Triumph Burns

[Fromikeable]

VERY IMPORTANT THEME MUSIC
Tags: Blue , Zarkan , Meira , Ysmir

---

The galaxy had adopted a custom throughout the millennia; nations had to be ruled by planets made of concrete. The Republic had its Coruscant, never-ending in its activity and never dull in its lights. The Empire had its Dromund Kaast, the dangers and politics as constant as the skyscrapers were tall. Even the Hutts had their Nal Hutta and Nar Shaddaa, both smog-ridden and oppressive by their very nature.

Mandalore was the exception. Green. Wild. Beautiful in savagery.

To see the mammoth ship rushing around it burn and flounder was almost poetic. Or so Genthus might have thought if there weren’t thousands of souls aboard.

The borrowed light freighter around him shuddered as it rushed toward the dreadnought, the sublight engines aglow with strain. Sensors beeped as the dreadnought’s condition became apparent, entire stretches of the hull dark, others spewing fumes into the void, still others powerfully aglow. The hangars across its side offered varying opportunities, some caved in and blocked, others flickering and empty. The ship hung almost derelict, small craft of every shape and make rushing to and fro its hull in desperate, unorganized bids to save whoever they could.

The souls they failed hung about in empty space, bodies in numerous states of dress and undress. Genthus did his best not to dwell on them as they rocketed past.

Spotting a hangar with people within waving frantically, Genthus pointed as he barked a ”hang on, Tal’galaar” to Eris. With a punch, the throttle was slammed forward, and their small freighter soared in. Genthus grunted again as the survivors waved at a burning ship taking up one of the few intact landing pads, their attempt to leave clearly unsuccessful. With little skill and less regard, Genthus swung the freighter around, its side slamming into the burning wreck.

With another quick punch of the throttle, the slag was shoved free, and the freighter’s side was marred. Genthus cared little, setting the ship down and opening the landing ramp. Grabbing his helmet, he was already waving people in before his boots touched the hangar.

”Come, come!” Waving them on, a hand shot out to grab one of the oncoming survivors. The Mandalorian in question was missing pieces of her armor, one of her arms clutched in the other, her exposed skin bubbled and red.

”Where are they?!” The woman coughed violently as she gave a weak point toward the hangar doors.

”The bridge… still broadcasting their madness... “ Noticing Eris, the woman reached out her clutching arms to her shoulders, her tone shifting to an exhausted begging.

”Please Tal’galaar… my daughter went to repel them and I… the radiation seeped into our shop and by the time we noticed, I couldn't...” Shame riddled her voice through the scratches on her helmet. Shame that didn’t come from a lost fight.

Shame that came from being too injured to fight at all.

Genthus worked as he listened, trudging back up the ramp and returning with a mammoth weapons crate. Slamming it down, he flung off its top and began to arm.

[Blue]

There was fire in the sky. Wrell had said nothing. With his equipment all in order, he had marched from his home in spite of the forge's call. He had made his way to a spaceport, where vessels were being mustered. A freighter was there, taking on passengers. Wrell had entered. Wrell had sat. Wrell had said nothing. The fire in the sky had some of the comfort of the fire in his forge. It, too, was the herald of destruction. But the creation was absent. This was wrong. Gauntleted hands touched the fetishes that hung from his beskar'gam; a small talon, a burnt metal symbol, a dried ear, to name a few. He tapped the centre of his breastplate. The motion was repeated. Under his helmet, Wrell could not smell the scent of smoke that emanated from him, yet even without it, he could barely smell it anyway. The forge still sung it's siren song for him. But a call had been made, and he would answer. In the viewport, Wrell saw the bodies. He felt nothing; they were shells, now empty. He began to mutter words in Mando'a. "Your body is a tool. It is broken now. Discard it. You will find your way to the Manda. You will be welcome, Mando'ade." This, too, was repeated. The ship jerked, and Wrell rocked in his seat with the momentum. The clang of metal on tortured metal made Wrell grimace, but he uttered no sound. The rumbling settled, a hiss of hydraulics. He rose, the dark animal hide of his sleeveless duster rustling against the dull, ruddy coloured beskar'gam that he wore, and he made his way to the exit. Wrell reached it in time to hear the woman's words. He glanced at her. She would survive. "They are dead," Wrell announced. Whether he spoke of the hijackers or the Mandalorians who went to take back the bridge was unclear, his quiet voice hard to read. "Hm. We play the song of vengeance, now." With a flick of his wrist, the cylindrical object in his hand extended to its full length. Wrell hefted the bevii'ragir lightly in his grip, the elegant spear humming a brief metallic melody in the vast chamber. "And they will dance to the tune." There was more than intent to his claim. It was a prophecy, a certainty more cold and hard than any forged metal had hope to be. They had put fire in his sky. They would all burn.

[Zarkan]

The dying dreadnought hung heavy in the sky against the bright backdrop provided by Mandalore. Ark let out a mechanized sigh at the sight of the stricken Par'jila it looked like a sickly dying beast swarmed by flies as a disorganized effort by the Mandalorian fleets rushed to try and stabilize the ship. "Captain, find the Guen'du a stable docking bay and try and contact any other landed ships we're just going to lose more warriors if we don't organizer." The old Mandalorian ordered turning his photoreceptors away from the sickening sight in the Guen'du's viewpoint and making his way off the bridge.

The cyborg tightened his hands into great fists the metallic structure hidden below the armored plating groaning under the strain. The old Mandalorian was furious, to say the least, how many of the warriors on that ship had he help train? he wondered. How many of them still lived? How many vod had they lost that day to a pack of cowardly dogs? He would hunt them down and rend the flesh from their bones, but that would wait his brothers and sisters needed him now and he would not fail them.

