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Post by Shaman Odin Alfodr on Apr 9, 2013 7:07:42 GMT -8
*Keldabe was the capital city of the planet Mandalore. Situated atop a flat granite hill forty-five degrees north of the planetary equator, the urban fort-town of Keldabe was almost completely surrounded by a bend in the Kelita River and the forests of Mandalore's north. Packed with an eclectic array of buildings of all shapes and material, ranging from durasteel to wood, Keldabe was a hub for life on Mandalore, and boasted landmarks such as the hundred-meter-tall tower of the MandalMotors company, along with the Oyu’baat, the oldest cantina on the planet. The Oyu'baat was a common gathering place for Keldabe residents and Mandalorian clan leaders, and twice a week Keldabe's streets were packed as Mandalorians bought and sold goods on market days.*
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Darian Beviin
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Keldabe
May 27, 2013 22:24:41 GMT -8
Post by Darian Beviin on May 27, 2013 22:24:41 GMT -8
The clatter and rattle of chains consumed his being, the cloak of maddening, rust colored links beating like drums against his muscles with each downward arc of his hammer. Sweat beaded on his darkened brow, the flames licking at his flesh leaving nerves insensitive, wracked by another chapter in his lifetime of torment. But Darian could not relent.
Each thundering blow echoed in the chamber for an eternity, the rhythmic roiling of smoke and ash painting a chaotic scene all around him- but the grizzled bastard's gaze never left the shape laying on the anvil. The axe head had already begun to come to life under his precise movements, the molten beskar taking shape at impossibly high heat, moaning it's high protest as it's shape was molested and wholly changed.
Has it always been this way? Darian's gaze, a sea of jade, flickered as the first pangs of exhaustion set in. It had been over a day now, shaping and reshaping the same fickle weapon, both of them dissatisfied with his work. The blade spoke to him- not in any sort of spiritual or magical manner- but he understood it no less. A weapon master of Clan Beviin, he had been- once- the voice of the iron had always been in his blood. Had it not? No, damn you! No, no, no!
He flung the metal, all too suddenly, into the molten vat before him, his form shaking with anger. The voice chastised him yet again. He saw naught but imperfection where he needed success. And, dipping the tongs once more into the vat, he withdrew the formless mass and started anew. The hammer fell. The screaming of beskar rattled in unison with his chains. And Darian Beviin played the ancient song of his Clan in a lone smithy in Keldabe's heart, silently reminiscing about his youth. Times long since past.
Clang! The metal he had chosen was perfect. Gold bled into the cast, careful and steady hands nurturing that steady transition from heat to cool, seemingly immune to the pain that accompanied the task. The water billowed upward into steam, and as he withdrew the cast, pulling it apart, he drew out the ring and began to work the setting gently, with the care one might give their lover during the first night together. And, in truth, the two things were closely entwined.
And the ruby was perfect, too. Placing it in the setting, he smiled at his success, and he stared for all night and into the morning at the prize that had come of his toils. In hours, he would give it to the love of his life, and they would begin their eternity together.
That had been the plan, anyway.
Oh, they had been together, for a time. Together, they had a son, and he had planned to teach his son the ways of their people. He had planned to make of his children Mandalorians, as his father had made him. He had planned to care for his wife forever. So many plans, swept aside in an instant. In the lambent eyes of that hooded beast- Sith, Jedi, it made little difference.
And so, here Darian stood, his life in shambles. Chained more than simply what was seen; Darian hammered once more, and the beskar whined, but began to flatten. And he hit it again. And again. Feverishly, he stared down with wide eyes, all thoughts of rest gone from his mind. The shape in his mind began to- finally- transpose itself into the metal before him. And with masterful swings, he began to chisel that perfect form out of the metallic roughness.
Blood trickled down his knuckles, ripping through flesh as his body protested the sheer amount of work he had been forcing onto it. But, he continued to slave away, recalling his mantra. I am not yet done. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. A lifetime. As long as it takes, but I am not yet done.
And finally, after what seemed like an eon, he lifted the molten metal skyward, glancing over it with an appraising gaze, tilting his head and then thrusting the weapon into the water, steam rising with a hiss, holding it there to cool rapidly. Closing his eyes, Darian let his thoughts drift away, and when he withdrew the weapon and began to bind it's hilt with leather, he ran a naked finger over the tomahawk's edge, sanctifying it with first blood. His own. Blood of my blood, he prayed, may I send a million souls to Kad with you.
And Darian collapsed, right beside the forge, snoring loudly.
