Dav Man'Sell
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Post by Dav Man'Sell on Apr 29, 2013 17:11:51 GMT -8
The Grand Atrium, a vast publicly accessible, 8 floor space that connected to the shopping and recreational parades, public accomodation, and the arterial ring corridors. This was the public and commercial area of the station, the area all visitors to the station had access to. Traders could come here and rent out temporary outlets, and a number of permanent trader's shops were set up in the shopping and recreational parades, including the Onyx Dragon, a popular bar on the Station. |
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Dav Man'Sell
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Post by Dav Man'Sell on May 24, 2013 17:44:05 GMT -8
 The Mandalorians have brought war to the Galaxy once more. Under the leadership of Mand'alor ASHRAH INTALBO, and his General CORR VHETT, they have begun a campaign against the Galaxy's Force Users. The Jedi World of Yavin IV was the first hit, a strike at one of the greatest Jedi strongholds. The Mandalorians took YAVIN STATION, the mighty orbital defence platform, thanks to a brilliant infiltration strategy by DUKE AUSTRALIS, and under the order of Jedi Master DAV MAN'SELL, the Jedi forces retreated from orbit. With the Jedi fleets scattered, the Mandalorians took their attack to the surface.
However, the Jedi defences were not so easily overcome. With starfighter cover lead by Jedi Master JAGO PULASTRA, and ground defences overseen by Jedi Knight ADI MATANGO and Falleen strategist TZA'UAX, the Jedi were able to force the Mandalorians to withdraw to orbit. However, the defence is not without sacrifice - redeemed former Dark Sider DACE CONCORDIA, at the beginning of his path to reclaim the mantle of Jedi, was slain by the Mand'alor in bloody, vicious combat.
Now the Mandalorians are settling in for a long siege on the Praxeum, blockading the planet and seeking constantly to take out the shield generator and ion cannons that form the backbone of the Praxeum's defence. Dav, Jago, and the other resident Jedi of Yavin lead the hard fought and desperate defence, whilst Adi, working with Master WILL SON'TIR and Jedi Knight DIAMONTE TUHLUTE, and the Jedi Watchmen, seeks to prepare the Jedi, and the worlds of the Republic, for the inevitable assault to come.... |
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Corr
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Post by Corr on Jun 20, 2013 14:13:44 GMT -8
Bruno frowned at the blastdoor in front of them, looked down at the holomap projecting from his gauntlet, then frowned up at the blastdoor again.
"That shouldn't be there..."
The other three commando's looked at each other, frowns behind their visors transmitting themselves with body language and poise. A few muttered oaths criss-crossed over the comm as Bruno walked over to the blastdorr, banging a fist against the irksome obstacle.
They had been attempting to map this area of the station for a few hours now, seeking ways to get around the hindrances the Jedi had managed to place at nearly every opportunity. Whole sectors of the station were locked off to them, the cursed encryption foiling every attempt to bypass the security. Blastdoors remained sealed, forcing the Mandalorian to compromise corridors and rooms by cutting or exploding their way through in order to proceed in a clean up operation that was becoming less and less viable by the hour. Unable to secure the massive warren of access ways and turbolifts, unable to use any of the displays, they had been forced to try and map the place by hand, using whatever data they could from outside scans performed by ships of the fleet. That such ships could not get close to the station for fear of the ground-based ion cannons further exasperated the situations, rendering most scans faulty or incomplete, resulting n situations like this, where a team would encounter a door where there should be none according to the maps available to them.
The fighting had been fierce at first but had trickled down to a few sporadic encounters, what Jedi resistance still active adept at using the ducts and vents of the station to move from place to place, causing problems for the Mando occupiers and generally making a pest of themselves. It was assumed by the Mando command here on the station that the resistance, as it was now being dubbed, was operating out of the lower levels, possible from an auxiliary bridge not far from the stations cantina, the Onyx Dragon. That area of the station, from what schematics they had managed to acquire, was a maze of interconnecting passages, utility access vents gantries, and walkways, all linking to the main hub that connected all the ducts and vents to the air processing plant. The problems facing the Mando's that sought to eradicate this annoyance was that every time the tried to find a way down to this level they were met by obstacles. When trying to cut through a blastdoor they would find the corridor beyond vented to space, or when they went to blow their way through a barricade the found that the area had been laced with a toxic chemical which ignited in intense heat.
