((Put the old warhorse in an old warzone, this is what you get. Score one for improvised weapons
))
Scars of battle. Here, a man died, his long-dried blood staining the wall, surrounded by carbon scores above his now skeletal remains, blackened holes still plainly visible in what remained of his armor. Here, a black scorch on the floor and the rough etching lining the walls nearby marked where a fragmentation grenade had gone off. Here, a man's flesh-stripped torso still hung from the wall, held there by a rusted vibrosword. This place was a graveyard, filled with the scattered bodies of those that had fought and died here so long ago, filled with the markings of men killing each other for reasons long forgotten. Many things in common, then, were shared between the walls of this old killing ground and the armored giant walking between them.
He too bore the scars of long-forgotten battles, both along his beskar shell and his skin beneath it. He too was a graveyard of sorts, bearing the memories of all those he had lost. But that is where the similarities ended. This place had long-since been forgotten, all those who knew of this battle had died, and all those that had died here for their cause also had long since faded from memory, soulless and forgotten. But he...no, he would never forget his battles, or those he had lost, not until death finally came for him as well. His soul as a warrior was secure beyond doubt in his mind, and his memory would carry on through the ages by his Clan until they no longer existed, and that day would not come for some time yet.
A Kohul did not die easily, and it was usually a bit of a mess when someone managed to bring one down. Kex and Arga's enemies had literally been force to climb over the bodies of their allies. Milana had killed a pair of Wookiees in melee combat; the second after having her spine crushed at the waist, to be killed by the third. Taryn had brought down half a company of well-trained warriors
after she had made the mistake that led to her death. Selna had survived the wounds from having a Mandalorian frigate crashing into their home and its magazine going up for nearly two hours. Marcil had taken the beskar juggernaut himself half a decade to kill. Namara had waded through an ambush of a full dozen elite soldiers and an assault on a fully-manned mercenary garrison, only being brought down after killing another dozen with a blade because she'd run out of ammunition. Anda...was still alive, and certainly not for lack of trying. She was better than he had been at her age, of that the giant had no doubt.
Unfortunate, he thought idly, that she couldn't be with him now. There was something about this little...
trip that had made him wary, even before he'd left the rest of the surviving
Verda to come. But they had been needed elsewhere, and even alone, he was not something to be taken lightly by any means. He was Mandalorian, a warrior since birth, and an elite among his people, named Destroyer not simply for his propensity for large weaponry. Unless facing species on the scale of Togorians and Wookiees, Raynes was more often than not by far the largest warrior on the battlefield. His armor, standing amongst the heaviest suits his people used, had survived almost as much as he had, years of war, everything from small arms to light artillery, Jedi to external assaults on starships. His armament was nothing to be ignored, either. Put simply, his repeater was, as someone had once said, nearly amusingly destructive; instead, it just came across as a horrific tool of war few of its enemies lived to speak of. Even hanging by his side, held only by one hand attached to the mid grip, it was not something that could be seen as anything less than what it truly was; a tool of slaughter, nothing more.
Te Naast was more than just his name.
Still, there was something about this place. Something all around him, yet nowhere to be found, something that made the shadows darker, the air heavier. He had spent a lifetime on many battlefields, but this...this was not the darkness left in the shadow of the mass carnage of war. This was something else, something...
more. Evil was not a word he used lightly as many did, for he had seen true evil in his time enough to tell the difference, but this place...it reeked of unnatural shadows. He would not have doubted if the Force itself was not at work here, empowering the dark. It was nothing he had not seen before; he knew all too well what could be done with the power so many took for granted. Worthy opponents many of its practitioners may have been, but the behemoth had little doubt that the Galaxy would be far better off without their vaunted Force.
Such power should never be given to one with no soul.
But such things were not why he was here. Perhaps it was why the other creature his thermal imaging was picking up was here, perhaps not, but he would likely never know. He did not plan on mincing words once he found them. Whatever their purpose here, he was not about to let it interfere with his own, especially considering that his reasons were for the preservation of his Clan. He knew a Kohul had fought here, for whatever reason, and he was more than willing to spend some of his time to try and find a trace of them. A Mandalorian's body would be simple enough to find in this place, especially one of Bothan blood as this man had been. If he had not survived, then he could at least return the body to Mandalore. If he had not, then perhaps there would be a trace to follow further. If not, then he was no worse off than he was when he had first set off on this search.
