Skirmish Reclamation | Encounter on Mandalore

[SCAR]

Tor’r Tal’Verda | Death’s Hand
SEARCH For the Crown
Khamul Kryze | Kralmus Orr | Arron Starstrider
Vs.
Sons of Mandalore

Mandalore. Manda’yaim in the tongue of their people.
​

Their search had brought them here. To home. What was left of it anyway, it was a smoldering rock carved up and bombed more times than any alive cared to remember. By now, Mandalore shared more in common with Korriban than nearly any other world. It was a ceremonial graveyard, only weak minded fools continued to go back thinking they could restore her.

She’s dead. Let her rest.

It was time for the Children of Mandalore to return to their ancestral roots, to shake off the shackles of the past, to purge the weakness that lay within their numbers. To walk the Way of the Mandalore one must be predator and prey, there was no better personification than the great Khamul Kryze , Sith Master among the triumphant New Sith Order and foremost a Mandalorian through and through. He held to the ancient ways of their honorable ancestors, to the nomadic warrior roots that coursed through their veins.

Long ago the Mandalorians held the galaxy by the throat. Over the ages they waged wars that crippled empires and republics alike, striking fear and respect into the beating heart of the galaxy itself. They fought Jedi and Sith, brought down bunkers, glassed cities, and conquered the best warriors the galaxy had ever seen. It all came to a end with the final hammer blow to Mandalore and the Sith Empire’s retribution.

Scattered.

Divided.

They could not rebuild what had been lost, constantly shifting between galactic powers in an effort to restore their once glorious home.

Their efforts had been misguided, weak.

They called him Dar’Manda, they knew nothing. Khamul Kryze was one of the few who had stayed true to their roots. Working tirelessly to restore the honor of the Mandalorian people and through the fires of tribulation mastered the powers of the Dark Side, taking the secrets of the Sith as his own. Walking in the footsteps of Tarre Vizsla, their mighty lord corrected the error of Tarre’s Jedi past. The New Sith and their dogma of purity, survival, and dog eat dog merely made more sense, blending into the already hardened Mandalorian tenets.

It was he who convinced Tor’r to abandon his former path among his brothers in Clan Tal’Verda. It was he who showed him the light, the path to restoring the Mandalorian Warrior lineage. A path that had to be paved in blood. In much the same manner the New Sith Order came to be, the Mandalorians would have to suffer a culling of their own and be reborn in the fires of adversity.

It was the only way.

After nearly a year of searching the cold trail of the Dar’Manda filth once under the lash of the Sith Empire, Death’s Hand, the body of True Mandalorians who followed their future Mand’alor Khamul, finally found a lead. A trail that took them from the hazards of Dathomir to the jungles of Dxun and finally to the arid sands of Mandalore herself.

Tor’r stood over the kneeled body of a bloodied Dar’Manda before him, his crushgaunt stained by the scarlet fluids leaking from the filth at his feet. The warrior, if one could call him that, was one of the few left that once served the Emperor Emeritus and his oppressive reign. On the run, starving, isolated, and now trapped like a rat. He’d expected his last moments to be at the end of a New Imperial execution line, instead he had unluckily run into the emergent Death’s Hand.

“You are the last one, chakaar. Hand over the mask’s location and I’ll end your suffering here and now. You still have plenty of bones left, I’d hate to be here all night.”

​

 

[Trajan Fett]

BROKEN STEEL
SONS OF MANDALORE
THE OATHSWORN
Beskar'gam | Main Weapon | Side-Arm | Melee
MANDALORIANS | OPEN
MAWDALORIANS | Khamul Kryze | SCAR | Kralmus Orr | Arron Starstrider

DARK AVENGER
MANDALORE '70
​

Manda'yaim. For years, since Volker was a wide eyed teenage neophyte of The Mandalorian Way beneath the tutelage of Trajan Kurze, they'd vaunted Mandalore as home. As the place of their vindication. When they eventually reached this place, it was nothing but ashen wastes, scraped clean of what made it a proud home by the Sith and defiled by Graug, Blackwing. It was a sorrowful event when the Sons of Mandalore wrought vast swathes of its surface to glass, marring their very mother world in the fires of retribution. Ultimately, it was for the best of them all. To lay her to rest and stand watch in ode to what she gave unto their people so that they could rebuild in her shadow on Concordia and Concord Dawn.

But she would not go undisturbed for long. Just as there were the Mandalorians who sought the scalps of the Sith who would see them wiped clean from the face of history, there were those who joined in allegiance with them. They had to be brought to the sword. He tracked them down to Nirauan, they were present on the field when the Maw scorched that world. The Thunder Volker was, he managed to isolate their emissions and hyperlight signatures, keeping them pinned on the commscan registry of his vessel until they crossed the border of Imperial space once more.

There he found them, Mandalore.

Dropping just out of range of their scanners, Volker took the Oathsworn down to the scorched surface aboard a Mandalorian dropship, letting the troop bay pry open with its hydraulic screech before revealing its payload. Volker flanked by two other Mandalorian supercommandos hoisted themselves atop their swoop bikes.

<"We're got our lead, keep it honed in your scanners. It's time to hunt."> Volker said, revving the engines of his swoop bike with a violent roar before kicking it into gear and flooring in the direction of the Mawite Mandalorian landing.

