Old Blood

Posted on Sun Jul 5th, 2015 @ 1:59am by Zrad Rezer† & Nala Sao & Klav Thurn & Mentis & Trey†
Edited on on Wed Feb 28th, 2018 @ 12:51am

4,632 words; about a 23 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IV: Rezer's Edge
Location: Throne Room, Jericho
Timeline: After "The Cousins Rezer"

The sound of Sev's steady steps was drowned out by the milling Exiles, standing around and casting looks his way. Pooled together, the multitude of their voices sounded like the insects that nested in the branches of Mandalore's veshok forests, their rhythmic chittering almost deafening at the height of summer. As Sev strode through their ranks at Zrad's side, the looks his men shot Sev's way ranged from surprised to murderous, the heat of their heightened bloodlust focused like an intense beam at Sev's face. It itched. Hackles rising, Sev met each and every open glare with his own, backing down to none with an unspoken threat in his depths of his green-brown eye. Beside Zrad, the man strolled through the crowd of his men, walking with the disinterested airs of an ancient warlord, not even stopping to accept the salutes of his many men.

Guard up, Sev stayed close to Zrad, not for fear, but caution. He would not put it past his elder cousin to leave him to be eaten alive by his army, mauled by the blades and sharp teeth of flea-infested Exiles, the worm of jealousy in their jaundiced eyes. If Zrad planned to play games with him, Sev intended to be close enough to his cousin to make him regret it. Yet as Sev's eyes scanned the room, marking exits and routes, eyeing the catwalks above him where idle Mandalorian's spat and smoked, Sev could not deny the subtle tugging of his hardened heart. It had been an eternity since Sev had seen so many people in one place, all wearing the sacred armor of the Mandalorians, all like-minded in their admiration for the hard and rugged way of life. The image of the Exiles, even dishonored, reminded Sev of his younger days, when the the comforts of family were still there to be had. To be taken for granted.

But no, Sev reminded himself.

The Exiles were not family. Jericho was not home, and it would never be. This stone fortress, decrepit and crumbling, was a remnant of a darker time when an Empire once stretched the Galaxy. That the Mandalorian Exiles had chosen this place as their stronghold was fitting to Sev—like a colony of rats coming to infest a long abandoned castle that was not meant for them. They had been a great people once, Sev thought bitterly, descended from the fierce Taung who slayed the massive mythosaurs for sport, and emblazoned their skulls upon their banners as a symbol for all Mandalorians descendants.

Turning his burning gaze to the back of Zrad's head, fierce thoughts colored with blame stained Sev's mind.

Those of their blood did not crawl about in crumbling fortresses like forgotten vermin. Zrad did not deserve his lordship.

"I don't remember asking for a party." Sev said, his voice flat and rough as he watched Zrad from the corner of his eye. His cousin had known since they were young that Sev was never one for loud celebrations or shared meals. To Sev, this "party" was less a welcome and more a well aimed jab. It was disgustingly familial, a mockery of everything Clan Rezer was no longer.

“This ‘party’ is not yours, ad’ika,” Zrad scolded him as they walked, not turning to face Sev as he spoke loudly and proudly, “but neither is it not; it is ours. Tonight, we dine and feast as one, songs of war filling these ancient halls as we make ready to light the beacon’s flame, calling all True Mandalorians to our crusade!”

A trio of nearby Exiles roared their drunken approval at the tired rhetoric, laughing as they did so, thick brown swill slipping from the heavy mugs they smashed together at the remark. If Zrad cared either way for their behaviour, he made no show of it as he continued his march through the large open archway he had led Sev towards.

The great rusted doors that formed the gateway were parted, and so the noise of the raucous revelry that gripped this largest chamber’s inhabitants had carried along the corridors to Sev’s ears, now louder as he was met with their origins. Judging by the size and layout, the younger Rezer could surmise it had served as the penal colony’s primary mess hall and communal area; the chamber was large enough to house well over two hundred, surrounded above by another level manned by numerous armoured and armed figures.

A good collection of heavy and stained metal tables and chairs were still scattered about the sizeable hall serving their intended purpose, thick with the combined stench of rotting flesh and testosterone, but the most prominent feature, dwarfed perhaps only by the pair undersized rancor (both seemingly content, one aggressively picking at strands of torn perhaps-orange flesh caught between its monstrous teeth) caged in one corner, was undoubtedly the horrific throne the Exile leader was marching towards.

A nightmarish conglomeration of bones, rifles, blades and other assorted totems, the unsightly and oversized chair was nestled unevenly upon a raised dais, permitting its occupant an uncomfortable but unparalleled view of its surroundings, as well as making clear whoever sat atop it was indeed atop those in its presence.