Ark paused in his thoughts as he stepped into the large cargo bay that dominated the front bottom of the heavy corvette. The room was clustered with armored Mandalorians fastidiously going over weapons or dragging heavy crates at the behest of one member of the medical team or another. Ark reached out and stopped a familiar armored form. "Eile once we're down I've told captain Berus that he'll be getting his orders from you." he said speaking to the matronly woman who was currently in charge of the ship's medical contingent. "Anyone you can't stabilize and move to other ships load aboard the Guen'du, Berus will take them planet side." Ark released the woman who uttered a short reply before rushing off deeper into the cargo bay. 

The warriors respectfully parted as the the ancient Mandalorian moved between them moving to the impromptu armory set up in the corner of the bay. Ark hefted the the blaster cannon up running a hand along the weapon's well earned scratched and battered exterior. He rested the barrel of the weapon on his right shoulder before turning to the assembled warriors. "Silence." he bellowed his deep synthesized voice cut though the din of the bay. "These honor-less dogs have struck us and I swear we will meet our vengeance out to them and those who support them, but that is not for this day." He spoke scanning his head across the gathering of mandalorian. "The vod aboard the Par'jila our our first duty and we will not dishonor Ordo by failing them." He said stepping forward to begin issuing commands.

"Ilyia," he began seeking out the tall thin red armored woman from the crowd. "Take Raddrick's squad and secure our landing site." he continued as he caught sight of the woman who acknowledged him with a curt nod before he turned his attention away once more. "Palduc once we've secured the hanger I want you to take your team along with Valteer's and sweep the barracks and crew quarters for survivors if you run into significant resistance disengage and pull back to the hanger." Ark ignored the disappointed sag to some of the younger warriors at the orders, but he paid them little mind as the corvette shuddered to a halt. 

"Phelan we're down docking bay 8a. There is a small freighter docked in 6a." Ark nodded to himself as the cargo bay ramp began to drop. "Alright you know your jobs get to it." Ark was one of the last off the ship as the nearly forty strong cadre poured out into one of the dreadnought's many cavernous hangers. He gave a quick scan of the bay before moving towards the hanger's opening. "Ilyia your in charge I'm going to check the other hangers and try to get this mess organized." he said before exiting the hanger and heading down the corridor.
  

[Meira]

Oh, Verdent Jewel, Behold!
How your Hubris burned.
And all the might of Mandalore,
His Triumph turned
To ashes.

Eris moved in slow determination. Adjustments to her armor, seals and air tanks, were carefully fitted. She checked, and rechecked each mounting. The vibrant blue half-cape was tossed aside. It laid crumpled in a corner of the ship's main hold. Now was not the time for banners and sigils. Now was only for salvaging what could be saved from the Triumph. From the cockpit, Genthus shouted a warning and Eris' eyes flashed around for a handhold. She braced against the nearest bulkhead, planting her feet as the ship suddenly rocketed forward. Then, another sudden change as they slammed sideways into something.

Eris, grabbing her helmet before it launched from where she'd set it on a crate, moved quickly toward the airlock as soon as the ship was still. She put her helmet on, Carefully closing the seals with a hiss of air pressure. The airlock opened and survivors immediately began to stream into the ship. All were injured, some were carried by others, unmoving. Genthus barked for information on the traitors who had caused this, and one woman answered. When she turned, recognizing Eris as Tal'galaar, Eris put her own hands onto the woman's shoulders. She did this gently, so as not to cause more harm.

"Your daughter lives the Resol'nare?" Eris asked, her harsh rasp smoothed by her helmet's comms. The woman nodded. "I am honored to meet the woman who raised her."

Another vod came by, his red armor smelling of smoke. His words were, more blunt, but true in their own right.

The woman's lip shook slightly as she looked from the man back to Eris, and then she breathed deep and squared her shoulders, nodding. Eris called for a medic to begin tending to her and the other wounded as Genthus heaved a massive crate forward and began to rummage through the weapons within. With her blades already secured on her back, and her pistol at her side, Eris chose a light riffle, easier to maneuver with in tight spaces. She loaded up on as many power cells as she could, and also claimed a few flash grenades.

"Take that way." Eris commanded four scouts they'd picked up. "Find whoever you can. Bring them here, or send them to our position to help take back the bridge. Whatever intel you find, pass it along as quick as you can."

She took a moment as they began to move away to allow her throat to rest. This would be a long day, and she would be in great pain before it was over. She reached out, her hand tapping the spear wielding man's shoulder. "Your name?" she asked, her hand making the sign for name as well, in case he understood. It wasn't likely, but a few vod knew sign language.

[Ysmir]

"Get to an unobstructed hangar. Wait there. They'll come for you, verda." Hal had hefted up a large, disjointed slab of metal using his artificial arm to free a few trapped victims that struggled beneath it. His craft was nearby in an unused, partially intact hangar bay. While others dotted around the outside of the dreadnought to extract those needing rescue, Hal had ventured deeper into the slowly disintegrating craft to seek out those who weren't fortunate enough to make it to the outskirts themselves.

Admittedly, the Par'jila was holding up surprisingly well despite the damage it had sustained. The blaring alarms and grinding metal did not, however, drown out the unrelenting bullshit that the terrorists were broadcasting through the ship's functioning PA systems. Hal turned his head up to a speaker in the corner of the hall as the victims he had freed began making their way toward one of the hangars.

"DEATH TO MANDALORE. DEATH TO THE MANDALORIANS!"

