The Harrowing [Preliat]

[Sarge Potteiger]

Bakura​

Western Hemisphere​

Namana Plantation​

Wet Season​

​

Torrential rains drenched the dirt above, though little of it trickled down. Down here, deep in a poorly lit warren of tunnels, a meeting was occurring. As with any government, separatists, guerrillas, protesters and the like all existed. In the First Order, most of this was cracked down upon. The irony was, the more you cracked down, the more you fostered it. Whether the movement was large, small, long-lived or a flash in the pan, they existed.

Wherever you went, dissent was the undercurrent.

It had happened since the first man had raised himself above others, and turned his word to law. It would happen until the last crown was cast down into the dirt, forevermore, when sentient life finally ceased to exist.

In a meeting room near the surface, around a simple wood table with a map spread across it, three men were talking. Well, two were men, humans both, garbed in rag-tag fatigues and carrying old blasters. The third wore a helmet, emerald eye lenses flaring dangerously in the low light swinging from the ceiling. His helmet nearly scraped the roof, but any weapons he carried were stowed away.

Sentries kept watch outside, but you couldn't see more than a few feet in front of you through the clouds, rain, and darkness. The small command center was a resistance hub, though to call it an actual resistance would be generous. It was a movement, just beginning, and had nearly been wiped out several times.

But it always came back.

That was because of the cloaked figure holding court, finger stabbing at the map, circling with the digit where he wanted them to focus their efforts. Cities, townships, villages, mountain ranges. It was a spider web of seemingly unrelated things. But all in good time.

None knew that the storm held another within it's eye. But they'd learn, soon enough.

[member="Preliat Mantis"]

​

 

[Preliat Mantis]

It is often said that our memories are wrong.​

Because people only remember the last time they remembered- thus only a version of their memory.​

​

Preliat twirled the blade in his hand as he stalked up behind the sentry. His guard was let down. He grew weary in the rain. He could not blame him. He might've done the same. But it was a lesson he was not going to live to remember. Perhaps his comrades, but not him. While there was dissent, there was an answering chord. For every attack, there was a reaction. Preliat Mantis, was that reaction. The insurgents, the rebels- whatever they called themselves, threatened the First Order- to which Preliat had pledged allegiance to.

He rolled the knife over his hand and grabbed the sentry by his throat. A Twi'lek. The knife went straight into his lungs. No screaming. The sentry fell limp as the life was sucked out of him. Preliat let him down gently to the softened Earth. He sprinted over to the next sentry, who saw the flashlight's rapid movement. Preliat was silent as he ran. No noise, only a minor splash now and again. The other guard's flashlight beam came down onto his dead compatriot's body, in the same instance that Preliat's knife went through his neck.

The Ori'ramikad blade was long, sharp- and could puncture nearly every armor that Preliat encountered.

The other sentry stood still. He bled out, and died within seconds. Preliat let his body fall a bit harder, as there was no one else stopping him from going inside now. He hovered near the doorway. The rain picked up. He would've liked to go inside- although not enough to compromise his position. Preliat rolled the knife in his hand, perched at the side of the doorframe, to what he assumed would lead to a deeper structure. Some sort of command, or storage facility.

His intent was not for data gathering. Other, more intelligent people could focus on that. Preliat was here to maim, murder- and silence any opposition he found, just as he had done not a few moments prior. He waited, white coat drenched- patiently for his next prey. Whomever came through that door was going to have a bad day.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

[member="Preliat Mantis"] wasn't alone in the monsoon. Through the trees, howling wind and driving rain, a lone armored figure stood sentinel, watching his progress as he waited outside the door. This wasn't a professional military installation, so after a few minutes, it would be clear no one else was coming outside for the moment. Clad in his camo-cloak, Sarge blended in with the surrounding area, though there was a vague distortion deep in the darkness like heat-shimmer off a roadway.

It was nearly impossible to see until you were right on top of it, and thankfully, Preliat had his attention elsewhere.

Using a few blink-commands, he sent a warning inside.