Such things had the Mando invaders walking on egg-shells, not knowing where the next calamity would come from.
"Trev, bring the cutting torch over."
One of the Mando's stepped forward, a slight man in dull grey armour made of durasteel. He fumbled for a moment and produced an arc welder from his back, looking uncertain as he wielded it clumsily.
Are you sure, boss?
The man asked, voice coming out of his helmets speaker.
Remember what happened the last time we tried to cut through a door....
Bruno frowned, his own head uncovered, helmet mag-clamped to his belt. Of course he remembered. They had all almost been sucked into space to dance with the debris of the previous days battle. It was only a lucky break, another blastdoor further down the corridor, one not disabled by the Jedi saboteurs, that had saved them. The emergency protocols had sealed the door, therefore sealing the breach and saving them from a grim fate.
"We can't just go back. We'll never make any progress in this maze if we just give up at every obstacle!
He gestured towards the blastdoor, face set in a determined scowl.
"Go ahead. Cut it."
Trev stepped forward reluctantly while the other two vode stepped back, postures yelling their unease. The blue flame sprang to life and, after a small adjustment, Trev set it to the durasteel...
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Corr
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Post by Corr on Jul 10, 2013 16:14:55 GMT -8
Stars. Something in Trull never got over the vastness of space. That immense black void peppered by needles of light. It felt like a world in itself, and then you go exploring through it and find worlds uncounted which feel just as vast when you approach them. Then you look at that approached world, and turn look back into the void? Oh, how mighty is the void. How insignificant man and his causes, his feuds and fights, in the face of the void. In another life, in a life devoid of Kad and his purging truths, in a life devoid of the Mando way, maybe Trull would have been an astronomer, a slackjawed stargazer. That life was not this life. This life was blood and service. "Kad's fire be lit, the purging done," he prayed, steering the Blastboat into the docking bay of the station. "Cleansed, to your glory." He did not set them down, instead idly floating in the hangar. Keeping his eyes forward and alert, looking for trouble, Trull commed his commander. Orders, Aliit'alor?
I would be tempted to telll said story, in fact I may try work a lot of it in with future narrations, but at the moment posting constraints due to the fact that I have very nearly a dozen places where a story line is on going, couple with the late hour within which I find myself, dictates that I keep this as short and sweet as I can.
Therefore...
Corr had sat impassively in the navigators chair during the commute from the Ori'gehaat'ik to the station, covertly watching Alena via his helmets viewer. Able to observe three hundred and sixty degree's this kind of visual enhancement would be difficult to follow for a normal being. Corr was used to it though. In fact, some said that he was actually born with his buy'ce already on, and that he clawed his way out of his mother three weeks premature such was his desire to do battle. A true son of Kad indeed was the man from Concord Dawn, known as "Bounty Killer", the word hunter being found inappropriate due to the fact that it implies the possibility of failure.
*Snickers*
He was watching her hand clench and relax only to clench again, his interest piqued by her apparent discontent. Her rage was apparent to any who could read such body language, but what was interesting to Corr was that he couldn't actually feel her rage. Now we all know the current situation with Mando's and Force users, just as I'm sure you all know Corr is Force sensitive. I've been writing it in such a way that its latency is vague at best, nonexistent at times. A brief flash of inspiration here, a gut feeling there, nothing more. This is the first time in a while that he has actively used it and its not even that. Actually paid attention to it, or lack thereof in this instance, is a better description so... In fact, why the fook do I feel the need to explain this shit. Jesus I'm polite these days.
Anyway...
All that apparent rage, all that barely contained anger, yet no feeling of belligerence towards him? No controlled fury? No resigned irritation? Nothing. She was either controlling her reactions, in which case she was either trained to do so, or had the inherent ability to do so indicating either altered genetics or alien dna. Or she was employing some kind of Force dampening, in which case the question would be why the need and how does she know she needs to. Or...
There! A flash of something leaking through whatever technique that was being utilised, an emotional reaction strong enough to... ignite her hand? A trick of the light perhaps? A flash of a reflection through the viewport maybe? That flash in her palm... Spooky.