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Darian Beviin
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Keldabe
May 28, 2013 11:42:46 GMT -8
Post by Darian Beviin on May 28, 2013 11:42:46 GMT -8
When he awoke, Darian saw that he had been carried far from the forge, left on a cot familiar to him. They had been kind, the family that had taken him home. He had not told them his story, how he had come to take the burden of priesthood or the wandering life of a clanless man, but the chains had spoken to them. The chains that marked him as an apostle of the ancient god of war, a cult long thought dead, but no less respected for the sacrifices it's Avowed made for the Mandalorian people.
The cloak lay hanging over the side of a chair across from him in the small room, and at his side, the now cooled and beautiful tomahawk rested, breathtaking, firelike ripples in the iron stealing away his gaze and gripping his thoughts. He had created a marvel- something a smith only did once in his lifetime. Folded again and again, he had invested much of his soul into this weapon, one he now held in his hands and traced his fingers over in deep thought.
"I will call you," he murmured, his wretched, throaty voice surprising him, "Gorehound."
The red-black weapon seemed to laugh as he spun it out deftly around his fist, the weight if the weapon pulling it through, back to his waiting palm, gripping it once more with a ferocity that matched his gaze. Gorehound was more of a beast than any weapon. It had a soul of it's own- the sort of soul only a true master of the craft coul whisper into his children. Not a soul in the way a Jedi or a Sith might imbue their weapon- no, for that was blasphemy, was magic- this weapon's soul spoke to Darian, and spoke with Darian's voice in war. That was the purpose for which it had been made.
The first steps, he found, were uneasy. Stumbling from the cot, his muscular body- black, unkempt and ragged pants the only clothing to keep him modest- covered in blood, sweat and grime, the single Mythosaur tatoo on his right scapula visible, Darian fell gracelessly forward, gripping the chair with one hand as he strapped Gorehound to his waist. He took the cloak of chains in his fist, the jingle of the beskar awakening a fire in his mind. And he remembered.
His purpose. His duty. His curse.
As he pulled the sleeves over his arms, as the weight set itself firmly on his mantle, as the burden was his once more, the Priest sagged as any mortal man forced into such a thing would. But there would be none but him. No one else to carry that burden for his people. For his was among the last of them.his eyes burned with green fire, his weapons now finding their proper places- the long Khyber knife at his right hip, Gorehound at his left, the ripper hidden in the chains somewhere in the area of his chest- he strapped on the hardened gauntlets, pieces of his soul, of the armor that had been his father's before his, now broken down to form the chains of his eternal burden.
His head bowed, Darian uttered a silent prayer. Thanks to his Lord for another day of service. A promise of new life for his people. An oath to take life, to burn away stagnation, to return to ash what was taken from ash.
And when he raised his head again, determination breathing life anew into every vein, every pore, every centimeter of his being, Darian walked out into the streets of Keldabe. Today, his voice would reach someone. He kept faith. Faith, my friends, is all we need..
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Bralex Ordo
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Keldabe
May 28, 2013 16:54:01 GMT -8
Post by Bralex Ordo on May 28, 2013 16:54:01 GMT -8
Bralex walked from the 'baat to his Firespray, the Mar'eyce. After a few moments of readying the ship for travel, it blasted off into orbit.
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Trull Ordo
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Keldabe
May 28, 2013 22:09:12 GMT -8
Post by Trull Ordo on May 28, 2013 22:09:12 GMT -8
I used to dream like other men. I used to think and breathe and hope and laugh like other men.
Trull swung to his feet and curled his toes, feeling joints crack. It was the first day of the week, and so he swept his dirk from beneath his bed and shuffled to the pedestal across the room. Slouching to his knees, he slapped his left hand into the basin and pricked his palm with practiced ease, indifferent to the pain. He squeezed out seven drops of blood and sighed in weary relaxation. Wiping his red palm on his bare thigh, he stabbed the dirk into the floor next to his knee and made obeisance with a worn smile on his face. Throat dry from the night's rest, he croaked in prayer, straightening to regard the mythosaur skull behind the basin.
"Good morning, Lord - I'm back, the fool who keeps spouting breath in your name. Once again I ask your blessing for the days to come, that you would guide the vode as we make our way in the galaxy, navigating the aruetiise as they try to lead us astray..." Trull's voice broke and his head bowed, hands flopping emptily in futility. "...assuming you're still out there... anywhere. Assuming everything happening here still matters to you at all. We're going to war, and none of us... none of us have heard from you, Lord." Trull looked up again, a wry smile on his mouth and pain in his eyes. "But don't you worry, we'll keep on serving. We're your men. Our chains cannot be broken, not of our own will. You've got us." Trull's head flopped again, and as he pushed himself to his feet, he muttered, "We just wish we had you."
