Unwavering Wakes

Casany Praxor

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Why We Fight


Where is the door?
For Clan Praxor?

Asks a voice.
Has no choice.
Can’t…fathom it.

“I have…tasted defeat…”

She speaks to viewscreen.
It’s blank and black.
Turns to viewport.
Looks left, north.
All the same.
Out in space…
By the gates…
Back and forth…
She feels the Force.
But she’s not a Jedi.
Not remotely, not quite.
Neither is she a kind of Sith.
She is for all intents and purposes…
A Mandalorian…a woman…she just is.

Forged In Fire.
The words ring.
Anvil of clang.
Hammer of cling.

Stars between stars.
Every light just so far.
Abyss beneath so large.
An empty sea…an ocean.
A breathing ship…in motion.

The Unwavering.
How it can sing!

That one Crusader II-class corvette.
Driven and flown only by the best.
Those Mandalorians, true and born.
Of east and west, south and north.
Helmets on heads just like the rest.
True Mandalorians…put to the test.
Hammer on anvil…beating chest!

The smiths and the builders.
The hands and the healers.
The teachers who built hers.
She took warriors, trained more.
Opened gates, unlocked doors.

Now…Praxor…
Clad in red cape.
Gold on visor’s frame.
Gaze past port’s plate.
Beyond window frame.
Beyond south, before north.
Clad in red gold beskar—forged.
Where no Mandalorian has gone before…

“Captain.”
Called Krin.
On intercom.
She responds.
“What is it?”
“We’re approaching.”
The abyss…is bliss.
“Then take us in…”
Vengeance itches.
“To Ventooine.”

And she descends.
That bird in the sky.
Crusader in her chest.
The Unwavering flies!

Ventooine on the viewscreen.
Viewport—first south now north.
A black visor hides spread teeth.
Praxor is not smiling but grinning.
Beneath her feet are those mountains.
Hills…hills to me…hills to Mandalorians.

But they would not be ground into dust.
Not by the boots of hers, not by this one.
She had come to collect just one head.
From what she was told, what was said.
Here she would find her true enemy…
As wings spread down on Ventoooine.

Ratheon…

A woman thinks.
Can you hear me?
The Force blinks.
But a woman is weak.
She never learned a thing.
The Force was not her calling.
No…a Mandalorian was born for more.
This Mandalorian—Praxor—born for war.
Her hands, her shoulders, in fire were forged.
I am coming to end you, Endyr, then I will soar.
 

Casany Praxor

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Here There Be Dragons


In the middle of a room.
A woman does not move.
She stands as still as stars.
All those dots that are so far.

Beyond the viewport, that naked window.
She walks forward, yearning to draw close.
If she could reach out a hand and just grasp.
If she could hold a star within her very arms.

She was a woman of Mandalore.
Where Mandalorians were born.
They took those stars eons ago.
In their dromons…in their boats.

At that viewport, at that window, a woman watches.
In that transparent reflection, a mirror, and honest.
A pale, pitiful image of a woman, hazy, like a ghost.
Drifting along…voices…in my head…O so…so...alone.

She tries to blink herself out of it day or night.
Now, in the great beyond, dark is all she sees.
It is never day, never morning, in an infinite sea.
The stars, beacons, light the way, warrior’s guide.

In her ship, on her boat, the Unwavering, floating weightlessly.
A corvette, a Crusader, carries her, that red gold Mandalorian.
Under the sun, she was born, that girl who became a woman.
A warrior, an avenger, a fighter for the cause, made to bleed.

Her people knew pain and death, fire and blood, blaster, beskad and beskar.
On Mandalore, on Concord, they are born in iron, those warriors so forged.
Gallop ‘cross the stars, O fading light, but ever bright when wings are arms.
For you fly as a fire in the night, as a dragon might, my daughter of Praxor.


“...Mother…Father…”
Her voice is quiet, crystal clear with no helmet, clear as glass.
Bereft of armor, of beskar’gam, in red and gold she still stands.
“...I’m still your daughter…still your warrior…still of Mandalore…”

Upon her body, a golden gown edged in red.
She should be asleep now and back in bed.
A born warrior, however, never really rests.
Even after Endyr, yes...even…after he is dead.

