Carduul didn’t know much of the Ten Thousand Fists, or why they carried a blood feud as Hakon put it. The time of the Mandalorian Exiles was but a footnote in history, the ten or so years of Gilamar Skirata as Mand’alor between the fall and return of Ra Vizsla - he couldn’t remember
every tidbit off the top of his head. All he needed to know today, however, was that they were in the way of the Mando’ade. Along with the rest of the threats they were engaging with.
Insurmountable odds.
Just the way it should be.
<“Understood. Keep me advised on any additional changes - it seems this gamble is going to be our best shot, now.”> He relayed over the helmet comms in reply, words inflecting a steeling resolve.
They didn’t have a regular supply of Disruptors to deal with a
Gen’dai, let alone many. Blast, where was Trajan when you needed him?
Nonetheless, as his squadron took up their positions, those with jetpack rockets set up on the buildings, and his own group - the one bearing extra weapons to be given to prospective new recruits - prepared to make an appetizing bait for the Walkers. A breath inwards, then outwards, as he stared down the alleyway that would lead to the Slave Pens. Compared to the rest of the city, it didn't have nearly as much cover, perhaps as a safeguard against escaping slaves.
“These hut’uuns have more hardware than we thought, but they’ve no idea how to use it!” He decreed, with a raise of his fist into the air,
“Let’s show the aruetiise how!”
His jetpack ignited in a trail of flame behind him. A cacophony followed, practiced and unified, as the rest followed his lead.
“ATROAN, MANDO’ADE!”
The Rally Master’s visor tilted sidelong, gauging the distance of the approaching AT-AT’s. Reacting to the sudden charge, a driver adjusted the AT-AT’s guns and movement to intercept. They must think they have it easy, sitting comfortably in an iron behemoth above it all. Another pair of thunderous
BOOMS, as the massive blaster fire hit just below them. Flight paths wobbled, and the shockwave knocked one out of the air just as they pushed off.
Just a bit further…
<“Aerial strike team, move now!”> He ordered with urgency, as he closed the gap to his own destination. Behind him, his orders were carried out, and he was forced to push doubt from his mind to focus on his own task. He had to trust in the men and women who had followed him to war, trust in those who had looked upon them and saw fit to join in their sacred task.
He had arrived at the outlying ring of slave pens with a roar of thunderous fire and fury, wasting no time with the new additions to the fray that would be bearing down upon him shortly. From above, his heavy blaster paired with the rest of his squad’s weaponry laid down a firestorm of destruction below to clear the path during their descent. He had to work fast, for the Fists will no doubt be upon all of them soon.
The guards were the first to go. The seeds of revolt had been planted long before he had ever arrived - all it took was a heavy blaster shot to a Gamorrean jailor before the powder keg went off. The slaves knew they didn’t have a lot of options, and there was no better time than the present to take their shot for freedom. The Rally Master landed with the rest as a blaster bolt hit him in the shoulder with a jolt through his body. A grit of his teeth as he gunned down the offending party, and called out for all to hear;
“This is no place to rot, aruetiise;” A spare blaster pistol was tossed over to the closest one amidst the unfolding skirmish. Several others of his Preservers obliged - they were not ones to send potential warriors into the meat-grinder.
“Claim thy places amidst us in this battle, and join the Mando’ade! Or run as a coward, remain a being to be trampled underfoot forevermore.”
Behind Carduul, the first AT-AT had drawn just close enough to make this feasible, while the other had carved its way to the opposing flank in order to make space for a counterattack. One would suffice for their purpose. The Rally Master was far and away now, off to bring more into their culture. Their way.
Garrus Bralor was crouched down, peering from behind the lip of a building’s top, opposing which another squad waited with the same intent. Then he heard the crackle of the order come through.
“OYA!” He shouted, being the first to climb up the lip, and dive off like a swimmer would into a pool. Moments later, that tell-tale sound of ignition heralded his rise, and the rest of this suddenly-formed strike team had begun their first task.
It’d been some time since he’d felt that wondrous feeling of rising from the ground, like the weight of the world had been lifted. He twisted in the air like a shriek-hawk would, narrowly avoiding the sudden swivel of the lighter laser cannons on the side of the behemoth’s head - a massive red blaster bolt narrowly passing in front of his body that would’ve engulfed him whole. Instead, it wreaked havoc on the troops below, who were ardently covering their foray before the enemy realized what was happening. The driver themself was reacting, but the lumbering hunk of steel could only do so much. Like prey, being encircled by predators.
He was enjoying this crusade more than he would’ve thought. Or perhaps it was a sense of purpose that fueled him? No time to ruminate. A moment later, he would be on top of it - and his Rally Master's gamble would be put to the test.