A few minutes later, clad in an off-white shirt and his crimson kilt, with shield and dirk hilt conspicuous on his back, the warrior stepped out into the Keldabe sunlight. He had bathed and braided his long hair, and the thick steel ring at the braid's base thumped against his back, near his waist. On his wrist were thick bronzium bracelets, studded and woven with electrum, kin to the collar on his neck. Similar designs decorated the pistol grip at his right hip.
As he exited his tenement's main door, he was blinded by the bright sunlight and almost bowled over a smaller man, who tumbled with a clinking of chains. Trull rubbed at his eyes, then gaped, then covered his gape and bowed slightly. "High Priest."
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Keldabe
May 28, 2013 22:27:48 GMT -8
Post by Tari Beviin on May 28, 2013 22:27:48 GMT -8
*Aliit ori'shya tal'din, they said. Kriff that. They could say that, but they didn't know what her family meant to her. Sure, she'd been raised under the tenets, raised to love her culture, her people, Mand'alor and Manda'yaim, but she'd also been made aware of a specific fact: The Beviine were dwindling, and not as they once were.
Sure, she could have found a new home. Sure, the Mando'ade valued family highly. Tari just liked to think she valued it a little more highly. That was why she refused any offers of adoption; she wanted her aliit. Her kin. The Beviine. With the loss of her parents to the new war, the clan was dwindling even more quickly. She knew they would have to stand together, or they would disappear.
There was one name she knew of. Derry. He'd lived in Keldabe. He'd been a beloved member of the family. But something had happened, something she never had fully explained to her, but he'd since... changed. And clearly not for the better, at least if her parents' expressions had been any indication. But as far as Tari was concerned, he was still family, and right now, all the family she had left.
If he was even still alive.
Tari carried out her searches during the day, retreating to her home at night or when she knew she had to return for food. She knew how to cook; she'd been taught how to. But after a few days, the food supply began to dwindle. She'd even attempted to acquire a taste for tihaar, a beverage her father loved and she'd only tried once. It... wasn't pleasant at first, but her father kept a small store of it, and unless she wanted to beg for credits or supplies, she'd have to get used to it for the time being. Or at least until she found Derry.
Every day she'd looked. She'd asked around, most people not having heard of him. She'd tried calling his name. Always nothing. Today's search wasn't yielding any better results. Normally, she kept her cool, using her focus to drive her. But the days of no results, the slowly running out of food, the often-sleepless nights, all of this was getting to her. She growled in frustration, clutching at her hair, before throwing her head back and yelling to the sky.*
Where the kriff are you, Uncle Derry?!
*Then she stumbled back against a wooden wall and sagged to the ground. Her eyes stung. Was she really about to cry? No, that was for ik'aade. She was just... frustrated and didn't know what to do, was all. Why wouldn't she be? Her home was empty apart from her, she couldn't find her real family, and she'd been at this for several days now. Why wouldn't she be frustrated?*
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Darian Beviin
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Keldabe
May 28, 2013 22:28:28 GMT -8
Post by Darian Beviin on May 28, 2013 22:28:28 GMT -8
Darian's gaze held a practiced apathy as the towering man surged out from his place of residence, and he held up a warding hand that flowed almost fluidly into a series of gestures, each of them doubtlessly signifying some sort of religious prattle that neither of them much cared for giving voice to anymore. Theirs had been a long tenure, rife with pious words and endless days of thankless worship, and nights that were devoid of feeling. He had not known a woman's touch, himself, since before his wife had been taken from him- and Darian had not partaken of drink in far longer than he cared remember.
But the sins were no less cast, some ancient blessing spilling out in the wake of his shadow invisibly, nothing to be shown for his toils. They were, in truth, a sordid bunch, this Priesthood- jaded in the ways of the world against ever truly beliving in Providence, and yet, against their better reasoning,, they held on hope. Because no one else did, and that made it their responsibility. Right?
Lurid green eyes flashed with amusement at the sentiment that came and left Trull's face, a face ruined beyond it's years beset by a smile that Darian only afforded his brother Priest as a kindness, and the "High Priest" waved off the greeting with a quiet laugh. He was only the firstborn son of Kad, in the eyes of the Faithful. Beyond that, he was as all the rest. Just another grain of sand falling, endlessly, helplessly toward the bottom of the glass.
"Brother Trull," he intoned in a solemn voice, the sort of which some religious elder might adopt during words of piety, but without the dryness and with an edge of blunted humor, to stab at the man in the unseen manner only he would ever be aware of. The smile on Darian's own face melted away now, just as quickly as it had come, and he slowly crossed his arms, the dull rattle of chains carried faintly on the wind. "I take your timely appearance as volunteering to join in my Preaching today?"
