The Sacking of Gargon | TSG

[Dutch]

Eight hours ago...

From the bow of the Par'jila Mandalore the Reclaimer sat astride her great war mount. The first active basilisk war droid to see the galaxy in generations, Kaysh'davaab'skira was a marvel to the Mandalorian people. With the taking of the world that filled her vision, Mandalore would gift this wonder back to them. To become what they once were. Warriors, conquerors, legends all. From the surrounding fleet legions of drop ships cascaded to the major cities on Gargon. For the past hour her forces collected and gathered on the planet's surface.

She reached down with one gloved hand to pat the surprisingly warm surface of the war droid, Skira rumbling impatiently as she too leered at the planet above the pair. The clans fell into place across the world, expertly placed to bets suit their strengths. The beast masters of Varad using their pets to keep the enemy within the city, the Naval traditionalist Bralor commanding the Fleet, her own clan Vevut strategically rooted into the spaceports to keep the planet locked down. The time was nigh for the battle to start.

Her basilisk pushed off the prow of Par'jila at the pressure given by Mandalore's boots, slowly drifting into space at first as the planet loomed overhead. With a whumf Skira's thrusters ignited, quickly picking up speed towards Gargon. Mandalore could feel her pulse begin to quicken, a cool sweat of anxiety blossoming under her armor's underweave. No Mandalorian had made an orbital drop from a basilisk war droid in generations, here she was about to remind the galaxy what her people were capable of.

Faster and faster the droid hurdled towards Gargon, the Mandalorian astride her hunching down to become as aerodynamic as possible. She let the droid take control, trusting in her steed's ancestral knowledge of the drop. Skira too tucked her limbs and flattened her wings, the red glow of entering the atmosphere beginning to gleam over silver plating. In a streak of fire the pair plummeted down towards the world, Mandalore unable to contain her shriek of delight as adrenaline seized her. Along with her Skira let loose the shriek of a flying drexl, the droid sounded just as delighted as her partner. Talusport became rapidly larger, at first a pinprick on a stretch of mountains. Then a large circle of shining sea and metal. A circle that grew larger and larger, buildings become more clear each second.

Sensor's picked up where the Republic line was drawn, mere blocks away from where her people had landed and prepared to attack. Yet none moved forward as they awaited their leader loyally. With a sonic boom Skira pierced the atmosphere, spinning slowly before rolling mid air, wings and all six limbs flinging out to slow her descent. The droid landed with amazing grace, crushing a large transport speeder under Skira's near four-thousand kilos. Metal and glass exploded outwards, bouncing harmlessly off Mandalorian beskar and causing many Republic soldiers to take cover. The warning bellow of an acklay rumbled from the hulking droid, Mandalore astride looking down at the Republic soldiers fiver meters below her. Her helm would turn to the capitol tower that loomed in the distance, knowing Gargon's leader was within. The planet wasn't hers until she claimed it from him.

"Alor Dedos! Ibac'ner me’suum adol shukalar!”

Mandalore's voice would echo out from the droid's speakers, sounding strong and confident much to her delight. She grinned toothily behind her helm, seeing the Republicans looking to one another in confusion at her words. Clearly they needed a demonstration.

"Ram'or, ner droten!"

The command to attack was immediately followed by the predatory roar of a rancor, echoing out from Skira before the basilisk lurched forward with shockwave rods flaring and cannons firing. Thrusters ignited again to send the war droid hurtling down the center of the street, blasting right through the Republic line as it charged towards the tower. With cries of delight and blood lust the tide of Mandalorians charged forward behind their Mand'alor, screaming their clan's chants and crying out challenges as the sounds of battle began to fill the air.

***

Now...

The savage snarl of a gundark would sound from Skira as a large foreleg was slammed down atop a Republic soldier, bones and armor crunching audibly under the droid's clawed foot. Pulse cannons fired rapidly at the Republic squad that was camped behind a downed speeder, keeping them in cover over shooting at Mandalore. With two hands clutching the grips of her droid, her other hands held her two blades. The haze of smoke from the battle hung heavy in the air, the late afternoon sun hanging low on the horizon as it cast its last light over Talusport.

A Jedi leaped from atop a building to lunge at the woman atop the droid, Mandalore smoothly rolling under the sweeping lightsaber as the twin blades sliced into the attacker's legs. The crippled Jedi screamed and tumbled from the back of Skira, the droid sending them flying into a wall with a flick of her wide tail. Finally tired of the previously mentioned squad's pot-shots, the droid spun and unleashed its shockwave generator to blast apart the downed speeder, shredding the squad with propelled shrapnel. Still dozens of blocks away from the capitol tower, Mandalore's force had met with the resistance Governor Dedos had assembled around him.

His survival instinct was strong, but it wouldn't be enough to stop her nor her people. With the echoing roar of a krayt dragon Skira would lung forward again, the mighty war droid galloping further into the city.

[Talau the Ever-Lurking]

It didn’t matter, by this point, how she had gotten here…the woman was here, and wondering why. The more she got involved in this war the more she was gnawed by the thought that it was going to drift away from the original purpose: to reclaim what was theirs and have that be the end of it. No doubt some would have said that she didn’t have the right spirit, that she was missing mandokar, but oh how they would have been very wrong. Only a very few knew how involved she’d been in this war since the very beginnings…hell, it had been her work and her ship that had gotten the mando’ade the basilisk droid that they had reverse engineered to get the ones they were riding into battle today.