It was time to hunt...time to kill.

 

[Caeos Prahl]

Ecstasy of Gold
Sons Of Mandalore
Beskar'gam // Arm // Main Hand // Secondary // Melee I // Melee II
SoM: Trajan Fett
MaW: Khamul Kryze SCAR Kralmus Orr Arron Starstrider

​

The woman supposed the homeworld had meant everything and nothing in one fell swoop, a last breath of life that led to this empty triumph held in spirit. The oral history passed down clan and clave, so the light might not flicker out. The great ideology scores of men and women claimed to belong to-Manda'yaim. It was the title, to challenge and to be challenged-

Caeos had been there when they had began the aerial bombings a decade prior, a scared wide-eye child witness as the mother land was reduced to a monument of debris and glass. It had been too long and for they themselves the people who had stood too disjointed. They had failed to unite and now they could only salute the dead. But spanning from ground zero-branching out forth across the galaxy, life, it persisted.

Trouble and the machinations of Sith remnants seldom faltered either, lithe hands locked in the power cells on both pistols alike at the thought. The woman shoved each weapon unceremoniously into her belt as she stood, the bitter and damned chose them over the people. Traitors who had willingly gone to bed with the son of banthas. It riled her up like any other. Maybe it had been based on a favor for favor or the shreds of trust, visor landing on the back of the young man-catcher. Caeos still hated the cut of the armor, but it would never be her place to say-let him die, let him rest.

Volker Fett, she had met him a whilst a young man and now..he had changed.

She had been found too late by some’s standard, but the woman appreciated and criticized The Way with an outside perspective-never uttering a word out loud but there was a sickness in grief that drove their people to revenge. She hadn’t seen the clandestine hunter in how long now? Yet she could hardly refuse the call to arms. It was the only way in, her own teeth were dulled by craft and it was not the Verd’s way. They all were obligated to put one more traitor down for the next warrior to rise, to accept the challenge as it was.

The offload ramp flashed, hydraulics screeching over the auditory receptors and Caeos rose to fall in behind the party wordlessly. She knew some of them in passing and trusted their strength-Dragr if she remembered right. She strained then staring past their armored forms-she hadn't know what she expected but the gray world revealed before them... It pierced her with a stark absence, shards of sand and blacken dust were all that was left. The woman rolled her shoulder wordlessly the steady click of the cybernetic weighty still. Reminding her to tread dangerously. She cloistered herself on the rear bike, firing it up in a single kick. She tilted her visor to check her vambrace, the small radar embedded amongst the tools of the trade populated. Revving the engine insistently as the others peeled out, Caeos lurched forward on the bike-tearing over the waste as they prowled on the hunt. The woman pressed hard on the throttle, wind whipped up shards of glass pelting them as they raced over the open ground-the faintest clink resounding as the particles shattered against metal. The woman kept her visor low, pulling her bike forward to match Volker’s bike-thumb fluttering over the throttle.

<”Just like old times,”> Caeos mused hollowly, on the line.

 

[Kralmus Orr]

Location: Mandalore, Desolate Wastes
Allies: Khamul Kryze | SCAR | Arron Starstrider
Foes: Trajan Fett | Caeos Prahl

​

Mandalore. What a chit-hole.

Kralmus Orr stood atop a greyish, irradiated dune, another of the endless hills of dust that covered the ruined homeworld of his ancestors. He knew just how to spread his weight so that his beskar boots didn't sink into the sand, and just which way to turn so that the scouring winds - thick with stinging grit - didn't cloud his vision. This place, this wretched corpse of a planet, had been his home for so many years. He had watched this world die while his people made their lofty proclamations about restoring their heritage, over and over - and then immediately fell to infighting every time. Mandalorians had been enemies to Jedi and Sith, Republics and Empires...

... but the worst enemy of the Mandalorians always seemed to be other Mandalorians.

"Damn the Mandalorians," Kralmus chuckled to himself, "they ruined Mandalore!" It wasn't strictly true, of course; it had been others who'd dropped the bombs and unleashed the Sithspawn. But it had been their perpetual infighting that had really brought about their downfall, shattering Crusaders and Unions and Empires alike. Kralmus himself didn't particularly care about any of it. To him, this world was meaningless as anything except his own personal crucible, the place where he had been forged into an apex predator. The fools planting trees in these wastelands, trying to eke out a little life amid the endless death, only made him laugh.

Real Mandalorians were warriors. If their world was destroyed, they'd go out and take a new one.

Kralmus didn't really care about this mask they were chasing, either. Any warrior who followed a warlord because he wore some dead man's dusty helmet was, in his mind, a sentimental idiot. He supposed he understood the power of symbols; he just considered himself above them, valuing strength and deeds over words and old bits of metal. But if his people had decided to be sheep, only willing to follow a shepherd who bore the trappings of their old ways, then the best shepherd was Khamul Kryze. He would teach them to be conquerors again, to embrace the part of their heritage that actually mattered: that their ancestors had ravaged the galaxy.

And so would they, "honor" be damned. They were killers, not backwater primitives bound by ceremony.