Abruptly, he stopped to look up and around- some voice drifting on the wind, like some ghost from the past, stole away his attention for a moment. That voice... it seemed so familiar, and so... he had not been called Derry in several seasons, now. The crops had been hsrvested more than ten times since his family, and...
His eyes froze on the young girl crying out, frantically searching, and he placed a gentle hand on Trull's arm, bidding him wait but a moment as he stepped toward young Tari, who he now recognized as his estranged brother's child. But if she was searching for him, something had to be amiss. "Tar'ika," he whispered almost breathlessly, " where are your parents? Why do you look lost in the city of your birth?"
He dropped deftly to one knee before her, a hand shakily reaching out toward her face- he did not trust himself to be any child's savior, when it was still apparent he could not even save his own son. But she was family- rather, she was of the Clan he had once been a part of. Jade eyes searched the girl for some hidden truth, and he saw her pain. And overwhelming sadness gripped his heart, before she even had to speak.
But still, he waited for her answer.
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Keldabe
May 29, 2013 13:57:52 GMT -8
Post by Tari Beviin on May 29, 2013 13:57:52 GMT -8
*"Tar'ika." Very few people referred to her by that name. And here she sat nearly about to cry. That would just look pathetic. She shut her eyes and looked away from the source of the voice, attempting and failing to subtly wipe at her eyes. When she looked at the source of the voice, what she saw was... a strange sight, at least to her. What even was he wearing? Not that that mattered. He very much seemed to recognize her, and the fact that she seemed "lost."*
D-... Derry?
*Had she actually found him? Had her shout worked? ... had it really been that easy? She should have been overjoyed, but all she was reminded of was her dwindling clan, of the loss of her own parents that drove her on this search. Of the vague stories of Derry's strange turn. Judging by his outfit, it would almost seem those were true. That he'd lost his mind. But as it stood, he was her only family now. As for her parents...*
Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.
*She pushed herself up to her feet, not wanting to look so pathetic. Funny, if she knew he'd dressed so... uniquely, she might have had an easier time searching. It'd been five years, though, since Derry had been around. She had only been two. She wouldn't have been able to recognize him by appearance. And she was forgetting something, which she added with a forced chuckle.*
Su cuy'gar, ner vod.
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Trull Ordo
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Keldabe
May 29, 2013 19:01:15 GMT -8
Post by Trull Ordo on May 29, 2013 19:01:15 GMT -8
If there was one thing Trull hadn't planned, it was colliding with the High Priest of Kad and being immediately expected to attend his superior's harangue. It was his duty to obey, however, and Darian was within his rights to expect Trull to follow his duty. Some part of him grumbled all the same, muttering something about wasted words and banality. Trull ignored it but the voice grumbled on - and it wasn't wrong. Trull was tired, worn down and weary, and he would keep stumbling and shambling along his path of service. So he nodded mutely at Darian's weighted expectation, ducking quickly inside to retrieve his priestly tabard as some child screamed.
When he returned, however, he found his friend speaking with a child - the same one? Confusion spreading like fog, Trull stood by silently, examining the little girl from beneath craggy brows. An orphan, lost in Keldabe? The vode were not predators, but they were not paragons either. Orphans were in almost any situation. Canny grey eyes swept the crowd for threats, hands flexing and cracking as he clenched his fists.
"Darian, my tenement is just inside. Perhaps we should take this out of the public eye?"
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Darian Beviin
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Keldabe
May 29, 2013 19:29:05 GMT -8
Post by Darian Beviin on May 29, 2013 19:29:05 GMT -8
To be certain, he had never anticipated any of his brother's family to search him out, and even ones who had over time had ceased ro recognize him. The duty he wore as a mantle had transformed him into a decrepit version of the man he had once been, twisted by weight meant to symbolize as much as it meant to protect. His brother had howled in defiance at the thing he had done to their father's beskar'gam- evidenced now only by the chains he wore that dragged along the dirt behind him.
Eyes that had been almost permanently ridden by dark bags lit up as she told him of his brother's demise- they had never been close, but he had been Darian's family. A cold fire burned in his gut as he came to understand the gravity of what she told him, far too late to stop what had befallen his last of kin. His father's true son- the one who had not failed as a father. And in silence, he did what a Priest must do.
He took upon himself the burden of Justice.
Hatred and anger were easy wiles to fall prey to- far easier for a child than a man, and a son of Kad, at that. All talk of faded mysticism now banished, he uttered the pray mentally, calling for his Lord's blessing upon his hunt, and he stored the cold rage deep. Now was not the time.
Alive? She had spoken the old greeting, in the way of vode- you're still alive, it meant literally. But his smile grim, he shook away the sentiments that begged him to tell her otherwise. All the parts of him that their family had loved, that he had in him when he had seen her last- such a small child, she had been, too- all of those parts of him were gone, now.