He drew his blaster and fired, blowing it away. The voice coming through it crackled and then, mercifully, went silent. He spun his pistol and holstered it once more as flecks of burning embers landed on his Beskar'gam and turned to ash that he occasionally dusted off. The readings on his visor weren't comforting; the damage to the heatsinks of the engines meant that the dreadnought was perhaps an hour or less away from completely melting down, but the insurgents seemed intent on this happening. Suicidal maniacs. Extremists.

Murderers.

Hal's fist clenched as he stared at the sparking speaker. Then, he turned his head quickly and redrew his blaster as two armored individuals stepped up to him. They held their hands aloft.

"Easy, vod," one spoke, "Tal'galaar sent us. A force is gathering to retake the bridge. We need your arm, if you can spare it." The other Mandalorian scout nodded in agreeance.

Hal regarded the two of them for a beat, before nodding his head. "Where's the fight, then?"

---

The two scouts had directed Hal to the hangar where the others had gathered and then went on their way. Before long, Hal had arrived through a barely-together entryway, the scattered starlight reflecting off his blue Beskar'gam. His eyes flicked between each individual. Once they settled on the behemoth rummaging through the weapons crate, he snorted.

"Genthus," his voice echoed out as he stepped closer to the small group, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded the much taller man, "jate'kara dictates that we meet when it's most necessary, I guess."

Then, his eyes fell to the vod in red. He saw Clan Vizsla's emblem on his shoulder. He gave the man a respectful nod. From his back, Hal retrieved his heavy blaster, holding it across his shoulder with his artifical limb as he looked between the trio. "I've scouted deeper into the Triumph's walls. No sign of the insurgents until you get closer to the bridge. If they're holed up there, the line is strong." Then, he shrugged. "But like anything, it has its drawbacks. If we punch hard and fast they won't hold out for long."

He dropped the blaster down to hold it with two hands, just in front of Clan Kelborn's emblem on his chest. "We'll make them burn brighter than Par'jila. Eye for an eye."

[Fromikeable]

Grievous truths delivered in flat tones. The rush of other ships and their owners. Reassurances for a grieving mother and sharp orders. And fate.

Genthus heeded each only so much, the bulk of his focus on the weapons crate. By the time their small crowd had assembled, he was dressed for war; two bandoliers across his chest, the hilt of his sword peeking over his left shoulder, the end of a blaster cannon leering over his right, and the scurrying of blaster shotgun rounds in his hands. With a final grunt, he withdrew his shotgun from the crate, the weapon just as oversized as he was. It was clearly made to hunt things bigger than mere sentients.

Cocking it hard, Genthus finally turned to Hal. ”I won’t be satisfied with one eye today, Hal. I want them all.” Bracing his shotgun against his elbow, he pointed it upward as he turned to the rest of the group, freeing a hand to rest on his hip.

”Tal’galaar, smith, d… hm.” Pausing for a second, Genthus looked Ark head to toe, his face contorting behind his helmet. His markings were of Clan Ordo, but the man’s unliving nature almost made Genthus wonder if he wasn’t one of the disguised terrorists.

No time for that now. If he was, he was outnumbered. If he wasn’t, hopefully he was somewhat bulletproof.

”And you, Droidman.” His free hand shot out, pointing toward the doors leading into the ship.

”Kelborn speaks truly, but I don’t care. I am marching to that bridge, and I am slamming myself through any line the terrorists dare to make. If it kills me, so be it.” Despite the brave words, Genthus’s free hand patted a small pocket on his belt before returning to his shotgun. It was where he kept his picture of Iggy, and his group photo of her and Tsubasa.

All the more reason. He could never face them again if he didn’t give his all today.

”Hal, Tal’galaar, let’s go.” Genthus motioned at Wrell and Ark as he began to walk at a fast clip. ”If you two have the honor to join us, I’ll need your names.”

[Blue]

More arrived, the hanger growing crowded with vod. Wrell spared glances at their beskar'gam, their weapons. Good make. Not his, but good. A feeling on his shoulder made him turn, look down. A broken voice spoke and hands moved, a motion of white and gold. Wrell followed the motion with his eyes. He understood. It was necessary to use hand signals in combat situations at times, and his mother had taught him enough to comprehend. An inquiry of identity. "Wrell. Of Clan Vizsla," he said shortly. He leaned his spear on his shoulder as he spoke and signed the word 'Clan Vizsla'. He did not know the sign for 'Wrell'. A group was forming, drawing attention. Nods were given, which Wrell returned curtly, but he could feel tension in the air. Too many used to leading, conflict may occur. Wrell did not care. If they were too concerned with who lead, Wrell would go ahead. There was vengeance to be enacted; he had little patience for deciding who was in charge and who was not. The large one, Genthus, moved to leave. Wrell moved in step with him; his spear and the blaster shotgun needed proximity. "Wrell. Of Clan Vizsla," he repeated, in the same tone as before. He nodded at Genthus' words "Hm. That is good. Trust in your beskar'gam. Trust in your weapons. We will write the song of vengeance with their blood."

[Zarkan]

"In the next hanger." Ark gave the scout a curt nod before striking off with long strides. The aged cyborg tried to give some words of comfort as he gently jostled his way into the gaping hanger doors. A quick scan showed a bay in no small amount of chaos still he relaxed a little when he spotted a short woman moving with a pair of large Mandalorians.

"It is unwise to question my honor, vod." To the man now pointing at his chest as he dropped the barrel of his blaster cannon into his right hand. Ark let out a deep sigh."It sounds like if I leave you to your own devices you're just going to get your fool self killed and we've lost enough warriors today already." Ark turned his head to look at this, Wrell his four photoreceptors scanning his well-crafted armor. "Vengence is all well and good, but I suspect your clan would rather have the story and you back alive."

