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#1
Tanomas Graf

Tanomas Graf

    ᴇɪsᴇʀɴᴇʀ ᴋᴀɴᴢʟᴇʀ

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"Under Executive Order #2173, all Mandalorian combatants operating against Imperial forces are to be liquidated. Whether with or without arms, whether fighting or seeking to escape and even where those individuals who upon discovery make known their intent to give themselves up as prisoners."

 

A quiet sob cut through the monotonous voice of the Imperial officer reciting his orders, the gravity of the situation finally setting in for the row of beskar-clad individuals on their knees, their hands restrained behind their backs. The officer made a gesture with one of his gloved hands and several stormtroopers lined up behind the prisoners and leveled the barrels of their rifles with their heads. Several flashes of light later and the corpses fell forward with near-simultaneous thuds, a group of droids dragging off the bodies so that the next row could be brought forward.

 

The Imperial Confederation was ultimately victorious with its assault on Obroa-skai and Bogden, with Mandalorian opposition collapsing in a matter of hours after what ships they had mustered were annihilated by the Golden Company or forced to retreat once the Open Circle Fleet showed to tidy up. All objectives had been completed with overwhelming efficiency, the data loss at the Celebratus Archives at a minimal level. Casualties for the Stormtrooper Corp numbered in the hundreds; however, only a few dozen at best were slain during the onslaught.

 

Tanomas considered all of this when he stepped out of the archives and into the city, his aviators filtering out the blinding light of the sun as he took another puff from his cigar. He walked forward into the operating base that had been set up outside of Celebratus, the troopers he passed stopping to gawk at the sight before them: their beloved high chancellor walking among them, wearing carbon-scored DARKSABRE armour with sunglasses over his eyes and a cigar in his mouth.

 

Music filled the air of the open canteen, the high chancellor walking up to a nearby stormtrooper officer and grabbing his hand - leading the puzzled clone in a sideways dance that many others quickly joined in on, especially those from the planet of Kandara who recognized the dance:

 

The celebration had begun.


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#2
Theodore Royce-Clarke

Theodore Royce-Clarke

    Good heavens

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He was not the type of Galidraani to believe in the righteousness of other cultures, his Imperial upbringing and time spent in the Galidraani military academy as a youth had left the lord prone to often look down on outsiders. Be it the Mandalorians of old and present, who had folded so spectacularly that many of his troops had barely exchanged shots with the garrison of Obroa skai's capital before the place fell in the chaos. It seemed that the fury of their forefathers' ancestral might had abandoned them long ago, now only the exiled clans truly showed any of the ferocity of the crusaders of old possessed.
 
The fierce warriors of Kandara were an alien bunch, prone to superstition and age-old tradition that bound their culture tightly like a vice grip. Despite lacking discipline and precision like their comrades in the main Imperial corps, they made up for it with a near zealous love for fighting and dying. They were among the first esteemed units to take Obroa-Skais spaceport, brutally clearing out the token Mandalorian presence with a furore reserved for only the vilest foe. Theodore himself had to admit begrudgingly that despite his disdain for the Kandarans lack of restraint, they were skilful fighters and valuable comrades. 
 
Amidst the tribal beating of the drums, the Kandaran warriors entwined and met in a stunning display of dancing which was unique to their world. It spoke of the warrior traditions the planet held since its founding, and of the unbreakable resilience of its people. Though he could not converse in the Kandaran tongue nor understand what they were singing,  he was moved by the scene before him even if the sight of the high chancellor forced a rare chuckle from him. 

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#3
Karima Ibnat al-Walid

Karima Ibnat al-Walid

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The fighting at Obroa Skai had shown to be the Nizam Al-Mulk parties first taste of real battle in over a century, proving themselves and the Imperial army that they were more than capable fighters when tested. Making effective use of the Mandalorian defenders lack of numbers and storming the spaceport under cover of heavy Imperial artillery. Suffering relative losses in their way, numbering in the hundreds of wounded and dozens of dead mostly suffered while charging Mandalorian blaster turret positions.
 
When the call was given for the Imperial military machine to rise once more, many Kandaran divisions from both the Caliphate army and Imperial paramilitary rose to its proud call. They knew what they were signing up for, and Kandaras proud sons rose to prove themselves once more.  
 
The flames from the fire cast a gloomy pale across the men who huddled around the fire drinking: the harsh light showing weathered, speckled dirt faces and furrowed brows. They were all there. The principal commanders of the Kandaran expeditionary force. Vizier Nazim, General Abu Ibn Esmail, Commander Farid Ibn Ali, Chief vizier of the court Hadi and the brother of the Calipha himself Prince Fard. Also present was the Secretary-General of the Nizam Al-Mulk,Hatim al-‘Abbās, who stood at attention, his amiable wise face looking at a data-pad as if trying to divine its purpose.