"I never left, child," he murmured, "not the way the family told it, at least..."
He noted the way she spoke the words fluently, taught the propee voice of a Mandalorian by her father. And it shamed him. He rarely spoke in Mando'a now, a silent beratement of his soul, to chastise himself for his failings. He fought as a Mando, for the Mandos, but he could not bring himself to hold himself equal with them. He was a Sha'buir in the true sense. One who had not only failed, but failed so miserably, those around him had suffered for it.
Only after an introspective moment did Trull's words hit Darian, and his brows raised high. "Yes, yes, brother, you are right- Tar'ika, this is Trull Ordo, a good friend of mine. He will not harm you." Gesturing into the tenament- not quite the home Tari would have known, far less adequate and... far more humble... "Trull, this is my niece. Tari, of Clan Beviin. Treat her as you would your own child."
He glanced fleetingly over Trull with that sort of look that spoke volumes, the kind that beckoned him not to ask about circumstances, then smiled warmly down at his niece. "Have you had food and shelter, and been clothed well, Tari? My brothers and I- we have little to offer, in truth, but what we have is yours." He glanced skyward, as if this day had been fated. As if , for once, Kad had answered a prayer, albeit not in the way they had all hoped.
But then, what is a faith that caters to it's faithful but hollow?
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Keldabe
May 29, 2013 21:05:54 GMT -8
Post by Tari Beviin on May 29, 2013 21:05:54 GMT -8
*Tari tilted her head to the side when Derry said he hadn't left in the way "the family told it." Her eyes ran over the chains he wore again, something she didn't understand. It honestly looked like some form of cruel and unusual punishment to her, but for what reason? What happened five years ago, or since then?
Apparently Derry hadn't been alone. A man with him had suggested moving this to her tenement. Derry introduced him as Trull, assuring her he would not harm her. Tari regarded "Trull" with a nod.*
Su'cuy.
*Apparently, said man's tenement was, well, right beside them. Convenient. Derry even went so far as to request Trull treat her as he would his own child, before asking her if she was clothed, fed, and sheltered, and offering what meager provisions they had as her own. Tari nodded meekly.*
Elek. I still have my home and my clothes. Running out of food though... and there's nothing left to drink but tihaar.
*Judging by her tone, it was clear she still wasn't quite fond of the stuff. But that wasn't important. She'd finally found Derry, and better, he was accepting her into his fold. That was all she could've hoped for, and was enough to bring a smile to her face, her first in days.*
Vor'e. I've been looking for you for days. Others wanted to help me, but...
*She slowed down, picking her words carefully, not wanting to sound too sentimental. But there was really no other way to say it.*
... I wanted my family.
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Trull Ordo
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Keldabe
Jun 2, 2013 16:05:34 GMT -8
Post by Trull Ordo on Jun 2, 2013 16:05:34 GMT -8
Trull smiled in mock reprobation at his friend as he moved behind Tari and gently laid a hand on her shoulder. He gestured at the crowd moving back and forth around them, some in armor, some in fatigues, some walking, some seated at the café across the street.
"Is she Mando'ade? Then she is my blood too, my ade, just as you and those walking by are my vode. She is my own." Trull glanced down at the girl and his eyes narrowed. "Not in a creepy way or anything though," he whispered conspiratorially, making joking reassurance as a small smile tweaked his lips. Offering her his hand, Trull led the way back into his tenement complex and up the stairs to the hallway where he lived. As the three Mando'ade walked, Trull marveled at how happily he had taken to befriending the girl. I suppose tired old dogs will let any young thing hide with them. They stepped inside, and Trull felt a sudden blush of embarrassment as he looked at his austere quarters, now illuminated as he considered the perspective of the girl walking with him. He lived like an old dog, indeed. One wall was part of the outer wall of the complex, and built into it were two floor-length window panels, with the dimmers set to let in a soft daylight. A simple bed with two footlockers stored under it was built into the wall on one side of this window-wall, and against the opposite wall were the altar-bowl to Kad and a thick mat with permanent indents where Trull's knees had pressed into it. Across the room was a row of cabinets, a food-prep station, a small table with three chairs, and a door to the utilitarian refresher room.
Trull gestured almost shyly, arm flopping from his side half-heartedly to indicate the space. "Home, such as it is. Make yourself comfortable and I'll see what I can put together for us to eat. I assume," he said, turning to his two companions, "that none of us have breakfasted?"
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Post by Tari Beviin on Jun 5, 2013 0:45:58 GMT -8
*Tari looked behind her, up at Trull as he placed a hand on her shoulder, claiming that she was his own simply because they were both Mando'ade. Then added that it wasn't in a creepy way. It was enough to draw a smile to her face, both of amusement and gratefulness. They truly were a great people, the Mando'ade, and any one of them would have taken her in. She was just glad she'd found a Beviin first.
