The Walls of Jericho

Posted on Sun Nov 23rd, 2014 @ 10:08pm by Zrad Rezer† & Nala Sao & Klav Thurn & Mentis & Trey†
Edited on on Wed Feb 28th, 2018 @ 12:50am

3,612 words; about a 18 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IV: Rezer's Edge
Location: Hangar, Jericho
Timeline: The day after "Bifurcation", One week after Chapter IV start

OLD

Sev was angry—angry at all Zrad had done in the past. Yet he was also uncertain—uncertain of whether his abilities would be enough to get him through this ordeal. Strength he had in spades. Cunning he had no shortage of. But the wit of deception? His mind was not shaped like that of a liar, of a seducer, of an actor.

And now he was being called upon to fight with his weak hand.

Shaking his head, Sev’s battle worn face hardened into something like resolve, tenacity flickering in his hazel eye.

It would be his weak hand, but he would not be the weak link in this infiltration. Sev refused.

And whatever a true Mandalorian vowed to never do—he never did.

NEW

Klav Thurn stood tall beside his first, a large heavy repeater clasped in his gauntleted hands, primed and meticulously cared for in a way any professional gunsmith would be in awe of. Every piece had been disassembled innumerable times, examined, improved, and reassembled once again. Zrad Rezer's second was a master, able to replicate his routine perfectly blindfolded.

Of all those True Mandalorians gathered beneath Zrad's banner, Thurn was the most experienced. He had the most victories in the field, and the most bar Zrad against the Defenders - the men and women of the so-called Manda'toma. It was an affront to all that Mandalorians should stand for. Indeed, it was an affront to the galaxy, and one that Zrad's Mandalorians would amend. This was Zrad's crusade.

A crusade that would begin this day.

Rolling his shoulder to feel again the weight of his vibroblade slotted firmly into the back plating of his armour, Thurn's eyes locked upon their approaching quarry from beyond the protective shielding that prevented them all from being sucked out into space, his visor's HUD detailing what it could of them. Still small, the bright star of the Jericho system shone magnificently against the plating of the transport vessel drawing close to the hangar, its sleek hull making clear its owners were not short of credits.

Spying this and taking into consideration who it was aboard, Thurn felt his blood begin to boil with eagerness deep within. Yet, like the tempered blade that he was, he made no physical movement to denote his internal strife or eagerness. It was that restraint, his military precision and intelligent loyalty that had long secured his position at Zrad's side, as his most trusted advisor and right-hand man. He knew himself to be an impeccable Mandalorian warrior, well-versed in the arts of conflict and war in all ways but one: leadership, and that was why he stood where he did, just one foot behind and to the side of his respected master.

"Stand ready," came the booming voice of Zrad Rezer, his helmet removed to reveal his scarred and grizzled features, currently locked in that animalistic snarl/smile he so often wore. Like Thurn, Zrad was hotly anticipating the culmination of his plans in the coming hours. At his command, the others present - a smattering of True Mandalorians and those who wished to become so - brought themselves into position.

Whilst they were all under orders to make no move against the dar'jetii yet, the power of the ysalamiri was weakest in the outer reaches of the former Bastion penal colony. It was a tactical manoeuvre rather than an oversight. After all, it made springing a trap against Force users that much easier, and it was a ploy that already served them well once in recent history.

Thinking of the two jetii sitting in the cells, Thurn considered the ones that had been cut down by them before the Mandalorians had finally triumphed, and then of the pit fight Zrad had only managed to just put down before they lost one of them. Many at Jericho were unruly, unnecessary and merely seeking something to rape and kill. Whilst there was a certain Mandalorian beauty to parts of them, Thurn thought many of them as simply scum. Zrad thought the same, he knew, but he knew that they could also serve a purpose in his plans.

Not long now, he thought with some grim satisfaction, the Cartel would be here too. And that cousin of Zrad's, too. He did not know what to think of that, but it was something he would handle when the time came. For now, there were other threats to be handling.

Upon the horizon a sleek ship approached, its hull dark and its sharp edges almost suggestive of something sinister. As the craft was smoothly maneuvered into the fortress’ hangar, it touched ground without preamble, the sound of the ship powering down conspicuous in the thick silence of the hangar.

With a small hiss the ship’s boarding ramp lowered, the interior of the ship lit too dimly to see clearly inside.