Even Sev’s arrival, whilst drawing both disparaging looks from some, admiration from others, as well as murmurs of both, did little to hamper the typically-Mandalorian festivities. As he and Zrad reached the base of the steps leading up towards the Alor’s hollow throne, Zrad beginning his ascent, the figure standing guard, clad in a dull grey variant of the trademark armour popular amongst the Exiles, brought himself forward before Sev and spat on the ground in front of him, the creamy phlegm congealing at his green boots.

“Ordo chakaar,” the Exile hissed, his unmasked middle-aged Human eyes locking with the newcomer’s, filled with a heavy disdain and flecked with a confidence buoyed by alcohol, if his breath were anything to go by.

Glancing back, Zrad’s downturned mouth threatened to edge upwards ever so slightly, pupils alight with an almost excited interest, if Sev were to read the expression correctly. Not saying a word, the promised smile came, and the Exile leader settled himself into his throne with ease, hands on either armrest.

Joining the recently-deceased corpses mounted on the walls, armoured as they were in Mandalorian armour, the gathered warriors fell to silence, staring at their comrade and leader’s cousin. All those pretending to be disinterested in the new arrival let the façade slip, watching intently.

Sev inhaled as he kept the gaze of the Exile who insulted him, the acrid edge of his breath wafting his way as Sev stepped forward, paying no mind to the spittle on his boots. Sev's expression was stone as he stared down at the Exile, the heat of his gaze alone already inspiring the beginnings of hesitation in the Exile's addled expression. He would not be a worthy opponent.

Without warning, Sev lunged forward, clamping both of his gloved hands down on the Exile's shoulders like iron vices to wrench him forward as Sev whipped his forehead into the Exile's face, a headbutt that landed with an audible crack. Sev heard the man cry out as blood gushed from his shattered nose, before Sev's metal fist crashed against his jaw, whipping the Exile's head toward Zrad with such savage speed, his neck might've snapped had Sev not pulled the strength of his strike. Blood sprayed from the Exile's mouth towards Zrad upon his throne before the Exile dropped to Sev's feet.

A cortosis dagger flew through the air at Zrad's face, its flat, gleaming width shielding Zrad from the spray of blood before it embedded itself in the throne beside his cousin's face with dangerous precision. Sev's outstretched hand dropped to his side as he felt the deafening silence of the throne room, silent outrage and shock thick in the air as their eyes widened, fuming at Sev's audacity in drawing a weapon against the Alor. Sev paid them no mind as he turned his burning gaze to his opponent on the floor, moaning in pain and on the edge of unconsciousness. Using the toe of his boot to turn the drunken di'kut onto his back, and wiping the offending spittle off onto the Exile's armor, Sev's sneer was all fiery menace.

"Mando'ad that discriminate the arts of war from a superior because of blood are not true Mando'ad." Sev growled lowly, "I learned from Raidoner Ordo because he was my superior. Just as I am your superior. Just as Alor Zrad is mine."

And placing the foot of his boot onto the man's chest, Sev pressed down, squeezing the air from his lungs as his eyes bulged in panic amidst the bloody mess of his face. "Your blood is not worth the stain on Zrad's face. It is not even worth touching the bottom of my boot," Sev hissed in a dangerous voice, "The only reason you are not dead is to show that I come to you as a brother, not an enemy."

And lifting his face to the gathered crowd, Sev's eyes were fire bright with fury, "All my skills in war, I offer to the True Mando'ad!" Sev shouted, his baritone voice echoing in the Throne room, "But if anybody else has a problem with where my bes'kad, has been sharpened, challenge me now and be done with it."

Eyes of various species, both helmeted and exposed, were fixated upon Sev, summing up the younger Rezer and his actions. From his throne, Zrad’s slow, heavy clapping resounded about the room, the large Exile sneering with menacing approval at his kin.

Rising from his throne again, Zrad raised a hand, entirely ignoring the blade embedded behind him or the crumpled body before him. “When last we stood side-by-side on the field, under the wretched banners of the dar’manda, the youngest son of Rezer was but ge’verd,” he boomed, the voice of the ragged barbarian an eerie echo of his cousin’s. “But now he comes to us, like so many of you before, into the light of the cleansing fires of the True, to purify the False and restore kote to all Mando’ad!”

That murderous, maniacal gaze now turned to Sev, an insatiable hunger that seemed to grow with every passing minute he spent with his cousin tainting his scarred visage. “Let him prove his loyalty; let us give him a True baptism!” Zrad’s hand clenched into a fist. “Oya!”

Whilst not all immediately joined with their leader’s triumphant declarations, the inebriated and the lowly did so without thought, but were joined by a good number of the initiated Mandalorian Exiles, colourfully-armoured as most were. Silent or delayed in their support though a small number remained, scowling or expressionless, nearly all were fixated on Sev and his downed opponent. Naturally, the racket disturbed the rancor, rewarding the gathered warriors with unbridled roaring that only incensed their own.