"I'll join you." he said simply at first. "Arkanados Phelan, Clan Ordo, I'll make sure you pups don't bite off more than you can chew." Ark turned and nodded towards Eris. "It's been a while Eris will you be joining us?"

[Meira]

Eris gave the spear wielding Wrell Vizsla the sign to indicate she was honored to meet him, then turned her attention to the others that had arrived. One -a Kelborn by his markings- approached Genthus and named him, but Eris did not know his armor. Genthus responded positively, however, and so she left that to the wayside for the time being. The other was a more familiar form.

"Arkandos." Eris said, gesturing a greeting. "Mandalore?" she added. She'd tried several channels to reach him, but had yet to hear anything but static in return.

Genthus put his intentions plain for all, and it seemed all were in agreement. Though Ark was not shy in his opinions on the method proposed. Eris smirked behind her helmet. Hesitant with age? Eris signed discretely. Though she could not remember if the heavily augmented man could understand them. Either way, she nodded to Ark and fell into step with Genthus and the rest, mentally noting the stranger as Hal.

They moved through what corridors were still intact. As Hal had reported, much of the ship was simply empty now. What survivors there were, were making their way to the rescue ships. Whatever scum still remained had indeed clustered themselves closer to the bridge. Eris moved with quick strides, having to almost jog to keep pace with the long legged strides of the much taller men. Ark might have called them foolish, and pups, but she got the sense that the terrorists would be the fools for facing this company.

Ordo, Deshra, Kelborn, Vizsla. All brought together in bloody purpose. Vode an. Eldar will remember. The words moved through her mind as she was unable to dismiss the grim significance of the moment. But where is our Mandalore?

They rounded a corner and found the way blocked. The corridor had caved in. Piping and paneling blocked the way, crumbled and precarious. Through the mess, the corridor beyond could be seen. Though wires sparked in the heap, there was a space Eris thought she might be able to fit through. She reached out, tapping the Vizsla again and signed Keep watch. as she approached the wreckage. Dropping her bag of spare power packs and her light rifle, Eris sized up the most likely way through. After a moment, she removed her swords from her back as well and then began to squeeze through the debris.

"The lift seems operational." she wheezed. But as she was halfway through the obstruction, two figures stepped through a door in the corridor beyond. Their armor, though it had the superficial design of Beskar, was obviously fraudulent upon any closer consideration. They faced away, having not seen her. Eris carefully pulled herself all the way through the obstruction and reached back, gesturing frantically for her rifle. When she felt its weight placed into her hand, she pulled it through, and leveled it toward the two imposters.

"Vode!" she called, then let loose a volley as they turned. When they were unmoving on the ground, she rushed forward and put two more shots into their visors. "I'll hold here." she said, over her comms. "Find your way around."

[Ysmir]

Hal locked and loaded. He tuned out the musings of the cyborg and Wrell of Clan Vizsla; Hal was not a learned man, and he had little time to wax poetic about the carnage they were about to unleash.

He affixed his vambraces and stretched his hands, the crushgaunts whirring inaudibly as he squeezed his fingers tightly. His stunstaff hung loosely on his back, held there by a leather strap across his chestplate. He checked the power pack of his marksman blaster and spun it into the holster at his side, before hoisting his heavy blaster up once more. His eyes bounced between each of them stood there, surrounded by other vod that similarly prepared themselves for the task at hand. Even if the Par'jila could not be saved, they would at least ensure that when it did fall, it fell in the hands of the Mando'ade, not those who would try to tarnish and dirty their honor.

"Every last one?" Hal asked in faux jest to Genthus, nodded, and cocked back his blaster. "That I can do."

He began to walk after Genthus, passing by Eris as she tried Mandalora on the comms. Stopping, he shook his head.

"Lord Mandalore can handle himself if he yet lives. Best not waste your time until we've cleared these scum from the bridge, aye?" He reached out a hand and clasped Tal'galaar on the shoulder firmly, both a show of respect and a reminder to keep her mind focused on the task at hand. Afterward, he continued following after Genthus deeper into the Triumph's fiery core.

Not much to be seen, truly. What portions of the once-glorious dreadnought were still intact soon would not be, the entire infrastructure threatening to fall to pieces as continued vibrations of growing intensity pulsed throughout its skeleton. The further they went in, the more Hal began to question whether this crusade was more akin to that of a suicide. Even if he did die here, Hal didn't care; there was heretic blood to be spilled, and he would not pass up the opportunity to be among those who spilled it.

As they meandered down the hall, Hal positioned himself at the head of the pack, walking alongside Genthus who stood -- almost comically -- a head taller than Hal himself. They came to a halt as the way ahead was blocked by a heap of steaming and hissing piping that had collpased, cutting them off from the lift that would take them straight through to the bridge.

"Sith's blood," he lamented as he hoisted his blaster onto his shoulder, "has to be a few tons of metal cutting us off here."

Then, he paused, head turning toward the smallest among them when she stepped up. Hal stepped aside as Tal'galaar made her way to the forefront of the group. Hal didn't question her motives; she was far and away the only one of the motley crew who could likely manage to wedge herself into the small space that led further into the corridor. Crouching, Hal peered through the wreckage just as she had made her way through to the other side. Hal noticed almost as she did the two individuals standing a ways away in the corridor, armor of Mandalorian design -- but shoddy, amateur work that probably made Wrell of Clan Vizsla wretch in disgust. When Eris' hand shot through the obstruction and flailed wildly, Hal reached down to her light blaster and lifted it, placing the grip into her palm.