He wasn’t dead yet, was still out there, beyond the stars.
The woman sighs his way with naked eyes, crossing arms.
Endyr Ratheon, last seen on a world with a sleeping dragon.
Casany Praxor, in space again, hunting the other Mandalorian.

“Not today...but when we meet again."

Endyr. Can he hear her? She can hear.
Voices, over here—here—far and near.
“Another matter needs my attention.”

“Captain. Come in.”

Crewmate over com.
“What have you got?”
“You’ll wanna see it.”

Casany stares on.
A moment, a song.
Across the cosmos.
Is a song she knows.

Of blood forged in fire.
But not just Praxor’s.
This cause is higher.
For it is of Mandalore.

“On my way to the bridge.”
Gearing up, grabs helmet.
Armor, she’s ready for this.
On the bridge, ship’s image.

“That ship what I think it is?”
“Yes, captain. It’s…it’s his.”
Not Endyr's. It isn't him.
"All right. Take us in."
 

Casany Praxor

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In the ship went, into the darkness, into the space between space.
In the ship, a viewport has a woman’s gaze, glimpsing a naked fate.
Hers, her very own, whether today or tomorrow, destiny ever waits.
She hears the voice, a pale whisper, thin as a star waiting to just fade.

No corvette in the distance, not like her own ship, her Unwavering.
Her Crusader, carrying a small army, each one helmed in bravery.
Few is what they were, dwindled had their number, but they are true.
Toward a freighter, a ship lost at sea, Unwavering continues to move.

She reaches her, a light freighter confirmed to be Casany’s quarry.
The Dorothy Dawn, whose captain happened to be a Mandalorian.
You wouldn’t know it even if you saw him, his head bereft of helmet.
Yet he wore his blood in his skin, thicker than armorweave, he’d bled.

Captain Jarik Briar. Captain Praxor had not forgotten his face. What became of your fate? She wouldn’t have to wait long to find out as a docking tube tethered the two ships together. The freighter looked intact from the outside but the derelict ship betrayed the naked eye as to what waited within.

At least we don’t have to jetpack over. She remembers that time when she had to take back her own ship with Zaia Krodas. An asteroid field with debris of a broken bird, Ratheon’s remnant, that somehow paralleled the present and the now. The galaxy was like a giant debris field, a hell in and of itself.

Crossing the bridge, stars on either side of her visor, Casany Praxor can sense the presence of war if nothing else. It was brewing in one corner or the other, but in this empty space out in the middle of nowhere was the air, the feeling, that brothers and sisters might yet be burning one another in the stars all over again.

The Dorothy Dawn had since disappeared from history. But there you are here and now, right in front of me, like you were waiting. If there was anyone still on board then they were not likely to be alive to tell Casany their story. The dead, however, may yet still speak.

From the Unwavering and toward the Dawn, Casany and her company move along. Red and gold beskar’gam, blaster in hand, one is a soldier, each is a brother and a sister. Past the hatch, they move together, as their captain takes the lead upon the floor and into the corridor.

There’s atmosphere but it’s dark. Dorothy had vanished from the stars so far but not so long ago. Her voyage was a mystery but she had been lost fairly recently. Time enough to have flown away if anyone was yet left alive.

“Lights.” Helmets lit up with lamps. Cas kept her rifle out, not wanting to take a chance. Even if only ghosts haunted the walls there might yet be droids that didn’t take kindly to the noise of guests. Instead of corpses, however, the ship felt uncannily empty, with only silence left.

“If Dorothy put up a fight there’s no sign of it.” Qaren mentioned.
“No bodies. No burns.” Mayar agreed. “Hold would be their position.”
“That’s where I’d make my last stand if under attack. Let’s assume that.”
A light freighter, less floor to cover, no need to split up, they move as one.

“Question, Captain,” piped Barrek the Bull, built like one and twice the size in his beskar.

“Spit.” Visor into visor.