-----

The figure at the table paused. "Intruders." It growls, in a voice like a distorted recording of a speeder crash. "To arms." Near immediately, the alarm is sounded - metaphorically. Shouts fill the hall, and blasters are picked up and readied as men run through the tunnel complex, rousing from slumber. Some ran immediately from other hidden exits and entrances, but most would stay to fight. The only problem was, no one knew exactly where the enemy was coming from.

That meant they were spread out, covering all possible points of ingress, and Preliat would already be inside by the time they arrived to check on the front door.

 

[Preliat Mantis]

The devil's agents- they may be of flesh and blood, may they not?​

The man came around the corner blind. He dug his barrel into the corner. It's how Preliat saw him. He knew there was a man behind the gun. He placed a crushgaunt-adorned hand over the barrel, and squeezed. The cheap metal of the blaster caved and gave into Preliat's grip. With his left, he crushed his weapon. With his right, he slashed him in the throat. The rebel's blood splattered along the wall. Preliat moved inside, and saw that this particular entrance was empty. He pulled the hood down, standing in the dim light of the hallway.

He felt eyes upon him.

He turned and threw the knife. The heavy blade was balanced, and found purchase right in the rebel's chest. Preliat ran up to him and pushed his palm into the handle, driving it further within. Preliat removed it, twisting it in the process. Never hurt to double check. Preliat removed the blade from his chest. He rolled the blade again, throwing the blood from the previous two victims along the wall. He found a nearby exit, and a man attempting to escape through it. He punched him in the ribs, and felt bones give way to metal. He fell into the rain, screaming and cursing. Preliat silenced him with a knife behind his ear.

Preliat stood in the pouring rain, blood washing off of the white coat he wore. He felt it. Years of predatory experience had given him insight. And his instincts, his insight- taught him that he was being watched. Preliat made no movement. He listened. Waited for the safety of a blaster. Waited for the drawn breath. But in the pouring rain, all he could hear was the heavy impact on the ground. Preliat looked over, but was unable to locate the source of his ire.

The Epicanthix stood still, holding the knife in his hand. The tomahawk remained on his hip. It was not the original- a cheap imitation, but nonetheless as effective as the one he carried as a Field Marshal.

The rain began to soften. But the two men in the vicinity however- did not.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

The rains lessened, the wind slowed, and Sarge powered down his armor. His camouflaging cloak continued to hang about him in a great shroud, hiding him entirely from view as it mirrored his surroundings. [member="Preliat Mantis"] had clearly sensed someone out there, and he wasn't sure if it was the Force, or just a natural sixth sense most soldiers developed.

His eyes stared out from behind his lenses, eyeing the First Order soldier panning his gaze through the darkness. Bodies had already piled up, and he wasn't surprised. These were essentially armed peasants, with the commanders being former militamen.

They were, all told, little threat. But their threat lay in their ideas, and that meant exterminating it before it could sink into the planet and take hold like weeds. About twenty yards off to his right, something shifted, and a fleeing soldier crawled from an air camouflaged beneath fallen fronds of the local trees. He'd, perhaps, been watching, waiting, to make his break for it. Sensing a moment of distraction, the rebel took off at a sprint. Inside, men were realizing that escape was likely not possible.

So they began to set up barricades and strongpoints, waiting to hold against the perceived assault on their doorstep.

 

[Preliat Mantis]

I am the alpha and omega....​

​

​

The escaping rebel was let go. Preliat knew someone else was out here. He twirled the knife in his hand, and withdrew the tomahawk from his belt. There was another creature. His intuition was screaming at him. He wasn't in an ambush- they could've got him by now. No, someone-or something, was watching him.

The glint of vibroblade in the light was a challenge enough. Preliat shook his hair, moving it from his face.

He stood still, then crouched, and squatted down in the middle of the woods. He listened. He began to look- studying the detail. And he was looking for imperfections. The slightest contrast- the slightest angular shape. Someone keeping their eye open too much. A gun barrel. Straight lines in nature didn't happen. Something shimmering was his next big idea- but stealth technology like that was high-level. Unless these guys had a powerful friend.