But first Kryze had to get the other Mandalorians - those poor fools who had lost their way, embracing all the wrong parts of their warrior culture - to follow his way. For the time of crusades and conquest and glorious bloodshed to begin again, Kryze had to become Mand'alor... and if that meant digging up this mask he wanted, well, Kralmus would go along for the ride. He was getting bored, though. The search had been long and tiresome, with far less slaughter than he would have preferred. He hungered for the sweet meat of the slain, flavored with their terror, and he had seen far too few opportunities to indulge himself of late. Disappointing.

They were supposed to be cutting through these pointless traditions, not lowering themselves to respecting them.

"You're wasting perfectly good meat," Kralmus complained, fed up with the slow interrogation of the last surviving Dar'manda. He gestured at Tor'r's crushgaunt, stained crimson after squeezing the poor wretch's bones to powder one at a time. "Squashing him like that, you'll get bone fragments all through the flesh. I'll stab my mouth trying to eat it. And it'll taste gritty." Walking down the hill of sand, he crouched beside the tormented warrior, leering at him through the visor. The dust where he lay was crusted red; he wasn't long for this galaxy with that amount of blood lost. "Here, we'll flay him in strips. If he'll tell us nothing, he can still be useful as jerky."

Humming a jaunty but off-key melody, the cannibal Mandalorian produced a very sharp knife from his belt. He was an experienced butcher, more than capable of making cuts so quick and clean the man would hardly feel them before he bled out... but equally capable of slicing slowly, sawing back and forth, making every instant into howling, white-hot agony for his victim. He liked to get his meat that way, flavored and shaped by the last desperate mewling and thrashing of the flesh-sack it'd come from. But as he bent down, ready to begin, he suddenly cocked his head. Ears honed by survival on these very plains had picked something up. Something faint.

Repulsorlift engines, or just a trick of the wind? It was too early to tell for sure.

 

[Khamul Kryze]

Allies: SCAR , Arron Starstrider , Kralmus Orr

Enemies: Trajan Fett , Caeos Prahl

Loadout: Mandalore's Lament, Regret, beskar'gam

Theme

Mandalore, the once proud home of the Mandalorians, had been reduced to little more than a wasteland. The countless, brutal attacks upon the world had brought the once great jewel to rubble, a true testament to how far the Mandalorians had fallen. Khamul hadn't seen his homeworld since he was a child... since he had been found by the Sith. So many years spent away, planning, waiting... and yet, somehow, the return to the planet felt somewhat hollow. Perhaps Mandalore was never meant to be their home. The Mandalorians were nomads, once, bound by a way of life that seemed to have been long forgotten. Khamul had wanted to bring his people back to that time, to a place of true strength and power. He wanted the galaxy to remember why they once feared his mighty people. He wanted them to tremble at the very mention of the Mandalorians. In order to accomplish this, however, sacrifices would have to be made.

The Hellhound of Mandalore stood next to his faithful follower Tor'r as he questioned the pathetic excuse of a Mandalorian before them. The man had had the misfortune of being present at the time of their arrival, a stroke of bad luck that would continue until his final moments. Khamul eyed their other companion; the vicious Kralmus Orr. He had recently joined the fold, and had since proved himself to be a true Mandalorian. Though Khamul didn't share his taste for the flesh of the fallen, he understood the practice. Consuming one's enemy was the ultimate victory, the final show of superiority to those that had fallen before your blade. Others had turned him away for his barbarism, but Khamul welcomed it with open arms.

The true way of the Mandalorian was to be a predator, and Death's Hand would usher in a newfound sense of keen predatory dominance among the stars.

As they continued their discussion of what to do with the Dar'manda before them, Khamul felt a shift in the air. He reached out through the darkness, seeking the source of the change. His masked gaze fell upon the horizon, and his hand slowly reached for the hilt of his blade.

"Looks like your time is running out. We'll have company soon. If you don't give us the mask's location by the time they arrive, I'll let my vod have their way with you."

He was lying, of course. Even if this wretch gave them the information they sought, his fate would be the same.

 

[Siv Dragr]

D A R ' M A N D A

Objective: Assist Sons of Mandalore
Allies: Trajan Fett | Caeos Prahl
Enemies: Khamul Kryze | SCAR | Arron Starstrider | Kralmus Orr

Siv Dragr was a bounty hunter, not a soldier.

It had been the way of his clan for centuries, eschewing the politics, crusading, and interfighting between various Mandalorian factions to instead sell their services to the highest bidder, bringing credits and honor to the Clan. In its waning years, it had been how Clan Dragr had survived extinction. But that had not been enough to survive the Sith massacre.

Now Siv was the last remaining member of his clan, of his people. With his death, Clan Dragr would end. That morose thought weighed heavily on his minds as of late, as rumors of surviving Clan members turned out to only be false reports and dead end. More and more, he felt consumed only by one purpose: to shed as much Sith blood before his inevitable end, to make them pay for what they had done.

And if there was one thing that disgusted him more than Sith? It was the dar'manda who served them as slaves. The blood traitors to their people who had helped in subjugating their own kind. Just as the Sith would find no mercy from Siv's blaster, neither would the so-called 'Mandalorians' who served them. So when the mission debrief had come in from their cousins in the New Imperial Order, Siv Dragr had been the first to volunteer.