...Yes, she had been there since nearly the beginning...

She had been there, on Coruscant, when the last basilisk war droid became theirs once more.

She had been there, on Shogun, when Solus’ad – Mand’alor the Liberator - had died…to save her sorry life.

She had been there, on Ordo, raising the militia that had helped free the planet.

...and she had lost much...

She had lost her love, Solus’ad, and one of her closest friends, Malak, both on Shogun…she had lost her grandfather, Arkanados the old, shortly after (the crazy old cyborg)…and she could have sworn she had met Malak again on Ordo (as the Mandalore, no less), though that had to have been just a trick of her mind. Even still she had worked to try and help support the war effort that had taken so much from her and nearly cost her life more than once.

Now, here she was yet again…another battle, and this time she couldn’t help but wonder what she would lose.

As she hustled through the city to a new vantage point, slipping from shadow to shadow between buildings and into them, up stairs and into a new window ahead of the main line of her vod, Lieutenant Italia Vencuyan-Phelan knew that no matter what she thought, or what she wanted, she was so tangled up in this mess that she wasn’t even going to bother trying to untangle herself from it again. Not only would it have been a futile attempt, but it would have dishonored her father’s memory, Rish’s memory, Sol’s memory, Mal’s, Ark’s…no, she’d see this mess through to whatever end it brought her to.

Pausing just at the edge of the window, about three stories up, the blue and black armored woman took half a moment to gather her breath again as she pulled out a small sonic tool she used to break the glass of the large, immobile, window. The stuff shattered everywhere (and instinct) had her ducking her head down to shield her eyes despite the helmet covering her head. Checking her rifle, the woman set up the thick barrel of her weapon, the various fringe pieces (and their ‘trophies’) clicked and jangled together softly even as her HUD began to pick up movement not horribly far off in the streets below. Lowering herself to her scope she settled the rifle carefully against her shoulder as she found her first target, and then her second, in the hopes of being able to get off another round before she had to move again. The white, gold lined, jaig eyes on her helm stared unforgivingly at the man who moved so carefully through the otherwise abandoned street…civilians long ago having scattered like frightened cattle as the mando’ade first reached the planet in an attempt to get off world…or at least to some point of safety.

Slowly she took measured breaths.

Calm.

Focus.

Narrow.

Aim small, shoot small…

She held her breath…

…waited half a moment…

…her finger gently squeezed…

The loud crack of the modified slug thrower resounded through the building and the street below as the man toppled over sideways, blood pooling out from his helmet. Hardened, unforgiving, emerald eyes turned to her next target, who was already seeking new cover, his weapon moving upward in hopes of spotting the unknown source of the sound. Her kama swept the floor behind her as she twisted to get her new angle on him, shards of glass scraping along it in the process.

Aim small…

C’mon mando’ika…you’ve this one in th’ bag.

…shoot small.

Another crack and the second man toppled backward no sooner than he’d popped his head above the line of a parked speeder to take another glance around.

She was out of time. This position was compromised now and she knew it…she could just feel it. It was time for her to go, and swiftly.

[Dire Wolf]

Ryn was exhausted.

Eight hours of continuous combat against some of the toughest opponents the galaxy had to offer took it's toll on the Jedi Guardian; not to mention the men that followed him. The beleaguered eight that remained of his thirty three men had a motley assortment of scavenged weapons and ammo to replace those that malfunctioned or ran dry. One man even wore a looted beskar hauberk and carried one of those shortswords that they just loved to charge with.

"Halt," Ryn held up an armored fist with his command. Each men repeated the hand signal and fell to a knee in turn, their weapons wheeling about to face outboard towards any threats. The men had learned to trust the Jedi Knight's sixth sense hours ago, but even his ethereal aptitude hadn't been enough to save the first man.

Two blue stars erupted to life in the middle of the ruined street with the iconic snap-hiss that the Jedi weapon was known for. Each of his men all but dove for cover as the man's feelings drove him to spin the blade to block an attack that hadn't yet been made. Too late. A hunk of lead snapped past the Jedi and exploded through a soldier's chest. Mere seconds passed before the second bullet turned a second soldier's head into a jagged canoe.

Enough

Ryn's legs threw him forward into an impossibly fast, reckless charge. All but the building turned into a blur as the big Jedi seemed to glide down the stretch of road. His path was fluid and seemed to mold around the obstructions before him rather than slow him down, and as such only a few seconds passed before he dove feet first through a third floor window.

Glass shards hung in the air with him as he soared through the air like a soaring hawkbat only to land with a graceful roll. Wind whipped itself into a maelstrom around the armored man as he rose to his feet with that menacing double bladed lightsaber held casually to his side. Stray straps that held the armor to his form tugged roughly at his back as if to tell him to be more cautious, but Ryn ignored their warnings.

Only a heartbeat passed before he found the sniper through his ethereal means of sight. Female. Twenty feet away. She had to have known he was there.

No matter. She'd be dead or in pieces within five minutes regardless of her upbringing.

