Flawed Legacy, Attn; Mastiv

[John Ischoron]

> 278 ARE
> City of Keldabe, Manda’yaim

The seventeen year old Epicanthix stepped off the transport from Alderaan, shoulders hunched as the teenager tried to make himself seem as small as possible, but his height at almost seven feet and slowly increasing made it a pointless gesture. Even hunched over, he was taller than most of the humanoids. A cloak of Alderaanian make was swathed around him, protecting him from the slight chill of the Manda’yaim winter sweeping through Keldabe.

The youth wasn’t quite sure what he would do next. He had come because he knew he was a Mando’ade, the language deeply ingrained in him, if very rusty at this point. He remembered living for honour on the battlefield. But Manda’yaim was an unwelcoming stranger, different from the black sands of his homeworld, colder, causing him to shiver even with the cloak. This was not home, but all he had spoken to had said that Mandalore, Manda’yaim, was where he would find his Mandalorian brethren.

He moved along with the crowd, letting them guide him out of the spaceport and onto the busy streets of the city of Keldabe. He didn’t like cities; his skin crawled at the sight of the towering buildings. It reminded him of the day he left the laboratory, surrounded by towering blocks, stark and white and inhospitable. He had liked Alderaan, nature had put its mark on everything and their architecture was sort, almost welcoming.

This was not home, he thought. He couldn’t… couldn’t remember home, none of these faces were familiar, and the helmets all seemed wrong. The t-visors niggled at him, he doubted. Was he truly a Mandalorian, or did he merely remember the language and society by mere fluke? Had the scientist robbed him of his history as well as his memory? He recalled black deserts, warm days, as well as large forests, brilliant green. The soft pelt of large animals, powerful muscles beneath. All this metal and noise put him on edge.

The scientist had called him Mando’ad, but it had always sounded more mocking than anything. Perhaps it was another cruel jape.

But he was here now, as he had once arrived on Alderaan. If anything, he would not let the credits he had spent go to waste. He would attempt to find a purpose here, but his spirits were defeated.

He silently thanked his former employer for her kindness, having granted him the use of the articles of clothing that had been left at her establishment and never picked up. The simple shirt and trousers offered some small warmth in the chill, the boots sturdy and comfortable despite being the cast-offs of some Alderaanian.

It started to rain, raindrops falling lightly, he came to stop by an entranceway, taking cover in the awning. Mandalorians were going in and out, some t-visors, some different visors, faceplates. They were familiar. He seemed to be drawing some attention from those passing, noting with some discomfort that their helmets turned to look at him as they passed, before proceeding along on their way.

He turned his head towards the emblem that was decorating the outside of the building, a tree branching out, and seven stars surrounding the branches. The sight of it comforted him, and so he paused for longer, studying the colours of the emblem, running a finger along one root as he considered his options.

[Mastiv Ischoron]

The shapeless entity that oversaw the world’s capital permitted a groan to rumble from within its cloudy domain. Boated droplets of rain, dislodged from their elevated positions by the disembodied being’s yawn, began a steady assault on Keldabe’s cityscape. The winds that managed to navigate the corridors in the manmade canyons carried that particular calibre of chill that ate away at one’s extremities. Manda’yaim’s fierce sun beaming glorious rays of orange over the skyscrapers’ crystalline peaks seemed a distant memory now that winter had descended upon the planet. As was usually the case, the cold season had arrived in all of its grim splendour.

Strangely, Keldab’s unique architecture seemed to fit such a miserable day perfectly. Unlike those engineering feats that had been conceived by anaruetyc mind, the Mando’ad draughtsmen didn’t favour those sleek, visually appealing kinds of spire. Every structure, regardless of its primary function, had effectively been installed with the measures that could see one’s workplace double up as miniature fortress. No tower donned slim contours and flowing lines; instead championing the idea that every superstructure should be erect with practicality taking precedence over aesthetics. Bulky, unimaginative towers, lacking the creative flair that their cousins from Coruscant seemed to boast, stood firmly in opposition against whatever Mother Nature may have pitted against its occupants.

A solitary blob of rain burst upon Mastiv’s forehead, allowing for several smaller droplets to steadily trickle down his face. Satisfaction compelled his mouth to crease into a crooked smile. Even now, after all of these years of living a freeman, it was astounding how even the smallest of things, such as a well-placed smidgen of water from some divine being, could transport him back within the walls of the Petranaki Arena. It rarely rained there on Geonosis. Freezing cold nights were followed everyday by a merciless barrage of heat, courtesy of a tyrannical daystar. Buy’ce attached securely to his webbing, the young Mando’ad turned his attention skywards; eyes pressed together tightly. Each successful impact made by a rotund dollop of rain drummed against the mental image of the gladiatorial arena. He savoured the cold; allowing it to chew away at his lips.

“…By the Stars. Tell me, vod, am I looking at a ghost?” A whisper loud enough to catch the mesmerised Mandalorian’s attention escaped the lips of Khadam. Mastiv, disturbed from his daydream, was unceremoniously cast back into the realms of the living. The fear that hugged the senior Ischoron’s hushed words proved enough for his subordinate’s unscathed flesh to fold into a scowl momentarily. Similar gasps of disbelief erupted from the small pockets that littered the enclave’s courtyard. An unarmoured head pivoted between two over exaggerated pauldrons to better identify the source of the unrest.

A boy of impressive stature, draped in those flimsier garments that those outside of the culture tended to favour, hovered around the complex’s tubular entranceway. The verd allowed his nostrils to flair and his scowl to deepen. The fact that an aruetii was audacious enough to allow himself free reign of an alit’s grounds was enough of a reason to scoff at. It was only as the adolescent’ face came into full view that all sourness clinging to the new Ischoron’s face evaporated. The boy’s face had been the one that the Aliit’alor had made doubly sure was scorched into the mind of anyone bearing the Ischoron emblem. Holovids containing footage of this boy, only much at a much younger age, had often found themselves screened in Kartagia’s private quarters. It seemed that even the Aliit’alor wasn’t exempt from the genial tugging of heartstrings. It had been often been voiced how much Kartagia’s younger sibling resembled him. It was only now, as John Ischoron stood before his clansmen, that Mastiv was able to see the truth in such tales.

He moved forward cautiously, ahead of the crowd. Raised voices beckoned their new vod to return to the huddle of muttering bodies. If indeed, as Mastiv suspected, John had returned to the flock, why was it that he approached his brethren so strangely? Surely acting aloof wasn’t revised beforehand? Things weren’t as straightforward as they appeared; that much was certain. Silence descended upon the startled masses as Mastiv stood in the giant’s wake.

“ Ner ad’ika, do the eyes of a hundred Ischorons’ look upon their wayward vod? If you are John Ischoron, identify yourself as such.” Mastiv growled in his usual gruff manner. A certain uneasiness overcame him as he awaited a reply.

[John Ischoron]

He was not given peace to study the tree that interested him so, the whispers of the passing Mando’ade disturbing him, one lacking a helmet looked shocked when he pivoted his head to follow her progress into the courtyard beyond the entrance. As his eyes followed her, he spotted the group gathering in the courtyard beyond, gazing at him, helmeted and unhelmeted faces turned towards him. He felt like he was being studied, but… not like Arby always used to look. They were… shocked, but some looked hopeful.

John moved slowly along the hallway towards the gathered group, finding himself not the slightest bit intimidated by their armoured forms. There were very few t-visors in the crowd, faceplates dominated. It looked right. He looked at them with an open face, expression calm, but lacking in any overt emotion. He felt no joy at the implications of his discovery, merely… contentment.

As he approached, many began calling out, calling him vod, some even calling his name. One was in the lead, an older Mando’ad, but younger than the man who was looking at John like he’d seen a ghost and his greatest joy in one fell swoop. His lined face was familiar, and John’s eyes fixed on the man in clear recognition, ignoring the one advancing, letting his mind assimilate the familiar face, confirming the suspicion he had. This was where he belonged.

“Ner ad’ika, do the eyes of a hundred Ischorons’ look upon their wayward vod? If you are John Ischoron, identify yourself as such.”

John’s eyes moved from the weathered face to the man who stood before him, noting the tone and gruffness. This man was a stranger. John did not know him, but he knew a Mando’ade aliit was known for assimilating others. The stranger did not throw doubts on his beliefs, if anything, he strengthened it by naming the aliit that the tree and seven stars had represented. Ischoron, a clan with an illustrious history, that still honoured its seven founders. He had forgotten the people, but he could never forget the essence of being a Mando’ad

“Elek, I am John Ischoron.”* As he said the words, the clansmen surrounding them smiled, the mood changing from shocked to elated. The older, familiar, man approached, reaching out a gauntleted hand to clasp John’s shoulder, but the youth visibly flinched away before the hand could land, startling the older man and the Mando’ade surrounding John. Their expressions darkened, but the anger was one John recognised as not directed at him, whispers erupting around him. He stared blankly at the older man, who silenced the buzz with a word as he regarded John.

“You have not forgotten, John’ika, our traditions?” Asked the man.

“Mando'ad draar digu,”** he said simply, inclining his head towards the elder.

* Yes
** A Mandalorian never forgets.