Preliat began to sweep with his eyes, right to left.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

[member="Preliat Mantis"] wasn't moving, and that meant he was going to have to play his hand. A shift of cloth in the fluttering wind, and Sarge raised the barrel of his bolter. It extended from beneath the cloak like the barrel of an anti-tank weapon from brush, the gaping black hole promising death, but easily missed in the darkness that surrounded it. That darkness was swallowed up when the next instant sent a gout of flame erupting from it's muzzle.

The darkness was changed by the sharp crack of thunder, the heavy boom of the bolter leaving no doubt as to it's power - it was designed to overwhelm a Force User's defense, rather than circumvent it. The round was, in essence, a miniature autocannon round, but shorter and fatter, like a launched grenade.

It flew with flame flickering in it's wake, and on impact it would detonate in a manner that would leave no doubt as to it's power to utterly decimate an entire chest cavity with one hit. Wherever it landed, it'd blow a crater in it - and that round had been aimed for Preliat's chest.

Before the round even struck, a blurred shape was in motion - impossibly large, flickering in and out of sight as though illuminated only by the intermittent flashes of nonexistent lightning. Another pair of cracks, and two more bolts flew outward.

The rebels did, in fact, have a powerful friend.

 

[Preliat Mantis]

We always talk about the good one, but we don't really like talking about the devil. That's just inviting trouble, you know?​

​

​

It wasn't anything but the movement that caught Preliat's eye. His watchful gaze saw the movement first, the shape breaking it's stillness. He instinctively dived away, but not quite fast enough. The shot burnt the bottom rungs of his heavy coat as he moved to avoid it, and the concussion from it's impact on the tree behind him send him tumbling into the wet soil, face first. He threw off the coat, and the rain began to die out a bit. Preliat reached downward to what remained of his coat, and popped a green signal flare. He was not concerned about the other rebels so much now- he was concerned with confronting the beast that he was now facing. He held it in his hands, before tossing it forward.

It was a challenge, a signal for him to come out and face him.

As he did, two more bolts came out. He flinched, and the bolts found purchase not on him, but the tree he was next to. The bolts ripped the tree, burnt it- and then it fell over. Whatever he was using, was powerful, and Preliat was not going to be happy to be near it. Then again, he wasn't happy now.

Preliat reached to the small of his back, withdrawing the tomahawk, and the other hand removed the Ori'ramikad blade from his forearm. He came out of cover, standing in the green glow of the signal flare. He said nothing, as nothing need be said. He was not armed enough to beat this entity how it was fighting him. But at least he could fight against him- fairly. Or at least, as fair as it would be.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Blinking behind his lenses as the flare lit up, obscuring the figure before him. Not fully, of course, but just enough his helmet started auto-cycling filters to try and get a clearer picture - a clear picture it couldn't find, and so Sarge blinked away the nuisance of rotating filters. Grunting as he approached, he kept the rifle up. Why the man thought to stand still, he wasn't sure.

Was it honor that drove him? Or did he think the flare obscured him completely?

No, he wouldn't be that stupid.

Then he realized the man likely realized he couldn't shoot his opponent and win, and so had done the only thing he could think to do. Issue a challenge.

The walking behemoth that was the former Lord Protector stopped outside of immediate range of [member="Preliat Mantis"]' weapons, his bolter held at the low ready. The cloak still hung about him, obscuring most of his silhouette but at this range it was easy to see his helmet - it had been obscured by a hood. With one hand still on his rifle, he reached up and pulled down the cloak, exposing the squat, rounded helmet that sat with sharply angled eye lenses flaring bright in the evening dim.

Down the hand went, back to his rifle.