[Fromikeable]

Let it be said that honor starts neither with a shot, nor a whimper, nor a word.
Let it be said that honor battles unto the maw of te kotep,
knashing and bloodlusting as it is decreed, as it hurls itself through the heavens,
until only the victor may take their step.

There had just been something about the Mand'alor hurtling through the sky atop her bes'uliik that had set the poetry flowing like a river, as if she had smashed through the floodgates as she fell. Maybe there was something about the feeling of beskar'gam in use, slugs and bolts bouncing and lodging into it as the soul within pressed on unperturbed. Perhaps even still there was something about the way the suits of metal had charged the outer-most walls of Talusport those hours ago once the signal had been given, the sound of blades sinking into flesh, the smell of hot plasma and burnt armor, the feeling of warm weapons and hard fists, sharp edges and smooth plates.

Something, perhaps... distinctly Mando'ad.

The black armor hiked his legs down a city street, the buildings to the sides a blur as heavy metal boots overran pavement. The armor's arms held tight to a rifle, the barrel of which smoked slightly as it began to feel the wear and tear of heavy use, the butt firmly lodged against the armor's shoulder, the tip trained forward. To onlookers who could think through the terror of the sight, the armor looked like a spectre haunting the streets, death apparent in the deep black of its color and blood in the streaks of crimson read. Perhaps it was an angel of destruction come to judge them all for their misgivings. Perhaps it was simply a shadow bent on restoring its home.

And as the boots hustled, the armor very rapidly approached its destination, at which point its hike became a diagonal leap. Its solid hands stretched forward as it jumped up to a broken window of a large office building that couldn't have been shorter than 10 stories. Those metal hands took great handfuls of mortar, steel, and broken glass as the boots found a footing on the duracrete, at which point the might metal arms launched the armor into the building and its hiking resumed. The spectre leaned forward and trained his rifle on every floor as it ascended, the populace within scarce, save for one squad of warriors without armor. Republic snipers, their faces naked of helms and their rifles long and hungry for more opponents.

Their shock as the armor came rolling into their ranks on the 9th floor was... measurable. It was also brief as the armor trained his rifle on a small cluster and decided their fates, what few bullets they launched in resistance plinking off each being in equal futility. The rest were set to breathing their last breaths in the way of screams, scurrying to retrain their rifles as the spectre struck out at each with blade and blast and fist. It would seamlessly assault a throat, then a leg, then a heart, then a face, then a stomach, and a heart once more, flowing through the battle as a leaf might flow through air...

Geronimo wasn't about to let a sniper nest slow the glory charging forward.

When the naked warriors lay dead, the armor made one bout of hiking, ascending to the edge of the building's roof and standing with as a statue, the entire building seeming to shiver in its wake. The armor merely reloaded his rifle and checked his HUD, observing his kin surge forward through the city. The Republic had already lost this day; their walls had fallen, their forces were failing, and their foes were fierce. Shifting his head toward the opposite direction, Geronimo gazed up at the prize; the only sight visible no matter where you were in the city.

The giant tower at its center. One he intended to let bear the ballad of Gargon itself.

Such an honor began with a single vod, bold in her claims.
Such an honor began with a single vod announcing her adate to an entire world.
The ground poured out many to deny her, naked vod picked from the vines soft and unripe,
such that they might keep her honor locked away, unfurled.

[Dutch]

The Gatling blaster decked skiff exploded as Skira's claws wrenched it apart in mid jump. The droid's thrusters flared as the basilisk shot out of the explosion to land in the street, claws digging in to gain purchase. A shower of permacrete and debris cascaded out from under the heavy war mount, causing an incoming squad of Republic soldiers to duck under the shrapnel. Mandalore turned her helm to count the newcomers, realizing this was the largest squad she had faced yet.

Yet that didn't deter her basilisk, the droid turned to face the incoming soldiers. With stance defiant and wings flared Skira let out the deafening roar of a rancor, which literally stopped the troops in their tracks. Mandalore's twin blades slid smoothly into their sheaths, all four hands would grip her blasters after and draw the weapons. The soldiers began to unleash their blasters in a hail of energy. The shots bounced and splashed harmlessly over the legendary Mandalorian iron. After a moment the shots died down, eyes visible as they peered out to see what damage had been done to Mandalore and her mount.

The setting sun gleamed orange off silver plating, slightly scuffed but otherwise completely unharmed. Mandalore's eyes would suddenly widen as her peripheral HUD picked up the squad with rocket launchers atop a building to their left. In perfect coordination Skira lunged backwards as Mandalore's jump pack flared to life to propel her forward. The rockets slammed into the ground where the pair had been just a second ago, the pressure from the explosions felt as it pressed against her beskar.

With a roll she tumbled to her feet, all four blasters swinging towards the group of soldiers. From behind she could hear Skira bellowing, followed by the screams of what she guessed was the heavy artillery toting troopers above. The still living squad from earlier began to fire at Mandalore again, more blaster bolts useless against beskar. The armored woman charged forward, her own set of quadruple heavy blasters returning fire in a flurry of blue bolts.

One set of blasters still firing, Mandalore pushed the other back into their holsters. That same set of hands then pulled the twin set of collapsible beskar wasps, hissing as they slid to full length.