[Mastiv Ischoron]

The tension that now existed between the startled teenager and the hopeful masses hung thick in the air. Each slight alteration in the adolescent’s wholly blank facial expression saw another bout of silence fill the three meter void between the two groups. Any such whisper had been momentarily outlawed until the hunched lad stated his identity. Hope compelled busy tongues to remain sheltered behind their tooth portcullis. Only the waking groans from the approaching storm’s disturbed slumber dared to challenge the silent void’s reign over the courtyard.

The stranger’s ebony orbs ceased their examination of the crowd, instead locking with those of deep oceans of Mastiv’s. The two burned each other with their stalwart stares, as each man contemplated the other. If aesthetics were all that was to go by, the presumed Ischoron didn’t bear the stance of any such verd]. Stooped shoulders implied that the young man’s desire to simply melt away from the world around him had filtered through into his body language. Deep brown eyes told a different story, however. An inanimate tale began telling itself through the ebony portals. It wasn’t a tale of happiness or laughter, but of enduring misery and abject sorrow. It was one that Mastiv knew only too well. The tale, penned by an author who had gained immortality through his on-going quest to distribute his disheartening literature, was one that rarely found its way into the eyes of a teenage boy.

“Elek, I am John Ischoron.” The Epicanthix spoke, his face still devoid of any emotion. The words served as a catalyst in bringing about a wave of gasps. A sense of joyousness overcame those in earshot of the simple statement, before spreading quickly throughout the ranks of the nosey mob. Some chose to act on their profound happiness by embracing the clansmen nearest them, whilst others simply accepted their wayward comrade’s return with a cackle of laughter and the drumming together of two hefty gauntlets. Adiike, unphased by the wonderful news, continued to participate in their infantile games; invisible firearms still equipped, of course. It was the youngest of the cubs that clung desperately to either of their parent’s limbs, as they opted to partake in such uncharacteristic behaviour. Mastiv too wasn’t exempt from the wave of elation, permitting his mouth to stretch into a toothy smile. So alien was the feeling to him, that he experienced the rather odd sensation of scarred flesh tugging against an overeager grin.

Khadam advanced ahead of the main body of Ischorons and even the man who had engaged the presumed trespasser. The seasoned verd exchanged words with the slouched John. What brief pleasantries the two shared were unknown to Mastiv, who had craned his neck to better hear the exchange of words. By now, so frequent were the outbursts of laughter that all background sound had been drowned out. The organic tsunami engulfed John. Well-wishers offered the young man their hand; others gifted him with a pat on the back, whilst most simply clapped him on.

”It’s always a pleasure to welcome home a vod. Please, forgive my sharp tongue. I fear experiences of old have made me naturally wary of strangers. If you’ll excuse me, I must bring your brother, my ori’vod’s, attention to Keldabe. No doubt the Aliit’alor will want to make travel plans immediately,” Mastiv growled loudly, as to better be heard by the annexed giant. He pushed to the front of the crowd, extending his left kom’rk. ”Welcome home, John Ischoron.”

[John Ischoron]

> 283 ARE
> Ischoron Quarry Compound, Manda’yaim

Kartagia was pacing along the length of the room, clearly agitated. It was a common room, currently devoid of much life beyond Kartagia and a few other Mando’ade, his ever present guard. John had every right to be there, but the sight of his brother in such a mood had a small and irrational part of his cognition urging that he clear the way. The more rational part dismissed the feeling. He was the cause of his brother’s emotional disequilibrium, but he would stand on his decision.

The mission had been a success, but John had openly defied Kartagia’s orders. It had been an unnecessary risk, risking the lives of Mandalorians for an objective that was minor in the scheme of things. It was a suicide run that gave them no advantage. John had defied Kartagia and sought out alternate objectives that left behind fewer corpses, if any. It would have been fine, had Kartagia not forced John to acknowledge his defiance over the comm. for the ears of the entire team.

John’s reasoning was sound, he knew the other Mandalorian’s did not fault him for it, many had said so, but now he was faced with Kartagia who felt he had been shamed in front of his brothers, by a brother who he barely concealed his resentment towards. Kartagia may have had seniority, but John knew when he was right in his decisions, this was one such situation. He would not admit a wrong so Kartagia’s ego could benefit.

The man in question ceased his pacing, stalking over to where John stood, stopping just in front of him. Had their height been equal, John was sure they would be standing nose to nose. He was sure the psychological effect of Kartagia having to look up to his little brother was not making things better for John.

“Explain yourself,” the older man hissed, his voice pitched low enough that those at the other end of the room could not hear. They all had their helmets off, there was no electronic trickery to eavesdrop.

“I will stand on my decision, alor,” John returned, pitched just as low, keeping it between the two of them. Not that the other Mandalorians couldn’t figure out what they were discussing. “Original mission parameters posed unnecessary risks for minimal gain.”

“Those were my orders, you undermined my authority,” he hissed, his face contorting in such a way that John knew his brother had gone beyond being talked down from whatever ideas he had in his head.

“Your ego takes secondary concern when it comes to the lives of the warriors in my unit,” John intoned calmly, the truth in his words cutting Kartagia, but rather than bringing the man back to his senses, it enraged him further.

“I will see you in the Battle Circle, hut’uun!” He all but roared, forcefully shoving his way past John, their armour letting out a clamour as the metal scraped against metal. It was an unpleasant sound, a death knell for whatever relationship John had hoped to establish with his brother.

His mouth tightened into a firm line as he evaluated his position. He did not want to fight his brother, in or out of the Battle Circle, but to deny such a challenge… it would damage his progress more than losing to Kartagia would. He was not certain what he could do to solve this, but he knew, both personally and from the faces of the Mandalorians who were facing him, that he could not avoid entering the Battle Circle. Kartagia had just, if personally motivated, cause to challenge him.

He turned away from the Mandalorians who stood there, following his brother.

[Mastiv Ischoron]

Mastiv looked on in astonishment, as his infant son clumsily padded down the picketed lawn that neighboured his secluded abode. Robbed of the basic coordination that most adults took for granted, Traven was only able to stumble a few feet before unceremoniously tumbling onto his bottom. Still, the abundance of falls didn’t seem to faze the young boy, who continued to treat all within earshot to torrents of innocent laughter. It was only after utilizing his unimpressive legs to hoist his plump frame upwards that the child began waddling towards his mother. Mastiv’s smile deepened, as he watched his radiant wife succumb to her newly discovered maternal instinct and scoop Traven upwards with a toothy smile spanning the width of her face.

He himself daren’t move for waking the other cub that had demanded his buir’s hefty forearms double as a makeshift cradle. Crowe was perfect in every sense of the meaning. Short, sharp exhales from the slumbering minor had rendered his co-creator speechless. He was wholly mesmerized by the beauty of something so insignificant, even now. It was amazing and petrifying at the same time to hold the life of something so delicate in his arms, knowing full well that he could shatter the piece of perfection with such ease. Crowe’s mere presence had seen the newly minted Ori’ramikad’s reckless behaviour all but become a thing of the past now. Fatherhood had brought with it a whole new set of responsibilities. The fact that operational duties would soon tear him away from his twin ade killed him more than he would ever care to admit.

Those memories of Geonosis seemed to belong to another man; one deprived of the little joys that life had to offer. The thunderous rounds of applause and animalistic howls that shook the very foundations of the Petranaki Areana seemed a lifetime away now. Strangely, those horrendous flashbacks that had permitted themselves to be rerun before an overeager mind’s eye now seemed false. It was almost as if a large portion of his early life had been penned by a writer who tended to dabble in fantastical tales of everyday heroes overcoming an oppressive tyrant. No longer did a hurricane of sour emotions accompany the compilation of disembodied film.

“Mastiv!”

An unarmoured head pivoted slowly towards the cobbled lane nearest his home, in an attempt to identify the individual responsible for letting loose such a cry. Mando’ade of all professions, ages, and genders jogged hurriedly towards the homestead’s heart, forsaking their daily duties to hastily tend to the matter which required their immediate attention. Farming equipment lay idle in the fields that they had churned up a mere matter of minutes ago. Ailing speeders, abandon by their mechanical surgeons, were left with bonnets ajar. In an almost bizarre turn of events, the Ischoron Compound had broken down. Had the middle-aged Mandalorian been that fixated on his sleeping adiik that he had been rendered oblivious to the seemingly important event that had caused his vode to act so strangely? Apparently, that was the case.

“Mastiv, quickly!”

A roving eye was finally able to pinpoint the exact location of the being who continued to shriek so persistently. Had the individual responsible for shattering such tranquillity been one of the usual suspects, they might’ve been gifted with a verbal backlash off of the grumpy older man, alas this wasn’t the case. A concerned face folded involuntarily into a frown, as young Amadeus vaulted the fencing that shielded his pristinely kept lawn. Never before had he seen the lad, widely consider one of the aliit’s up-and-coming verde along with John and Tulissia, in such a state. It was Amadeus’ levelheadedness that defined him as a person and a marksman. To see the temple of collectiveness corroding at such an expeditious rate was unnerving in itself. The youth thundered past both Maria and Traven, continuing to spew his frantic words as he did so. It was only as Amadeus reached the quaint shack’s teak decking that Mastiv snapped to his feet, making doubly sure that his jolt upwards wasn’t severe enough to disturb the peaceful tot.