Sev was silent, even as the noise around him swelled to maddening heights. But all the screams of the galaxy could not drown out the voice of Zrad, replaying in his mind over and over. A rage blackened his blood, a dark desire to separate Zrad's head from his shoulders threatening to overcome the thin veneer he'd built for himself. Yet even as he resisted, the Exiles around him screaming and laughing, Sev felt his Mandalorian heart give in to beating of their bloodlust.

Then lilting words from painted lips twinged in his memory, and Sev pulled his thoughts down another path.

Closing his eyes, he could see each man in the throne room, each drunken Exile, each exit, each weapon that could be used against him. A dark voice at the back of his mind told Sev he might even get away with it, if he took Zrad's head now. If he came in close under the pretense of a glorious embrace, Sev knew he could slice through Zrad's throat in a fraction of a second, and for a moment, Sev wet his blade on the slow and snaking thoughts of murder coursing through the depths of his mind. He let himself imagine the warm spray of blood from Zrad's neck if Sev sunk the knife into the soft flesh of his throat, slicing through bone like a rotted log. Zrad would gurgle like a baby, suckling on his own blood before he died. Then Sev would kill every single man in this room.

And the thought calmed him.

Around Sev, the Exiles thrummed with wild energy that beat along with the savage rhythm of his own heart. With his newfound control, Sev let that energy pass into him and out, murder on his mind but the armor of his lies still strong.

Sweeping his cybernetic eye to the doors of the throne room that were beginning to open, Sev allowed an ugly smile to cross his lips. If he survived cutting this gangrenous rock from the face of the galaxy, Sev made a note to buy the Duchess a whole keg of whatever poison she indulged in and make her drink it all. She deserved to suffer a little for all the pains he was enduring now, playing the role of prodigal son.

Even now he was immersing himself in the idea of Zrad's blood, tacky and thick on his hands as Sev parted his cousin's eyes from his mutilated face with a rusted blade. His breaths came steadier.

The doors swept open with a thundering groan as Sev watched a Nautolan female sweep into the room, robed in black. For a moment, he cringed at the idea that Zrad had brought them all 'entertainment' for the night. The Nautolan was undeniably eye catching in that way an oil slick rainbow was on dull pavement. But as Sev looked closer, he realized this Nautolan was a puddle he'd stepped in before—in a particular bar on Nar Shaddaa.

Instantly a name came for the face: Nala Sao, favored apprentice of Axion.

Sev gripped his weapon a little tighter.

Nala was flanked by two other cultists and an unidentified Mandalorian. The male cultists, one Human and one Ratattaki, watched the surrounding Exiles warily, like one of them might jump out and bite them at any moment. Yet even as the pale ones fretted quietly, Sev watched Nala Sao step in the ranks of the Mandalorians without hesitation. All gazes were on her as the mob parted to clear a path. She wore a smirk of a woman who knew the power she held, even if the Force was currently denied to her.

"Lord Zrad." She greeted, pitching her voice so that the clearness of it sliced through the ruckus, coming up to stand before him.

Still unsettled about the loss of his Force perception, Mentis had to suddenly stop himself before he walked into the back of Nala; he had been eyeing the familiar one-eyed Mandalorian that stood beside a bloodied corpse. Brought back into the moment, he dismissed his train of thoughts and stepped out from behind Nala to give a brief bow of recognition to their host. He was careful that the action did not capture too much attention.

“Lady Nala,” Zrad grumbled sarcastically in response, imitating Mentis’ downplayed bow in a similarly mocking manner. Most of the Mandalorian commotion had been deftly swept away by the arrival of the cultists, although a few were hard to mutter foreign curses and prime weapons. The glint of more than one blade caught the newcomers’ eyes.

The Exile leader said nothing further as he now stalked down the steps towards the cultists, his gaze not leaving Nala’s alluring visage. With the Mandalorian that accompanied the dark-siders passing him and drawing close, Zrad suddenly turned his sight to the Ratattaki. Suddenly and without warning, his left hand shot forwards and clutched the pale-skinned humanoid’s face, clasping his gaunt cheeks between his gloved forefinger and thumb, pulling his face to one side to more obviously expose the terrible scarring that marred his cultural tattoos.

“I trust my gift is satisfactory?” He boomed to Nala, not looking away from Mentis, his thick breath, sweetened as it was by the strands of meat doubtless still caught in his teeth, assaulting the bald cultist.

Behind them, the Mandalorian who had escorted them had marched briskly towards and then passed Zrad’s macabre, twisted throne, secreting himself away behind the dais and mass of metal to attend to an ancient computer that rested in seclusion there. More than once, helmeted though he was, he glanced over to Zrad, Sev and his once-Forceful guests.

Nala gave Zrad a dubious look, the slant of her large eyes disapproving. Yet she remained unrattled, despite Zrad's sudden hold over Mentis.