Corr's musing was interrupted by Scotrulls question and the big Mandalorian glanced around, casting a nonchalant glance out of the viewport. Really?
Gar copaan'ir mhi bah barycir daab teh olar vaabir gar?
{You expect us to jump down from here do you?
His voice was a sarcastic drawl as he gestured out the viewport to the deck several foot below the ship. His visor gave the impression of eyebrows raised in mockery, eyes rolling at the silliness of the question. His entire non-face was pretty much screaming "Land us, my dear boy. Times'a'wastin!"
His attention drifted back to Alena and he leaned over in his chair, visor leering at her nastily.
Ni copaan'ir gar'ade mar'eyir ibac barycir pakod, kotyc jahaalir dalyc emuurir gar...
{I expect you'd find this jump easy, fit healthy girl like you...}
He grinned beneath the buy'ce, his intention to wind her up and explore this new-found crack in her emotional shield. Perhaps she'd reveal more of herself through this breach, something he was sure could be exploited by their mission here on the space station.... |
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Trull Ordo
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Post by Trull Ordo on Jul 11, 2013 19:52:46 GMT -8
"Oh, just jump already," Trull growled at his general, grinning under his helmet and already beginning to set the ship down. "Don't be a pussy."
Moments of humor like that were the small blessings that kept men like Trull sane - unremitting solemnity and tension would break a man, no matter how strong, how weathered, how seasoned. It was those moments when the tension was slackened that allowed for it to be reapplied and sustained. Trull chuckled at his own joke as he set the ship down on the buckled hangar floor, and at the same time a small corner of his stomach twisted. That girl, riding with them. She was almost certainly going to die. Trull had caught the whispers, seen the signs from Darian and Corr. Darian was in his blood-frenzy, and he wanted her blood - and Corr? Corr Vhett was in no hurry to deny him the pleasure.
Innocent or not, her fate was almost fully decided.
And Trull was chuckling at calling the Vhett Aliit'alor a pussy.
Feeling slightly sick, Trull retrieved his weapons and exited the Blastboat, standing with spear and shield at the ready.
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Artus Varad
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Affiliation: Loyal follower of the Mand'alor
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Post by Artus Varad on Jul 12, 2013 9:38:33 GMT -8
The Krayt Gunship known as the Kanden Heturam drifted into one of the main Hangar spaces, landed with a slight jolt, and sat for just a moment or two, before the hatch opened to reveal the ship's owner, Artus Varad. The Black and grey armour, a standard beskar'gam design in duraplast, carried little shine, but many marks of wear and tear. Weapons slung from holsters and slings surrounded the armour, as did a large, slightly curved sword of a different design to a beskad, which hung in a sheath at the left hip.
Artus stepped into the hangar, looking around. The lighting was dim, clearly emergency or combat lighting, though the enhancement provided by his buy'ce HUD negated any disadvantage this caused. Pock marks and large burns from combat covered the walls and the floor, and looked very recently created. A handful of ships at the far end of the Hangar were in pieces, clearly mid-repair in some fashion.
He looked around, studying the Hangar. Pre-combat, it looked as though it would have been clean, polished, something akin to the high-gloss hangars of the Imperial starships of old, though with perhaps slightly less military overtones. A well kept receiving area, clean and tidy and well decorated. Frivolous nonsense. In the Mandalorian's estimations, it looked better now. He kicked at the floor, seeing that there would have, indeed, been a high sheen to it if polished. There was a dulled and muted reflectiveness about it even now.
Artus' head turned, so as to look through the magnetic shield that contained the hangar's atmosphere. The vast flight corridor he saw beyond, leading to a heavily damaged and blown open set of external doors at the far end, suggested that the station had to be huge, in the multi-kilometre bracket at least. Two or three dozen smaller hangars, he could see, were set into the side walls of the flight corridor - a handful of them looked as though they had been the location of some large explosions, as they, and the hull around them, were blasted and shredded. All of them seemed to be under the same dim emergency lighting.
His audio sensors picked up sounds behind him, a doorway opening, and he turned his head towards it.
Perhaps this will be someone to tell me where to go and what to do next.