She threw herself right into the middle of the squad, whirling gracefully as metal clinked audibly against flesh, metal and plasteel plating. Mandalore's blasters would fire into anything exposed, the woman rolling and dodging any melee attacks. Smoothly she blocked and parried, heavy blasters unleashing molten death into her prey. The last soldier to fall collapsed at her feet, clutching the gaping crater where his throat used to be.

"Gar cuyir ures." Mandalore would say as the life left him, adrenaline still tumbling through her veins. Splashed in various colors of blood, Mandalore turned to see that Skira was sat just behind the woman. The beast had watched her master, the low purr of a nexu rumbling as the droid noticed Mandalore now looked at her. From behind her helm she smiled up at the basilisk. Skira turned to kneel lower, Mandalore stowing her weapons before she climbed back atop her mount.

The tower loomed high above her now, the structure much larger when only a few blocks away. Mandalore wondered if Dedos had tried to find somewhere else to hide, or if he still stood high atop his tower. Either way it didn't matter, soon his head would be tossed from the top of the building he so seemed to love.

[Apillis]

The razing of Gargon was reaching its climatic point, the Mandalorians were laying waste to everything in their path. Republic and Mandalorian starfighters were like a clash of two swarms in the sky, and it was not an uncommon sight to see a fleeing ship from the surface fly high into the sky hoping to escape the chaos and destruction, only to sent back down the planet below in a fiery mass.

What little of a Repblic force that could be mustered within the system was consolidated upon Gargon to stave off the Mandalorian invaders until help arrived from elsewhere. But after so many hours, none had yet come, and it was becoming clear to those who answered the call to aid--to fight, they would have to make their stand here, or be conquered by their assailants.

From the great swarms above a Republic starfighter came swooping down from the sky into the capital, weaving through the skyscrapers trying to evade the Mandalorian starfighter on his tail. The Republic fighter pilot flew at his best to evade the Mandalorian fighter that continued to gain on him and weaken his rear shields each barrage of laser cannon fire at him.

But the pilot then heard a voice over his communicator utter calmly--it was a woman's voice... comforting, tranquil in its way, which told him to fly down main street just below the skyscraper rooftops. Unable to shake the Mandalorian fighter, he chose to give into hope and did as the woman's voice instructed him to do. Flying his starfighter at tremendous speeds as he watched in fear of the Mandalorian starfighter at his six steadily approach.

But then the fight pilot saw something that at first made no sense to him when looking at the rear screens watching the Mandalorian starfighter behind him. A person--a woman clad in flowing silken red robes suddenly as if falling from the sky itself landed atop the Mandalorian starfighter. It was no just a wonder how she even landed on the thing, but more so rose to a stand and walked its length to the cockpit in a casual strolling pace even as they flew hundreds of kilometers per hour.

The pilot's pondering became clear when she knelt down behind the cockpit of the Mandalorian starfighter, looking down upon the Mandalorian fighter pilot through the canopy of the cockpit. She unclipped a lightsaber hilt from her belt and pressed the business end of the lightsaber hilt upon the canopy in a reverse grip. The lightsaber was like the sword of Damocles for the Mandalorian fight pilot in that moment, and he was none the wiser of it. With just a simple switch of lightsaber igniting its blade--its orange-yellow blade of plasma cut right through the canopy stabbing the Mandalorian fighter pilot right through top of his head.

The woman revealed to be a Jedi rose to a stand as drew her lightsaber out from the brain-case of the Mandalorian fighter pilot. It was a surreal sight as she stood there upon the Mandalorian starfighter, for even at the tremendous speeds they were going, she merely looked like she was standing in a strong breeze--not even really daunted by it in the slightest. As if there were some sort of barrier around her reducing the magnitude of the pressure and force that she should be suffering under. Yet it was ethereal--angelic even as she stood upon the starfighter, unmoved, her silken red robes fluttering heavily, her long black flowing hair waving behind her. She smiled and for a moment the Republic fighter pilot could swear she smiled directly at him even though there was no way she could see him.

May the Force be with you... Always. He thought he heard her say to him, but not over the communicator--but as if... she were right there in the cockpit with him.

"Who are you...?", he asked in his wonderment.

Aeia. The voice simply replied, and then with what looked like a supernatural leap of faith, she vanished from sight whereas the Mandalorian starfighter went crashing down below. The Red Jedi Master of the Council, Aeia. The pilot new little of Jedi but most anyone in the Republic knew the names of the sitting High Jedi Council members as public figures. And if the Council was here, maybe there was some hope to be found in all this darkness, the pilot thought.

[Talau the Ever-Lurking]

Her breath and the various communications between the vod of her ‘unit’ echoed loudly in her ears as the blue-clad woman hustled through the building. Italia hadn’t seen the jedi among that particular squad of soldiers, but she wasn’t about to stick around either. For any sniper, under any circumstances, that was just asking for trouble, and in a battle where there were force users involved that was doubly true. Previously she’d had next to no interaction in the negative with force users, but she’d read enough and seen enough and heard enough to get an idea of what they were capable of. That had kept her away from any jobs that might involve them, for the most part, unless she had at least one other with her.

That wasn’t possible here…not any more, anyway.

