim Territories // Esstran Sector // Thurra System // Thule - Surface //
Objective: I - Breach the Ziggurat of Hurom; Collect the Relic.
Allies of Convenience: The Brotherhood of the Maw.
Enemies: The Sith Empire.
Equipment: See Biography Link in Signature.
NPC Complement: One Mandalorian Starship; The Wayward Son.
Currently Engaging: No-one; Open to Interaction.
And rear its ugly visage, Evil did.
As soon as Rynn departed the noble’s chamber, the man heard several voices barking commands in the mongrel tongue of the Sith. To his left, there was a patrol of Sith Legionnaires who were drawn to this section of the Ziggurat by an audible cacophony. Sadly, the Rally Master’s entrance wasn’t as silent as he would’ve liked. But, alas, there was nothing he could’ve done. Not unless he wanted to be struck by an errant bolt of lightning, or shot down by the forces supposedly swarming the structure’s foundations. The Gene-printed Soldiers once again shouted in their mongrel tongue, demanding his attention - or something regarding his surrender. The Mandalorian couldn’t really tell… nor did he really care either.
His response to their guttural shouts was simple. They likely threatened him with violence, but the Mandalorian? There was no threat. He threw himself into violence immediately, where his shouldered rifle was brought about and depressed the trigger. The weapon barked thrice, and two of the Legionnaires crumpled to the stone floor; smoking craters billowing from their smouldering gorgets. The others, roughly a handful, backed away from the sudden display of violence. Not out of fear, Rynn assumed, as they were likely bred to know - nor feel such terror. But, rather to take cover behind what alcoves were available to them. Unfortunately for them, such spaces were in short supply. As another trio of Sith Soldiers scrambled to get into cover, the Rally Master gunned them down with ease.
Before the stench of cauterized ozone filled his surroundings, the Sith Soldiers that had managed to duck into those aforementioned alcoves - began firing. Some were indiscriminately bathing the corridor with plasmatic hellfire, while others were seeking to display their programmed trigger discipline. The former were attempting to suppress the Mandalorian, to drive him back into cover and allow their comrades the chance to move in for the kill. What they didn’t realize or expect, was that the Rally Master’s armour safeguarded him from their plasmatic ferocity. Blaster bolts struck his beskar-reinforced plates with an audible twang, chipping the enamel paint that gave the wargear it’s crimson hue. There were even a few stray rounds that clipped the soft, connective armour beneath the armour plating - but through a combination of de-ionizing metallics and ceramics - Rynn didn’t feel a thing.
He advanced under fire - a feat which caused many of the Sith soldiers to question their engagement. It was clear that they never faced a true son of Mandalore before. They were likely more attuned to fighting those that didn’t embrace the warrior’s path, and those that were forced to pick up a blaster to defend their home. Fighting farmers and artists was considerably easier by comparison, as emotion drove their actions and they weren’t protected by their treasured beskar armour. Some of the Sith soldiers elected to remove themselves from cover in an attempt to fall back to a more secure position. As soon as they revealed themselves to the Rally Master, they too were gunned down.
There were some that held the honour of dying where they stood, their lifeless corpses leaning against the stonewrought corridor. Then, there were others that were shot in the back. While a select few within the Mandalorian Clans would cite shooting an opponent in the back was dishonourable, many would praise his merciless nature against the faceless minions of the Sith and their crumbling Empire. They were naught but cowards, who couldn’t stand their ground against a true Scion of Mandalore, and who took part in the genocide of innocent farmers and artists. They didn’t deserve an honourable death. Not after what happened to his people, and his ancestral homeland thereafter. Thus, Rynn felt nothing but contempt as his rifle swept between exposed targets.
The only honour they deserved was being a feast for the crows.
As the patrol’s numbers began to slowly dwindle, the survivors rushed forward. They knew that their lives were measured in seconds, as their weapons weren’t having any effect and the Mandalorian was too close for them to use grenades. So, they wagered that this Warrior couldn’t take them all, if they rushed him with blades drawn. But, in their haste - they forgot their surroundings, and how tight the corridor was. Two of the soldiers collided against one another as they scrambled out of their alcoves, with a third pinning them both in place. They were momentarily stuck, in the open, against a well-armed opponent. It didn’t take them long to realize that they had just severed their own mortal coil.