”Hold tongue, vod, or see it forcibly removed! If you are to wake my adiik, do so with hushed voice.” Mastiv snarled; his own voice reaching that of a loud whisper. Such an aggressive response from the man who had had a hand in his training caught the frantic young man off-guard. Amadeus allowed his jaw to drop somewhat, partially in reaction to the older man’s growl but mainly to gulp on the fresh air that had been robbed from his body by the short, intense cardiovascular session that he had been forced to endure.

“Apologies, ner vod. It’s John… You’ve got to come quick. The Aliit’alor…. The Aliit’alor feels that John’s decisions on the Soccorro mission have undermined his authority. He wishe—“ Amadeus panted, utilizing the short break between the end of each sentence to suckle on some more of the warm summer’s breeze. It was only as he gathered enough oxygen to rise to his proud posture that he was rudely cut off.

”The Soccorro mission? I tire of hearing of the same old problems that plague this Aliit, Amadeus. The Aliit’alor’s orders were sound, planned out by himself and the elders personally, but the reality of it is that the situation on the ground isn’t always what it is in theory; John knew that and acted accordingly. I outright refuse to become enthralled in Aliit politics. You would be wise to follow suit, my young frien—“ Mastiv ranted, his scarred flesh tightening to form an expression that best captured his distain. The fact of the matter was that he was tired of the petty squabbles that had gripped the upper echelons of the Ischorons. Wise men had taken it upon themselves to wage wars against their brethren over the most insignificant of things. Percentages here and there had driven civilized alore to engage in unhealthy competition with those old and bitter elitists from the other Aliite. Politics, regardless of the Aliit, had become a messy affair, championed by those who allowed their loathsome role to alter them.

“He’s challenged John to combat in the Battle Circle! The Aliit’alor has requested your presence at the bout. Your title as this week’s champion demands that it be you who mediates. Please… Please talk him out of this. If he’ll listen to anybody it’d be you. John’s actions during that mission saved my life. I cannot sit by and see him punished for what he did.”

Mastiv’s jaw hung in disbelief, a soft breeze caressing the beginnings of a gradually greying beard. By now Crowe had begun to stir, groaning in response to his organic crib’s sudden tenseness. The news had temporally immobilized him. Surely Amadeus’ words didn’t bear the truth? Kartagia wouldn’t have lowered himself to barbarism just to prove a point. Indeed the aspiring marksman’s flustered state did imply otherwise. A small part of the clan leader’s long-time friend could see such madness unfolding. Kartagia was a leader, but he was a warrior first and foremost. Waging wars through the art of speech was something that he’d had to learn. Matters of blade and blaster came naturally to him. It was wholly possible that his unvoiced resent towards his sibling had reached such a boiling point.

”What? Has he lost his mind?! John is an excellent verd, one with more potential than I’ve seen in a long time, but he’s no match for the Aliit’alor. Come, if I am to bear witness to such madness, you will accompany me.” Mastiv spoke, handing the struggling Crowe over to his wife. Snatching his buy’ce from atop the sleek trestle table to his left, Mastiv quickly equipped the headpiece. An audible screech served as an indicator to those in the immediate vicinity that the helmet was finally connected. Without wasting a second, Mastiv took off over the mown lawn. Crowe’s distant sobs provided the grim soundtrack to what was undoubtedly going to be an equally grim afternoon.

[John Ischoron]

John followed his brother, keeping a distance of exactly three metres between them as Kartagia forged on towards the centre of the Ischoron compound. Kartagia had already given firm instruction to one Mando’ad, Amadeus, to fetch the current champion to mediate and judge the bout. The older brother was giving no explanation to those they passed, the look on his face, the angular lines that conveyed the anger to all who were familiar with men in armour, and Kartagia himself. They would know what waited once they spotted the younger brother following, at a distance.

Knowing this, knowing the innate curiosity many of his clanmates possessed, John kept his features carefully schooled in an expression of neutrality, eyes on the back of Kartagia’s head. Very few would see that he was carefully and systematically running scenarios in his head, a constant commentary of tactical appraisal of the situation, escape methods, something that would draw them to a stalemate, dissuade Kartagia from the course of action he had plotted for himself and his brother.

But the vague memories of the friendly, if rough, competition between two brothers offered no solution. Kartagia had changed from the faded and fuzzy image of an older boy with a cocky smile, his adult self warping the already fragile memories John had of his childhood sibling. Now all that remained were barely hidden glances of suspicion and judgement. Kartagia clung to the image of a lanky boy with freckles and a gap between his front teeth, an image he could not match to the quiet youth who had arrived all those years ago.

The man John was obligated to call his alor, the man who was his brother by blood, would not listen to what he had to say. Others would have to advise Kartagia of the prudent course of action, but right now, in this moment, they both had to fight. Kartagia had called a challenge, John had answered, and now they would fight, or both lose honour.

He could feel the mental fissures enveloping from the one point of stress, his expression of calm neutrality faltering under the weight of the implications of what lay ahead. Before it could crumble, John lifted his helmet and donned it, locking the helmet in place, the hiss of air escaping indicating the seals were active, followed with a status message on his HUD indicating that he was once again sealed in the airtight confines of his suit. He closed his eyes, mouth downturned behind the privacy of his opaque visor, drawing a shuddering breath.

This would not end well.

His eyes opened, seeing the waterfall on the far side of the compound falling steadily as it always did, closer was the battle circle ground, and area that showed much activity, the grass long since trampled, leaving a bald spot of dirt. Kartagia marched to the far end, motions jerky in his anger. His helmet was donned, turning to face his opponent. John had stopped at the very edge of the battle circle borders, just within.

The sight of the t-visored helmet on the alor caused a sudden irrational anger to well up, neurons firing as the feeling sliced through his mind. The tradition of the Ischoron’s, the traditions of their armourers, cast away by the alor who was supposed to hold it sacred. His armoured fist tightened, the only outward sign of his anger and frustration, many would not know the significance of it. Kartagia claimed John was the one shaming their father, their clan, but Kartagia was the one who seemed intent on forgetting the lessons they’d learnt, the sacrifice of their father.

There was no turning back.

[Mastiv Ischoron]

Thighs pumped, propelling armoured hoofs to mercilessly pound the ground beneath them. Greaves, still maintaining the vaguest aroma of polish, found themselves under siege from rouge nuggets of mauled dirt. Those braver specks of chewed soil clambered skywards, managing to take refuge on those disembodied eyes that had been so masterfully sculptured into the unique buy’ce. Video feeds embedded into the suit found themselves being electronically adjusted, in an attempt to provide their host with an image that was wholly impenetrable to the shuddering blows that accompanied each of his heavy footsteps. Such involuntary efforts to stabilize the external camera feeds were silently appreciated. Still, the severity of the matter at hand did mean that any marvel would have to be postponed to a more convenient date.

Mentally aired segments of video portrayed a series of likely outcomes that the quickly worsening situation would result in. Every possible outcome was presented with its own pitfall. The supercommando clung to the notion that somehow a hasty intervention may in fact salvage the otherwise grim situation. The reality of it though was much direr. Sharp vertical swings of the hefty arms were instead substituted to replace those methodical horizontal ones. A longer stride also found its way into the man’s new, more explosive running style. It seemed that the reluctant viewing of each of the likely scenarios served as a catalyst in propelling the man forward at an accelerated pace.

Baited breath transported Mastiv to a foreign plain; drowning out the frantic words of Amadeus and all ambient sound for a fraction of a second. It seemed that even the cardio-induced coma that he had been so unwilling plunged into had rendered the middle-aged human dead to the world. Oxygen starved lungs no longer stung, blistered feet had become immune to the spiking pain that had only seconds ago trembled through their innards, and the lactic acid present from the week’s training had instantaneously evaporated. Before he knew it, he’d covered the short distance from his own shack to the compound’s uncharacteristically busy heart. Such a state of semi-consciousness meant that he barged rudely towards his destination, oblivious to the remarkable scenery around him, hails from the verd that followed in tow, and the army of Mando’ade that wished to issue the Battle Circle’s current champion with a greeting of their own. He weaved through the droves of onlookers that wished to secure place at the makeshift arena’s circumference, emerging onto the unoccupied stretch of brown dirt that existed between the two warring giants.

The atmosphere around the circle’s flanks was one of sombreness. Concerned chatter made up the bulk of the background noise, marred occasionally by the moronic cackle from a seemingly non-existent individual. The severity of the rapidly unfolding catastrophe wasn’t lost upon the brigade of glum bystanders. Familiar faceplates made up the masses that surrounded the proving ground. It was the usual assortment of grizzled vets, young talent, and those bigger personalities that had somehow managed to make themselves a part of every Ischoron’s daily life. It was almost shameful to be selected as the bout’s mediator. Such unjustifiable combat dishonoured the sands of the small-scale arena.

Mastiv carelessly scooped up the two vibroblades that lay in no-man’s-land, gifting both of the monumental men with his gaze momentarily. Collectively, masking his discomfort behind a calm swagger, he made his way to the Aliit’alor.

”Has sanity left you, ori’vod? There are better ways to go about this. Please, I beg you, for the sake of the aliit, reconsider this… Mastiv whispered loud enough for the larger man to hear; his stomach turning slightly at his own audacity. Kartagia Ischoron was many things; most of them good, but there was never room for compromise under his reign. A staunch disciplinarian himself, the Epicanthix had no time to entertain one’s disobedience. In honesty, it was part of the reason the Ischoron machine functioned the way that it did. If an individual had trouble towing the line, then the alor made doubly sure that they were punished accordingly. It was strange then to not witness the mountain of beskar twitch at his subordinate’s remark. The elongated rectangle, which served as the T-visor’s panoramic lens, was fixed upon that amber visor of his opponent’s. One could almost feel the hatred emanating from the clearly angered leader.