Tari hesitated a moment before taking the offered hand as Trull showed her around where he lived. It certainly looked... well, simple. Not that Tari was going to complain, though suddenly she wondered if they expected her to live here rather than her home. Though maybe she could— Had she breakfasted?*
Um... I had a little rice, but, that's about it...
*Rice was pretty much nearly all she had left. It was normally fine, but without the knowledge to properly season it, well, it was bland, and one got tired of it pretty quickly. That out of the way, though, Tari turned toward Derry again. Uncle Derry. The only family she had left right now. Well, the only blood family. There was something she needed to know...*
Derry, where have you been all these years?
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Trull Ordo
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Keldabe
Jun 5, 2013 14:12:05 GMT -8
Post by Trull Ordo on Jun 5, 2013 14:12:05 GMT -8
Trull narrowed his eyes pensively and turned to his cabinets, looking for something to make a more substantial meal for himself and his two guests. Almost as soon as he had turned away, he was glad he did: the girl putting that oh-so-difficult question to her lost uncle: where were you? Where were you when we needed you, when I needed you? Trull was glad the question wasn't aimed at him. From his cooler the warrior took a loaf of crusty bread and set it out to thaw, along with a chunk of cooked steak and a jug of wine. He glanced twice at the wine, and put it back in the cooler. Alcohol could wait. For now, juice would suffice. Trull still had a mostly-full carton of unidentified fruit juice, and he put this out instead, filling three metal cups from it. He dithered a moment, trying to decide where to go next, and then caught his train of thought. One his kitchen knives slid into his hand, slicing strips of steak and laying them out on the prep board. Trull cut three chunk of bread as well, and doused them in a fragrant oil. One hand began laying out strips of meat on the bread as his other turned on the stovetop. Chunks of cheese were scattered across the makeshift breakfast sandwiches, and then into the pan they went, along with another dousing of oil. The savory aroma quickly began filling the room.
Trull was happy to lose himself in the simple task of preparing a breakfast for the three of them, pretending not to listen to the conversation behind him, though everybody present knew that he was. It broke his heart to think about Tari's story, and his was a tired and poured-out heart, one that could ill-stand to be broken. Kad was his god, but Kad cared nothing for the likes of Tari. That was the responsibility of other gods. Once more Trull remembered his childhood blood-vow and laughed at it humorlessly: what a blind boy he'd been, tying himself for all his life to war. Who would've known that he'd be so good at war, that he'd continue living long after he'd expected to die and fulfill his oath. It seemed Kad had a sense of humor. He'd granted Trull's one prayer, once: that he would have the strength to destroy his enemies and save his family. Trull hadn't lost a battle yet, but he'd long since run out of battles worth fighting.
What did a God of War care about those left in the wake of worship?
* * *
"Why're we still here, Gunn?"
"'cause Mister 'I Talk to God' says we've got to stay here, and he's bigger than us."
"That is unfair, Gunn Vau, I do not force you-"
"Oh pipe down Corvy, we know."
The three Mandalorians lounged about an open-air bar. One of them, the largest, was fully armored and wore a massive two-handed sword. His helmet was laid aside. It was this one that the other two had been joking at. These two were playing at Pazaak, using a pile of knucklebones as stakes, and though both had weapons at hand, neither was armored. The big man sat apart from the game, occasionally glancing at it in incomprehension, but mostly reading from a small book that he cradled in his enormous hands. One of the players, a short man with brown hair and keen eyes, glanced up and around before tapping the deck and unveiling a +3 card.
"Anybody seen Trull yet today?" His opponent, a bigger man with dark hair and fierce features, revealed a +10 card and swore as he busted, pushing a chunk of his stakes to the speaker and reshuffling the deck. Responding to the question, he looked around and shook his head, slamming down a fresh table deck as he collected his side deck.
"Priest Ordo is doing the work of Kad, without a doubt," rumbled the big man without looking up. The black-haired man glanced at him, beginning a new round of Pazaak.
"Killing aruetiise? What makes you think that, Corvo?" The smaller man, Gunn Vau, chuckled and responded.
"Because, Kiri, you know that Corvo does not comprehend the thought of a priest doing anything but his priestly duties." The two men chuckled, and if Corvo heard the remark, he did not respond. Kiri grumbled as he busted and surrendered another stake, muttering, "Where the hell is Sapper, anyway...?" Gunn snorted.
"Vod, nobody ever knows where he is until he shows up or something blows up -" As soon as the words left his mouth, Gunn stopped and looked around sharply, half rising from his chair. Corvo ignored him, but Kiri stared in bewilderment. After a moment Gunn sat back down, shaking his head. "Never can tell with that guy... speak of the devil and up he pops." Kiri chuckled and played again, for once managing to take a set.