The speederbike hummed as it sped along the dust of Mandalore, the broken shell of what it had been. Siv's memories of the world before the Sith were faint, but even then it had been no paradise. But it had also been home, the only home he'd ever known before everything had been taken away from him. Since then, the only times he had deigned to set foot on its cursed soil had been to fight the Sith, and this time was no different. Though, this time would be the first that he wasn't alone.

The Sons of Mandalore, they were called. That, or they had been reorganized into the New Imperial Military proper; Siv wasn't concerned by what name they called themselves. So long as they followed the Resol'nare, Mandalorian was Mandalorian, and Mandalorian was kin. He didn't know them, but he trusted them as much as any Mandalorian in the Enclave. Which wasn't much, given his trust issues, but it was more then what was afforded to anyone else. And to say that he knew none of them would be a lie, for he recognized the Clan Prahl signet on the pauldron of one of the speeder bike riders. Memories of a youngling with a kal dagger to his throat flashed through his mind, but he ignored it as he pulled up his speeder bike to adjacent that of Volker Fett, the New Imperial commander of the operation.

"I have been instructed to bring one individual alive to Kestri for questioning," he mentioned over the comms line, the noise of their travel to loud to allow for normal conversation. "But if what is said about this. . . Death's Hand is true, then let the souls of the rest who die today never find peace in the Manda." It was a rather religious proclamation for Siv, who for the most part didn't believe anymore in the prattlings of the shamans in the streets of Tor Valum.

But religious or not, he would ensure that these traitors would find no peace, in this life or the next.

​

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[SCAR]

Tor’r Tal’Verda | Death’s Hand
SEARCH For the Crown
Khamul Kryze | Kralmus Orr | Arron Starstrider
Vs.
Trajan Fett | Siv Dragr | Caeos Prahl

“Your desire to satisfy your sick appetite over your honor is a shame Kralmus. But. You have a point, this filth isn’t worth the trouble.”

Tor’r stepped away with disregard, detaching from the Dar’Manda as Kralmus Orr brandished a butcher’s blade from his person, a knife meant for carving flesh from bone. He knelt down beside the half-dead traitor who mumbled in protest tiredly before the cannibal’s attention faltered.

Repulsorlift engines, speeders of some sort he imagined. Tor’r tilted his head off in the direction of the distant sounds, he had heard the ambient noises amidst the arid winds as well. The Hellhound of Mandalore himself addressed the issue, confirming their thoughts.

“Looks like your time is running out. We'll have company soon. If you don't give us the mask's location by the time they arrive, I'll let my vod have their way with you.”

Tor’r shifted his stance and looked onward as the speeder bikes approached, kicking up sand and debris from the glassed desert. The Mandalorian warrior began a slow stride off toward the looming inevitability of battle, he knew not who they were or what their doings were, but they weren’t Death’s Hand. They weren’t one of them.

Interlopers.

“I’ll welcome our guests.”

W O L F​

The Tal’Verda snapped out his right arm in a extended out manner, four wrist rockets popping their heads out from their launch tubes as the Mandalorian’s gaze scanned their contents.

It’ll do.

The sounds of the brazing speeder bikes grew louder and louder, the sonic scream of their engines becoming a method of determining their distance as he guesstimated their speed and arrival. With his left hand the Beserker threw his cloak over his shoulder, revealing his jet pack, bending to one knee the Mandalorian sprung off the scorched earth and spirited himself into the air.

Boom.

The Mandalorian torched off into the air, a roaring thunder expelled from his jet pack as he soared off into the direction of the approaching newcomers. Plumbs of smoke, ash and a long trail of exhaust signaled his departure and sudden approach towards the interlopers.

Click click click click

The sudden electronic sounds of four wrist rockets being deployed was followed by the screaming launch of the wrist launched missiles proper. He aimed ahead of their positions by a short margin, enough to rock their bikes off course or send them flying off if precautions weren’t taken or evasive maneuvers.

​

 

[Trajan Fett]

BROKEN STEEL
SONS OF MANDALORE
THE OATHSWORN
Beskar'gam | Main Weapon | Side-Arm | Melee
MANDALORIANS | Caeos Prahl | Siv Dragr
MAWDALORIANS | Khamul Kryze | SCAR | Kralmus Orr | Arron Starstrider

THEM BONES
MANDALORE '70
​

He didn't offer a word to either of the others. Not that he was a man of many anyways. Caeos might've known him otherwise in his youth, ever curious, ever eager. That innocence had been crucified on Helgard, left for the birds to pick at it until it withered into nothing in the waning days of the war. He joined the illustrious line of killers and hunters that came before him. He would be one with them in the bloodshed.

Perhaps not the demeanor Caeos had been used to, like old times, but that was what this brutal Galaxy tended to chew up and spit out.

<"If you want one alive that'll be up to you, Dragr. I don't take prisoners."> He responded in short notice to the Enclave Mandalorian. The Sons of Mandalore were a creed as brutal as any other, taking more from Canderous Ordo and the Neo-Crusaders of old more than anything else.

These Sith sycophants would be the next in his crosshairs as they veered off in metal fury in the direction of the Dar'Manda expedition. His movement and lifeform sensors were ringing to life with their presence as they closed in. Volker twisted the controls to floor it ahead of the pack in the hopes of unfurling whatever devious ambush was in store for them.