“Mastiv, you are like a sibling to me. We’ve laughed together, cried together, and even bled together. Give me an aliit of men like you and I would own the stars,” He croaked, pivoting an armoured head in order to set alight the other man with his burning eyes. ”That being said, I do not recall asking your opinion. I do not want, nor need it. I am your Aliit’alor; you would be wise to remember that in future. Stand with me or be stood on, ori’vod. Now, obey orders and do as I have asked of you.” Kartagia snarled, snatching his blade from the champion’s weak grasp. Almost immediately, his head snapped back to face the other combatant; hostile body language following suit.

”As gar ke’gyce… Aliit’alor” Mastiv spoke louder, a slight sigh accompanying his words. He had been deserving of the cleverly guised hostility that his long-time friend had displayed. Disobedience was still disobedience in any measurement. The sad fact was that Kartagia’s pride had gotten the better of him. No amount of words would deter him from pursuing the unfortunate ending to this chapter. It was almost infuriating to watch a man’s unhealthy ego destroy the world around him. Mastiv bit his bottom lip, in an attempt to not verbally strike the man that he so idolized. The Aliit’alor that had raised the Ischorons from the ashes , now teetered dangerously on the brink of dragging them backwards. He needed to realize what he was going.

Besides the tower of passion that stood opposite him, John’s body language mimicked that of a man at peace with himself. He too had chosen to meet his enraged sibling’s gaze in the undeclared staring competition. One couldn’t help but envision two concentrated beams of heat shooting from each of the combatants’ eyes, clashing in the centre and spewing molten residue onto those unlucky enough to witness the phenomenon. Mastiv began checking over John’s rather unusual beskar’gam, ensuring that those bulkier of features were firmly secured to the suit of armour.

”It’s a sad day, ner vod. To see civilized men opting to settle differences through petty squabbles is indeed disheartening. There was a time not too long ago, before the birth of my ade, where I too may have seen this as the best course to take. It’s funny how we can learn so much from the younglings still, isn’t it? If only we now heeded those stories that we feed them; the ones that sum up a fantastical tale with a moral,” Mastiv growled unenthusiastically, turning his attention to the suit’s cuirass. ”Do you recall the one about the two Rancors? I must say, it’s a personal favourite of mine. I make a point of reading it to Crowe and Traven. One of the Rancors, Glop, was a benevolent beast that sought to elevate his people to the very top of the animal world through means of sincerity and hard work. His evil cousin, Faarg, simply wished to stamp out his dominance through means of violence. Now, Glop’s ideals appealed greatly to Faarg’s followers; managing to convert them to his more pacifistic ideology. Faarg was so furious that he challenged his cousin to a duel, proclaiming that the victor’s ideals would be the one that the Rancors universally adopted. Glop refused to battle Faarg, yielding to him and in turn sacrificing his very ideals. The moral of the story is that sometimes you have to take a stand for the greater good.” Mastiv spoke, a slight passion finding its way into his words. The champion stood back from the young behemoth, forcing the spare blade into his right gauntlet, and beginning back towards the centre of the ring. ”Do not yield, John.” Mastiv added, the etchings of a lopsided grin forming on his scarred flesh. Whilst the physical alteration was shielded from John by his own buy’ce, he was fairly certain that the verd could take reference from the masterfully deployed tale.


”Combatants, you know the rules. Both of you have been provided with a blade for this bout. You may choose to engage each other in unarmed combat once this fight’s underway; this is acceptable. No foul play, cowardice, and, more importantly, kill shots. If anybody is found to be in violation of these sacred rules, it is within my power to disqualify them. As the one chosen to oversee this bout, I will be the one to judge the combat and ultimately declare a victor. Ner vode, meet in the centre, honour each other with a bow, and come out fighting.” Mastiv declared loudly enough for his voice to echo throughout the immediate area. Finally, a series of cheers exploded from the eager crowd, thus drowning out any background noise.

[John Ischoron]

The mediator for their bout arrived, Mastiv Ischoron. John recalled the older man was a friend of Kartagia and that he had been among the first of Ischoron to greet John when he sought to find his old clan and rejoin them. What did this Mando’ad think of the point Kartagia was so desperate to drive home? Would he even realise the significance beyond Kartagia’s ego? John watched closely as the two exchanged words, but he did not hear them, the distance between the two combatants in the Battle Circle and the rising volume of the ade around them drowning out anything he may have had the chance of hearing.

Kartagia was no doubt sure of his victory, so certain this would be the death knell of his younger brother’s advance in the Mando’ade ranks. John could see it in the way he held himself, the movement of his body as he rebuffed whatever Mastiv had said, whatever it had been. Through the haze of his spotty retrograde amnesia covering his childhood, John could starkly recall that he had never won a bout with his brother. Would this be more of the same? John had not tested his skill against other Mando’ade yet, reluctant in light of the secrets he hid.

Mastiv left Kartagia, the older Epicanthix testing the blade in his hand as he maintained his gaze with John. The younger stood straight and still as the mediator gave his armour a cursory inspection, testing the plates to ensure that they were firmly in place. Mastiv began speaking as he investigated the design of John’s armour, admittedly strange to anyone not intimately familiar with the family line John descended from and the few aruetiise methods he had chosen to implement.

John tilted his visor as an outward acknowledgement of Mastiv’s words, ceasing the staring contest with the offending t-visor across the battle circle grounds. John considered the words of the old ad, his thoughts on children and their role in the future, while peripherally relevant, not entirely useful in the moment. John would easily agree with the old ad had he been in the frame of mind to do so. The adults of Ischoron had all been wary of John in the beginning, but the children… they had reminded John more of his purpose as Mando’ad than the estranged brother at the other side of the battle circle ever could hope to achieve through a beating.

”Do you recall the one about the two Rancors?

No, John did not, but he did not say so. The question was largely rhetorical, he was sure, as Mastiv forged on without waiting for any confirmation, all the while checking the seals keeping John’s armour in place. The chest piece was secured at key points, fitting snugly against the armoured bodysuit to which it was attached; it would need more than a tug from a Mando’ad to pull it loose.

His brows furrowed in mild confusion as Mastiv continued his tale about the two Rancors. He was quick to pinpoint the parallels between the quarrel between the two Rancor cousins and that of himself and his brother, albeit the Rancors were fighting for something far more than personal matters, but children wouldn’t understand intricate personal relationships, ideals they would, it merely reflected the audience it was aimed towards. But when the ending came, John’s expression turned into a frown. What did Mastiv mean by presenting such a tale to John? Did he wish acknowledge John’s moral high ground, but held the opinion that John should yield for the betterment of the clan?

As John furiously processed the meaning of the cloaked message Mastiv had handed him, the Champion slipped the blade into John’s hand, John gripping it automatically as the elder withdrew. But before he withdrew completely, the elder shared four more words that shed light on the matter, chasing all doubt and rumination away.

”Do not yield, John.”

Do not yield. Truly, that was the moral for a Mando’ad to follow. John tilted his helmet in acknowledgement. Very interesting, thought John as he hefted the blade in his hand. The implications one could draw from the tale were many, both simple and complex. The most immediate was apparent, but John knew there may well have been something deeper, something he did not yet feel ready to explore. But he would remember this.

“Ner vode, meet in the centre, honour each other with a bow, and come out fighting.”

The crowd roared, captured by the anticipation of the fight that waited ahead. John shut off his external audio sensors, which enveloped him in something akin to silence. Both combatants stepped forward, John bowed, and so did Kartagia, not far enough gone to spit in John’s face in front of this entire crowd, but it was stiff, sign enough that the aliit’alor did not like it one bit.

At least this was one tradition Kartagia had not been quick to divest himself of.

They stepped back, both falling into a combat stance. John, knowing that bladed weaponry was an area where Kartagia outmatched him, immediately settled into a defensive stance, feet spaced apart, ready to slide into movement once an attack came, the sword held comfortably a distance away from his body and in a middle position, hilt held at waist height and the tip of the sword held up and tilted towards Kartagia, on point. He kept his elbows bent, close to his body. Overall, a fairly standard stance, keeping his ability to thrust and parry unhindered.

Kartagia moved first, taking the offensive, starting the fight with a series of blows that had metal ringing against metal, the shriek as the two blades locked and slid against each other. Neither vibroblade was active, as per the mediator’s rules. As the fight progressed, there were no flashy manoeuvres, no attempt at intimidation, merely swordmanship boiled down to the bare essentials, put to use by two men far too focused on finding a way to win to posture.

A thrust from Kartagia scraped against John’s chestplate as the green armoured Epicanthix slid aside from the swords initial path, leaving a bright metallic scar marring the paint. Kartagia over extended himself, allowing John land a blow. Rather than using the vibrosword, John chose to land a blow to Kartagia’s helmet, using his fist and the sword’s hilt. Kartagia reeled back, staggering as the blow to the head disoriented the elder Epicanthix.