“Whether this ship was hit, let’s say we find it, what would you use it for?”
A moment, thoughts trapped like time in the mind, forged by Clan Praxor.
“Hammer it. Whatever it takes to make Mandalore shine like a true star.”
One step at a time. Cas had found the ship. Anvil may yet find her beskar.
 
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Casany Praxor

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Dorothy Dawn. A silent ship, sitting alone in the distance, between the stars.
Captained by one Jarik Briar; wherever he was, his eyes are most likely gone.
Lost like his vessel, a freighter, stuck there in space, with walkers on his grave.
His own people, Mandalorians too, Mandalorians true, and they had come so far.

“What would you use it for?” Bull had asked, Barrek, question to his captain, to Cas.
What would I use it for? She had answered, given him fact, to make it shine like a star.
There was truth in that but not too much; her blood was thick but even Praxor’s was bad.
Temptation, how one abandons a nation, how Anvil might’ve taken. For you…all that beskar.

Folly, fruitless, for it was yet just a myth at best. In the corridor, crossing the floor, she can guess.
And only that, like the rest, like all of them, those warriors of her clan, like Qaren, like Tanz, Levet.
Soldiers, troopers, they fought for and with her, Mandalorians or more, Ratheons and then some.
The fighting bastions of Clan Praxor, carrying the banners in war, gold sun blazing on field of red.

Boots on metal, careful, blaster leading the way beneath headlamp, barrel light beside question.
What would I use it for? What does a Mandalorian do with iron? What did Praxor do? We forged.
Cross the floor, she leads the way, Captain Praxor, Anvil in another name, Casany, that woman.
Power in her fist, she grips it like beskad hilt but just as much she’s powerless. For Clan Praxor.

What were clans today anyway? Where were the Mandalorians of the day? Where did they go?
“Up ahead,” calls Taktik, a tech, and a battle strategist one did not want to mess with. “The hold.”
If anyone is there they would likely be dead; if alive, armed, and otherwise there may be a chest.
For Mandalore’s iron, any Mandalorian would bleed, had bled, so bold is what Cas is—she goes.

Forward, always, always forward, marching forth in her own beskar’gam. Her red and gold armor.
It defines her, she wears it like a second skin, but unlike some of her kind it does not wear her.
Helmet on, battle ready, she can take it off, can drop the sagum, wear a dress, and blend in.
She learned to the hard way, in the cold of space, to survive beyond the Purge, in her skin.

Casany… A voice in her head as light leads the way, shines on the wall, no bloodstain. Cas…
Still, something feels amiss, like the voices in her head. His, Adenn’s, then hers, Zaia’s. “Cas.”
It’s his, Taktik’s, waving to the left where the corridor splits. Light shines too and it shines true.
In fire there is no lie, for the forge burns it, hammer and anvil, and Mandos like Cas define truth.

“Those are blaster burns all right.”
Decorating the walls left to right. No time to stall. “Look alive.”
They already were, their captain knows, their Alor, for no Praxor is armed in cowardice. Warriors.
They were hers, she was theirs, so they moved as one. Into the darkness with the light as a guide.
Rifles, carbines, scatterblasters, pistols, grenades, knives, and swords of course. And ours can curve.

She proved it before, memories at her door even as she moves forth. Of Endyr, of Crux, of Krodas.
Not too far back, not that long ago, when blades met throats and a lone little cub lost his arm.
What would I use it for? The question hammers her, like a hammer on a gong, maybe an axe.
She doesn’t look back, no time for that, no room in this ship for the past. All of that...beskar...
 

Casany Praxor

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The dromons of war…
Jumbled thoughts galore.
Of a woman in the corridor.
A Mandalorian—nothing more.

What would I use it for?
Mandalorian of Clan Praxor.
Born in iron—she is ironborn.
Mandalore… Again at the door.

It knocks, it bangs, it clangs, like a hammer on anvil.
Casany Praxor, a Man, yet still ever known as Anvil.
The bounty hunter, and a one-time Hutt Ball player.
She must be more, the Mandalorian, Casany Praxor.

I have to be more… I am...a warrior…
In the corridor, she moves with more.
Members of Praxor, her fellow warriors.
In battle born, and in iron are they forged.