 

[Preliat Mantis]

The man moved forward, into the light. His hand didn't move from the rifle. His helmet gave him an other-worldly appearance, a supernatural glow. He supposed his armor took away the factor of a person being behind it. But there was in fact, a person. He had been in enough fights to know how what to do. He had to pretend there wasn't a person behind that helmet. Easy to dehumanize, easy to make things simpler on him. It made killing people a lot easier when you pretended they were only a suit of armor, a collection of metals and screws with a weapon in hand that wanted to kill you. Preliat gripped the tomahawk mid-length along it's handle, and spun the Ori'ramikad knife in his hands. He pulled the braid back with a free finger from his knife hand, and took stock of his situation.

Preliat moved low, like his namesake. Low and fast. Fast enough to keep even Sith on their toes. It happened, mainly because he had spent so many years in armor, his muscles becoming like steel chord. While many soldiers suffered from knee, or back injuries- Preliat had none such luck in becoming afflicted with physical burdens. Perhaps it was his genetic heritage- Epicant men typically did not have the same problems as other humanoids.

Preliat moved in a jagged movement, low and zig-zagging to the either side to prevent the beast from getting a bead on him, or predict his movement path as he would've. The one thing that Preliat did retain as a Mandalorian, was not his armor, not his weaponry, not his fancy helmet with all the tech in it that could make even the most prestigious droids blush- were his crushgaunts. And- his boots. Preliat came close to the behemoth, and lashed out with a low kick, right to the chest. His foot went flying towards his chest, in an attempt to mark the fight with the fact that Preliat was going to hurt him before the fight was over. Preliat doubted his chances of winning- but inflicting pain? Putting up a hell of a fight? He could do that.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He knew two things when his opponent started circling - first, that he favored speed, and second, that he thought Sarge would be slow. But the third thing, he suddenly realized, was what would work in his favor. Despite his reputation as a 'shoot first, quick to anger' belligerent, in actual fights, he favored the defensive, as well as strong counterattacks. This was a battle as old as combat itself - speed and offensive, versus positioning and defense.

To that end, he didn't play the game. It was easy enough to keep track of him, despite his obvious speed. He'd long ago learned that no movement is truly random, and before long a pattern emerges. And, even if a pattern doesn't, there are only a few options for movement given their surroundings.

But in the end, he could count on [member="Preliat Mantis"] defaulting to one move, every time - closing the gap. The man wouldn't have stayed to fight if he thought he could run, and he wasn't frenzied in an attempt to survive, so he had something, somewhere, up his sleeve.

Perhaps the weapons?

Up came the kick - because even kicking for the 'stomach' of his armor meant Preliat bringing his foot above waist level, Sarge turned with surprising speed. It wasn't agility; his armor could not be mistaken for agile. But he moved with a lumbering quickness that only the truly massive can manage. It looked slow. He was too large not to. But the speed was still there. Servos whined, and the power fueling his armor thrummed audibly. It would likely annoy him that he'd been unable to hear it before, but it was there - impossible to miss this close.

The boot scraped his chestplate as his pivoted, but his elbow came down to try and knock Preliat in the chest and send him to the ground.

 

[Preliat Mantis]

The truth was, Preliat had nothing- not much against this behemoth who was far more prepared for this than he was. Preliat was here for insurrectionists, rebels- not this brute. He was fighting someone two feet taller than him- and armored. The fact that his kick found purchase brought some semblance of satisfaction and a sense of victory. That was short lived his opponent hit him in the chest. To say that it was painful was one thing. Preliat slammed to the ground- hard.

The wind was knocked out of him, and he was pretty sure he had some serious bruising. He tightened his grip on his knife, but found his tomahawk- six feet away from him. Preliat curled his crushgaunt adorned hand- his right, sans the tomahawk. His fist lashed out from the ground to his opponents knee. It was a quick jab, but with the crushgaunts and the amount of force Preliat could create, and had done in the past. Preliat attempted to scramble to his feet, and create some distance between the two- but not enough for the rifle to be in play. Preliat also had to get the tomahawk, as all he had now was his knife, and more or less wits.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Down went Preliat, and up came the rifle. Up, of course, being an operative term - it was actually rotating downward, and Sarge waited just long enough to know his barrel was pointed at [member="Preliat Mantis"] before squeezing the trigger. At this range, he'd doubted he'd miss, but with the man moving to kick his knee, and the vague pressure of his armor cracking under the punch that caused him to sway ever so slightly, he knew the possibility existed. No certainty existed in war, except that a fight would occur.