From the sidelines, Goro shifted his weight from one foot to the other, dryly wondering whether the dar’jetii would have a working fog machine for their grand entrance. While he was nothing but a lowly foot soldier, the Mandalorian had seen his share of transactions made here on Jericho. He’d found that the majority of their clientele were not only rich and pretentious, but were compulsively melodramatic psychopaths—and he’d seen his fair share of fog machines. Glancing at Zrad, and then back again to the boarding ramp, the soldier steeled himself for the imminent fight soon to come. And in the back of his mind, Goro wondered if Zrad would be interested in a fog machine situated behind his throne…

What came out of the ship was not fog, however, but a lady. A Nautolan female descended the ramp with purpose, her stride unhurried. A vision in tight, black leather, the ornaments of her head tresses glinted in the light overhead. By all Galactic standards, the Nautolan was beautiful—alluring in the way danger often beckoned to a warrior—but not his cup of ale. Call him old-fashioned, but Goro preferred his females a little less…squid-like.

As the young female walked towards his alor, a hungry kind of smile on her lips, Goro did a visual rundown of the weapons she carried and the threat she posed. A single lightsaber as lithe and sharp as its owner hung on the curve of her hip, dangerous looking, even deactivated. The soldier had no doubts that this Nautolan was the same.

But Thurn and Zrad could easily handle her, and Goro turned his blue eyes towards the ship again, expectant. You see, there was a pattern with these clients—that if they didn’t have a fog machine or flashing lights for an entrance, they instead brought…. accessories to demonstrate their affluence. Goro was expecting at least two of the Nautolan’s bitches to come sashaying out of the ship any moment now, laden with credits or gifts for Zrad….

Trey crossed his arms, the sleeves of his robe fluttering as they settled. His hair was mussed as usual, having been untouched since rolling out of bed. He cast Mentis a tired look, waiting for the other to take hold of the repulsorlift's handle. The chest on it held the first of many choices of presents for the insatiable ex-Mandalorian. Not like any of them were valuable. Bloodstained, maybe. And heavy. Smashable.

"Well?" Trey asked after a sigh as they stood near the top of the ramp.

The Ratattaki cultist sat firmly upon the entry bay's side benches. He was inadvertently rubbing the scar on his nose as he had developed a habit of doing since the skin had healed over, leaving a rosy fissure. He cast his eyes at Trey with a tired expression. Sometimes he wondered if Trey even attended the same meetings he did. Perhaps half of the young man simply existed in an alternate reality where nobody could sit still for a single moment.

"We are to allow Nala to perform her greeting as planned before we bring out the chest," he stated, with a veiled sigh, "These situations require a certain amount of delicacy and Axion would not look too kindly on us pissing off these brutish Mandos' before we even got in the front door."

He peered around the bay hatchway, glancing briefly at Nala as she alluringly strode forwards before following her bearing forward towards her target. The armour-plated Mandalorian did not look at all convinced by her charms, "Although, it is more like the side door in this instance."

He leant back, finally taking his hand away from his nose and bringing it to his side, feeling for the leather ribbon attached to his lightsaber. Catching it between two fingers, he was reminded of the weapon's presence and the strength it represented at his side. This assignment made him nervous; it was one thing to play an unsuspecting enemy, but there was no trust to abuse in their agreement with this Zrad Rezer. Each party held a knife behind their back and, when the time came to draw them, Zrad would undoubtedly have the sharper blade. However, Axion and Nala seemed confident that they could draw first. That is, if Trey did not draw it too soon.

Trey sighed, fully aware of the theater production's cues but not pleased at all. He just...wanted something to happen. And soon.

His brown eyes alighted on Nala, clad in that seemingly unwalkable shimmering black material. A glimmer shone in his eye as he focused on her left hip.

Move along.

Nala's steady gait was nearly unbalanced by the miniscule nudge from behind her. Ever the professional in front of her dark Master's business partners, she recovered from the disturbance with grace, her face betraying nothing of the indignant fury boiling inside of her. How dare Trey—and she knew it was him—try to make a fool of her during a proceeding as important as this! If anything had ever convinced the Nautolan that Axion's decision to take this kriffing twink boy on as a part of their Dark Cult was a mistake, this did. His utter disregard for the seriousness of their work was maddening, and gritting her teeth, Nala's smooth skin prickled with barely restrained violence. Not that she would ever again confront Axion about it to his face as she had before. Memories of his iron fingers around her throat, crushing her face against cold glass was deterrent enough, the red heat of his lightsaber too close to burning her pretty face. He knew how great her physical desirability was an asset to her work. That Axion had been so close to ruining it for the sake of Trey burned her...in more ways than one.