One of them came to meet him first and directly, springing up in his jetpack from the choking arid surface with his jetpack before firing a pack of missiles toward the group. Volker jetted his own pack, pulling himself from the seat of his swoop bike before he saw jagged metal shatter and fly off in every direction at the impact of the missile into his hull. He aimed down the sight of his vambrace before firing his grappling cord in the direction of the Dar'manda before sending a shock through the line in the hopes of stunning him and sending him toward the broken ground beneath.

He peered down the T-visor, the visage of death the Mandalorian held and sought to close the gap between them with a pulse from his jetpack before reaching for the concealed hilt of his vibrosword, snapping the cross guard and longsword styled blade out with a violent shriek of metal before he lunged it toward the Mandalorian. If he was going to kill him, any of them, it would be by the might of his hands against theirs. There would be no faltering, no second-guessing who was the greater of them. Just as Trajan did, he went head first into the raging fray of battle.

 

[Caeos Prahl]

Ecstasy of Gold
Sons Of Mandalore
Beskar'gam // Arm // Main Hand // Secondary // Melee I // Melee II
SoM: Trajan Fett Siv Dragr
MaW: Khamul Kryze SCAR Kralmus Orr Arron Starstrider

​

The wind was relentless and the shred of glass upon the small bike window was unsettling, repulsors drowned out the greater part of the radio static and Caeos waited still. She had been the little girl who drove to fill that silence but they both had changed seemingly. Caeos swallowed bitterly, the leather her gauntlet creaking as she revved the engines louder as the man did not respond. Not even a simple grunt, there was little worth in words it seemed. Volker had adopted all the negative traits of the former Bounty Hunter himself. Quietness was something she remembered well about him but not the cold thing left in his place-it didn’t help that it still stung. The corner of her mouth fell further, unseen as her visor drifted to the endless sea of grey awash in the wind storm as their roving band ate off the distance across the void land.

It wasn’t personal but she still mourned quietly, both the man gone and the boy.

<”If we can manage it Dragr, I will try to assist you..but it might be for the best to put the most brazen down-”> Caeos spoke up again, words forced, somewhere on the edge of the blade-catching the tail ends of their exchange. She wondered what the Enclave hoped the achieve from one man alive.

Someone would call it concessions or pointless to reign one in, a Mandalorian prisoner? That was far more dangerous than any wild animal, a faint smile though short lived graced her lips. The steady beeping on the radar lost on her, her wrist flashing as the life signatures glowed in a neon red-stuck in thought, her helm scanning what little horizon they could make out. When Volker’s bike took the lead; stirring up a cloud of glass. Caeos didn’t hesitate to throw her weight forward to follow him on instinct, they had been each other's shadows once upon a time. The flares in the squallor shedding a terrible light over head-

That was her first mistake, audio receptors screaming with alarms. The whistle of the rockets sung briefly for the inevitable impact and Caeos wrenched the swoop bike’s arms a side gasping. The shifting shards shook and the craft wobbled as she drifted, thrusters were useless as the edge of the bike scraped trying to maintain control on the vehicle. Fighting the weight of the bike and the sudden licking flames on her left, even as she raised her hand-she couldn’t shield herself from the explosion; singed and left her in soot.

Caeos revved the engine trying to maneuver through the series of explosions. The percussion punched through her chest, rend metal scattered just over head and the woman ducked as shrapnel flew-Volker was gone but she was more concerned with the labyrinth of hell and fire before her. Who ever was riding the sky would regret it if Volker was already on the move. Her arms jerked the handles of the bike as another missile impacted before her, visor reflecting the ignition-the flash lenses sparring her sight but all she saw was white. Gauntlets ripped from the bar. In a split second she was thrown from the back of the bike through the heat, her shoulder hitting the ground first-wind knocked from her lungs. Caeos tucked her limbs in close as she rolled out across the waste, emerging from the ambush with fire at her heels.

The woman’s golden helm rose, the scorched earth falling from her pauldrons. Caeos looked ahead through the cracks of her visor. An ache stretched her body as she heaved one arm up, wheezing. She wasn’t built for this. Caeos pushed herself to unsteady feet from the sand, grinding her teeth as she hefted an arm out-turning away from the fight in one motion. A flash of silver through the smoke sung past and she reacted-

<”Dragr!”> she yelled over the comms, knees strained as she all but launched herself onto the back of the passing speeder of their ally with little warning. Gauntlets grasped for any hold as the bike lurched, and the woman fumbled to draw-

<”Kark I dropped one of my blasters-”> her hand felt the gap on her belt, searching desperately for the weapon to only draw the Breachlight. The Armorer had been the one to put it in her hand, it was well loved and the stain of heat at the barrel spoke of its use. Still an exasperated sigh escaped her-at least it wasn’t the good one left in the dust. One hand planted on the warrior’s shoulder as she steadied herself, drawing her sights down the barrel on traitors upon the hill. The woman pulled the trigger, opening fire.

 

[Kralmus Orr]

Location: Mandalore, Desolate Wastes
Allies: Khamul Kryze | SCAR
Foes: Trajan Fett | Caeos Prahl | Siv Dragr

​

“Your desire to satisfy your sick appetite over your honor is a shame Kralmus. But. You have a point, this filth isn’t worth the trouble.”