What would I use it for?
The hold is up ahead as memories take her.
Of Clan Praxor, of Kad-Stor, of the Lost Forge.
Of Kotii Solus, Zaia Krodas, Adenn Rytt, and of Endyr.

She thinks, she moves, she dreams, she is true.
Casany Praxor, born of Mandalore, of iron forged.
A hunter, a warrior, a killer, a soldier, she is yet True.
True Mandalorian, until death, till the end of the forge.

“Hammer and tongs, tis a true captain flying the Dorothy Dawn.”
Days ago spoken, a Mandalorian, that armorer named Dath’mara.
Independent, after a fashion, the blacksmith sworn to Mandalore.
Some time ago, giving Casany a tip. “Jarik has brains and brawn.”

The Captain of the Dorothy Dawn, a merchant freighter captained by a Mandalorian.
You wouldn’t know it looking at him, he had no need for helmet or the beskar’gam.
He had it, it's just he didn’t always wear it, wasn’t his skin. Still, some yet knew it.
Knew the bone within, that he was Mandalorian, like Cas and Dath, her and him.

“He came across beskar in his travels,” Dath’mara had told her.
“Here and there, retrieving ingots, or from those of fallen armor.”
A merchant, he claimed from the dead; to some, that was fine.
“One day, he asked what a Mandalorian should do with his find.”

Jarik’s find, Dath’mara said, was that of raw beskar, that which was mined.
A haul, a haul of beskar, of Mandalorian iron, to make hammer and anvil cry.
“Give it to the Mandalorians,” Dath’mara had told Captain Briar. He told Cas.
“Give it to Mandalore. By the fire, use it to become Mand’alor.” That was that.

Jarik Briar had not answered back, had disappeared, vanishing into the expanse.
Disappearing into the ocean, like a fish missing its fins, suddenly unable to swim.
Some time ago, not too long, Cas had been tipped, had followed him ever since.
Tracked his freighter’s trade routes, lead after lead, and there she is, she stands.

“Blood.”
Barrek spoke beside blaster burns along the walls.
It was dry, red and green and black, varying species.
Light shone. Blood. Mandalore’s mud. We cannot fall.

“Move along.”
They moved on.
Cargo hold at the corner.
Warriors marching by her.

Casany. Casany Praxor.
In blood and fire, forged.
AmI? Or am I just a scar?
What would I do with beskar?


“I don’t hear shit.” Spoke Levet, carrying his scatterblaster.
“No surprise. If this ship was hit by pirates or the like, go figure.”
Go figure. Leave the dead, take prisoners alive, was much the MO.
Ours is to burn, to bang, to take back, to conquer, in blood and bone.

Levet didn’t hear shit. But I can hear them. I can hear the dead.

The corpses, not in the hallway but there beyond the doorway.
“Guns up, Mando’ad.” Casany said, as if they weren’t anyway.
“Taktik. Hack it.” A door panel blinked. “Barrek. Take the head.”

Power was minimal in the ship, with darkness in the freighter amid the ocean of space.
Minimal, but not nonexistent, likely lingering to vital units, but locks were made to break.
“Got it.” Taktik did this and did that like flicking a switch and that did it. “All right. We’re in.”
Queue the Bull. That door slid up and Barrek’s cannon of a weapon then led the way within it.

Darkness, the absence of light, which was some poetic statement for the Jedi and the Sith.
The Force, it could not be denied, but the Mandalorians were their own Force, and no bullshit.
The Force. Through the door, a woman steps in, a Mandalorian, and she’s not so alien to this.
To that power, to the voices in her head, chiming bells of death, reminding her with her visions.

No. Not now. Kriff off. Light shines, casts on the walls, bounces across the hall, that cargo hold.
“Fan out,” Cas commands, their Alor, their Captain of Unwavering, there in the Dorothy Dawn.
“No tangos,” Mayar states. She wasn’t wrong. Droids could be lingering. As one, moving along.
“Just bodies.” Qaren stated, toward corpses of everyday garments, on the dead, bodies cold.