"'allo mates!" A small man with wild eyes and a prosthetic left arm threw a chair to the table and sat down in it with a crash, grinning as Kiri and Gunn jumped and swore at him. He kicked his scuffed boots up on the table, scattering cards as he snapped towards the bar. "Tihaar!" he chirped, still grinning at his friends as he leaned back with his hands behind his head. "'ow goes?"
"Dammit, Sap," Kiri growled, gathering his cards and rearranging the playing field around Sapper's feet. "How many times have we told you not to do that?"
"At least a dozen, I fink," chattered Sapper in his thick accent, smiling. He surveyed the faces, grinning especially widely at Corvo's dour countenance, then asked: "Oi, where's Trull? Ain't he done with his new friends yet?" Gunn and Kiri looked up at that, Gunn playing a -4 to draw the set.
"What new friends?" asked Kiri, frowning and collecting his deck again. Sapper shrugged.
"Fella wearing chains an' a li'l kid. They went in to his place, dunno why." This time Corvo looked up too.
"Chains? That's the High Priest," he muttered confusedly. Gunn and Kiri frowned as well, and Gunn glanced at Sapper.
"How do you always know these things?" Sapper looked at him with pity in his eyes, as if Gunn were missing the most obvious thing in the world. He leaned in and patted his friend's face kindly, whispering, "I'm always watching, Gunny boy. That's how."
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Faust Skirata
Member
I'm the Juggernaut, bitch.
Posts: 203
Affiliation: The Priesthood
Traffic Light: Blue
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Keldabe
Jun 14, 2013 13:21:58 GMT -8
Post by Faust Skirata on Jun 14, 2013 13:21:58 GMT -8
By Kad, it was hot. The sun glared overhead, baking the streets of Keldabe, and the streets were crowded with sentients, mostly visitors in the city for market day. Amidst the crush of people Faust marched, fighting his way through the mass of bodies with a swiftly deteriorating patience. His dull 'gam gleamed in the harsh sunlight, as did the twin beskad he wore on either hip. The soldier's black hair was damp, his forehead beaded with sweat, and his expression twisted in a grimace of frustration.
Coming into the city was beginning to seem like a bad idea. Having just returned from a job- simple mercenary work that had paid well nonetheless- Faust was eager to spend his credits as quickly as possible. Unfortunately he hadn't realized he would arrive in Keldabe on one of the hottest days he could remember, and on market day to boot. Looking around the soldier decided he wasn't the only one that was regretting their choice to come to the city. Everyone looked overheated and irritated and on the verge of collapse. Vendors sold bottles of water on the edges of the street; customers flocked to them in droves, but Faust had a thirst for something a bit more stout.
Fighting his way through the crowds slowed him down considerably, but eventually he reached an open-air bar he was fond of. Small tables were arranged rather haphazardly and, since the bar was located a good distance from the more popular areas of the city for visitors, it was not crowded. A few tables were occupied- a Rodian drank alone at one, and another hosted a game of cards- but that was it. He seated himself a polite distance from the other patrons and hailed the passing waiter.
"Get me a lomin ale, will you?" His voice was dry and hoarse, coming across as little more than a growl, but the slim human male only nodded courteously and bustled off.
Faust breathed a sigh and waited for him to return with something wet.
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Dral Marev
Member
Posts: 69
Affiliation: The Mandalorian Assembly
Traffic Light: Yellow
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Keldabe
Jun 15, 2013 1:43:27 GMT -8
Post by Dral Marev on Jun 15, 2013 1:43:27 GMT -8
A modified YT-1300 Christened: the Ijaat, accompanied by four Bes'uliik fighters, all of them Black with Dark Green and Royal Blue blazings descend and land. The pilots of the Bes'uliiks set their fighters down in a perimeter around the YT-1300. The pilots disembarked from their craft and board the Ijaat. They enter the main sitting area to converse with the pilot who is also their commander, Dral Marev.
*Dral asks* How far away are the others?
*A young girl who had piloted one of the Bes'uliiks named Cuyan responded* They were scheduled to jump only five hours after us. They should be dropping out of hyperspace above the planet within the next three to four hours.
*Dral looked around the compartment at each of the young pilots. Not one of them had yet reached their 18th birthday. He smiled at them and spoke.* We're home ad'ike. Lets make the best of it.
Dral and his son Adenn lead the way down the ramp, the four Bes'uliik pilots casually falling in behind them.