"Why, brother, you wound me," Kralmus replied, raising a hand to his chest in mock offense. "I'm merely carrying on our people's proud tradition of not giving a chit about vermin like this. Did our ancestors wring their hands over honor when they marched the Cathar into the sea? This little wretch isn't worthy of 'honorable' treatment, but he'd make excellent sausage. Or bacon, perhaps." He hefted his butcher knife and ran his split tongue along the blade. "Mmmmm. Bacon." He did so hope that the wretch wouldn't talk. He'd kill the fool either way, of course, but they'd have no time to cook him if they had to rush off to follow his information.

And he really, really didn't care about this mask. Killing was all about the journey, not the destination.

But at that moment he heard the noise again, well-trained ears locking onto it like a hound latching onto some prey animal's thigh. It had definitely been a repulsorlift that he'd heard, which meant they would soon have company. Good. Kralmus was already terribly bored with this little interrogation. Had it not been for Khamul's aura of authority, restraining him until the information had a chance to be divulged, he would have killed the wretched prisoner already. "I'll welcome our guests," Tor'r said, and Kralmus grinned up at him. "Well, that sounds like fun," he said, replacing his horned helmet on his head. "I hope they've got more meat on their bones than this one."

Standing up from where he'd crouched beside the prisoner, the cannibal started to turn away... then snapped back, lashing out with a beskar-booted foot at the captive's left knee. Crunch. The man howled loud enough to wake the dead, writhing in agony on the barren sands, already stained with his blood. "Don't go anywhere," Kralmus told him, his voice singsong and sickly-sweet. "I'll be baaa-ack." Then he set off in pursuit of Tor'r, determined not to miss all the excitement. Who was coming, and why? He really, really didn't care. He had decided long ago that anyone who crossed his path on Mandalore was prey, and he was happy to keep that rule for this return trip.

Kralmus arrived in time to watch Tor'r take to the sky, firing off wrist rockets as he jetted upward. It was an impressive display. "Showoff," the cannibal muttered, nonplussed. But their foes were no less impressive. One of them leapt from his bike just before it exploded, firing his own jetpack to begin what looked set to be a half-aerial duel. The other stuck to her vehicle, weaving her way through the rocket explosions... mostly. The shockwave seemed to catch her at the end, pitching her from the bike. Well, surely Tor'r could handle his jetback bro. That left this one to Kralmus... and she had teeth. The cannibal dove for cover as she opened fire at where he stood on the hill.

He wouldn't have feared any ordinary blaster, but one carried by a Mandalorian might actually breach beskar.

Letting the shifting sand carry him downward, Kralmus slid to the bottom of the hill, replacing the butcher knife he'd been wielding with his two-handed axe. He'd need the full impact of his prodigious strength - and the keen edge of his beskar-bladed weapon - to pierce armor that was as strong as his own. Keeping low to the ground, he worked his way around the edge of the dune, stalking toward the position of the woman who'd shot at him. She was probably still at least a little disoriented from her crash, which would work in his favor. Nearer and nearer he drew, until he was within ten meters of her, then less. "Hello, little prey," he drawled, standing to reveal himself.

"You look... stringy," he said, with a dramatic sigh. "Too much muscle and too little fat for good texture. Oh well."

Then he charged right at Caeos Prahl , axe held high for a powerful overhead strike.

 

[Siv Dragr]

D A R ' M A N D A​

Objective: Assist Sons of Mandalore
Allies: @Volker Fett| Caeos Prahl
Enemies: Khamul Kryze | SCAR | Arron Starstrider | Kralmus Orr

It wasn't the sudden appearance of the Death's Hand, nor the rockets that rained down on Siv, that made him loudly curse an expletive in Mando'a. It was the sudden jolt of kinetic impact as the Prahl girl slammed onto the back of his bike, sending the rear of the swoop bouncing dangerously down, angling the front up into the air. The engine complained with a loud whine as they gained altitude, Siv fighting for control to bring the speeder back down to earth.

"Leave it!" Siv bit back, shouting to be heard over the explosions and swoop engine. He banked hard left, then hard right, evading the projectiles that the Death's Hand had launched. Large plumes of sand were kicked up on either side, mingling with the decompressive, fiery blasts of the missile impacts; he could feel Caeos's hands digging into his shoulders as the woman held on for dear life. By skill, sheer luck, or a combination of the two, they evaded a direct hit -- but Siv and Caeos's luck ran out as an explosion clipped the left stabilizer, and soon the swoop bike was losing control again.

Gritting his teeth, he banked hard right with one hand, using the sudden momentum to twist and grab Caeos's torso with his free arm. Shouting "Brace!" the two tumbled off of the speeder bike and bounced onto the semi-hard dust of Mandalore, rolling several times before coming to a stop. The maneuver had sent the speeder bike into a rapid spin, gaining circular velocity until the stabilizer exploded, sending debris ten, fifteen meters into the air.