Not Mandalorian. Not pirates. Merchant crew of the freighter. But it could be pirates’ work.
Crates all around, a number upside down, barrels too, lids removed, there by blaster burns.
“Hold up,” motioned Taktik. “This guy…he’s armored.” Not Mandalorian but armor was armor.
A line of a few. “Look like they made a last stand as their mates escaped.” Onward, they moved.

“Cas…look at this…” Half-hoping Valen spotted their quarry, that Mandalorian iron, she steps in.
It isn’t iron, it isn’t beskar, it’s another body, another one in armor, except this one has no burns.
“What the hell did this?” Scratches on the chest, like claw marks, sharp, on a hand that curves.
“No karking clue.” He was one in a few. Claw? Knife? Whatever it was, he was cut up like a fish.

-CLANG!-
In the distance.
They spin toward it.
Corridor at their backs.

The corridor outside the cargo hold.
Randun, another, was posted in it.
A good man, both strong and bold.
He screamed. Cas squeezed a fist.
 

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A scream. So close, so distant. A fist. A woman squeezed in, held it, and would not flinch.
“Randun. Come in.” There was no answer from him. Outside the cargo hold, she sensed it.
Something was more than amiss. A bang, a shout, and no answer coming from her comrade.
“Barrek, take point. Taktik, what do you read?” One moved in front of her, another at her back.

“Interference.” Kriff it. No more time to waste, their captain made haste and gestured at Barrek.
“Open it.” The door opened. Darkness greeted everyone’s vision. Flashlights beamed back at it.
“...He’s…gone…” Valen gestured toward the empty corridor. There wasn’t a Mandalorian anymore.
Randun. What happened? Gone, but not entirely. “That blood is fresh.” The Captain pointed forth.

“What the kriff did this? Who attacked him?”
Cried Valen, if not crying; a brother, warrior, angered.
“Whatever it is…” Casany Praxor trailed off, turning off her flashlight. “We’re going to find it.”
A trail of blood led up, splattered on the floor, with a trail of breadcrumbs stretching further.
Whether Randun is alive, we will avenge him. “All lights off. Go dark. Switch to nightvision.”

That meant a limited color spectrum, however that mattered little and less within this starship.
Their attacker could conversely easily spot them in the darkness with the lights of their lamps.
They advanced, Cas in the lead, blasters at the ready as they ventured, reaching a junction.
The Force was not at her fingertips but Casany Praxor didn’t need it to witness a dead man.

The corridor split, the right and the left, while in between either entrance was a pool of blood.
“Haar’chak!” called Levet. He’s dead. An obvious statement as they just then discovered Randun.
Rather, what was left of him. The blood trail ended with two halves of the man at each segment.
His body was split in two at the waist. “His death won’t be in vain.” Casany promised with no delay.

“Split up,” she commanded. “Barrek, take Krin, Mayar, Tanz and Valen. Your team will sweep the left.”
Fingers beckoned. They did not question. “Taktik, Quaren, Levet, with me.” Taking the right section.
They would find their attacker, whoever or whatever, and they would kill it. I will take your head.
The Mandalorian again promised, squeezing the handle of her rifle, ready to deliver a sentence.

Ripped in two. A clean cut too.
It was hard to tell if what killed Randun was metal or laser in make.
Doesn’t matter. Death is the same. In a way, for a warrior was no stranger to honor and dishonor.
Whatever killed you, Randun, I will avenge you. Her visor guided her as Cas’ team ventured further.
No sign of the enemy, the ship was as quiet as it had been, if somehow as loud as an earthquake.

“Barrek. Report.” Time enough to warrant checking in. “Nothing, Captain. No sign of this thing.”
“Keep alert. Keep searching.” It was out there, somewhere, and would be found with two teams.
Is this piece of shit what did this to them? Cas sought in the dark of the slain, offense and defense.
The marks in the armor. But it wasn’t present in each of those slain. Focus, Praxor. Find the scent.