John pressed his advantage, closing the distance, but overestimated Kartagia’s disorientation. He parried a slash aimed at his throat just in time, the two blades clashing as John forced it away from him, but Kartagia pressed on, his blade sliding along John’s. His comm. crackled in his ear, a sign that someone had accessed his comm. frequency.

“I recognised that armour design the moment I saw it,” came the tight and measured words, followed up by a push as Kartagia attempted to disengage their locked swords. John countered it, pushing back. John checked the comm. frequency. Encrypted, only the two combatants were privy unless an ad thought it would be fun to hack it and listen in. “You should have left those outdated ideals in the past where it belongs.” John’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Kartagia then moved with a burst of strength, finally disengaging their locked swords, following it up with a blow to the side of John’s helmet with his off-hand, forcing him to take a step back. Had his external audio been on, the ensuing crackle would have no doubt deafened him, but he avoided that fate.

He did not avoid Kartagia’s next move, driving their swords together at the hilt, a twist of the superior swordsman’s wrist forcing the vibrosword out of John’s hand and disarming him, another blow to the head forcing him into a kneeling position. Kartagia then drew his sword arm back, readying for an overhead hit with proper power behind it. The firing of neurons lasted for milliseconds, John appraising the situation from the external stimuli, the cerebral cortex’s higher thought processes taking a backseat as the hypothalamus kicked in with the instinctive survival behaviours. Swordless, John did the only thing he could do to make sure that vibrosword didn’t bite into any vital areas of his body that were protected by the bodysuit.

His gauntleted hands came up to catch the blade, the force and strength behind it making the sharp metal dig into the protective material of his palms. He pushed back, fingers curling around the blade, feeling the edge slip against the tough material. The two struggled, the blade rubbing against his protected palm, before a twist from Kartagia in an attempt to pull it free sliced through it, the sting of the cold metal piercing skin following. Feeling the warm and sticky feel of blood starting to trickle, John twisted his hands and arms, keeping a firm grip on the blade, and yanking it out of Kartagia’s grip as he rose back up to his feet, throwing the vibroblade towards the edge of the battle circle.

Both combatants disarmed, swords now to be replaced by fists, both withdrew a distance. John could feel sweat prickling, his suit attempting to compensate, the sting in his palms fading as adrenaline drowned out the nerves firing pain signals to the brain. His breathing laboured from the manoeuvring they’d been doing in the battle circle. His opponent showed similar signs of encroaching tiredness, although neither were anywhere near their limit. This had merely been a warm up.

[Mastiv Ischoron]

Both of the monumental men met in the centre of the aging arena, stopping just shy of the reluctant referee. Personal vendettas and quarrels aside, the Aliit’s leader and his younger sibling both partook in those lighter hearted of traditions that had become standard in the initiation of combat. Such customs may have seemed outdated to an outsider looking in, however the basic principles of honour were what defined the Mando’ade as a people. For one to forsake pleasantries was an act almost unthinkable. Even those lucky enough to face down a long-time nemesis in battle would have thought long and hard before denying their opponent the common graciousness that all respectable folk were expected to gift an opponent with. Discipline in the face of adversity was a skill that few championed. By implementing seemingly meaningless acts into the moments leading up to a bout, a skill long lost to most people had been masterfully kept alive. The ancients had been wise to make formality such a crucial component in the Mandalorian machine. Not only was it vital in the making of a level-headed verd, it also ensured the continuity of rich characters.

Both combatants returned to their half of the circular sandpit, dropping into their chosen stance. If body language alone was to serve as an indicator as to each of the fighters’ strategies, then it was clear that Kartagia would be the aggressor. His stance was much narrower than that of his opponent’s. Unlike John, who had anchored into the bloodied sands in preparation for his relative’s assault, the Aliit’alor was much more fidgety; primed still by his subordinate’s audacious words. It came as no great surprise then to the former gladiator when the elder of the two combatants erupted into life.

Quick swings, coupled with the riper Epicanthix’s incredible strength, saw Kartagia’s blade repeatedly collide against John’s with tremendous force. Had those deadly blows been directed towards one of a lesser physical build, the impact alone would’ve proved more than enough to shatter bones. The distinct twang of metal attacking another metallic surface was effective in drowning out any cheers that stemmed from the immediate area. Occasionally, when both duellists’ blades met, a solitary spark would hurtle from their polished bodies and descend rapidly into its sandy grave. A self-proclaimed melee master, the Aliit’alor pulled no punches against his presumed outmatched opponent. Indeed, despite how much Mastiv longed for John to force-feed his hot-headed brother humble pie, such an outcome seemed bleak. Kartagia was in a class of his own when it came to the art of blade and fist. The match’s sour official had himself witnessed countless individuals fall to the giant’s unique, lethal style. Yet it was not the heralded warrior’s fluid strikes that had rendered the crowd speechless; it was John’s resilience.

Matching his sibling’s fabled ferocity with a ravenous hunger of his own, John repeatedly countered all of his superior’s bold attempts at quickly bringing an end to the bout. Playing it smartly, he weaved his way in and out of optimistic blows; cleverly taking a sting of his own when a flaw in his opponent’s game revealed itself. The shattering blows delivered by the olive armoured man served only to enrage the disgruntled leader further. Each strike against his own beskar’gam effectively drummed against his unhealthy ego, and his previously laid back plan of attack. Lashing out at the young prodigy, the Aliit’alor dragged the tip of his vibroblade over the other combatants chest plate, only to then be on the receiving end of a beautifully executed punch to the head. Enraged by the exposure of the weakness in his stance, Kartagia let loose a flurry of powerful shots; one narrowly missing the ringed sheeting that protected his adversary’s voice box. The crowd gasped at the near miss, dwelling momentarily on the potentially grizzly outcome that such a nefarious move could have easily resulted in.

”Call it, Mastiv! Pull this akaanir before it gets out of hand!” Khadam bellowed, managing to overshadow the jeers and howls briefly. The gruff man’s head pivoted towards the concerned bystander, absorbing each contour of his unarmoured face. Khadam was genuinely worried. The look of impending doom was one that the celebrated warrior seldom wore. Gasps and cheers exploded from the exhilarated crowd, as the fight now truly became something of a spectacle.

”No.” He stated simply, shaking his head as he spoke. To let the inevitable happen was a burden that he would have to bear alone. For years following this undoubtedly landmark occasion in the Ischoron’s turbulent history, Mando’ade would remember Mastiv Ischoron as the champion who refused to spare civility and call an end to the bout. Such a rash decision was not taking lightly, nor was it met with any sort of happiness. The unpopular choice was made because it had to be, not because he himself wanted it to be. Mastiv refused to live in a society that would be defined by a jealous leader’s distaste towards his brother. He outright refused to raise his children in an Aliit that was slowly letting meaningless rivalries tear it apart. One way or another, this ended now. A trial by fire was the only way such an on-going dispute could finally be resolved.

The Supercommando’s eye narrowed somewhat, as John’s blade was sent flying to the opposite side of the arena. The larger of the two men had now seen his previously revised method of attack slipping away somewhat. Now involuntarily dropping into a style that mirrored that of his adversary’s, John stood toe-to-toe with the grizzled veteran. A chill ran up Mastiv’s spine. This, this was special. John may not have been beating Kartagia convincingly, but he wasn’t losing either.

The current champion very nearly met the crowd’s gasps with that of his own, as John clasped his brother’s blade between his black kom’rk. In a tremendous show of brute strength, the previously presumed underdog exploded to his feet. In the nonchalant manner that all alphas subliminally did, John cast Kartagia’s blade to the circle’s boundary like it was a worthless lump of scrap metal. It was now, in the heat of intense battle, that the seemingly shy giant, who had stumbled upon the Aliit all of those years ago, was swiftly erased from memory. Rising from the timid lad’s smouldering ashes was a new man; a behemoth who, with proper nurturing, could be something more than Kartagia, more than the Elders, more than Mastiv.

[John Ischoron]

Their positions now made more equal with the removal of the bladed weapons. They had never matched up against another before and those gathered would have their own opinions on who was the strongest when it came to the matter of hand-to-hand, but as far as skill and practice, boiled down to the bare basics of what they knew, they were fairly equal. Kartagia had experience on his side, with far more missions under his belt than John, but experience did not automatically claim victor.

But they had disengaged for now, stepping back to prowl around each other as they formulated new tactics, analysed what they had learnt during their fight, processing new knowledge. They had not fought since childhood, Kartagia’s impressions of John’s fighting style perhaps still largely influenced by the oversized child he had regularly thrown into the black sands of Socorro’s battle circle. John had no concrete memory of these bouts, perhaps an advantage. He had no preconceptions to cloud his judgement.

John’s hands flexed, the dull throb of his lacerated palm reminding him that to win this fight would carry no trivial price. What he had gathered of Kartagia’s style so far was brute strength backed up with fundamental knowledge and extensive skill, but that was with a sword in hand, but the spirit of the fight remained. John imagined things would not differ much; his brother would drive his point forward blow by blow, as if each landed hit was more proof that Kartagia was right.

And then they both moved, simultaneously detecting the change in stance that indicated a commencement of battle once again. The paradox of an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force seemed put into visual perspective in the battle that commenced. John no longer held to the defensive caution he had when facing a Kartagia with a blade in his hand, but Kartagia remained the flurry of movement and fury he had been previously, the difference being that John was giving as good as he was getting.