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Dral Marev
Member
Posts: 69
Affiliation: The Mandalorian Assembly
Traffic Light: Yellow
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Keldabe
Jun 15, 2013 22:34:23 GMT -8
Post by Dral Marev on Jun 15, 2013 22:34:23 GMT -8
The YT-1300 bearing the name Kotep and one of the YT-1930s which bore the name Jat'ca'nara descended towards the planets surface and set down flanking the Ijaat and 4 Bes'uliiks already there. A woman of almost 30 and an 8 year old girl stepped down the walkway of the Kotep and walked to meet the two boys who had disembarked the Jat'ca'nara. The elder boy was 14 and the younger boy was 6. The younger boy came and met them as they continued to approach the Jat'ca'nara. The 14 year old boy was fiddling with a computer mounted to his gauntlet and immediately a hiss issued from the starboard aft cargo hold as it de-pressurized and hydraulics lowered the cargolift. On the cargolift was a speeder. The boy, named Kal lifted the 6 year old up and put him in the drivers seat. The older woman climbed into the passenger seat and consulted the homing beacon flashing in the Hud of her helmet.
The elder woman, named Ruusaan, looked at her son in the drivers seat and told him to drive into town towards the Oyu'baat. Bes'bavar fiddled with the nav computer for a second and then took the path that the nav computer gave him.
After the speeder had left with his mother and younger brother, Kal made sure that the cargolift was cleared and raised it again. He fiddled with the computer a little more and the port aft cargolift descended with a hiss of depressurizing air and hydraulics revealing another speeder. Kal climbed into the passenger seat and looked expecantly at his 8 year old sister Ruusaan. She had been named after her mother and everyone said she looked exactly like her mother had at her age. Right now Ruusaan was standing next to the cargolift looking at her brother in slight confusion. She had developed a knack for tilting her head to the side when she was confused which helped Kal read her as her helmet hid her facial expression. Kal smiled a little bit under his helmet.
I'm sorry Ruu', did you not WANT to drive into town?
Ruu' started as she realized that he had deliberately left the drivers seat open for her and ran around the speeder leaping into the air and rolling over the side of the speeder to plop into the seat. Kal laughed and sent the tracker for mom's beacon to Ruu's HUD. The speeder leapt forward as if it were a hunting dog on the scent of its quarry. Kal quickly sent two commands to the Jat'ca'nara as they raced away.
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Dral Marev
Member
Posts: 69
Affiliation: The Mandalorian Assembly
Traffic Light: Yellow
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Keldabe
Jun 15, 2013 22:44:44 GMT -8
Post by Dral Marev on Jun 15, 2013 22:44:44 GMT -8
The onboard computer of the Jat'ca'nara retracted the cargolift and sealed all of its hatches. It then conducted a thorough interior scan of all the crawlways, secret compartments, storage areas, cabins and walkways for anything living or mechanical. At the conclusion of this scan it began an exterior scan of the area upon which the seven vessels rested as it engaged interior defenses. Upon the completion of the exterior scan, the computer engaged motion sensors and passively linked them to the targeting computer of the ships external weapons. It then sent a status report to Kal stating that the ship was secure, which popped up in his Hud as his little sister passed Bes'bavar on the road to the Oyu'baat.
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Deleted
Deleted Member
Posts: 0
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Post by Deleted on Jun 19, 2013 22:35:00 GMT -8
It had been a long, long time since Goran had set foot on Mandalore. Decades, in fact, since he had even been counted among the ranks of the Mandalorians, back in the old days. But now there was war, and where there is war, there is Goran Motherfucking Starkiller, the Tin Can with a Plan.
The Shard trundled down the streets towards the only tavern that anyone gave a damn about. His custom made R2-FKU chassis gleams dully in the sunlight, and despite the mud and the filth of the street, somehow remains spotless. There are no visible weapons, but anyone seeking easy prey was going to find breathing a lot more difficult after taking a blaster, bullet or blade to the throat.
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Keldabe
Jun 29, 2013 9:56:00 GMT -8
Post by Randolph Beviin on Jun 29, 2013 9:56:00 GMT -8
Now Randolph was probably the funniest thing you could have ever seen. Standing an even three feet tall the Mandalorian was the complete opposite of menacing. For you see he suffered from a form of dwarfism that was not entirely common in the human race, due and of course this set of faulty genes had made him the laughing stock of the community. Walking through the streets he weaved his way through the oncoming traffic of people until he found a place to sit comfortably. Near the edge of the city he pulled himself onto a bench that overlooked a part of the river that looped around the city.
Now to say he had small mans syndrome was an understatement, for everything on him was just a few sizes to large. His hat alone added another foot onto his diminutive stature, his armour was rather amusing. It belonged to that of a small child, and when he had asked for it he was laughed away but eventually this guy got himself some shiznit.
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