#4
Kir Vizsla

Kir Vizsla

    Na'yasika

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Mercenary General Kir Vizsla, Contracted Imperial Mercenary

Equipment: Standard Beskar'gam | Solaris GunCourier Handgun

Location: Surface, Obroa-skai

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This planet, this celestial body, it had been one which Mandalore the Infernal had ruled over. Individuals of Kir's own culture had walked on this very soil he now strode across, beskar plated boots depressing into scarred soil. Scarred from battle, it was. Much like the earth he was atop of, these Mandalorians were disappointing.

 

He was...so disappointed. Vizsla had known that these Mandalorian's let by this Yasha Cadera were pacifists of some sort, he just had not known how much to the extent that they were willing to keep to their peace-loving ways. He had been expecting to see them fight...yet they did not. He expected for them to die on the field of battle...yet they did not. He had expected for them to face their deaths with the dignity and pride of a warrior dying for a noble cause...yet they did not. His hopes, Kir realized, had been too high for these...pretenders. He had believed that some semblance of ancestry had remained in their bosoms, he had hoped that some piece of culture still thrived within them. Yet, nothing of the sort did. All that was within them...was nothing. These Mandalorians, these 'United Clans' as they called themselves, they were all just one lie, conceived by a pretender who claimed power and leadership among all others. Yasha Cadera, the wolf who bowed to the snakes, who bowed to the Sith.

 

Such a thing, it was disgusting. No, revolting, nauseating...insulting. It had left a bad silvery, sulfric taste at the tip of Kir's tongue. The Mandalorians bowed to nobody, they were free...they were fighters who never fled nor wavered. No matter the odds, they were stood as their ancestors did. At least, they were supposed to. However, all these 'Modern Mandalorians' could do was wreck havoc and weave lies to make themselves appear as true Mandalorians. While, in the grand scheme of life which the Galaxy wrote and edited each day, they were merily a twist-of-the-plot. They were fething idiots who knew nothing but their cowardly intentions to run in the flowers.

 

"So, these are the...Mandalorians the Confederation was so jumpy to fight? Heh." Kir mused aloud through tight lips, his right gloved hand reached up to his helmet, pressing against a button on the underside of his helmet. A hiss emitted from the T-visor helmet as it's mechanisms loosened and opened, allowing the man to take his helmet off of his sweaty, tanned head and clasp it under one armor. His left hand reached down to his waist, pulling a cigarette from it's leather pouch.

 

The rolled, beige spice cigar was brought to the man's tight lips which opened briefly for it, sucking in the rolled spice between now loosened lips. A small, miniscule flame-thrower on Kir's left wrist shot out a brief jet of flame, lighting the cigar. A puff of white smoke flew out from between the man's lips as he opened his mouth briefly before taking the cigar between betwixt fingers of his left hand.

 

"Pathetic."



#5
Lannik Hayes

Lannik Hayes

    ѕυp-p-per тroop-p-per

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Sergeant Lannik Hayes, Imperial Stormtrooper Corps

EquipmentKatarn Multipurpose Battle ArmourAKraB Vibrodagger, T-88 Self-Loading Precision Carbine

Location: Bogden, Secured Outpost

Objective: Try not to die from exhaustion

Tags: None

 

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Even as the revelry was in full swing over in Obroa-Skai, it was more of a subdued sense of relief that suffused the stormtroopers over at Bogden.

 

Lannik Hayes threw himself to the ground, letting a loud oof escape him as his bones rattled from his thoughtless deed. But at the moment, the sergeant was out of karks to give. Every part of his body was either bruised, or aching, reminiscent of the Hell Week during his ARC-certification course. The only thing he needed to complete the scenario was his sneering instructor looming over him prone form.

 

But instead?

 

The sun shone down on him, and would probably have blinded him if not for the helmet that he was still wearing. And that would yet be another dampener to his terrible no-good day.

 

He breathed for a moment, just enjoying that they had finished a tough harrowing trek filled through what seemed like a neverending stretch of swamplands and pools of dead water. And if that wasn’t bad enough? All the while, their pace was being dictated by the starfighters overhead making passes every few minutes overhead.

 

It was why the poor unfortunate sergeant was more stormtrooper-shaped mud lump rather than stormtrooper at the moment. The sheer amount of muck and foliage and whatever ick he managed to pick up probably weighed as much as he did. And after they got to the outpost that contained their objectives, it was another fun fun shootout that necessitated much ducking and pew-pew… that his body did not appreciate.

 

So now?

 

Now he was just going to lie here, sprawled like a reclining Conjeni until he caught his wind back.

 

Or if one of his men were kind enough to pour several buckets of water over him until he looked less like an extra for the Swamp Thing and more person.


Edited by Lannik Hayes, 10 August 2019 - 09:33 PM.

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