Her spotter and she had been separated by the last jedi they’d come across, and she just hoped he was still alive. She hadn’t heard a thing from him since it had happened, which troubled her. The next jedi she’d come across had run afoul of the sonic detonator she’d tossed their direction, just before she’d run like hell to get as far from the ‘blast’ as possible. The sound dampeners on her helm had done the rest of their job and she’d escaped the majority of the damage, allowing her to return to the room a moment later and put a slug into them.

She didn’t bother with taking the saber…she didn’t want it.

Sadly, that had been her only sonic grenade. If she’d known they would have been so useful, she’d have brought more of them with her but…hindsight was 20/20. The mando’ika especially thought this as she heard the crashing of glass in the building behind her and the thump of something heavy landing…something heavier than any grenade. It had to be a full-sized being, and that meant one thing: jedi. It elicited a curse from her as she reached the stairs, leaping and bounding down them to put as much space between her and the other as possible.

Italia had no doubt that whoever it was behind her would catch up…those jedi were damn fast, after all, and she had no delusions of outrunning one, she just hoped she could buy herself some time. As she reached the next floor, the woman wondered just how dumb she was about to be by trying this little trick…and also wondered if, maybe, she should have taken that lightsaber when she had the chance. Pulling her only thermal detonator from her belt, she’d arm it and toss it at the bottom step of the stairwell she’d just come out of, watching it stick to the metal there before practically flying down the next flight of steps, her other hand still holding the remote detonator she’d rigged for it. She didn’t have a death wish, after all, and only once she was far enough (she certainly hoped she was) did she activate it.

If nothing else, this would slow him down as the building in that particular area was caught in the destruction.

[Dire Wolf]

Instinct drove Ryn to move through the building, but not into a mindless pursuit. Blindness may have crippled his ability to perform mundane tasks, but it granted him an ability to view the world in which few people could even fathom. It was what allowed him to see her throw the IED at the stairs, and what kept him from barreling down them like an angry pit rancor.

Two brilliant blue blades sprang to life from either end of the elongated lightsaber hilt. One of the blades had sprung through the floor and traced a circle at his direction; he had barely finished before gravity took hold of the circular chunk. It ripped from the rest with a lazy groan as he cut, and hit the floor below with a dull thud. Ryn threw himself through the breech in the floor shortly thereafter, and a quick glance at the Mandalorian told him that she hadn't stopped at the second floor.

Smart.

Most people ran up when danger hit. Some 'higher ground' instinct seemed to take effect only to end with them cornered at the top of the building with a Jedi at one end and thirty floors of open sky on the other. Ryn merely repeated the process down to the ground floor of the building, only this time he landed wth a roll and ahead of the sniper that had killed two of his men in as many shots. Armor clinked and shifted with his sudden motion towards the stair case.

"Lay down your arms, and you won't be harmed," his voice held a sternness that almost forced most men to obey. Enemies were another matter. Barely a blink passed before he continued, "no. What a shame."

The twin blades of Ryn's saber staff whirled an arc around his heavily armored frame as he moved faster than any human had a right to move. Anything and everything caught in the path of the blue blades would be melted and torn as if it were nothing at all.

[Fromikeable]

Yet such a vod poured out her own runi, iron yet golden,
and set it about the sea of beskar'gam she found prepared.
Such a soul only found them carnal, desperate in their longing,
to bleed, to let bleed, and yet be spared.

The troops were advancing, the lines pushing in. Their opponent couldn't help but be pushed back, bit by bit, toward their sacred tower, their false demonstration of strength. Any kind of man could build something tall. Any sort of man could crunch numbers and erect stones, could make in the place of air something else.

But only those men who could call themselves Mando'a could look to such a thing and only feel the need to fight harder. Geronimo could feel his heart pound within his armor at the sight of it, thanks to the mere thought of the tower standing broken and conquered. Such a thought only fueled the fires, moved the armor, and emboldened both.

After all, then and only then could they begin to rebuild.

His thoughts were broken by the streak of a spacecraft past the roof he was on. The armor turned his head to watch it zip toward him, then down a ways down the street. It flew with a certain degree of subdued panic; its turns were jerky, its stability present but shaken, and its speed breakneck. And yet, no pursuer?

As if on cue, a second fighter came smashing down into the street, flipping and otherwise paving through duracrete and parked speeders as it erupted in flames, the sound of mangling metal only being stopped by a final, harsh thud as it finally came to rest in a small shop a few blocks down.

The black armor was already running after it by the time it stopped. In a few moments more, it was jogging into the store, the death end of his rifle primed but untrained. It was a Mando fighter, for certain. The smoke would've made things all but impossible to navigate were it not for the armor's helm, and it managed to find the cockpit, looking inside.

All that greeted his eyes was the pierced helm of fighter's soul, of that which had given it life.

Stepping back out into the street onto the sidewalk, the black beskar scanned the street. To the naked eye there was nothing, but... it could practically smell the Jetii. Nothing else could so casually sever the ship's soul, in such a melting, piercing way.

The armor paused but for a second to consider the scenario. The element of surprise was moot against one who could get the drop on a starfighter (literally). Strength most likely was a losing odd, as was speed. Range was moot due to the nature of his blaster rifle... the armor's only gaining aspects were its beskar and its fists. This was all, of course, building on top of the fact that it already had the advantage of surprise, as the armor had failed to see it leap down, or otherwise see where it might have gone.