The two seasoned combatants were no doubt a sight to see, but any educated fighter would recognise the brutality the both of them used. They were fighting to take the other out, not for friendly practice. Kartagia landed the first hit, a high kick that had John’s head ringing from the impact of his armoured boot the with side of his helmet. The older man then moved in with a left handed blow, but John grabbed the wrist with his right hand, blocking the attack, and delivering his own blow, smashing his left elbow into Kartagia’s helmet, reversing the movement to land another elbow hit before Kartagia could put distance between them, but not before John drove his right fist into the front of Kartagia’s helmet, causing him to stagger back.

They circled each other, hands up and ready to strike. Then John closed the distance, drawing his elbow back to then drive his fist into Kartagia’s solar plexus. Kartagia in turn brought his hands down on John’s head, knee coming up to smash the protective kneeguard into John’s visor. The tough material held.

“You can keep the legacy of our father,” came the hissed words through his comm. as Kartagia initiated a chokehold. “And his weak ideals.” Whatever followed, John did not hear, as he gripped Kartagia’s wrists, pulling them away as his armoured knee came up to dent his opponent’s chest piece. His satisfaction at hearing the grunt of pain over the comm. channel was short lived, as Kartagia followed through with a punch to John’s stomach, continuing into a back leg sweep. John fell onto the ground, Kartagia delivering a kick to the side of his torso that would have broken the ribs of most others. He then repeatedly drove the armoured part of his gauntlet into John’s visor, the repetition and force weakening the material. The crack seemed to drown out everything else for John, eyes closing instinctively as the protective visor shattered under the repeated abuse, pinpricks of pain on his face as the shards cut into his skin.

John reacted, arms snapping up to grip Kartagia’s arm, locking it, and bringing him down to the ground along with him. John took the opportunity to get to his feet, blinking blood out of his eyes as he moved. His eyes focused on the t-visor, no longer tinted through the view of his visor, but framed by the jagged remnants of it. Counting it as more of an annoyance than help, the helmet was pulled off, thrown carelessly to the edges of the circle, rolling to a stop by the mediator’s feet. Blood and remnants of the shards were brushed off his face as Kartagia took the moment to get to his feet. To the surprise of many, Kartagia also removed his helmet, threw it away with a sneer.

This time, Kartagia closed the distance between them, initiating a flurry of blows to the upper and lower torso that John deflected with his forearm, pushing the blows away from him. The speeds of the two were impressive, John matching the senior blow for blow ensuring that not one of his hits landed. Then he struck out, moving with a speed and fluidity most would be surprised to see in a man his size, slipping past Kartagia’s guard. A staggering blow to Kartagia’s solar plexus, smoothly followed by a right kick to the side of Kartagia’s head, and then lashing out with his left at the back of his knee.

Kartagia recovered quickly, rooting himself to the ground and using the greater strength of his legs to drive both of his fists upwards at John’s chin, snapping his head back. He followed through with a flying kick, using the power in his legs to drive his knee upwards and into John’s chest. Blood welled up in his mouth as John staggered back, keeping to his feet as he spat the blood on the ground, more to join the rest that had been spilt through centuries of battle circle tradition. But this was not at all a satisfying fight for honour.

His brother drove at him again, intending to drive his right fist into John’s chest, believing his defences lowered after his combination of moves. The first blow hit John in the chest, the second was blocked by John’s forearm, and the third John blocked by grabbing the wrist, hyperextending Kartagia’s elbow by pulling back, John ensured that the elder fell to the ground. A knee strike to the elbow as Kartagia was on the way down bent the arm at an odd angle.

Kartagia’s body stiffened, indicating that some damage had been done, but he uttered no sound, at least none that could be heard. His legs came up, wrapping around John’s torso and initiating a wrestle for control on the ground, tipped largely in John’s favour considering Kartagia’s arm, but his older brother was taking the advantage of having an opponent sans helmet, driving his unbroken hand repeatedly into John’s face, gauntlets lacerating the skin. John lashed out, the force behind his punch enough to break Kartagia’s nose.

[Mastiv Ischoron]

Any civility that remained quickly dissipated. Graciousness and formality died a quick death at the hands of the combatants’ desire to emerge from the pit victorious. Both men shared a lust to see the other trampled beneath heel. What little of the previously revised style remained in the two’s stance was quickly overran by the impulse to simply clobber their opponent to pieces. Like animals succumbing to the most primal of instincts, the brothers engaged in gritty hand-to-hand combat; both utilizing every part of their massive frames to forcefully expose the other’s weakness.

Even from the judge’s point of view, there was no clear victory thus far. Each blow landed was in turn met by a strike of equally shattering force. Kartagia’s workload had reduced as the slog had grinded on. It had become apparent to the awestruck crowd, and even hot-headed alor, that his trademark explosiveness had, for the first time in living memory, been rendered useless. Such a fundamental failing in the fighting style previously thought sound must’ve indeed sent out some psychological reverberations. If that was case however, then the heralded soldier concealed his discomfort well. Perhaps any etchings of self-doubt were subdued by an indescribable lust for triumph.

John was still proving to be the surprise of the day. It was almost frightening , even for the man who had played some role in his conditioning, to look upon the olive coloured combatant and believe him for the timid lad that some had silently mocked. The compilation of bitter resentment and pent up hatred had forced the training wheels off to a certain extent, but had been backed up greatly by a natural affinity to combat.

Mastiv had seen very few people stand up to Kartagia in such a way. In some cases, the leader’s sheer physical presence had proved enough to crumble the resolve of mentally weaker men. His go hard attitude had somehow traversed into realms of immortality, spilling even into the homesteads of the other Aliite. It was then inexplicable how one of the Ischorons’ youngest prodigies had managed to put up such a phenomenal performance against the renowned giant. Whatever the case may have been, skill or pure luck, John had forever cemented himself in the mediator’s line of sight. From a glance, he was the unrefined Kartagia; a physical specimen, sharing none of his siblings prejudices or ideological views. Mayhaps, with further education, a new champion could be forged in the belly of the Ischoron Compound. An avatar of peace, armed with the tools of a verd and bearing the clan’s emblem, could propel himself, and his people, unto a more prosperous front.

The Ori’ramikad let a sadistic grin tug at his slightly scarred flesh, as he watched both of the pillars dramatically discard their buy’cee. Concerned shouts erupted from the faceless beings that were nestled amongst the mass of onlookers. The atmosphere was electric. The white picketed fence that encompassed the unremarkable arena swayed back and forth beneath the beskar trunks of overenthusiastic bystanders.

”Mastiv, I beg you, stop this!”

Khadam’s request went completely ignored. Part of Mastiv’s being implored him to intervene and quickly see all hostilities to a close. The actions of both participants had now made the possibility of concluding the bout on a technicality entirely possibility. That thought besieging the hastily erect wall of arrogance, he stood there motionless. A darker strand whispered of how the two should be left to battle to the death; made to completely air out the animosity that had somehow managed to plague the life of those everyday folk. Such foolishness was quickly dispelled, however.

Beaten and bruised, the warring brothers took their fight to the ground. Veins clung to the surface of the Aliit’alor’s worn flesh, his eyes glazed in such a manner that one could almost feel the burn resonating from them, and his blood-stained set of askew teeth gritted like those of a feral hound. The ferocity projected from the leader’s stare was met by an equally menacing look from the younger man. John’s eyelid fluttered at an increased pace, seeking to serve as a defence mechanism that would beat away those falling droplets of blood that oozed from their opponent’s face. The younger gladiator’s nostrils flared, as he mustered all of his insurmountable strength to claim Kartagia’s arm. Seemingly oblivious to the repeated blows that shook his skull, he wrestled for control of the flailing limb. Like a terrier battling a piece of rope, he yanked at the arm. Eventually, after hyperextending the helpless alor’s elbow, an audible snap rang out.

The crowd let out a mortified howl. Mastiv’s helmeted head snapped to face a horrified Khadam, before immediately turning to face the two fighters. Amazingly, in what served as a visual testimony to Kartagia’s hardy resilience, he continued to fight. Like a bird sheathing an injured wing, the Aliit’alor utilized the power in his good arm to fend off his foe.

”Enough!” Mastiv bellowed, finally appeasing the circumstantial pacifist that had been born unto Khadam. The stunned masses turned to face the referee, whilst the combatants continued to go at each other. He stood motionless, waiting for either of the men to disengage with the other. Honour dictated that the mediator’s orders be obeyed by both men, regardless of rank and position within society. Within the Battle Circle’s grotty circumference, the battle master was an undeclared demigod. Still, no end to hostilities came. The crowd looked to Mastiv once again; their whispers annexing the immediate area. The only sound audacious enough to break the wave of murmurs was the dull thud that accompanied each of Kartagia’s successfully landed blows to John’s face.

Narked by the lack of respect that the clan’s leader was adamant not to show, Mastiv exploded across the short distance that separated him and the duellists. In one fluid motion, his beskad was snatched from the scabbard that served as the blade’s leathery lair, and propelled upwards to knock the Aliit’alor’s drawn back fist off of its current course.