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Post by Eliana Shan on Jul 12, 2013 22:13:12 GMT -8
Alena turned to regard the Mandalorian general, her blue eyes narrowed and glaring up at him over the top of her orange visor. She knew exactly what he was trying to do, and she was beginning to rethink her earlier assessment of him as a grandstanding fool. She knew that he was trying to rile her up, to make her do something she shouldn't..
Unfortunately for her, it was working.
"Nar'sheb, Aliit'alor."
Luckily, she resisted the urge to strike out, though she was unable to resist balling her hands into fists again, again resulting in a single solitary spark. She similarly resisted the urge to flinch at what she knew was she was doing: revealing that there was more to her than met the eye. She didn't know about his Force sensitivity; if she had, she would have realized that her complete lack of presence in the Force was suspicious.
Finally, she turned away from the Mandalorian, unstrapped herself, and stood up. She started towards the exit with nary a word, wondering if the Mandalorians would even allow her to exit the Blastboat without being hassled or assaulted again..
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Darian Beviin
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Post by Darian Beviin on Jul 12, 2013 22:46:09 GMT -8
All of this argument was banal. She barely rose to either of their plays, despite insistence- which to Darian was far more than enough to confirm that something was off about her. But there would be time enough to deal with her later. He barely listened to the jeering between Trull and Corr now, grunting in response to let them know he was aware.
No more waiting. As they hovered, even before Trull could set the Tra'Vod down, Darian stepped out and his greaves clattered in two quick thuds against the floor, the rattle of his chains heralding his arrival ominously. He stared blankly at the floor as he landed, his eyes glazed and distant. He wanted blood, perhaps, but he knew that there would be much to come.
In an unceremonious motion, he ripped Gorehound from his waist as he slowly stood, letting the tomahawk hang loosely in hand. He strode in relative silence through the hangar, the sound of beskar clanging against beskar emanating from the Priest with each step. Soon, there would be slaughter.
The Jetiise had fallen back- granted, to a degree, they had as well- and now, they were holed up behind blast doors. But where? Darian closed his eyes, tilting back his head, letting his mind trail off. He heard the sounds of blasterfire, the thrumming of lightsabers, beskar slamming against plasma- he could hear screams, see blood and bodies- the battle had been fierce.
But... where had they gone? They would know, soon enough...
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Corr
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Post by Corr on Jul 14, 2013 14:55:33 GMT -8
The rejoinders, both from Scotrull and Alena, bounced off his visor-for-a-face and fell flat on the floor to be trodden on by his boots as he stood and made his way to the hatch leading to the access corridor. He stopped for a moment, once again using his visors view to scrutinise the girl, finding her attempts to conceal her nature rather amusing now that he was sure she was harbouring some deceit. What is was, and he had a fairly good idea as to what, was irrelevant really. Just him knowing that there was something hidden, something secret, as enough for him to take steps. Put countermeasures in place. He was a general. That's what he did. Like a chess player, "Dejarik" I suppose in this canon though it doesn't make the same impact as chess, he arranged all his pieces, worked out every eventuality he could, before springing his trap.
He paused at the threshold of the door long enough to growl out a single comment from the helmet speakers, spitting out the line then continuing on his way to the hatch.
May'ca'nara may'vaii, cyar'ika...
{Anytime anywhere, sweetheart...}
Stomping down the ramp with all the ceremony of a Vornskr taking a piss Corr Vhett glanced around. Well... He didn't. Or at least it didn't seem like he did anyway. The way that read to me was that he was turning his head and gawking around the hangar and I want to assure you that is not the case. His helmets imaging did all the head turning for him, the movement itself sounding far to exhausting to employ, right Stark? Turning to look at things is massively overrated in sci-fi. Ask anyone. Anyone apart from Dace Concordia. He seemed to turn turning into a career, two-faced bastard. Different kind of turning but... Oh wait. You can't ask him cos he's dead. See? That's what turning gets you.
Um... Hangar. Right!
Corr stopped besides Darian, literally coming to a halt so still he looked like a strangely shaped cargo crate.
Shevla olar...
{Quiet here...}
He said it softly, as if discussing the weather. He let his attention drift onto Scotrull for a moment, stood their at the ready with his archaic weapons, the settled in to wait for Alena. It perhaps wasn't wse to leave her on the ship but she was Darians responsibility and charge now. It was up to him to keep her under guard. If she caused any troubles while she went unescorted then he would take the cost of such shenanigans out of Darians flesh. Being a priest of Kad did not exempt the man from Corr's wrath and the mighty Mando KNEW Kad wouldn't have it any other way.