Hal stood when the volley of shots let loose, seeing only the flashing of lights through the wreckage that obscured his view. Then, Eris' voice crackled over the comms. He nodded.

"Seems we've no other choice." Hal peered about. Two halls split off from the junction they stood within, both eventually rounding to meet in the corridor that Eris occupied. He pointed to each. "We leave nothing to chance. Where there's two of those imposters, there's bound to be more. Genthus, let's take the East hall. Wrell, you and Ordo sweep the West. Push back whatever opposition you can't lay flat; you'll run them right into Tal'galaar to clean up."

Hal turned toward the East hall, before looking back over his shoulder at the trio. "Come on, only so long until this heap comes down around our ears. There's killing to be done."

[Fromikeable]

Wrell Vizsla. Arkandos Ordo. Easy enough to remember, Genthus decided. He committed them to memory as he marched, nearly jogged, through the halls of the dying juggernaut. Alarms blared. Corpses lay still. And through it all, the din of madmen erupted from every speaker.

Genthus’s mind did little but focus on the next wall, the next turn, the next door. Each lead to the other, which would lead to retribution.

There was nothing else to see. Not today.

So the wreckage blocking the way was answered with an annoyed grunt of disapproval. Without thinking, Genthus immediately forward to it, getting a good grip and preparing to heave as he could. There was nothing for it, truly; the ceiling had come down, as had the walls, and to lift it all was not only inhuman, but folly for the rest of the hallway.

All the better that Eris shuffled past him into it, forcing him to abandon the project before it could begin. Stepping back, Genthus checked his guns, as if ready to blast the debris into ever more pieces if it dared to consume his friend.

But she did as the Tal’galaar could be expected to do, and even reported good news; the lift opposite them could take them further.

”East.” Parroting the instructions back to Hal, Genthus offered a single large nod before beginning to trudge toward the hallway in question. He had few qualms with the plan, sparing a wave for Wrell and Arkandos over his shoulder before rounding the corner and picking up his pace. Sparing a glance to make sure Hal was with him, their solitude dawned on him.

”The Mandalore is the last person that should be on your mind.” Rolling his shoulders, Genthus’s armor and equipment jingled, making clear the weight he was carrying. Coming to a fork in the hallway, Genthus took a moment to reference his HUD’s compass, turning in the direction of the lift. ”That fool can die in this great tomb he-”

Blaster bolts cut him off, plinking off his helmet as hollars of outrage sounded from down the hall. Snarling, Genthus steadied his vision and raised his shotgun to bear witness to another small group of imposters, each clad in their imitation armor, each armed and already raining fire at their victims.

Genthus rained it right back, his shotgun sounding like a bolt of thunder. ”This ship is your grave, cowards!” Giving no credence to the shots bouncing off of him, Genthus began a slow advance down the hallway, his shotgun pumping as he lined up another shot.

With another boom, a blaster bolt the size of a brick slammed through one of the impostors, smashing a hole through their fake armor before soldering through their breast. Pumping the weapon again, Genthus roared.

[Blue]

Wrell made no more words as the group moved out. Nothing left to say. They were here to take their vengeance. Further proclamations were pointless. The smith stepped in time, hearing the creaking of the dying Par’jila around him like a rent, metal cocoon. There was a poison inside her. All that was left was to purge what they could and return to the planet below. The forge still called for him. They reached a broken part of the corridor and stopped. Wrell cast an eye over the wreckage. Too damaged. Can't move it, space too small to provide supports, take too long to remove it. Must go around. The one called Tal'galaar signalled him to watch over her and proceeded to slip through the gaps her fellow vod could not. The smith nodded once and drew his blaster pistol, aiming unmovingly at the other side of the corridor. He almost pulled the trigger when two people emerged, but restrained himself when he noticed they had their backs to Eris. It was clear to Wrell instantly that they were not a part of the Mando'ade; their armour was shoddily constructed and no true Mandalorian could have been fooled. So who failed? Who was so blind that they let such cheap imitations infiltrate the Par'jila? They were swiftly dealt with. Needed to find a way around, meet back up, continue on to the bridge. A forking path split the group further, two and two. Wrell silently moved on, hand gripping his spear, ready to lunge forward. Their way seemed empty. Echoes promised violence, a faint cry of death and rage bouncing off the walls of the ship. On the path, a figure suddenly stepped out, turned. That same armour, a mockery of their culture. The tip of Wrell's bevii'ragir lanced forward and back like a flash of light, taking the person in the throat. The smith continued forward as they dropped their blaster and clutched at the wound before collapsing and writhing on the floor, the blood invisible in the red emergency lights fading in and out. "We draw near to the one called Tal'galaar," Wrell stated bluntly to the one called Arkandos, the smith's mind mapping their path and calculating distance as they moved.

[Meira]

Eris tucked herself into a corner near the lift, her eyes on the two branches of the corridor. She crouched, making herself as small of a target as possible while she waited. Over the comms, she heard her companions' commentaries as they advanced. The louder sounds of their progress needed no comms to be heard. Eris shook her head in slight amusement at Genthus' battle cry. The other three were much more stoic than he, but she knew their blood ran just as hot to witness what these scum had done.

From the corridor to her right, the stomp of running boots alerted Eris to an approaching enemy. The others were still to far off, she was sure. Sliding along the wall that concealed her, Eris positioned herself right at the corner. As the enemy came into view, she shot at their knees. One of two fell, sprawling on the ground and crying out in pain. The other turned, blaster sweeping shots across the alcove, but all over Eris' crouched form. She sprang up. Firing her blaster at point blank range upward into their chest plate. The close distance and angle overcame the armor and the enemy crumpled to the ground.