”This fight is over, ner Aliit’alor; you can’t continue in your current state. Retire to your corner… John is the winner by technical knockout.” Mastiv snarled, staring into those hate ridden orbs of his superior’s. Although not a single word was uttered, a thousand non-existent sentences were exchanged via the locking portals. Kartagia felt betrayed; that much was clear. For longer than he cared to remember, Mastiv had served as the overseer’s loyal hound. Not only had they laughed together, but they had cried together… bled together. Whilst he secretly knew that the decision taken was just, the ever present tempest of raw emotion that swept through Kartagia meant that he was unwilling to accept defeat. Somehow, the leader had longed for his old friend to misinterpret the Battle Circle’s sacred coding in order to present himself with victory. Alas, such an outcome wasn’t possible. Kartagia’s friendship meant more to Mastiv than he probably knew, but it wasn’t worth trampling on the traditions of old to preserve. To pervert the code that he lived by was something the Ori’ramikad would never willingly do.

”It’s over when I say it is! I’m the one in charge here, not y--. I… forgive me, ori’vod.” Kartagia shouted, before taking on a more apologetic tone. He sprung to his feet, spinning on the spot to better look at the faceplates of the quiet crowd. Silence reigned momentarily before he moved. Disgraced, but immediately donning his trademark arrogance once again, the Aliit’alor limped towards the circle’s flank; a clear path carved for him by the parting crowd.

”And even though Faarg tumbled Glop, in the end an army of Glop’s new found supporters brought about his revival. Together, they made Faarg see the error of his ways. They all lived happily ever after, the end. Hmmm, I do like that ending much better. Wouldn’t you agree, vod?” Mastiv whispered loud enough for the recovering John to hear, his helmeted face involuntarily creasing into a toothy smile. Such an alien expression quickly fatigued those muscle associated with propping up a healthy smile. In a show of solidarity that very few were treated to, he gripped John’s left pauldron loosely, patting it three times, and then walking in the footsteps of Kartagia.

[Mastiv Ischoron]

 285 ARE. 38
 Tartan-class patrol cruiser entitled ‘Liberty’s Snare’, the skies of Socorro.

Opaque clouds of toxic smoke drummed their wisped fingers against the sinking ship’s spherical veins, in an ultimately feeble attempt to escape colliding into Socorro’s inhospitable womb. Mastiv moved as quickly as he could through the unfolding destruction, keeping in sight the angular coving that outlined the portal at the end of the exploding corridor. Simply fixating gaze upon a feature as distinct as a doorframe was near impossible once environmental factors had been taken into due consideration. Fire’s auburn aura infused with the suffocating smog, spawning what was in essence a rusty smokescreen that was unkind to the retinas. Filtration systems housed within man’s buy’ce failed to repel the orange fumes. Overwhelmed air purifications systems were forced to bear witness to their master spluttering and wincing beneath the unyielding mist’s poisonous body.

Adrenaline coursing throughout the commando temporarily quelled the disembodied flames that stung at his lungs and fatigued thighs. Maintaining a degree of collectiveness amongst the unbridled anarchy was paramount. Unjust panic only served to induce illogicality. Devoid of any emotions that could negatively impact the outcome of the mission, Mastiv endeavoured to locate an airlock that led to the plummeting spacecraft’s battered exterior. Following survivalist instincts and scampering to find salvation within the relative discomfort of an escape pod’s innards wasn’t an option. The information that he had stored on his person, indeed the catalyst for invoking such an uncharacteristically bold strike on the Ori’ramikad detachment’s part in the first place, couldn’t be jeopardized. The game of gambits itself had already demanded too many sacrifices.

Tremors shivering throughout the ailing ship sapped balance. Conditioned core muscles adjusted to the miniature quakes, allowing for a fluid running style. Mastiv bolted through one corridor and immediately onto the next; the scene in each new artery marginally grimmer than the previous one. Dwindling odds of success aside, exhausted muscles refused to drown in seas of lactic acid yet. Slavers, sworn enemies of the civilized man, and drones of this particular crumbling colony, succumbed to self-preservation; battling their brethren in footraces to safety. The gruff Ischoron took muted satisfaction each time he passed a member of the unsavoury brigade pirouetting beneath smouldering chunks of the environment. All pleas for help went completely ignored. Those callous germs lucky enough to not be pinned in place were cut in half by the Mandalorian’s light machinegun, as he continued to make an escape. The sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood, so he told himself. Any slaver destined to cross his path quickly found their salvation in a hail of automatic weapon fire. Indeed, such systematically revised killing continued until an airlock was finally located on the stretch of corridor conjoining the bridge and detainment sectors.

”Kad Actual, this is Kad 2-1! I have the package, and I’m ready for evac. All other call signs are KIA; I repeat, all other call signs are KIA. John went after the secondary objective right before a cave-in cut us off. I haven’t heard from him since! How copy?” Mastiv bellowed into the comm, attempting to drown the chaotic ambient sound by projecting his own voice. A response from the command element of the Mando’ad strike force seemed to take minutes, when in fact the processing of the received information took no longer than a few seconds. Listening to one’s own heart knock gently against the cuirass was hypnotic, so much so that for a fraction of a second the dreariness that accompanied the suicide mission evaporated.

“Kad 2-1, this is Kad Actual, we have a solid copy on all. Operators are tracking the other member of 2-1 as we speak. His orders are the same as yours: extradite your assault immediately. We have a Bes’uliik pilot en route to your position now; ETA 3 Mikes. Get topside, Kad 2-1! Actual out."

The reply was issued with the generic emotionlessness that all signals operators seemed insistent on exhibiting. Alas, such a time to be narked by minor traits was not now. The severity of the situation aside momentarily, Mastiv couldn’t help but allow the etchings of a smile to tug at his scarred flesh, as the news that his vod, and unbeknown prodigy, had yet to join the bulk of the dying spacecraft’s crew in the next life.

All trail of thought was rudely shattered by the Mando’ad fleet’s bombardment. So merciless was the molten rain that the shockwaves accompanying the impact threw Mastiv skywards, before unceremoniously plunging him back to the floor. Panelling fell from its housing, leaving a visibly humanoid outline in the ceiling. Such a violent burping forced what little air remained within the man’s oxygen starved lungs into the few inches that separated nose from helmet. Pain induced shrieks went unheard beneath the sirens’ incessant wail. Gravity tugged at the Ischoron’s cranium, seeking to drag him back the way that he’d came. The sensation of the room tipping was quickly dismissed as a by-product from a blow to the head. Such delusion were made redundant though, as the beskar encased warrior began sliding backwards.

The horizontal slowly becoming the vertical prompted quick thought. A gradually inclining corridor spat flaming debris and carcasses at the tumbling Mandalorian. A steady slide backwards gradually increased in speed, transforming into what could only be summarized as a quick fall. Mastiv rolled backwards, using the remaining power in his screaming thighs to disconnect himself from the pockmarked flooring. A dormant jetpack burst into life with a howl rivalling that of the sirens. Propulsion systems battled gravity, permitting their host to rocket skywards back towards the airlock. Mastiv hovered from to side as he ascended up the sloped room, inevitably being forced to brave various chunks of debris ricocheting off of his second skin. His heart bet ten to the dozen; near penetrating the inches of steel that cocooned him. Upon reaching the slanted portal that marked the entrance to the airlock, the jetpack was deactivated once again. Mastiv clambered through the gap, walking on what used to be the room’s left wall. Mission parameters and John’s wellbeing now clawed their way to the forefront of his mind. Heavy Repeater levelled once again, the Ori’ramikad exited the nose-diving cruiser.

[John Ischoron]

John’s field of vision exploded in a flash of orange, visor dimming drastically to protect his eyes from the flash of light. The deck plating underneath his boots shook as his perspective shifted, the ship receiving enough of a battering from Mando’ade ships to rattle the inertial compensators beyond their ability. The young Mando’ad grasped a precarious handhold, feeling his body lift up into the air despite the weight of the armour and then feeling his fingers slip, finding himself looking at the stark bulkheads as his visor smacked into it. His forehead smarted from the impact, but he ignored it, gritting his teeth and lifting his bulk up.

He tilted his helmet enough to see the back of his quarry, a wash of rage going through him, lighting up his vitals display, before being replaced by a cool calm that brought his physiological reactions back down. The unflinching calm replaced the rage, his surroundings becoming washed in clarity as he boosted himself up and propelled himself down the hallways. Already he had a HUD marker up counting down the three minutes until their evac would arrive. They’d already assured him that Mastiv was still active.

This was his path to becoming one of the Ori’ramikade, young but worthy, as Mastiv’s support of his candidacy implied. But could he break off his chase of the culprit that brought Aliit Ischoron to its knees? Status was not something he craved – merely a means to an end, to being able to do more with the support of the clans and the Mand’alor at his back. Despite this, he could not let his anger rule his actions, could never let a thirst for revenge to blind his rational mind. He still had time, opportunity. The man who commanded the slavers had much the same idea as the two Mandalorians. Topside equalled salvation.

John crashed through sheets of flame, feeling the heat but protected, his suits internal oxygen system keeping out the smoke. He saw streaks of soot of grime on his visor, knowing it covered most of his armour. The point of view was skewed. Deckplates were no longer down, John thudding along on the bulkheads themselves. Walking on the walls. The timer ran down, mocking John as he made no proper headway in his pursuit.