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Post by Eliana Shan on Jul 15, 2013 12:28:12 GMT -8
She bristled again at being called cyar'ika. Yes, it was a term of endearment, but this man had done nothing to earn the right to call her that.
Luckily, he marched out before she had to resist any more violent urges. And now she was alone in the Blastboat. Alone, in this flying crate of technology. Wires and circuitry and programming galore. She could do so much, and she knew that whatever she did, the Mandalorians would deserve it. The question, though, was should she? Would she be able to do enough in the time before they came back to check on her, that would actually be worth the punishment of getting caught?
She already knew the answer. And so, she opted to do nothing. Well, almost nothing. Alena reached into her pocket and drew out one of the small capsules that she carried around with her, containing one of the bugs that she had been so found of using on Nar Shaddaa. It was a simple matter of breaking the seal, depositing the bug on her fingertip, and pressing it to the bulkhead by the exit ramp. Satisfied, she nodded and turned, heading outside to join the rest of the Mandalorians.
It wasn't much, and she had only a dozen of the bugs left. But, placed strategically, they could become a real nuisance. Especially with the modifications in all their buy'cese...
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Corr
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Post by Corr on Jul 17, 2013 13:12:48 GMT -8
The girl stepped onto the deck of the space station and came forward to stand alongside them. Though he didn't have to, given his helmets capabilities, Corr tuned his head to regard her through the demonic visor, a searching and knowing look that somehow transferred itself through the beskar mask as if it wasn't there blocking the face within a face that was a face! He held the pose for a moment, long enough for her to perhaps become uncomfortable and look at him questioningly, before he set his shoulders and marched towards the heavily damaged blast doors that led to the station proper.
He activated his comm as he walked, seeking out the channel of the Concordians who had followed Ashrah in his initial run here twenty four hours ago. It didn't take long for a voice to come on the channel, snarling a short and impatient "Iba?" - "What?"
Aren't Mando's charming when addressing their superior?
Corr grinned beneath his visor at the mans abrupt response. Perhaps he didn't know to whom he was addressing his comment, but he probably did. Hargor Tholl was a veteran of as many conflicts as Corr himself, if not more, and had no time for observing protocol during war. A clear cut chain of command was about as far as he'd bend towards "conventional warfare" preferring to remain unpredictable to the enemy for as long as possible. Hargor could take this obsession too far at times, following a course of action so far out there that his men would question his sanity, which was, to be fair, pretty non-existent. Still, thought Corr ruefully, how many times had such courses of action saved the day, pulling them back from the brink of defeat due to the enemy simply "not getting it"?
Ni hiibir bic gar ganar'ib umanir laam'ogir, al'verde?
{I take it your having problems up there, commander?
Corr knew the use of the honorific "commander" would annoy the man and he could hear the spluttering's of irritation bubbling over the comm channel. Corr uttered a bark of a laugh as he imagined the look of indignation on his old friends face.
=Hargor=
Sooranir bic, Vhett! Gar dinuire ni te osik'ade bora vurel olar, gar utreekov!
{Suck it, Fett. You gave me the shittest job ever here, you cretin!
The words were roared loud enough that Corr feared it would escape his buy'ce and be audible to those around him, such was the venom in them. He laughed again, this time a series of barks that came across like a machine trying to cough itself into motion. He flicked his right eye rapidly to select the option where the comm call wasn't isolated, enabling Darian, Scotrull and Alena, should she have managed to hack into their general comm channel by now, to listen in.
Hargor continued in the same garrulous vein...
=Hargor=
Te daworir'ade Jetii shabuire ganar aranare te tolase...
{The stinking Jedi bastards have locked the systems... }
Corr sniffed disdainfully as he and the others reached the main turbolift. Waving them in he spoke in a nonchalant tone, cutting of the other mans rant.
=Hargor=
Bid dajunar
{As expected}
They could almost hear the blood thundering around the other mans head as he got more irate. His voice came back in a sardonic drawl, clearly not impressed by Corr's minimalist attitude.