“Alor,” came Barrek’s voice. “I’ve got movement in—” -PHWOM!-PHWOM!-PHWOM!-
Firing over comm, not far, the echo bouncing along to where Casany’s team moved along.
“Krin’s been hit!” Casany picked up the pace. “Coming to your position!” The blasters stopped.
“It’s gone!” It. Whatever the kriff it is. “Krin…he’s lost…shot to the heart.” Kark. That made two vods.

“Corridor junctions again. Should curve toward you.” Taktik informed the group right with Casany.
Randun. Krin. Mandalorians were warriors who died with pride, but not by a coward for their enemy.
Shooting from the shadows. How many? Could be one or more as the Mandalorian stormed the floor.
“Cap!” Levet called as three dotted beams appeared on his arm in the dark, as light lit up the corridor.

A bright flash rushed past as Levet began to scream. “My arm! MY ARM!” It had been blown off.
“OPEN FIRE!” Cas cried as blaster bolts began to rain forth toward the other end of the corridor.
The barrage died down, nothing else happened, no return fire, no sound of the enemy anymore.
“Secure him!” Cas called to Qaren, though she did not need to be told as the medic of the squad.

Levet took the pain as he was treated. “Mando’ad, defensive position!” All four took a stance.
Nothing came at them, no single thing on nightvision. Kriffer came out of nowhere. Somewhere!
They hadn’t even seen it before the lasers appeared on Levet’s shoulder. Wait…from… up there..?
Cas’ rifle trailed upward, toward the ceiling, the shaft, as Barrek came back. “We’re under attack!”
 

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Damn it! There were eleven of them in the beginning. Now they were down to nine Mandalorians.
In only moments, and that was combat, but their captain was determined to take no more losses.
Again, at the left, the hallway four were in held position as they faced another attack from their enemy.
Unknown, unseen, one or more, and all Casany could do was to wait for the blaster fire to begin fading.

“Valen’s hit!” Barrek came back over comlink. Shit! “He’s alive! Captain! It’s using the ceiling!”
I kriffing knew it! “Hold position, Mando’ad!” She called to all. “My team! Eyes and guns up!”
Blasters trained above, raised and ready to shoot anything that may come below at them.
In moments, nothing did. “Did you wound it!?” She asked Barrek. “Maybe. But not certain.”

“Well we’re sitting ducks like this. This thing knows its weapons. Both teams—Advance.”
Only both groups had wounded to move. Levet had a missing arm as Qaren helped him.
He grunted into his helmet but was otherwise moving with the rest of them—as one unit.
Cas in the lead and taking point for the end of the corridor, blaster raised, ready to blast.

“How many are there?” Taktik asked at his captain’s back. “One? Two? Gotta be two...right..?”
“No idea,” Cas answered him. Two would attack in a tighter pattern. Timing would be quicker.
“This thing took out two of us already, Casany...” Taktik went on. “And wounded two others.”
“No shit.” She could do the math too. “Now cut the chatter, check your flanks, and don’t die.”

“Captain,” Barrek spoke in her helmet. “I’ve got something. Inspecting. It’s…glowing. Liquid.”
“What is it?” Cas checked her own flank as she advanced with her team at her back. “Blood.”
Sounded promising. “I think. It’s green. Trail of it leading away.” Good. “If it bleeds, we can kill it.”
“A blaster bolt wouldn’t have done this. Might've already been wounded.” No telling what from.

Hangar. Bodies. A battle, maybe, between this thing and the others in the ship. And still no Jarik.
The Captain of the Dorothy Dawn had to be on the bridge, or his body at least. “End of junction.”
Both teams arrived near the same time, regrouped beneath the ceiling where that blood ended.
“That’s where it went up.” Barrek motioned. Cas gestured down another corridor. “Bridge ahead.”

The Mandalorians moved again, as one group, watching every direction, forward and backward.
Upward, and at this point Casany wasn’t taking any chances lest the floor blow up, so downward.
“Hold.” Cas held up a fist. “Listen.” It was deep, distant, dull, like the echo of a creature in a cave.
“Son of a bitch.” She twisted her lips. “That’s a laugh.” And twisted. “It’s laughing right in our face.”