Choices were made, John altering his route to abruptly go down an alternate hallway, his familiarity with the make and model of the ship to know there would be airlocks somewhere. An access hatch to the outside for droids and maintenance workers. He skidded to a halt, took in the aurek-besh adorning the hatchway, slapping the controls. No response. He drew back, lifting his leg to deliver a solid kick to the hatch, but his foot never impacted on the metal.

A gust of force sent him careening into the opposing wall, limbs flailing as he was momentarily stunned by the sudden and unexpected jostle. He lifted, under no power of his own and definitely not caused by the ship being hit again, he could hear no explosions and the bulkhead was not rocking. He only barely considered the implications of this when his body was sent crashing into the hatch he had been trying to kick down, bouncing off. The numbers on the countdown ticked away as John landed awkwardly on his head, barely managing to use his arms to roll and not break his neck.

Head jerking up, he could see through the soot and smoke his quarry, odd cylindrical object in her hand. Her odd armour, airtight and providing plenty of protection, was layered in cloth that reminded John of a twisted sort of form of the robes he saw Jedi wear in the newsfeeds. But unlike Jedi, looking at this woman made his skin crawl.

Again he felt his body gripped by that invisible force, lifted up and thrown again into the hatch with enough force to make it buckle under his weight, throwing him into the hatch and providing an opening for John to grip the rungs and lift himself up and out, scurrying up with agile speed and pushing open the airlock. The aggressive shove he felt from behind the propelled him out and down, scraping him along the outer hull of the ship as his hands grappled for something solid, the suits programming switching on the magnetic undersides of his boots in the zero gee environment.

Coming out of the airlock behind him was the Force user, deciding to stop playing around as she ignited the lightsabre, throwing herself at him just as he got to his feet. The molten energy scoring along his breastplate before John could block her attack, hand going for the beskad attached at his thigh, bringing his other elbow down to land a blow into the side of her armoured suit, EVA equipped just like his.

[Mastiv Ischoron]

A dozen poltergeists, seemingly spawned spontaneously from unyielding torrents of wind, worked in unison to claim the sentient being that was foolish enough to tread amongst the elementals. So overwhelming was the tempest residing in the desert world’s upper atmosphere that simply keeping one’s footing was a monumental task. Mastiv somersaulted uncontrollably towards certain death. The illusion created by what was once the horizontal now being the vertical was enough in itself to toy with the body’s internal compass without the added disorientation. If it wasn’t for the suit involuntarily activating the magnetics systems required to combat such adverse environmental conditions, then the Ori’ramikad would’ve undoubtedly shared a sandy grave besides untold metric tonnes of mangled cruiser.

A sigh of relief crept from the human’s lips, as he stopped short of the free fall. Any lingering joy met a swift demise at the hands of notions pertaining to the current situation. There was something quite disheartening about laying on one’s back, staring skywards hopelessly at the friendly forces still buoyant in space’s airless void. Scarred eyelids refused to flutter, instead forcing their host to look on in horror as his plummeting platform hurtled away from salvation. Flames customary to a capsizing vessel entering a world’s atmosphere began to burn brighter, eventually marring the image of the Mandalorian armada overhead. Should the middle-age human have been more philosophically inclined, the image of triumph smouldering beneath roaring flames would’ve undoubtedly possessed some symbolic properties. Utilizing the measures available to combat the zero gravity, Mastiv clambered to his feet labouredly. For once, he was at a loss. No possible course of action could be taken to prevent the inevitable from happening. Indeed, no individual action on the marooned Mandalorian’s part could prolong certain doom in the slightest. It was a gut-wrenching feeling, placing one’s own life in the hands of a complete stranger operating under the same banner.

The warrior widened his stance, again craning his neck to look upwards at the distorted image that was glued to the colourless canvass. Desperation implored shielded orbs to dissect every little detail from the battle still raging overhead, in an ultimately feeble attempt to positively identify the lone Basilisk assigned to save Mastiv and the wayward John. Roving specks, barely visible beneath the autumnally coloured inferno that gripped the flanks of the sinking ship, broke away from the pack, gradually expanding in size as they set course for the metallic meteorite. It was the Basilisk; distinct whines unique to the war droid’s twin exhausts identified it as such, even before visual identification was possible.

”Call sign: Senaar, this is Kad 2-1. Be advised, we need to wait one before evac. I repeat, we need to wait one before evac. Package is secure, but the remaining member of 2-1 is yet to reach the rendezvous. How copy?” Mastiv spoke collectively into the helmet’s inbuilt comm unit, his tone consciously tempered as to not induce any rash decision befitting a panicked tone. Ambient sound was bet back by the helmet’s dampening systems, ensuring that the gale-force wind wasn’t allowed to hijack the crucial line established with the inbound pilot.

”Solid copy on your last, Kad 2-1. Oscar Mike to your position now. ETA: one Mike. You gotta get your man outta that thing quick. There isn’t mu---“ A husky voice, guised somewhat beneath heavy static, was interrupted.

The gruff Ischoron watched heartbrokenly, as the hostile fighter screamed from behind the blazing veil provided. One well-placed burst was all that was required to silence the bold Mando’ad that had willingly put himself out to rescue his stranded compatriots. Limp, robbed of the life that had been forfeit upon undertaking such a costly mission, the dead Mandalorian rolled from his perch. Without a sentient being to serve as a living conscious, the hulking feat of engineering spiralled out of control. Without purpose, or proper direction fed through the symbiotic connection, the Basilisk careened towards the nose-diving cruiser’s hull. Mastiv crouched somewhat, allowing the beskar comet to hurtle over his head. If it hadn’t been for the dull thud overshadowing wailing engines that indicated an impact, then defeatism may have been embraced.

The ever vigilant Mastiv edged closer towards the brink of his current platform. A curious head tilted downwards to peak over the cusp, surveying those quadrants of the ship encompassing the smoking wound undoubtedly responsible for the spacecraft’s uncontrolled descent. Diminishing hope was rekindled somewhat, as the sight of the Basilisk laying idly on a lower platform came into plain view. Over active eyes snapped towards the kafuffle taking place on the platform opposite that of the downed war droid. A crimson jetii’kad danced gracefully above the golden backdrop below. Every now and again, the white-hot sabre would disengage from its methodical waltz, instead stinging violently at the being audacious enough to occupy its stage. A conditioned eye was quick to identify the sorceress wielding the exotic cleaver as the slaver outfit’s head. There was no mistaking the petite cutthroat for the sadist that had plagued the lives of countless Mando’ade. Every contour of her face had been painstakingly drilled into mind beforehand. A racing heart threw itself at the commando’s ribcage, as John came into view battling the witch.

Mastiv was forced to gulp down the strange cocktail comprised of elation, anger, and despair. Simply witnessing the presumed dead John facing down his long-time adversary was enough to dispel the guilt demon that threatened to rape every one of the elder Ischoron’s waking thoughts. Adrenaline and pent-up hatred invoked a passionate response on Mastiv’s part. All of those consciously erect barriers designed to maintain levelheadedness were stamped out beneath an enraged heel.

An exhausted firearm was placed hastily back into its specialist housing, replaced instead by the favoured Beskad. Without so much as a second to collect thoughts, Mastiv threw himself from the ledge. The world encircling the duel below was mentally blocked out, preventing vertigo from dissolving resolve. The airborne commando could feel the shapeless entities once again trying to seize his being for the wasteland below. Occasional bursts from the man’s personal propulsion system ensured a steady descent.

The jetpack’s nozzles ceased to spew embers, succumbing to fatigue finally. Embers instead replaced the triangular infernos that once sprouted from the tubular shafts. Gravity tugged at the mass of solid muscle and iron that floundered mid-air, prizing him from the propulsion device’s loose grip. Armoured boots were the first to touchdown on the platform hosting the duel. An impressive thud, befitting a man of such generous build, cried out momentarily. The sorceress fixated upon the gargantuan John broke face, halting her barrage temporarily in order to identify the being responsible for the din to her rear. Such curiosity on the woman’s part was met with a violent response by the handicap match’s newest participant. Mastiv’s offhand snapped from his side and into the female’s gaunt face. Such savagery proved sufficient enough to purge the witch of the perplexion that swam in her emerald orbs.

The initial strike was capitalized upon before the advantage was taken away. A brutal left kick, ensuring to plant itself in the dark druid’s ribcage, acted involuntarily. Every technique revised prior ran through the man’s head at phenomenal speed. An overactive subconscious tortured its host with flashes from a former life as a gladiator. Fists and legs lashed out fluidly, trying, somehow, to suppress shunned thoughts through physical exertion. An idle beskad pounced at its adversary’s throat, but was stopped short by molten sabre. A disembodied force, undoubtedly the brand sorcery that used the delicate women’s palm as a conduit, launched Mastiv backwards towards John’s side.

The commando sprang to his feet, both hands gripping the hilt of his blade. An overconfident Dar’jetii shot both men a smirk, goading them through the manipulation of a facial expression. The crimson kad began a dance once again. It was only as the scalding beam of energy ceased its pretentious prance that its sister sprouted from the opposite end of the hilt. One of the woman’s hands broke with the Lightsaber’s elongated stem, wafting the Mandalorian duo forward as if to taunt them.

”She’s strong, vod; strong enough to stop both of us from leaving without ending it here and now. Unless we can kill her, one of us will have to hold her off whilst the other runs. There’s no other alternative. When I tell you to go, you must do so. I’ll take her left, you take right?”