Watching the man as he made for distance, Sarge did the most pertinent thing he could think to do - he fired a pair of bolts at the tomahawk that lay on the ground a short ways away. He had plenty of ammunition, and it denied the enemy a weapon.

It would destroy it, damage it, or bury it in dirt and debris and make it much harder to find or get to with ease.

All three were good practicals for him to work off of. He continued to remain silent. There was no goading he felt like doing with this nameless individual.

 

[Preliat Mantis]

The bolts missed Preliat by a hair. He felt the heat as they passed by his left arm.

The bolts found the tomahawk- and the tomahawk found itself breaking apart. If it were the real tomahawk, the beskar one- it would've landed in a tree somewhere. But this was a facade one, a false. A lie. Like him nowadays. Preliat had no choice now. He had nothing else but the fight now.

The man had his armor, his weapons, his gear- Preliat had next to nothing. But he did have his fists- fists with ionized beskar crushgaunts on them. And a leg. A leg a loving wife made. When she was alive. The servos winded up. The beskar leg raised up, and pulled back. And lashed out. Preliat was packing the same amount of velocity and force as a small speeder crashing into someone. But that was a one-trick pony. He had one shot at the man's stomach. He just needed to knock him on his ass- and find a way to defeat him.

If there was.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Crushgaunts and a leg.

If Sarge had known he faced crushgaunts and a leg he'd have laughed. Crushgaunts wouldn't pose too much of a threat - a bionic leg of beskar though, he wouldn't have laughed about that. Maybe. It depended on if he wanted the surprise or not, truthfully.

The bolter shifted again, coming down, and that's all that kept Sarge from finding out how much damage his breastplate could actually take. Instead, the bolter split in two, and the rest of the force went through to send a fracture into his breastplate. One trick pony for sure. His armor was feeding him information, telling him of the damage he'd just sustained.

A particularly annoying icon told him his weapon wasn't functional, and that he would need to acquire another. That one was silenced. He didn't need another weapon.

Preliat was at his mercy now, because he'd just given Sarge a weapon. So while Sarge planted a food behind himself to stabilize his weight, his two hands came down to grab the cybernetic leg. He could crush it, given time, but it was time he didn't have. But what it did give him was leverage. Preliat could hit like a small speeder, and he'd ruined a weapon and cracked a power line in doing so - Sarge could flip a small speeder with little effort.

So that's what he aimed to do - take Preliat by the calf, spin him like a discus, and hurl him through the air and towards the nearest tree, where, hopefully, he'd wind up unconscious. If it didn't, so much the better. He enjoyed a good fight.

[member="Preliat Mantis"]

 

[Preliat Mantis]

He hadn't hurt like that in years. The pain exploded across his back. Must've cracked at least two ribs. The tree was there long before Preliat. It didn't survive the impact of Preliat's body hitting it. Preliat was a massive brute, clad in nothing but cloth and leather at the moment. The tree gave way to Preliat's weight, cracking and falling over as he lay against what remained of it.

Preliat groaned. He was broken. The fight was nearly over, and he was not about to come on top. His vision was blurred. But he still stood up. He took up a stance, protecting his ribs with his right arm and putting up his left hand in a forward jab. The man had a broken weapon.

Preliat was hurting to breathe. Every breath was agony.

Still, he advanced. Preliat used his left hand to hook the man in the thigh. If successful, it could hopefully compromise the weaker part of his armor. Or at least, what he believed was weaker about his armor. If anything was weak about his armor, that was. It must've been about as advanced as his own armor. Which was still buried in a lonely, quiet place.