Siv got up slowly. The ablative kinetic dampers in his armor had absorbed most of the fall, but his body still ached. What was worse was that Caeos had rolled a good twenty meters more than him, lying on the distant rise of a low dune. And there was a Mandalorian in Death's Hand colors stalking towards her. "Caeos!" Siv shouted, drawing his blaster as he began rushing towards her. One thing was true: as mediocre of a speeder bike driver as he was, he was an excellent shot. He fire once, twice, thrice at the Dar'manda in rapid succession. Chances are the blaster bolts wouldn't pierce the beskar plating, but it would draw the attention of the Deaths Hand away.

 

[Khamul Kryze]

Allies: SCAR , Arron Starstrider , Kralmus Orr

Enemies: Trajan Fett , Caeos Prahl , Siv Dragr

Loadout: Mandalore's Lament, Regret, beskar'gam

Theme

The heretics had come.

Khamul remained silent as his two companions threw their jabs at each other. The petty differences of others meant nothing to Khamul, so long as they didn't interfere with his plans. Though the two had their differences, they each understood the true way of the Mandalorian. As long as they stayed the course, the Hellhound of Mandalore would keep them in the fold. Even if the two couldn't settle their differences, they could always hash it out in a duel to the death. In the end, should one be found wanting, they wouldn't deserve to live anyways.

The thoughts of his companions quickly faded as the weak, false Mandalorians neared their position. Tor'r was the first to act, igniting his jetpack and sending a series of missiles at the enemy; a nice welcome package for the interlopers. It wasn't long until Kralmus joined the fight, finding his way around a nearby dune as he closed in on his prey Among the rising clamor of combat, Khamul simply watched. He would join the fight, of course, but there was a moment that needed to be taken to appreciate the sight before him. Death's Hand had been slowly turning into a proper movement, a true testament to the truth of his crusade for the restoration of his people. Those that followed him truly exhibited the strength that had been largely lost among their people...

They were the predators.

Khamul's gaze slowly shifted toward one of the oncoming attackers, eyeing him as he began firing toward Kralmus. The time for admiration had come to an end, giving way to the necessity and thrill of the fight. Calling upon the darkness, Khamul launched himself forward, pushing himself toward the enemy with a great, rage-fueled speed. Shots rang out across the glassed lands of Mandalore, echoing through the air as he closed the gap. Soon, he was upon Siv Dragr , drawing Mandalore's Lament. Reaching out with the other hand, Khamul sent a quick burst of Force lightning forward, hoping to catch the man's attention. It wouldn't last long, only serving to pull the man's gaze toward him so that Kralmus could finish off his own prey. Standing there, he held his blade to the side, finally letting words escape from behind his beskar helmet.

"Two on one is hardly honorable, not that such things matter to the likes of a wretch like you."

 

[SCAR]

Tor’r Tal’Verda | Death’s Hand
SEARCH For the Crown
Khamul Kryze | Kralmus Orr | Arron Starstrider
Vs.
Trajan Fett | Siv Dragr | Caeos Prahl

W O L F​

Hell rained from above, the sky delivering fire and shrapnel as the explosions bloomed.

One saw the trap for what it was, riding at the head of the pack. One rose to challenge him, abandoning his swoopbike and taking to the air as his jetpack spirited him away. The bike shattered and flung across the desert into several fragments of debris, it's former occupant scorching the skies as Tor'r adjusted his own course to meet him. Drawing a vibroknife slowly, the Mandalorian soared through the atmosphere, his jetpack screaming as it carried him forward. With great surprise he immediately felt the tug of a grappling cord taking hold of his leg after bouncing off his armor and wrapping loosely around.

Jolt! He felt the sudden shock travel across his armor from the tethered line, his flesh felt the pain as the current traveled through his body. Tor'r fell, his jetpack shorting out as plums of smoke continued to jettison exhaust from the boosters. His body came crashing down into the barren sands of Mandalore, skidding into a small dune tumbling down onto the dry earth. The current left him, finally grounding into the blade drawn from his sheathe and the earth beneath his feet. His nerves lit up like a Life Day tree, the pain was there but it was nothing compared to the trials he had faced in the days of the arena, the days of his youth. He had to shake this grogginess off, had to stand.

The horned wolf rose from the desert sands cutting the cord just as his opponent came in full force, his weapon snapping out in the form of a crossguard blade. Tor'r instinctively reached for his other knife, sloppily brandishing it and narrowly evading the lunge thrown. Pivoting his body, he tried to keep his balance as he stumbled. Adrenaline began to pump freely into his body, his vision narrowing as the fog slowly cleared, he threw his blades into a cross to catch the next blow thrown before dropping down with a forceful spin. Tor'r threw his weight behind his shoulders, throwing his arms and body as he slashed for his opponent's exposed openings.

He would honor this one's corpse, nothing more.

​

 

[Siv Dragr]

D A R ' M A N D A

Objective: Assist Sons of Mandalore
Allies: Trajan Fett | Caeos Prahl
Enemies: Khamul Kryze | SCAR | Arron Starstrider | Kralmus Orr

Siv stopped as electricity arced from the hands of one of the Dar'manda to ricochet against Siv's armor. The electrical grounding paired the voltage to an inneffective tickle, but a mixture of horror and disgust filled his expression as he saw who cast it -- emotions that were replaced by rage. They were worse than Dar'manda -- they were Sith. A crime higher than betraying their own blood.