In short, it was a predator, and it might well lay about any corner, above any obstacle, or about any region.

Vore. The armor resumed its course down the street, doing what it knew. It stuck to cover, kept its rifle trained, and kept its focus on the objective, but its senses on its environment. If such a predator was indeed about, then all he could do was wait for it to spring its trap.

And yet, even in a figurative jungle, the armor could only continue.

Such a soul, fierce as the sun, soft as the stars, bashed every helm it found.
It smacked and assaulted, berated and betrayed, until they begged.
But when upon the eve of soulful demise, they saw the presence so infallible,
no armor could help but awake, shed tear, shed regret.

[Dutch]

Despite the regular explosions and blaster exchanges in the distance, this particular stretch of street seemed eerily empty. Many corpses lay scattered, most in civilian dress and in perfect lines. Clearly her people had taken Mandalore's advice to dispatch the utreekov as quickly and methodically as possible. Yet as her helm turned she could see a pair of Mandalorians dead, several meters from one another with the telltale marks of lightsaber scorches and severed limbs. Mandalore could feel her lips press into a hard line, an ache settling into her chest at the sight of her slain brethren.

"Over here Master! I found her!"

The voice, high pitched and clearly feminine sounded from behind. Skira would spin with an acklay's alarmed shriek, one clawed forearm slamming forward in warning. A single young Mirialan stood defiant before the giant basilisk. Her cream colored robes billowed gently in the slight breeze, green lightsaber ablaze and angled towards Mandalore.

"Echoy’la, di’kutla jetii?"

Mandalore's voice would purr in query through Skira, her Mando'a echoing through the mostly empty street. From a building at the right two other Jedi exited, what appeared to be a middle aged Cerean man with a Mirialan boy that could have been the girl's twin. Probably was. The Cerean moved to stand between Mandalore and the two green teenagers, all three with green lightsabers ignited in a similar stance. A Master and his Padawans.

"So this is the one who broke our line... impressive specimen." The Cerean would say, his eyes only looking at Skira. "We just have to knock the girl atop the droid off, then we'll be able to disable it. Circle around Padawans, just like the others we disabled."

She would blink from behind her helm, not surprised that the Jedi would just blatantly speak their plan. Few Republicans had met a Mandalorian outside the field of battle, and most only ever heard her people speaking in their native tongue. A cruel smile would spread over Mandalore's lips, her light chuckle echoing from Skira. The woman saw the trio of Jedi affirm their stances, clearly about to execute their plan.

"Did you know, that nearly every Mandalorian can speak two, three, even four languages? We make it a point to teach our sons and daughters the tongue of our enemy. Yet how many of your people can speak Mando'a?" A gundark's savage snarl coming from Skira to startle the Jedi. Mandalore laughed haughtily at the looks of fear on the Mirialan twin's face.

"For example, if I were to say 'Skira, pirunir sur’haaise’..." Without any warning Mandalore's jump pack would flare to life, the Mandalorian spinning acrobatically in the air over the trio of Jedi. She would land behind them, her twin blades and a single wasp quickly drawn. Mandalore whirled her weapons in a flourish, stance ready to attack. The Mirialan twins spun to press their backs to their Master's for safety.

"Nynir jii!"

The pair turned the tables on the Jedi trio, Skira suddenly lunging at the Master as Mandalore leaped at the teens. She didn't watch as her basilisk and the Cerean engaged, her focus on the twins. Lightsabers and beskar clashed, each blow expertly blocked and parried. Yet these young Jedi had likely never faced a Mandalorian before today. And a Mandalorian knew exactly how to take down Jedi. She waited patiently, working to keep the Jedi on their toes, watching for the right moment. In the flurry, her one free hand pulled a thermal detonator from her belt.

The girl made a misstep, and Mandalore took her chance. The beskad lunged forward, the blade sinking deep into her gut. Her scream intensified as the Mandalorian suddenly thrust a first forward, thumbing the detonator before she leaped backwards.

As Mandalore's jump pack took her to safety, she could see the scene below in crystal clarity. The smoldering remains of the Cerean lay crumpled in a pile in the middle of the street, Skira atop a building with shockwave emitters smoking. The female twin screaming as her brother ran to her side, just in time for the inserted detonator to turn them both into paste.

She landed on the roof top opposite of Skira, a nod of approval given to the basilisk. The hulking droid roared in victory, and Mandalore sheathed her weapons with a flourish. Her helm turned to look at the capitol tower, now taking up near the entirely of the right side of her vision. From that direction, she could hear the commotion of the Republicans assembling their last stand. Mandalore opened a comm channel to every Mandalorian in the area.

"This is Mandalore. I want every one able to meet me at coordinates 44E, 201S. We are taking the Tower, and ending their resistance. Come, ma'ade. Come join me in claiming Gargon for our people."

[Dire Wolf]

Each of the twin blades of azure plasma buzzed angrily at the Mandalorian marauder as they spun through the air at his hand's direction. The paltry distance of twenty feet was closed between the two combatants in less than a blink of an eye. Slash after slash was thrown at the beskar clad woman with little heed paid to it's effectiveness, and only his sheer natural strength and athleticism to power the attacks. As his flurry neared it's completion the Force began to swirl around his body until the power around him was nearly palpable.

And then it was unleashed with a flick of his free hand.