Another cluster of shots saw Eris stagger, dropping her blaster. She turned, seeing that the first of the two had not given up the fight. Good. Her armor had absorbed the brunt of the volley, but she did not think she'd give this trash another opportunity. In a swift motion, Eris pulled one of her blades from its sheath at her back, spun it, and dove toward the prone infiltrator. They tried to move, but their knees made this difficult. Eris drove her blade in through the weak point of their inferior armor, feeling it sink into flesh as the being screamed. After a moment, they ceased movement and Eris rose to her knees. She pulled the blade free. Rather than wipe it clean, however, she instead touched her fingers to the blood, then drew them across her helmet, leaving three crimson lines. They would be a stark contrast to the white of her armor. A very visible message to those who dared still stand against her.

With that done, Eris did find a scrap of cloth on the downed combatant and cleaned her blade before sheathing it again. She then stood and retrieved her dropped blaster. As she crouched to pick it up, a soft tone sounded in the alcove. Eris turned, glancing at the turbolift. Above it, the indicator display was lit up, and was tracking which level the lift was on. Eris glanced at the level sign by the door, and then back up at the display.

"They're coming." she sub-vocalized, the rasp coming over the comms to her allies. "Hurry."

[Ysmir]

Hal hoisted up his blaster and turned from the central chambers to the East hall. Following Genthus was not hard; the man barely fit beneath the doorway's frame.

Despite the whirring of emergency alarms and the creaking of metal threatening to give way, the craft was eerily silent, certainly more quiet than it ever was when it rang with the songs of the Mando'ade. It would most likely make a lesser individual forget that they were not alone. As they walked through the desolate halls, Hal's head on a swivel, he turned slightly to Genthus as the man began to speak.

"The Mandalore is the last person that should be on your mind.”

Hal quirked a brow upward in response beneath his helmet, though it was invisible to the larger Mandalorian. It was a defiant tone Genthus took, and the words held thinly veiled venom that an astute ear picked up on. The Kelborn lagged behind Genthus a bit as he continued his talk, but not for long.

PA-TINK!

The sudden break in the silence was caused by a blaster bolt which recoiled off of Genthus' helmet and deflected upward into the ceiling. Hal shot a glance down the hall they had turned into; four assailants, all bearing marks of the Mando'ade, but cheap imitations meant only to pass as disguises. That number was soon cut to three as he heard Genthus roar a remark of vengeance, followed by a bolt from his blaster shotgun that tore a hole through the fake Beskar'gam like a knife through paper. The assailant fell as a hailstorm of blaster fire continued to ping off of Genthus' armor, little more than an annoyance to the berserker as he charged the insurgents' line.

Hal took this opportunity to slip behind Genthus' assault and kneel down. The smaller Mandalorian took an aiming position and looked through the scope of his signature heavy blaster. With a short huff of an exhale and a squeeze of the trigger, a mighty KRAKOOM sounded through the hall as a blue bolt of vibrating energy shot past Genthus' leg and into the knee of one of the insurgents. The heavy bolt shredded whatever protection the fake armor afforded, and sent the insurgent crumpling to the ground in pain.

Then, Hal stood and charged right behind Genthus, dropping his heavy blaster and letting it hang loosely from his torso by the strap. He withdrew two Tehk'la blades from his waist as he appeared seemingly out of nowhere from behind the larger man, ducking underneath the sloppy rifle butt strike from one of the insurgents. Hal plunged one of the Tehk'la's into the individual's neck in retaliation. Without skipping a beat, Hal booted the grounded insurgent against the wall and thrusted the off-hand Tehk'la into his throat. Hal stood, both insurgents impaled upon his blades, and then ripped both back out. The two imposters fell to the ground gurgling on the blood that pooled from their wounds. Hal wiped the blades clean on his armor, looking to Genthus as the man disposed of the last assailant.

"Well," Hal began, sheathing both blades behind his waist once more, "good to see you haven't missed a step, Genthus."

But their victory was short-lived. The comms crackled to life.

"They're coming. Hurry."

Hal glanced to Genthus as he hoisted his blaster up once more. "We're coming. Hold strong."

Then, without another word, Hal turned and began sprinting toward the turbolift hall, intent on being there when another cadre of the imposters arrived.

[Fromikeable]

As Hal dropped one of the remaining assailants to the floor, Genthus shifted his gaze to the third, furthest in the back, hands scrambling for a rifle. The yell of Hal’s charge was echoed by Genthus as he broke into a sprint, shoulder down, gun up, visor locked.

The terrorist barely had time to squeeze the trigger before Genthus bull-rushed him, knocking him backward off the ground, flying a few feet, before landing with a hard thud on the floor. Stamping a foot on the man’s chest, Genthus cocked his shotgun and leveled it at his head.

The terrorist wheezed indignantly. ”Tell your Mandal-” He was cut off by the roar of the shotgun turning his fake helmet into a shattered can of red goop, Genthus growling in annoyance.

”’My’ Mandalore.”

Wiping the blood off his gun, he listened to Hal as he reloaded, checking his bandolier. A dozen or so shots left; a large shotgun required large rounds. Deciding to save the rest for later, Genthus shouldered it before drawing his falchion, giving the blade a quick inspection. Satisfied, he turned to Hal to respond only for Eris’s update to come crackling through.

Then they were off and sprinting, Genthus lagging behind just a bit.

A few moments later, and the turbolifts were in sight. Genthus didn’t slow until he saw the indicator above the only active lift, the numbers ticking down as their assailants approached. Finally trudging to a stop, he pressed his back to the wall just beside the lift door, the ping of the machine’s descent muffled by his pressed helmet.