=Hargor=
Be goyust. Ibic vaabir'nayc gev bic cuyire aaray o'r te sheb vaabir bic!? Vaabir'nayc gev gar orjorer ibic mhi ganar'nayc ibac te taap laam bal viinirise al narir bic!? Liser'nayc gotal'ur anay'kebise an staabi o'r te-
{Of course. That doesn't stop it being a royal pain in the arse though does it!? Won't stop you complaining that we haven't got the place up and running though will it!? Can't make everything all right in the-}
Corr shook his head as the doors closed and the lift began to accelerate into a vertical climb. He cast a glance at Darian and Scotrull, facing seeming to say "This is the price I pay for command, boys. Its lonely at the top, savvy?" His voice broke into the channel, cutting Hargor off again.
Kad udesiir, cyar'ika. K'atani, ori'jag...{Kad relax, sweetheart. Suck it up, big man...}There was silence over the channel and Corr could imagine the other mans face as the turbolift came to a stop. He wouldn't be disappointed as the doors opened to admit them to bridge of the space station...
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Jul 17, 2013 21:59:31 GMT -8
*As the Trandoshan Dropship Dragon's Folly passed through the magnetic shield of the hanger bay, Khrogal's hands passed over the command consul with quick ease as he set the ship down near a, as the holo-database confirmed a moment later, M22-T Krayt gunship. Khrogal looked it over a moment, not yet noticing the black and gray Mando standing near it, before exiting the bridge once more and making for his workshop. Entering it a moment later, Khrogal unlocked his weapons locker and paused a moment, looking over each weapon and considered which would be most useful. Grabbing, first, both his Gatling gauntlets, he strapped them onto his wrists in front of his chains before checking their ammo count to make sure they were full loaded. Satisfied, he then withdrew his pair of ACP repeater guns and double checked their magazines before sliding them into the holsters on his thighs. He then grabbed a handful of spare mags and slid them into their pouches on his belt. Standing over the locker, Khrogal then bent down to pick up the large LS-150 Heavy ACP Repeater, hefting it up to his chest, he checked the ammo belt and found it in satisfactory condition, seeing that the ammo counter read 200-full. *
*Turning to leave, Khrogal was about to exit the workshop when he paused to look at the Chalon Honor Blade above his work bench. He desired nothing more then to free it from it's cage and bathe it in the blood of the hunt, and he heard it's return call for blood. Khrogal forced himself to look away, he was not worthy yet of wielding such a weapon again and strode out of the workshop towards the loading ramp.*
*As the large ramp lowered to the scorched deck below, Khrogal looked out from the top into the half-light of the hanger, his eyes naturally going deeper into the infrared spectrum, he could see the slowly cooling marks from blaster fire lacing the walls and floor like a pox. Striding down the ramp, his bare feet touched cool durasteel as he noticed now, the armored figure standing by what would no doubt be his own ship. Heavy Repeater in hand, Khrogal strode straight for the man, his his feet thumping hard against the deck with his approach.*
*Standing at seven feet tall and weighing around three hundred and fifty pounds with his armor on, the massive Trandoshan stopped a few feet away from the Mandalorian and demanded.*
"Bring me to your commander. The hunt awaits."
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Artus Varad
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Affiliation: Loyal follower of the Mand'alor
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Post by Artus Varad on Aug 1, 2013 15:42:12 GMT -8
It took Artus a long moment to realise the Trandoshan was addressing him, distracted as he was with his musings on the station, consideration of the battle below, and speculations towards his fellow warriors. The manner in which the reptilian spoke also lead to him somewhat not expecting it. Surely it was evident, by the fact that he was situated by another freshly arrived ship, looking around him, with no direction or momentum in his movement so that he was, in fact, simply standing on the spot, to even a sub-standard intelligence that he, too, was new here and knew not where the leader was.
Apparently not.
Hidden beneath his faceplate, the Mandalorian's nose screwed up in frustration. And, though the three-sixty degree display of his buy'ce dispatched of the necessity for him to actually turn and look at the Trandoshan, he did, slowly and purposefully. With equal purposefulness, he looked the seven foot reptile-man from head to clawed toe, and back up again, before he stared through the T-shaped visor of his helmet, right into this creature's eyes. After a few moments of this, his head canted to the side, and he took a step forward.