He wished right god damn now he hadn't buried it, though.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge wasn't as fast as an unarmored man. He was fast, of course, despite his size - but there's an agility to the unarmored form he couldn't match. He didn't need to. While Preliat advanced, he'd find that Sarge wasn't unarmed after all. A small rattling sound was heard as he pulled what appeared to be a short-sword from the small of his back. 'Short' was perhaps a misnomer, as it had been scaled up to fit his large gauntlet, and so to Preliat it would appear a regular sword.

The rattling, though, hadn't been the blade being pulled from it's sheathe.

Rather, the rattling was from the chain attached to the pommel. The lusterless black links were wrapped and secured tight around Sarge's right hand and forearm, securing the weapon in his grasp like the gladiator's of old. He shifted, turning a bit more of his thighplate into the blow, the bundled, armored power cables only taking part of the impact instead of the whole. Depending on the amount of force imparted, Preliat would likely be in for a shock.

More lights flashed on Sarge's retina, even as he swung the sword in a shallow arc in an attempt to cleave Preliat from shoulder to hip, not needing to make a full swing to get power behind the blow - he was wearing powered armor, and Preliat sported what appeared to be little more than leather.

A silent fight. What a rarity.

[member="Preliat Mantis"]

 

[Preliat Mantis]

Blood. Blood and a burning pain.

The flare didn't hide the blood that Preliat lost in a single moment. He managed to recoil back to avoid being cut in half- but the cut was deep. The man with the armor was fast. Faster than a man with a few broken ribs and most likely a concussion. Preliat stumbled back, before falling onto his ass. He reached up and touched the cut. It was burning. Cuts from metal burned. Especially things that were as sharp as the man's sword.

Preliat lay on the ground. He was beaten. First time in a long time hat he lost a fight. But now, he was probably going to die. He never uttered a word to the man. He had no idea who he was, or who he was with. And he had just nearly killed him. In fact, in a few minutes, he would have. Preliat lay there, silently trying to breathe. Trying to figure out where he went wrong. With both his life and the fight.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge felt the pull of meat around his blade, and he tugged it free as the figure fell. Whatever damage had been done internally, it'd slowed Preliat - his reactions hadn't been fast enough, and the blow would be telling. The wind snapped his camo cloak around his body with the sound of a sail unfurling sharply, and he looked down with impassive lenses at the figure now broken and bleeding on the ground beneath him. "I know you." The figure says, voice distorted in the manner all helmeted speech was.

He sounded like he was coming over a poorly tuned radio.

"Mandalorian. Though, perhaps no longer." There was a pause, the sword lowering, chains sliding down the gauntlet with the rattle of metal on metal. "You fought on the right side, once, perhaps out of duty to your people and their allies.

Though, as with all things, loyalties change." No accusation existed in that static-filled voice. There was no condescension or derision, no anger or hatred. It was simply the words shared from one warrior to another upon the field of battle, when the fight has ended and both fighters stop to see to their wounds. He wasn't even winded. Why would he be? His armor did the heavy lifting for him. "Your mission is failed. Your targets escaped. As with all warriors, hubris is your sin."

There was a blurted wash of static, and it likely would take a moment to process it was a chuckle. "Until the next time." He raised the bloody sword upward, pressing the middle of the blade to his forehead in a salute to a fallen foe. "Count the three."

With that, the figure spun, scooping up the pieces of his broken weapon as he departed. Preliat would live to fight another day... provided help got here in time.

 

[Preliat Mantis]

"Not like this."

Preliat said to the sky. But he wasn't speaking to the sky, he was speaking to the giant behemoth who had just cleaved him nearly in half. His breathing was ragged. He was trying not to scream. At times, Preliat wanted to die. Preliat wanted to do nothing more than welcome the darkness. But he didn't want to do it here. In truth, Preliat wanted to die peacefully- a stark contrast to the life he lived. He thought he at least deserved that much. A dignified, peaceful death.

The flare began to die out. The darkness was closing in on Preliat. Literally this time. His mahogany eyes flickered over to the behemoth before him.




[member="Sarge Potteiger"]