”Detonator.” Plucking one such weapon from his belt, he looked to the arriving Wrell, tossing it to him.

”We have other lifts.” As if to prove his point, his other hand reached behind him, jamming the up button for the lifts. Another across from them lit up, indicating its ascent.

[Zarkan]

The Rough construction of the fraud's armor reinforced Ark's suspicion that these cowards had the help of some traitor aboard the Par'Jilla. Ark nodded to the young warrior as he spoke still watching blood spread out across the deck from the rapidly cooling corpse of one of the imposters. "Then we should not tarry." He rumbled gesturing down the corridor with his blaster before beginning to move down the hall at a slight jog in an attempt to not race ahead of the shorter warrior.

"We should..." he began speaking to the other warrior shortly before Eris' raspy voice crackled over the comm net. "Haar'chak" The cyborg cursed. "Try and keep up Wrell." The elder Mandalorian said before breaking into a sprint. Ark followed the gentle curve of the hall as it neared Tal’galaar's location Ark spotted the back of an imposter the twitchy spun letting a burst of crimson bolts rip through the air in the direction of the pair of Mandalorians. The majority of the blaster bolts went wide of Ark, but a few managed to spark off the cyborg's shields before a quarter ton of beskar and cybernetics plowed into the man sending him skidding down the hall with the crunch of plasteel and bone. Ark made sure to give the whimpering terrorist a good stomp as he passed the man and began to turn the corner he spotted the turbolifts and the armor of Hal and Genthus.

"Hail." He said lifting his left hand in greeting. "You still breathe I see, don't do that again Eris." Ark nodded to Genthus. "I'll make sure they can't get off the lift." Attaching the cannon to the magnetic clamp on his back and walking up to place his hands flat against the lift doors. "Get ready Wrell I'll let it open slightly." As the lift rang it's arrival. Ark leaned into the door his weight against the door slowing its opening before grasping the edges of the door and halting it's opening with a loud screech of sheering metal. "Wrell throw it through the gap."

[Blue]

Words crackled, heralding a coming change. Wrell's stride lengthened even as the one called Arkanados encouraged a faster pace, their heavy footfalls thudding and reverberating infinitely around the crimson hallways. They arrived in time to meet the others, crowding the space. He spared a nod at the one called Eris, but Wrell was beginning to keenly miss the open skies and empty air of his mountain home. He could feel the forge fire warm on his skin, a ghostly echo of hammer on metal- The smith caught the object thrown at him instinctively, looking down at it. A detonator. He frowned, uncomprehending, before the words caught up. He gave a curt nod, one to the one called Genthus and another to his erstwhile travelling companion, moving into position, ready to deliver noisome death. Ding Metal screeched against the might of Arkanados, words of startled confusion on the other side. The apple sized mechanism lit up in confirmation and moved through the space, the doors shutting against the certain storm. A muffled explosion set the doors to shuddering, dust fluttering down and lights flickering fitfully. Wrell moved forward and grunted, opening the twisted metal into the warped space that had once been a lift. The inside was a picture of conflict; bodies contorted into shapes they should not be, the dark making patterns of the blood spray. One still moved feebly on the floor, reaching out for their arm on the other side of the space. The smith moved forward to finish the work, but he paused when he looked down at the one still living. Across the comms there was an audible intake of breath, shock and outrage. Then a low growl. The smith kneeled down, ripping his kal from its boot sheath. "Bone-picker!" Wrell snarled, slamming the blade into the weak point of the armour, just above the breastplate and below the jaw. Once. Twice. Three times. The figure gurgled for a long time, still moving weakly as the smith sheathed the weapon and began to pull at the straps and locks that held the armour in place, muttering something furiously under his breath as he worked. With a final twitch, they died.

[Meira]

Eris kept her eyes on the lift display while she waited for the others. She positioned herself at a corner to the alcove, Most of her body under cover by the wall. Her blaster was held muzzle down, but ready to be lifted at a moment's notice. It was only a few more moments, however, before the tell-tale sounds of her companions' advance drew nearer. Eris did not relax her stance as they approached, but instead made general motions to communicate where the trouble would be coming from.

Genthus rounded the corner with Hal and placed his back to the wall beside the lift doors. Ark and Wrell were there a moment later, the latter catching the detonator Genthus tossed him while the former wrestled with the lift doors. Eris squinted her eyes behind her visor at the older mechanized man's comments, but did not respond. Eris watched, ready to lift her rifle and fire, but there was no need. A part of her thought it a pity. They were denied the satisfaction of ending these scum in a more personal way. Though, it seemed Wrell would not be denied. But with still more ahead of them, and much of it unknown, it made tactical sense to dispatch the vermin as quickly and efficiently as possible.

Behind her, another tone sounded and Eris turned to see the lift doors open. It was empty inside. She stepped into the lift to inspect, her first foot testing before she transferred her full weight inside. The overhead light flickered slightly, but overall it seemed to be functioning well enough. She turned, holding the doors open button to allow the rest to enter. It was a tight fit with Ark, but the lifts on Par'jila we large, and build to handle the weight of many heavily armor clad beings. It would hold. When all were in, Eris pressed the button that corresponded to the Bridge deck. There was a silence that fell over them as the doors closed and the lift hummed as it began to move upward. The sudden moment of calm felt out of place after the adrenaline of their push from the hangar. Eris took the time to breathe and refocus herself. Their strongest resistance would be on the Bridge, but she was confident this group would prove more than enough to seize the day.

Ding!