"Do I look like the karkin' usher to you, chuckles?"
Purposefully turning back towards the door - though taking careful care to watch the Trandoshan through his HUD - Artus crossed his arms across his chest.
"I've got just as much idea of where the commander is as you have. Thought someone might come meet me, or at least comm through and provide directions. Apparently, hospitality aint high on the priority list right now."
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Bralex Ordo
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Post by Bralex Ordo on Aug 8, 2013 11:57:46 GMT -8
The Mar'eyce landed, not terrible far from the Tra'Vod. Bralex exited his ship, in full battle gear, ready to go. He held his DC-17 across his chest and scanned his eyes across the hangar. Now to find Corr...
Corr I have arrived.
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Corr
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Post by Corr on Aug 10, 2013 4:40:56 GMT -8
The open blastdoors at the far end of the hangar from where the Trandoshan and the warrior know as Artus Varad stood revealed four figures silhouetted against the harsh red of the corridors emergency lighting. They spied Bralex, situated somewhere in between them and the other two beings, and approached the leader of Clan Ordo. They all wore similar armour, dull green with only a few deviance's from a general theme; a red shoulder guard here, a blue shin plate there, that indicated they were all of the same unit and clan. Strangely absent was any markings designating them to any faction in particular. The Mysthosaur skull was the only badge of any kind on their apparel and their helmets remained in place, giving them the impassive demeanor of so many in the Empire.
The first, a being with a simple gold trim lining parts of his armour, stopped in front of Bralex and gave a brief nod, his voice issuing through the speakers of his helm and well as bubbling over the comm channel Bralex had used..
Su'cuy, Al'verde. Ni olar bah hiibir gar at Corr...
{Greeting, Commander. I'm here to escort you to Corr...}
The helmet turned slightly to indicate the man was looking beyond the right shoulder of Bralex, his gaze taking in the huge lizard and the unknown Mando'ade stood next to it.
Gar olar par teh oay'karir?
He supposed the term would appeal to the Trandoshan, as it would to any of the vode. He was speaking the creatures language, so to speak. So he spoke. That being said, he mused to himself, perhaps the Lizard didn't speak Mando's. In which case he was speaking gibberish.
The basic that growled out over the comm and speaker was garbled and heavily accented with a rustic, rural-rim drawl, perhaps giving an indication where these men were from, should one be versed in language and accent. It was definitely not Mandalore, who's dialect and tone had become generic with the adoptive-nature of the Mandalorian clans. No, this was something more remote. I'm sure my fellow writers know they're from Concord Dawn but I'm just trying to convey the impression that its possible for their characters to deduce it, should they be so apt. Digression with a purpose if you will. And now I digress...
You here for the hunt?
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Bralex Ordo
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Affiliation: [img]http://tinyurl.com/MEOrdo[/img]
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Post by Bralex Ordo on Aug 11, 2013 17:28:13 GMT -8
Bralex nodded to the Vod.
Vor entye ner'vod. Alor te su.
{Thank you brother. Lead the trail.}
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Artus Varad
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Posts: 12
Affiliation: Loyal follower of the Mand'alor
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Post by Artus Varad on Aug 16, 2013 4:29:03 GMT -8
As, at last, someone approached them, he gave a small sigh. There would be no scrapping with a Trandoshan today. The odd mixture of disappointment and relief (he wasn't stupid, after all - A fight against a Trandoshan would hurt no matter how well he fought) guided his muscles to start to unwind from their tensed, and ready to fight, state, and he relaxed into something a little more akin to passivity.
"Finally. Can't exactly fight if I don't know where I'm fighting."
He didn't know if the words would carry to the man approaching him or not. He also didn't much care either way. As the soldier stopped before him, and asked... well, frankly, a stupid question, he found irritation bubbling up in him again.
"Nayc, ni r'mirdir ni liser olaror at haa'taylir te ori'jate ca'tra teh olar."
He grit his teeth tightly, head canting to the side, the bitter sarcasm, he was sure, dripping from his every word. He gave a shake of his head.
"Elek, ni olar par te oay'karir! Tion'jor ashi liser ni cuyir olar?!"