It didn’t just know its weapons. It knows this ship. It knows Mandalorians.
“Kriffin’ bastard!” Valen cried. “That’s Randun’s sword!” He moved forward.
“No WAIT!” He didn’t, storming past Cas in the corridor, reaching for the floor.
The beskad sat on its lonesome, his hand grabbed it, and then Valen exploded.
 

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“DAMN IT!” The attack had happened so fast. No. Not an attack. It was nothing short of an explosion.
A small one. A controlled one. The kind that didn’t open up the hull. It was designed for this purpose.
Trap. Their attacker had meant for this to happen. Had rigged the hallway for it so as to lure them in.
Premeditated. Predetermined. As thoughts on her vod’s claimed life raced in her mind, she noticed.

They were all thinking the same thing too, surely. Their enemy was no mere enemy. No simple soldier.
It was a hunter. What was more, they were hunting the Mandalorians. It considered them to be its prey.
It was kind of ironic, in a way, given that the Mandalorians were the warriors who hunted night and day.
“Shit. Not Valen.” Taktik’s tone came with a shakiness that Casany didn’t kriffing like. Game face. Shoulder.

A leader shouldered the burdens of others, and hers were made of iron; twin pauldrons of Mandalorian metal.
“That fuckin’ piece of shit.” Barrek said it. “That’s it.” Cas looked between her troops. They too had the same mettle.
They just had to be reminded of it. “This is Jarik Briar’s ship. A Mandalorian. One who never asked for any medal.”
Her choir of war was so silent. “And we are going to take it back from the mother fucker making us mad and mental.”

For they were the fighting Mandalorians and, whoever their enemy was, it had mistaken itself for being the predator.
“Now watch your step. Tanz and Mayar at the back. Barrek and I take point. Listen for any noise and then you point.”
Her back had been to the hallway as she caught onto her vods gazing away from her face, blasters raised her way.
“Cas.” “Cap.” Her weapon trained, she followed suit, and turned to face a shadow. A shade. Something in the void.

The figure had emerged at the end of the corridor. Tall and terrible, as silent as darkness, and motionless.
“Hey, karkface,” Captain Cas proclaimed across the distance. “You’re the piece of shit who killed my men?”
No response from the figure. Figures. She deliberated. Another trap? It could be taunting them to advance.
It could even have company hiding in shadows unseen. The ceiling? Beneath? Check your doors and corners.

“I said—”
“Arakh.”
He speaks.
“I am Yautkan."
 

Casany Praxor

Character
Independent
Rank
Citizen

Character Profile
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Die Shize
Joined
Jan 7, 2020
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Yautkan…

That didn’t mean Mandalorian by any means, despite the similarities between cultures. A number of Yautkan had indeed adopted the ways of the Mandalorian and, judging by the arms and armor and other equipment on this one, well, he just might be one. Maybe. It was hard to see beskar in the dark even in the illumination of her helmet.

It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t ask him. It was enough to see his image and form in her night vision. For, though his stature was great, his figure formidable, his structure muscular amid whatever hid beneath that metallic mask on his face, he was not going to survive after tonight or today. This ship would be his grave.

Let’s see if you’re any match for this Mandalorian…

“Arakh the Yautkan.” She lowered her blaster. “I am Alor Casany of Clan Praxor.” She saluted her opponent by crossing her fist over her chest before drawing her sword, one forged in the very fire she was born. “YOUR DEATH.”

And the Praxor stormed forth.

She thundered across the floor no matter the trap. "CAS!" Yet, even when she heard a door slam behind her, likely separating her from her team, Casany did not stop or look back as she soared. She looked forward. To killing her enemy. Who her sword tore toward.

And her enemy had met her.

-CLANG!-

Beskar it is!
Her blade bit into his. Sword in her fist. His is fitted with a Yautkan combistick. A collapsible weapon, once retracted, then extended, wherein the end of his was less of a spear and more like a sword.

-CLING!-

He swings. She steps to her left and dodges. C'MON! He swings again with the back end. She raises her weapon, hilt in one hand, blade in other, and blocks. Then she stabs. And so the dance began…
 
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