Analysing his opponent with every breath they took, the older Mandalorian made several observations; the first was that his adversary, despite their bravado, was barely holding on, beaten and battered every step of the way against foes that were more deadly, more experienced, and generally more prepared for the situation at hand. He should have been dead. If he'd been a normal man, then the wounds he'd gathered would surely be lethal, either outright or a slow poison seeping through his body and lashing out in bursts of blood until even his own determination ran dry.
Yet, those gifted with
Jetii'dral were never ordinary.
Their durability was a miracle, even without the armour that an ordinary man would wear. It was why, combined with their other talents, a single man could walk fearlessly in the confidence of robes while others were restrained to the reality of a harsher Galaxy controlled by rules and consequences the common man couldn't break.
Gavin Vel wore the confidence of his power upon his shoulders and, in the bark of his voice, a man who had never known fear and would throw himself into battle to face it with a laugh stuck in his throat. At least, that was the story he'd rather tell.
Observing him before the shot, Itzhal couldn't help but notice the way his insults repeated, a constant barrage against those who would not throw themselves to death, as though the only option was to fear or fight headfirst. Perhaps that was all it was, a berserker's rage and hate for the tactics and methods that evaded his simplistic worldview. Itzhal suspected otherwise as he looked down at the young man. It was the way in which his eyes scanned the room, wary and aware in a way those in charge often weren't, not till the mistake had been pounded into their skull—a prey's fear of the threat they couldn't face.
The desperation to never be reduced so low again, even if that meant dying.
When the action kicked off again, with a bolt of light blazing in the darkness, Itzhal wasn't surprised the bolt didn't stop Gavin Vel, determination burning in their eyes. The Sith Acolyte charged onwards, regardless of the red flesh seeping from where blood vessels had burst, superheated from inside as the smell of charred meat and burnt hair wafted from the point of impact.
With the direct path promising only death in the shape of a blaster bolt, the former street rat rolled into cover. Another insult was launched right after, ever so focused upon the meaning of fear and how Itzhal should feel. He held his tongue, moving around the room for another strike.
His steps were quiet and sure, worn into place by the experience of a thousand hunts until each movement was a memory. It was an unnecessary step as the room rattled, an unnatural storm sweeping through it as debris skittered across control panels and dividers, shards of glass and metal torn into a display of anger and the sheer desire to turn their adversary's tactics against them.
Yet, it wasn't just the sound of Gavin's laboured breaths and the clomping footsteps that betrayed his presence. His existence was foretold in the rush of air, sweat and exertion burnt into the atmosphere just as surely as the smell of flesh cooked like a pig set to roast. The way his shoulders and back muscles flexed, blood dripping from scratched and torn flesh, their life seeping from every pour in a declaration of the man that dared to live despite it all.
How could a hunter like Itzhal do anything but acknowledge the signs and hunt that which was prey?
Stepping out of concealment, Itzhal came to a stop on the walkway. His helmet slowly scanned over the room until his visored view came to a halt on the form of Gavin Vel.
Quietly, Itzhal lowered his blaster rifle as if they were recovering, his chest moving slowly as he calmed his breathing—An easy target.
When Gavin Vel charged forward, feet thundering a trail across the rubble-filled floor, Itzhal steeled himself. One foot braced in front of the other, Itzhal let go of the rifle in his hands, the sling dragging the weapon's weight around to his hip.
The device in his pouch weighed so little for how valuable it would become.
Then, as the distance between them closed and Gavin Vel's leg lifted high into the air, the boot aimed for his chest. Itzhal took a single step back, draining momentum as the strike impacted against his chest plate with a solid thud that stole his breath away. The armour creaked but held sturdy as the force reverberated through his chest, throbbing with pain from unmarked flesh. As the sheer strength behind the blow sent him back a step, Itzhal's hands came up, his right hand slipping into his pouch before they both smacked against Gavin's exposed limb, his right hand gripped around their ankle and heel, the other around their knee.
A thousand options lingered in Itzhal's grasp; a visceral wrench of the ankle to snap the ligaments, a thunderous blow of his elbow slammed against the knee to shatter the joint, a sidestep to pivot mid-grasp into a merciless stomp to the left knee that tore muscle from bone.
None of them suited his purpose as he stared into Gavin's eyes behind the emotionless veil of the visor.
"Do not speak to me of fear," Itzhal's voice reverberated in the silence, a mechanical tint that echoed in the former home of Imperial might, surrounded only by restless spirits and his lonesome target.
Focusing solely on the injured acolyte, Itzhal pressed his thumb to the bottom of Gavin's booted heel. Then, with a twist of his hip, Itzhal lashed out, throwing his weight into a swipe at Gavin's standing foot as he tried to sweep them to the floor. One hand wrapped around Gavin's snared ankle as the Mandalorian guided them to the floor, ready to nail the message in.
"But you are young; mistakes are expected, so allow me to educate you on the matter of fear," the hunter intoned as he drew the ceremonial knife from his back holster, holding the limb in position as he brought the dagger down in a slice over the tendons. As he prepared to saw down to the bone.
Lady Falentra