Artus gestured emphatically before them, his voice taking on an impatient tone. He'd spent enough time standing around chatting; it was time they got on with things.
"Mhi slanar. Gar go'naasir ca'nara. Ne drashaar haryc be bic."
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Corr
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You can lead a fool to knowledge but you can't make him think.
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Affiliation: Clan Vhett
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Post by Corr on Aug 16, 2013 4:53:37 GMT -8
If the aroured figure was offended by the mans abrupt and scornful tone he certainly didn't show it. The only reaction Artus got for his sarcastic verbatim was a slight tilt of the head and a short reply muttered over the comm.
Gar liserise serim be'chaj, cyar'ika...
{You could be lost, sweetheart...}
With a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders the man gestured curtly for them to follow, leading the way towards the ruined blastdoors. The other three men silently fanned out to the sides and back of the procession, unconsciously, or perhaps not, falling into an escort formation of sorts. Once past the blastdoors they continued on down a dimly lit corridor passed a turbolift door and down an adjacent hallway. The lights flickered in places and were sometimes out completely, the soft and diffuse glow of emergency lighting glinting with crimson purpose off the scorched surfaces. It was obvious heavy fighting had taken place in this part of the station, several destroyed barricades giving testimony to the fierce Jedi defense. The hastily erected barriers also spoke as to the surprise element that had assisted the Mandalorian attack here, many of the positions looking to have been only half complete when the beskar wave had rolled over them.
After passing another of the turbolift banks the nondescript Mandalorian glanced at his charges, speaking in hating basic for the benefit of the lizard.
We are forced to go the long way around I'm afraid. The turbolifts in this section were all heavily damaged by the Jetii as they sought to deny us access to the more remote area's of the station.
A low growl escaped him either from annoyance at the Jedi tactics or annoyance aat the need to explain this stuff to them. He turned right at another junction and continued.
There are still some parts of the station that we don't have access through for one reason or another, especially down on the lower levels.
They continued on, the slight bend in the corridor soon revealing a large foyer ahead. This was a hub of turbolaser junctions that served most of the station. The warrior stopped and hit the switch to call the lift.
That is likely why you are here. To flush out this hindrance to our control.
The lift arrived, sliding open with barely a whisper. It was duly obvious that this part of the station had been maintained and had likely escaped the worst f the fighting they had seen evidence of closer to the hangar. The vague man and his silent companions ushered their charges inside and the door slid closed as the lift sped up towards the Control Sector...
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Bralex Ordo
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Post by Bralex Ordo on Aug 16, 2013 6:32:54 GMT -8
Bralex followed as instructed, no point in delaying anything. he listed and observed as the man spoke, updated them on the situation. it appeared indeed that even though the Jetii were surprised, they had proven quite resilient. never underestimate your enemy. Bralex smiled inside his buy'ce. It had been far too long since he had been involved in a challenge like this. It gave him great pride to help. Bralex was unsure how many more of his Ordo brethren had heeded the Mand'alor's call, but he knew all would make Ordo proud.
I will help the cause however I can. Killing Jetii will just be a bonus.
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Post by Sigea Valorous [Retired] on Aug 13, 2018 23:57:44 GMT -8
Surprisingly, one of the hangars was still open. And the magcon field was intact, at least over this particular bay. Considering how long ago it had been when the Mandalorians went on their crusade, it was surprising that such things still functioned around here. Setting his ship down in the hangar bay, Sigea checked the readouts on the screen to ensure it was safe for him to leave the ship without protection. As his scans confirmed that an atmosphere did in fact remain within the station, he powered the craft down, and climbed out of his craft. Leaping from the cockpit and landing lightly on the the deck, stirring up a cloud of dust in the process, he looked about, trying to perceive anything in the dimly lit interior. Of course. Limited power, he thought with a sneer. Plucking on of his sabers from his waist, he thumbed the activation stud. The red blade sprang to life, illuminating his surroundings in an eerie red hue. But it was better than trying to fumble around in the dark. Taking one last glance at his stolen fighter, he pressed forward, moving deeper into the station, saber lit, held above his head like a torch...
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Corr Vhett - puts the "Laughter" in "Manslaughter"..... 
![Sigea Valorous [Retired] Avatar](https://i.imgur.com/247HCk2m.jpg)