The Force coalesced around the woman with his flick, and it would feel as if a mack truck had flown from his finger tips. Whether she was thrown back by the surge of ethereal might was a quickly forgotten fact; another danger growled at him through the Force. His head slowly turned towards the window to see the six panicked republic soldiers under his charge ready a weapon designed to destroy tanks. They leveled it straight onto the building.

Confusion was the first thing to flicker through his mind. A Jedi and a Mando with no preparation is a one sided fight; even they know that. Whatever their reason was, a brilliant flash of light lit up the street behind them, and was quickly followed by a massive concussion that sounded more the distant booming of thunder than the initial blast of a rocket. Idiots. Terrified idiots.

Ryn's form was little more than a blur as he raced to a side door, the plates of his heavy armor clanking together and the drab brown robe fluttering behind him. Light bloomed from behind him to momentarily outline his shadow against the wall, and he knew that all of his augmented speed wasn't enough. Durasteel plated fingers flew up to cover the back of his neck as he dove into the air to point his toes at the explosion. This minimized his profile to the explosion and put his armored feet towards it.

Then the concussion wave hit.

The last thing he remembered was the dreadful feeling of being thrown. The wall rapidly approached his vision until it eclipsed everything else, and then he saw nothing.

[Fromikeable]

And the sea of metal surged forth, pounding ‘gainst the world that denied them.
The world picked vines sour and frail, battering the tide as it could only hope to.
Yet the sea washed over the world with the smell of iron, sharp and wounding,
until the world could only flee upwards, cowering in its trunks.

The black armor made its way down the street briskly yet cautiously. Its HUD pointed it in its direction, yet its ears and eyes pointed its attentions to the world it invaded. The building to its right seemed abandoned... a duo of carcasses to its right seemed fresh. Dashing over them, all the armor could do was wait and move. If indeed a predator stalked him, then it bode its time, hunting from afar in wait of a bigger prize.

For indeed, it would find more than it could chew if it followed.

But it was a risk the armor would take. Its alor called, and it would not be one to deny her its presence this day. Trudging through the streets, the armor ducked into an alley, vaulting over a fence and a few dumpsters before spilling out into another street.

It was greeted by the screams of ade, and the following roar of a great metal beast.

But all mediation on the sounds was cut short as a squad of soldiers hurried about further down the street, their voices unnecessarily loud and their tone hurried, as if there was a gun to their heads. The armor watched them from afar as they selected a location beside a building and hefted a large weapon of some kind onto one of their vod's shoulders, loading it and shirking from its sight. With the weapon set, however, there was a short discussion in likewise worried tones; something the armor only passingly listened to as it began to stalk down the street itself, getting closer by the second.

But with a final yelp and order, the pups dared to use their weapon, and with a mighty clap of thunder and a mightier clap of air, the building across the street erupted in a violent outburst. A burst of fire engulfed the lowest level as the upper ones came tumbling down, much like a stack of wet papers, every piece crumbling into infinitesimal smaller ones as the ground below greeted each. The soldiers looked on in varying degrees of shock, remorse, pain, and even relief, as if the result was causing them to silently re-evaluate what they had done.

Geronimo had no intention of leaving them alone with their thoughts.

The black armor swept in from street too quickly for the vod to raise their guns, instead allowing them only another few yelps in its direction. By the time they could begin to bounce their shots of its surface, its hand were already knocking away the rifle of one, its other hand slamming into the vod's windpipe. Sending the man tumbling down, the next man found his legs being swept from below him as one of the hands grasped a knife from its belt and sank it deep into his center. The man with the rocket-launcher did his best to hurl it at the armor as he moved to draw a pistol of his own, but the armor was too fluid to let the obstacle stop him, his legs moving from the item's path as his hands soared at the man's skull, cracking it in a sickening sound. Two more men charged the armor, one with his rifle, the other with his own fists. The one with the rifle was greeted by a smash to the ribs followed by one to his groin, the other man's fists only being greeted by the armor checking itself to the side, smashing cold beskar against him. With a swift motion, the armor was snapping the rifleman's neck from behind and pulling the fresh corpse's gun up to create another, fresher one.

With all said and done, the only living among the dead was the first man to fall, his body laying on the ground writhing in pain, his neck all but mangled as his soul flickered within him. The armor's only recognition of his barely extant life was a final shot to the head.

The sea soon flooded the land, the face of what denied them,

And soon it found itself short of air, its lungs being filled with metal.

The iron marched across its body, engulfing it and leading it to the void,

With all but its throat coated fully.

[Apillis]

As a ball of fire crashing down to the city below from a high-rise rooftop an evacuation shuttle was struck out of the sky by Mandalorian rockets, leading to the deaths of everyone on board. The handful of remaining survivors on the rooftop found themselves surround by several Mandalorians clad in their battle armor with jetpacks. They each landed--it appeared they sought to round them up rather than kill them, or at least all of them as an old man was being dragged away by his family seeking to put a blaster to his head. Eliminate the old and useless, keep the young and strong as it were.

But it was an odd sight to all those present in the next instant as the Mandalorian who was dragging the kicking and screaming old man futilely fighting for his life with what little strength he could muster from his wizened body. There was a loud, bloodcurdling snap and the Mandalorian's helmet visor instead of facing front had been turned a complete one hundred eighty degrees.