Nala's seemingly lidless eyes glittered darkly as she stopped before the Mandalorian leader and looked up into his eyes, like chips of blue fire set in a face of pale stone. Trey would get his just desserts soon enough, she thought sweetly to herself.

"My Lord, Zrad Rezer." She greeted, smooth as silk, "My Master, Axion of our Dark Cult, sends his greetings. He sincerely hopes that relations between us will go as smoothly as possible, and that he will have no need to kill one of us for offending you—or kill you for betrayal." She added, a wicked gleam in her eye, almost mischievous. It toed the line of insolence, and she knew it. Strangely enough, however, it had the unintended effect of giving her an almost girlish air, belying her young age. She pointedly did not spare the man at Zrad's side a glance, making it absolutely clear that she would not deal with anyone but the Mandalorian beast himself.

Thurn felt the urge to tighten his grip upon his weapon, every instinct within his body and mind telling him to spur forwards into action. In his mind's eye, his blade slid quickly and silently from its sheath within his armour's backplate, the only noise that which would sing from the Nautolan's swift decapitation, followed by the cacophony of gunfire and lightsaber hummings and slashings that would inevitably follow - with Thurn amongst the first to fall, no doubt.

It was not that he simply longed for conflict (although he did, as much as any self-respecting and honourable Mandalorian) - and certainly not in the way Zrad appeared to, in all his brilliance - it was that this creature's manner, and the manner of her various cronies, was insulting. Thurn had expected nothing less of them, though; this was very typical behaviour of jetii. Nay, this was very typical behaviour of all those imbued with ridiculous levels of assumed greatness.

To some extent, it was the public bravado of Zrad that remained the one thing Thurn was ever bothered by. After all, a true warrior of great repute and ability had no need for baubles, music or grand entrances, for such things came automatically when one was deserving, and never at the instruction of the one whom it was for. Even so, that one issue paled in comparison to the greatness of his first, for when the time came, Zrad would march the halls of the greatest palaces of the galaxy, heralds calling his name and his banner waving proudly all about him.

Just to be even a footnote in the restoration of the Mandalorian domain and way was honour and glory enough for Thurn, and he admitted, at least to some extent, that the pomp and circumstance was a necessary evil when one considered Zrad was playing more of a political game than even Zrad probably cared to consider, pandering to the cultures and whims of others for his own ends. To say such a thing to his leader was surely unthinkable, but everyone was entitled to their minor delusions. Even the next True Mandalore.

"You are in the dragons' den now, milady," Zrad announced in a tone eerily cheerful for the gruff and gravelly veteran, though his tragically exaggerated and broken attempt at a smile managed to remain hidden behind the slightest upturning of one side of his mouth. Unlike his many devotees, their leader had his weapons sheathed or holstered, his massive customised repeater absent from his hulking armour. "As you can see, we have been eagerly anticipating your arrival; it's been so long since we've had so many threats in one place for such a long time." He turned his head purposefully, looking to the warriors and Mandalorians around him without helmets or facial coverings, their various expressions - ranging from contemptuous to eager to amused - plain for Axion's followers to see. "They are understandably... poised." He thrust a large armoured hand out to Nala, some dried bloodstains accenting the scrapes and faded colouring of the gauntlet.

The Nautolan eyed the hand proffered to her and let her eyes wander over the crusted reddish-brown still flaked onto it. Filthy beast, she thought to herself as her dark eyes met again with Zrad's, slipping her diminutive hand within his to shake.

"I've slain a fair share of dragons in my time, my Lord Zrad." She declared almost glibly, her eyes moving to the man at his side, roving from his broad shoulders to his groin, and back up again, "I hope you keep yours tightly leashed, for the sake of our business."

With that and a flick of her thin wrist, she called out her cargo.