He could not say the same for whoever got in the way, however. There was always a possibility that he could be killed himself, of course, that he did not deny, especially without knowing who it was that shared this place with him, but that could hardly have bothered him less. He was already a dead man living beyond his time, his soul secure as a warrior, and if this being were strong enough to kill him, then they were the better, and it would be an honor to die at their hands. It would also be a release from this new found hatred that was steadily burning through his veins like fire, slowly but surely killing him as any deadly poison. Not directly, perhaps, but it would be the death of him, that was certain to him. That didn't mean he would make it easy, however. No matter who or what they were, they would face all he had to give.
Such contemplations hardly slowed him, however. His pace remained steady, his long strides carrying him quickly through the war-torn halls, which echoed with the heavy footfalls of several hundred pounds of flesh and bone weighted further by several hundred more of metal, broken only by the places where his boot found the bones of the fallen instead of the floor. His free hand balled into a fist in anticipation. Battle was by no means
enjoyable, per se, but it
was the simplest way to sate bloodlust, and he'd been holding back for far too long to have any desire in finding other ways. Rage would be the death of him, and he was glad for it. Too long had he lived to protect at the cost of his own needs. Now...now was the time for vengeance.
One hallway left. Ahead of him lay a door, damaged and stuck half-open, with another hall beyond. According to his thermal imaging, the only other living thing larger than the small, winged creatures and rodents that had taken residence in this place was just ahead, all the more confirmed as a voice echoed in through the partially-opened door. Apparently this creature had a sense of humor.
The Mandalorian did not.
Placing a hand on the door as he reached it, he attempted to push it inwards. Perhaps a normal human could have pressed through the gap, but even without his armor and weaponry, he was considerably too large to attempt. Alas, the door would not move further inwards, likely blocked by damage to the wall itself. No matter. It still closed fully, or very nearly so, when enough pressure was applied, and he had plenty of that to spare, though the grinding of durasteel against concrete was enough to prove your average human may have had more than a little trouble shifting it. Taking a step backward, he lunged forward with a grunt, throwing his weight and a considerable amount of power into a single elevated boot.
Most of the concrete and metal debris went past the Mandalorian, some impacting harmlessly against his shoulder and torso, rather than into the next hall, as the door broke free of its anchoring in the wall like a lever, the small section still inside the wall coming back towards him as the rest of the door went the other direction, taking the embedded end with it as it broke free of its mounts. The largest piece of debris, however, obviously went
away from the plated juggernaut, being the primary recipient of a great deal of force. The durasteel door impacted the far wall with enough force for the first corner to connect to punch small hole in the wall before the metal slab's momentum stopped and it dropped to the floor with a heavy clatter. As the powdery concrete dust settled, the Mandalorian stepped through the open doorway, roughly twenty feet down the hall from the winged reptilian creature, brushing something off his shoulder. He studied the being for only a few seconds, his helmet allowing him to see him clearly through the darkness, more than long enough for his aged mind to plainly see that, whatever it was, it was something that might actually be worth his time. He knew a challenge when he saw one.
And that was about the only thing his mind respected through the consuming fire anymore. Setting his massive repeater on the ground beside him, he also pulled its equally massive power pack off. A useful tool it was, but hardly something to engage a lone warrior with.
"Ni Al'verde Raynes aliit Kohul, kar'taylir sa Te Naast, be Te Verda be Tal bal Prudii. Raynes, in less words, a son of Mandalore. And you, Roq, are a risk I'm afraid I cannot take. I apologize."With that, he reached down, latching first one, then both gauntlets onto the freed door, and lurched forward a few paces, taking it with him. On the second step, he rotated his torso, throwing his strength into his shoulders and thighs as his knees bent. As enough of the door passed by him, he released his tensing muscles, transferring immense physical energy from his body and suit into the slab of durasteel. It may not have been the fast form of offense he was capable of, but a solid piece of metal two inches thick, seven feet long, and three feet wide traveling down a relatively narrow hallway at a speed fully capable of killing a human while rotating...well, it wasn't eloquent, but he was a Mandalorian, not some faerie Echani dancer with a gilded letter-opener and a pillow. He preferred
killing his enemies.
))