With a small chuckle bubbling within his breast, the Rally Master twisted his now extended vambrace and activated his wrist-mounted flamethrower. The weapon roared as a gout of caustic propellant ignited, bathing the trio of Sith troopers in an incandescent burst of flame. They screamed, then, as the fire ate away at their protective attire and tore into the gene-printed flesh beneath. Their gauntlets ripped at their armour as they tried to free themselves from the oppressive heat that cooked them alive. Sadly, their instinctual efforts to survive were all for naught - as they collapsed to the floor mere moments later.
Only a single trooper remained, now. They had taken shelter within their alcove, and remained there, as their gene-printed kin were slaughtered. While Rynn would believe that the terror of his martial ferocity gripped the Soldier’s heart, such a belief couldn’t have been further from the truth. This soldier was more experienced than the others, and knew that in waiting patiently, there was a chance they could land the killing blow. With the enemy believing that they were scared, or wounded, their guard would be lowered - giving them the opportunity to prey upon their would-be killer.
The Soldier drew their knife and kept it close to his breastplate, knowing that there wouldn’t be much room to make the killing thrust. It had to be quick, thus the edged weapon needed to be kept close. As the sounds of the Mandalorian’s boots kissing the stonewrought floor drew ever-closer, the Trooper readied themselves to act. Their breathing was shallow, and their muscles taut. They were ready to act. When the smouldering, crimson-hued shadow revealed itself, the Trooper threw themselves from the alcove and plunged-
The barrel of Rynn’s rifle smashed aside the knife with ease, before cannoning his freed hand - now enclosed into a fist - into the Trooper’s breastplate. The synthetic augmentations that came from several periods of technological advancement, which formed the basis of Mandalorian Crushgaunts, crumpled the forge-pressed plate like it was made of paper. The sheer kinetic force that came from the seemingly tender moment of connection, threw the Sith trooper back against the wall. Their balance was gone, and so too the grip they had on their knife. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rynn followed through on his momentum. He carelessly threw his rifle aside and began cannoning one enhanced fist after the other into the defenceless Soldier, rending armour and flesh into a pulped mass that painted the carved stones below.
The sensation that freely flowed throughout the Mandalorian’s veins was the purest expression of the most primal of sentient emotions. Rage. He hated the Sith for what they did to his people. And he hated this Trooper even more for believing that they could fell him with nothing more than a knife. What did the Soldier think they would achieve? That the tides of Fortune would smile down upon them, and that the Mandalorian - who easily slaughtered their companions with every stride - would be taken down by a lucky strike? How foolish.
As the stone’s began to crack beneath the onslaught, Rynn slowly began to exercise a modicum of control. He couldn’t become like them. The Sith were slaves to their emotions, but arrogant enough to believe they were their own masters. If he gave into his rage, rather than siphoning it’s strength, who knows what would’ve happened to the Rally Master. Would he too become nothing more than a Slave to his own Darkness? Or would he become nothing more than a mindless, frothing berserker with a desire to fulfill the infinite thirst of some laughing, spiteful apparition?
That was when the fiery sensation within his gut began to subside, and the red-haze that stole his sight slowly faded. He saw what his anger had wrought, and felt the slightest tinge of shame spear through his heart. Rynn had never lost control before. Even when facing down a veritable Horde of Sithspawn, the man’s mind was cool and collected. But, here and now? The Mandalorian was at a loss. Was it because of the Ziggurat and the vile aura that bathed their surroundings? Or perhaps it was the radiant energies from the countless battles that transpired between the Sorcerous Sith nearby? He couldn’t tell. The mission was all that mattered now. He needed to gather his thoughts and refocus on the task at hand.
There would be another time for him to reflect on what transpired here.
Shaking the gelatinous pulp that clung to his gauntlets, Rynn recovered his particle rifle. He quickly scanned the weapon to assess it’s status. With a small grunt of satisfaction, the Mandalorian pulled the spent plasma cartridge from it’s housing and slammed a fresh one in its place. Now rearmed, and ready for the next encounter - the Rally Master silently pressed on towards his goal. Other patrols had likely heard the firefight and were likely to engage him as the Warrior advanced through the Ziggurat. Thus, the Crimson-hued Warrior did all they could to keep themselves focused, and ignored the seeds of rage sprouting within the depths of his subconscious mind.
Zachariel Steelblood