Without delay, Mentis sensed the time to act and swiftly hopped up so he was standing beside the gift crate, with Trey still dawdling on the other side. While large and reinforced enough to be considered a crate, their gift container was so ornately decorated that the word 'crate' did not do it justice. The handles, one of which Mentis now bent down to hold, were loops of gold material that were continuous with a thick loop encompassing the box. At times, this loop broke off into smaller lines, which danced an elegant pattern across the container's deep red surface, like the branches of a tree breaching the sky. There was no regularity to their branching and yet it was elegant. There was a beauty in the chaos of the gold veins. The only other decoration was a large black jewel set into the centre of the lid and surrounded by more swirls of gold.

Far too good for these degenerate brutes thought Mentis. But he knew that the box was meant as a demonstration of the cult's majesty and not to appease glorified gang leaders such as Zrad. With a sharp glance across the box, he urged Trey to hurry things up.

Whilst a good number of the Exiles present reacted immediately to the proferred gift, their greed palpable as eyes twitched, muscles tightened and saliva slipped about otherwise dried and cracked lips, Zrad did not even appear to notice the crate. Were it not for the gruff nod he provided the cultists - one that made it clear he took the gift as nothing more than an expectation - one could have easily assumed it had not even registered in the hulking figure's mind.

Naturally, Thurn was pleased with how his first was handling the whole affair, although a part of him wondered if Zrad had sat himself at a table with too many players. Thurn did not like gambling, and if one were to consider the men and women who would soon to be fighting as cards, he was not sure now if the Exiles had the strongest hand.

A small light then blinked on his HUD, prompting the Mandalorian second to divide his attention just slightly to other matters, a small video feed appearing within his helmet detailing an inbound vessel. As arranged, there were no visual cues for any of those present so as to not give anything away to the dar'jetii and for the time being, the ysalamiri were far enough into the facility - and spaced far enough apart - to not affect their guests too greatly.

Not the strongest hand, Thurn thought again. Not yet.

"The warden has been advised of your arrival, Nautolan," Thurn then interjected, indicating the Zrad that the expected vessel was en route and taking one military step forward, making himself more clearly known to Nala and her associates. "Whilst we inspect your craft and make preparations for feasting, I understand we have something you may be interest in inspecting yourself."

Zrad's eyes not once left Nala's lithe female form as Thurn spoke, the one man whom was permitted - planned or otherwise - to ever deign to speak out of turn. The corner of his mouth turned upwards, indistinguishable though it almost was. "As promised," he growled in his friendliest voice, "a token of our goodwill in this exchange." The Exile leader kicked the crate unceremoniously. "Assuming your baubles are of any worth."

Trey ran a hand through his messy brown hair, eyebrows raising at the kick. He looked a bit amused, and shrugged a shoulder, his robe shifting. Not like he knew much about baubles. He didn't even have to speak to show his apathy. He had eyes, instead, for the leader himself, studying him between bored looks. What was this thug up to? He obviously wasn't impressed by Nala's theatrics (as if anyone would be, contrary to her belief)...so what would impress him?

Mentis moved back from the gift crate, throwing Nala a frustrated glance out of the view of the Mandalorians present, and took a position parallel with the Nautolan. He did his best to adopt a relaxed pose, portraying his equal importance in the situation to both his comrades and insincere allies. He did not notice his hand once again falling down to play with the leather of his lightsaber.

"We can assure you," the Ratattaki addressed Zrad with his chin raised, "That the Cult of Axion would provide you with no less than the finest gifts. You will find objects of both pleasure and utility within, all of which were chosen specifically for your clan. But I think you will find our allegiance to be the greatest gift we can offer in these changing times."

He knew the words were meaningless and the truth of them was irrelevant, but Mentis was well aware that such statements were expected in such dealings. It was a courtesy between crooked men observed from the lowliest gangsters to the classiest con-artists. A pretence of civility expected regardless of intention.

As almost expected, a silence then lingered uncomfortably as Zrad glared down at the Ratattaki, his expression a combination of near-disgust and surprise at the creature addressing him before he turned his head back to Nala.

"As my second has said," he began, now stepping back and making thrusting his arm in the direction of a large set of heavy, rusted metal doors to the rear of the hangar bay, "we have a couple of runaways that found their way into our most humble abode and are just thrilled at the notion of going home. I don't think they've found our hospitality to be quite as accommodating as they are used to."

At that, the large Mandalorian ran a tongue over his yellowed teeth, a slither of saliva left upon a cracked and scarred lip. "I've every faith, milady, you'll show them every dignity they deserve."

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