The doors opened and there was a brief moment when Eris' eyes took in the scene before her. The corridor leading to the Bridge was about 100 feet long. Eris knew the layout by heart. To the left, a conference room, a lounge, and a secure comms room lay behind their respective doors. To the right was the war room and the ship's Captain's quarters. The blast doors directly ahead were sealed. And in between, two heavy turret guns had been set up about halfway down the corridor.

"Osik." Eris rasped as the beings behind the turret guns registered their arrival. She dove forward, rushing to a small break in the wall that provided minimal cover. As she gained the spot, she knew she needed to lay what cover she could for the others to advance. She raised her rifle and pulled the trigger. Fully automatic, she strafed the fire across the corridor. The beings behind the turrets hesitated as she braced behind the armor plating around their guns.

"GO!" Eris barked.

[Ysmir]

They arrived, it seemed, all at once, hastened by Eris' call on the comms. He returned the wave of greeting to Arkanados and Wrell Vizsla. As Genthus placed himself by the door, Hal crossed the way quickly and knelt by Tal'galaar, hoisting his heavy blaster up in aim to the doors.

"Didn't think we'd miss out on the fun, did you?" he said to Eris without looking over, but lowered the rifle slightly when he was made privvy to the the doublet's plans. Another boom rocked the skeleton of the ship, but this one came from inside the lift. When the doors were parted once more, they were greeted by smoke and the familiar smell of charred bone. He pushed himself up to a standing position and sighed. "Nevermind."

No time to laze around. They had to keep moving.

He turned in unison with Eris as the other lift Genthus had called arrived in a timely manner. Hal crossed the way with the rest and entered into the spacious, but somewhat cramped lift as the dim light flickered overhead slightly. He found it commendable that the electricity ran to the lighting systems at all, given how compromised the Par'jila's structural integrity was. As he stood amongst the group of Mandalorian warriors, covered in soot, blood, and armed to the teeth, he found himself wondering in this moment of silence how it came to this again. They had been at the height of their society's power, more in control of their own fates than they ever had been. But now, it seemed primed to blow up in their faces. They had to be wary of their next moves once retribution was found. A fallout of a colossal nature was not far around the corner if discourse was allowed to run rampant through the Clans.

Hal knew inwardly why Eris had tried Lord Mandalore so many times. If he yet lived, there was hope they could reconstitute. If he was dead...

Hal didn't want to think about that. Not now. He primed his blaster as the lift approached its destination.

Ding!

He'd seen the bridge a handful of times, but never in this way. The corridor was long, flanked on either side by the Par'jila's most important rooms. Just empty skeletons now, nothing more. But far more important than his reminiscing were the two heavy turrets that greeted them when the doors slid open.

Without hesitation, Hal dove from the lift as a storm of blaster fire came rocketing down the halls. He bobbed and weaved as he charged, making it about halfway down the hall before he was struck in the shoulder plate by an errant bolt, causing him to hesitate and instead roll to cover behind a fallen piece of thick steel from the ceiling. He hoisted his blaster to his chest as he caught his breath, inspecting the damage to his Beskar'gam. Minimal, a glancing blow. It left behind only carbon scoring.

His eyes turned back to where he had run from, where his other allies scrambled to avoid the turrets' suppressing fire. His eyes darted around the hallway as he felt the thudding of blaster bolts on the other side of the rubble he took shelter behind. There were no visible means of flanking the emplacements, and to charge up the center would carry a higher risk than he cared to take, despite their armor being the real deal. But then, he heard the yell of Tal'galaar, his eyes refocusing as he saw her unleash a volley of bolts of covering fire.

Hal took this opportunity. He pulled himself from behind the fallen debris and placed the grip of his rifle on it. Taking rapid aim, he looked through the scope as he focused on the turret to the right.

PYOOM PYOOM!

Two electric blue bolts that warped the air around them emitted from the barrel of his heavy blaster, crackling as they struck the power pack of the right turret, causing it to explode into sparks and smoke. The machine whined and whirred as it lost its power source, no longer capable of firing.

"PUSH, NOW!"

[Fromikeable]

Genthus almost wasn’t surprised to see the turrets as the lift door opened, his eyes well-settled in a murderous squint far before they arrived. No, it was the impact of their first volley on his armor that surprised him more than anything, each bolt slamming his body back. Light arms fire in thick beskar was something of a set of pokes.

These were full force punches, each leaving the metal searing hot.

Even as Genthus dove for cover, the feeling stayed with him, his body too large to simply press behind alcoves. Every hit was a harsh new welt, a molten burn on his flesh, and each only stoked his rage. By the time the third attempt at cover had failed and Hal had removed the first turret, Genthus’s snorts of outrage were barely contained.

”Enough!” Dropping the blaster cannon from his shoulder, Genthus leveled it at the remaining turret. As it swiveled to retarget him, he did it one better, depressing the trigger of the tube with a jagged pull.

The bolt of plasma it produced, the size of his own head, went screaming down the hallway into the turret’s base. The explosion flooded the front half of the room with fire and the rest with a roar of noise, the operators there howling in pain.

Genthus dropped the spent tube and drew his shotgun. With another roar, he charged, blasting the panel for the door to the bridge. As it began to hiss open, he leapt, intending to barge through the growing middle.

A new explosion sent him soaring head over heels backward toward his compatriots, shotgun blasted to pieces. As the smoke in the hallway began to clear, the open door revealed the Par’jila’s mammoth command bridge. Within, a dozen beings in fake beskar’gam leveled rifles at the door, one among them standing at the bridge’s head wearing purple armor. Popping off their helmet, they motioned an arm at the door.

”For Onderon!” The rifle fire began without a second to lose.