Legacy of a Murderer: Blood and Honor...

[Julius Sedaire]

As the blades slid against one another, he would have expected there to be sparks from the force of the hit. He grunted, unable to match the opponents strength, and so dipped into the other man and rolled inside the reach of his beskad. It was a short ranged weapon anyway, and what perplexed the Jedi and Sith was how it was used, not anything to do with the beskar really. But Ijaat had been given one in his hand, and trained to use it, since he was close to 8 winters old. Beyond that, if there was a culture famous for fighting, or smithing, he had tried to study of or under them. War was his provenance, and in the contest of blades in particular, he still could fight well.

As he shoulder checked the other hard in the ribs just below the armpit, he lifted the gun held in that same side, aiming a series of blasts at his opponent whilst he locked his sword close and parallel to his body, to ward any disarmament. Unable to really land a solid shot, or do much, he reared back and pushed, kicking the other in the knee with as much oomph as he could summon. The blow hit with a satisfying crunch. It wouldn't break anything, but the knee would be sore, likely causing a limp, and so he stepped back into a mid-guard, blade out and curved ahead of him in one hand, pistol resting atop of it with both about eye height, his sight narrowed at his opponent.

"Come then, if you have courage.. Kyr'stad..."

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Courage he had, apparently, as the man advanced with a growl, the face contorted in a glare. Maybe one of his blaster shots hadn't hit that annoying side plate on the armor. It was an ablative feature that had gone out of style shortly after the Gulag Plague died down and war became less hurly burly. Still, a good feature if one thought of it. It stopped some of the nastier tricks a Mandalorian could do in close. Which meant this sha'buiir fought his brothers and sisters more than Ijaat liked to think of. And so, as the other raised in a hack downward at the vulnerable curve of his neck, he stepped again, using the training he had on Adumar to spin to the side, the Ooglith burning with his muscles to speed his reaction, and empty the cell of energy on the pistol, aiming at the same knee as before.

With that done, he hurled the pistol in a short whipping motion at the opponents back, scrambling to turn his guard to face the man whose beskad sliced into his outer thigh. The pain seared a bit, but the biot worked like armor, helping dull the sensation and prevent much more than a deep cut. Certainly not the near dismemberment it might have caused. This seemed to surprise the opponent, who even at this point remained silent. He eyed the aging aliit'buir for a moment, spitting to the side, before turning and just simply leaving, Ijaat went to give chase, but there were more of the others' men outside the room, and he could see now a slick of blood on the others side. He had injured the other veteran, and the opponent was turning tail to run. But the prize was his now, at least.

Just as soon as he helped these poor sods who had followed him out. Grabbing his rifle from it's sling, he clicked it to full auto and set to work.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Brrrrrrtttt...Pause. Sight and aim. Squeeze trigger. Bbbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrrtttttttttttt....

Projectiles from the Shacklebolt flew through the air, slamming into bodies and shredding them. With a quickness, he was forming a one man rally squad. A wedge, pulling tables and boxes and crates around themselves, with him at the point. His targets would be lit red from the micro-droid 'painting' them a moment before he unleashed an armor-piercing hell on them. And quickly, he was realizing, the Rangers he had picked up along the way in were following his lead and target, shredding them or keeping nearby Kyr'stad from picking him off as he stood to fire. Almost it brought back memories, and almost it made him smile. In the end, it did, as he slammed a full fresh drum into the weapon and stood, cackling like mad as the rifle blew through it's full ammo count in mere moments, chasing out the stragglers.

Swinging quickly, he let the rifle fall on it's sling, and sheathed his sword. He walked over to pick up his pistol and examine it for a moment before re-holstering it. Thank the Manda it was alright. But as he turned to the crate he stopped dead in his tracks when his eyes saw what was in it. There was no doubt, as soon as he saw the pauldron, that his directions had been right. Gleaming in the light of the room, which was missing a few beams due to the firefight within it, was a set of positively ancient beskar'gam. And he meant ancient by todays standards. And the symbol on it was the same as the one his old gear had borne. One that filled him with memories of his father, and the tales he would tell. And the paint scheme... Red and burnished bare metal beskar, a high purity type with a silvery tint. The metal itself could probably near stand up to a damned turbolaser. Now, the one wearing it would die, for sure... But not the armor.

The yellow chevrons, horizontal around the chest diamond, sealed it. That symbol was his and his alone in a way. A battered hand reached out and ran finger-tips along it. So long he had heard stories of this armor, or more importantly the man behind it. For so long he had been read the tales of the True Mandalorians, taught their ideals, and lived by them. Not always the best, but no man was perfect. In the end, he was shocked to stillness, and lost in memory. There was likely wires to replace, systems to update so they would function with the new technology of the age... But this was a symbol, a relic of his people. Now that he knew it existed still, he would do his utter best to make it so that it would be able to answer the call of war, should it come...