He would bring in one alive, but the others? He would gladly spill their blood onto Mandalore's desolated grave.

Wordlessly he turned halfway, keeping Caeos in his peripheral with the blaster still aimed at the Dar'manda attempting to assault her. With his left arm, he pointed and flexed, activating the Whistling Bird miniature rocket launchers as combat vibrospines extended from his crushgaunts. "Do not claim to speak to me of honor," Siv spat. "You're a traitor to your own kind."
​

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[Trajan Fett]

BROKEN STEEL
SONS OF MANDALORE
THE OATHSWORN
Beskar'gam | Main Weapon | Side-Arm | Melee
MANDALORIANS | Caeos Prahl | Siv Dragr
MAWDALORIANS | Khamul Kryze | SCAR | Kralmus Orr | Arron Starstrider

THEM BONES
MANDALORE '70
​

Someone in Beskar would shed their blood on the scorched soil of the motherland today. It wouldn't be him. It wouldn't be Fett. He could feel the pounding of his heart with each thump of adrenaline and stimulant that went through his body. In truth, he was a lesser man than the guardian who donned his armor before him. Far fewer men shed their lifeblood on his blade than Trajan's yet here he stood, still living where a man greater than him would've decisively struck Tal'Verda low, Volker did the cardinal sin of combat and hesitated.

As Tor'r slashed, the blade veered past the hardened, reinforced Beskar clasped over Volker's chest and abdomen and cut through the far less resilient armor weave to make purchase into bare flesh. He managed to conceal a note of pain as the bacta injector in the weave underlayer flourished toward the new wound.

He raised his left vambrace up perpendicular to his t-visor before sending back a repulse from the vambrace's inbuilt repulsor, bringing that hand back down toward the hilt of the blade as he used the created distance to cut down across Tor'r's legs before he lurched forward in an attempt to bury his shoulder into the Mandalorian in the hopes of sending him to the ground, perhaps futily.

<"Hope you never plan on leaving home again, traitor!"> Volker voiced from beneath his helmet through a strained and pained inflection.

 

[SCAR]

Tor’r Tal’Verda | Death’s Hand
SEARCH For the Crown
Khamul Kryze | Kralmus Orr | Arron Starstrider
Vs.
Trajan Fett | Siv Dragr | Caeos Prahl

B L O O D​

Droplets scattered off the end of his blade, crimson stains in the cursed sand of beloved Mandalore. His blade found purchase through the armorweave into the flesh of his enemy, the Mandalorian wasted no time in readjusting after the strike as experience dictated. You had to be quick, or be dead.

Tor'r contorted his body in the immediate aftermath of his blow, shifting his stance as his opponent lifted his vambrace across his T-visor. Boom. The pulse rocked forward catching the Mandalorian offguard and creating the necessary distance to shift the initiative back into Volker's favor. Momentarily stunned, taken aback. Tor'r was ill equipped to handle the brute force assault arrayed against him, sparks flew as the Beskar blade of his enemy carved into his armor. More crimson droplets scattered against the desert sands as the blade found minor purchase, just a flesh wound he thought as he kept his staggered momentum back from the savage weapon.

The brunt of his opponent's shoulder crashed into his person immediately in the aftermath of the blow, keeping the initiative in his opponent's favor. Not for long. Tor'r lurched down to catch his foe, briefly lifting from the ground as he struggled to carry the weight of the blow from dragging him onto the cursed earth.

<"Hope you never plan on leaving home again, traitor!">​

​

The horned visage of the Mandalorian shifted to lock with his counterpart. Tor'r spat back at him challenging his words.

<"I'd rather rule in hell, than serve the Imps in heaven, traitor.">
​

He leaned back, yanking. Tor'r attempted to carry the warrior with him into a tumble over head, a way to get his opponent on his back. If he found purchase, he'd take to the ground and try to immediately swat the sword away so he could use his crushgaunts. Close and personal.

​

 

[Khamul Kryze]

Allies: SCAR , Arron Starstrider , Kralmus Orr

Enemies: Trajan Fett , Caeos Prahl , Siv Dragr

Loadout: Mandalore's Lament, Regret, beskar'gam

Theme

The Force lightning had done little to harm Khamul's opponent, but it certainly got his attention. The whistling birds came shortly after than man spat insults in the Hellhound's direction, screaming through the air as they made their way to him. If Khamul had been a different man, he may have not anticipated the attack. But Khamul was no regular man... he was a Mandalorian. His free hand instinctively rose ahead of him, creating an invisible barrier for the whistling birds to crash against. The combined blast sent bits of debris flying in all directions, kicking up even more dust into the air. Khamul snarled as he spoke, his words oozing of distaste and disappointment.

"I am only trying to restore our people to our former glory. We are warriors, the apex predators of the galaxy. You and your ilk seek to continue watering down our traditions, and would rather settle for picking up scraps from the tables of others. And you call me a traitor?"

His jetpack ignited, sending him straight toward the man as he held Mandalore's Lament, ready to strike at the heretic with incredible ferocity. His first strike would come from the right, cleaving downward in an attempt to take the man's blaster arm before he could react. Rage began to boil within Khamul, sending a crimson pulse through his blade as he flew through the air...

One way or another, these misguided heathens would find their way into the ground.