When the Mandalorian fell to the ground as a lump of dead flesh in an over-inflated suit of beskar, standing in his place just behind him was the red robed Jedi Master of the High Jedi Council, Aeia. The raven-haired, midnight-eyed woman smiled gently at the old man, and wordlessly gestured for him to rejoin his family. A rifle blaster shot fired at her from her front left side, and it struck--the palm of her casually lifted up left hand. There was no injury, no carbon scorning, not even the tiniest singe on the cuff of her the sleeve of her silken red robe.

Eyes went wide as a wrist launcher rocket exploded right where she stood, but when the smoke cleared--there was a strange distortion in the air around Aeia... as if there was an energy calmly swirling around her. The Mandalorians each begun firing their weapons at her, but the results continued to be the same, nothing was happening--she remained unphased, untouched by anything the Mandalorians attacked her with, and her response to them was little more than a gaze of disappointment.

For how ever much Mandalorians like to tell themselves that they know how to kill Jedi, it is akin to a toddler who has learned how to kill a fish by removing a goldfish it from its water bowl. Albeit, that toddler does not have a chance of doing the same by stepping into an ocean and removing a shark from its depths. It is why for every handful of young and inexperienced Jedi who was killed in the last Mandalorian conflict or the Mandalorian Wars or the Sith conflict before that, hundreds of Mandalorians even thousands were killed in turn. These Mandalorians attacked Aeia with what they knew to kill young Jedi, still learning their power and connection to the Force, striking with explosives and heavy blaster fire not easily blocked or deflected. However, against a Jedi Master of Aeia's caliber--this was exactly the wrong approach, for an explosive and blaster bolts were nothing more than energy, the Force is energy, and absorbing and manipulating energy to empower herself is Aeia's greatest power.

They were toddlers facing a shark of immensity. Thus each blaster bolt fired, each explosion--were all bent to her will and she manipulated that energy to swirl around her in a sort of barrier around her. The irony being the more they fired at her, the more protection they provided her as well as power to utilize against them. However, oddly... Aeia seemed more to be simply gathering that energy and simply keeping with her rather than use it for any other purpose than that peculiar barrier around her seen only as a distortion in the air swirling around her.

Seeing her still standing in a moment of heated and frustration, one of the Mandalorians drew his beskad and charged right for her. Manipulating the energy to condense and hardened, she stopped his blade by merely holding up her right hand with the condensed energy serving as a shield or buffer between herself and his beskad. Each swing blocked by Aeia's mastery of altering and manipulating the energy she had managed to gather and absorb through combining the Force techniques of Tutaminis and "Ray" as some term it. The mark of an enlightened Jedi able to utilize such advanced techniques in the Force simultaneously.

Though it ended within a split second upon Aeia grabbing the wrist of his right hand as both of his hand gripped his beskad. With a merciless palm strike--she hit his right elbow with such power and force it bent in its opposed direction with a loud, grinding crack. He immediately dropped his beskad as he screamed in agony before falling to the ground passing out from the pain and going into shock.

The remaining Mandalorians immediately fled the scene upon seeing this, unable to even inflict minor or superficial wound to her rendering their weapons useless, and in direct combat, even able to dismantle beskad wielder with ease. None of their holovids they have watched informed them in how to face a true Jedi whose training has long since been completed. Though Aeia herself would be the first to stay she is still learning in spite of her great achievements.

The energy still swirling about Aeia as she approached the handful of survivors, yet in that moment a Mandalorian assault aircraft hovered right near them aiming its cannons right for them. Perhaps this was why the other Mandalorians fled. Terror yet again washed over the faces of the those survivors upon that rooftop, but Aeia merely smiled gently as they all looked to her for hope and guidance. She kept her collected disposition, she was not rattled and showed no sign of fear, she merely gave them a comforting soft smile, before turning her gaze to the aircraft hovering there in the air before them. Death it seemed had finally reached them.

The aircraft begun firing its laser cannons and a pair of its small rockets, yet when the smoke cleared and the survivors opened their eyes from being closed tight in fear of coming to their end--the strange barrier of energy that swirled about Aeia had been extended to circling around them. Speechless and lost in awe, the survivors looked about themselves both surprised to still be alive and staggered by the power a Jedi master can wield. Within a split second Aeia pushed her hands outward the Force barrier she had formed expanded with tremendous speed--in the blink of an eye it expanded to encase the entire rooftop within, but in so doing this caused it to collide with the small Mandalorian assault aircraft, knocking it out of control. Its pilot unable to regain control crashed into one of the nearby high-rise buildings. For one has to understand, if barrier can stop a blaster bolt or bullets, think of what it could do such a thing struck an individual in turn.

It was a clear case in Aeia's eyes along the lines of what an old crone and fallen Jedi had once said, for the Mandalorian's armor little more than a shell upon a man too easily slain by Jedi. This entire battle she saw as pitiable, for she could see the Mandalorians diluting themselves in the belief that they are strong as they fight the weak. But the measure of one's opponent of which they choose is the measure of oneself, and they did not choose Jedi, their fighting Jedi was by happenstance, they chose to fight weak civilians. Only the weak seek out the weak to prey upon, for they are too feeble to try to prey upon the strong.