"Satisfactory isn't what I would call your gift. They'd look better if they'd been spit out by your rancor here." Nala said smoothly, her unblinking eyes glancing to Mentis, who's face remained in Zrad's grip. Stepping forward, Nala stood beside the pale Ratattaki, placing a green hand on Zrad's gloved grip. The gesture was a silent command.

"Yet if I'd known you treated all your guests like chew toys, I would have brought you one myself." She smirked impishly, "Unfortunately, Mentis is off limits. Do unhand him."

The Nautolan had no power, and stood only as a diminutive female in a sea of raving Exiles. Yet beneath her charming voice was an edge that promised Zrad he did not want to make an enemy of Axion's Cult. She would allow him to misbehave this once, but a second offense would not be tolerated.

A bright peal of laughter erupted from Trey’s mouth, the cultist having been staring at the Exile leader’s antics this whole time. Honestly, seeing Mentis’ face get the scar massage it sorely needed almost made this trip worth it—almost. The cultist was such a tightass, maybe Zrad could help him out a bit. Heh.

Mentis' initial surprise at being manhandled had begun to die down but it was replaced by a silent anger; anger that he should be put to shame in front of his fellows and the hall of brutes but also anger that he lacked the perception to foresee Zrad's intention to grasp him. With a snarl that placed his face askew, as well as the scar upon it, Mentis wrestled his way backwards and out of the Exile's grasp. Mentis' face stung as it ran through Zrad's gloved hand, which did not shift an inch during the movement.

He stepped back, his body twisting to the side to form an offensive stance with his hand hovering just above his lightsaber. He looked at the hulking man whose hand was still outstretched, with that same look of dark amusement on his face. For a moment, he was reminded of his own master, gripping the air as he punished one of his followers through the power of the Force.

Mentis threw a quick glance to Nala before looking back to Zrad, "You may not treat me in such a manner!" he scowled, "We did not come here to be threatened or insulted but to conduct a fair exchange. We have shown you every courtesy in these negotiations."

Laughter erupted from Zrad to join that of Trey’s, far louder than the young Human cultist’s and soon joined by a number of other Exiles. “You have spirit, dar’jetii,” he boomed, addressing each of Nala’s group, “even without your magic powers. Come! A great feast has been prepared in honour of our ‘negotiations’ and newfound goodwill. Dine with us this night before you claim your prize, and I will know that you have shown us every courtesy. But before you do, I think it only right I introduce you to my cousin, Sev.”

The Exile leader thrust an open hand in the younger Rezer’s direction, an evil grin stretching the scars and blemishes of his ragged face, clearly delighting in every moment of discomfort he could impart upon both the cultists and his prodigal relative. A far cry from the honoured warrior and leader he may have once been to Manda’toma, the hulking mass of traitorous Mandalorian only compounded further Sev’s suspicions of Zrad’s growing madness.

“A celebrated jetiise kyramud - Jedi killer - he is almost as skilled a warrior as I,” Zrad goaded, baring his unclean teeth for his audience once again, “and is learning what it means to be Mando once again.”

Like the wake of a wave, the Exiles parted before Zrad’s extended arm, backing away to clear an eye’s path to Sev. He stood like a rock amidst a sea of bodies, his hooded eyes leaving Zrad’s face to fall upon the cultists.

“We’ve met.” Sev said in monotone, his green gaze unwavering as he looked Nala in the eye. He didn’t move from where he stood, a man's body curled around his feet the way a cat might. A dead cat.

Nala’s eyes brightened in recognition as she unconsciously took a step forward, lifting her chin like she was subtly scenting the air.

“This is your baby cousin?” Nala asked with delight, glancing to Zrad. She paid him little mind however as she swept past him, eyeing Sev like he was a meal she had never quite gotten to sample. Briefly, her eyes lowered to look at the man lying at Sev’s feet—dead from a nose bleed—before her gaze made the deliberately lingering journey back to Sev’s stony face.

“We danced once.” She said lowly, informing no one in particular, “And I do believe that I was left… wanting.”

Sev’s eyes followed her hands as she touched her side, one of the many locations a Nautolan’s heart could beat.

“That was the point.” He said, almost bored.

“No one’s ever brought me a grenade on the first dance, before.” Nala smirked, uncaring, “Normally people wait until the second before they start suggesting rough play.”

“If we make it to a second,” Sev replied, his voice gravelly and quiet, “playing is the last thing we’ll be doing.”

Nala laughed as she stepped back, like she delighted in the threat. In her dark, reddish eyes, however, glimmered something reckless. Rounding back to Zrad, she pressed herself into his side like a little girl with a secret.

“Oh, your cousin is a charmer.” She said, looking up into Zrad’s pock marked face, “Shall we proceed to dinner, now? I must say I’ve worked up an appetite, looking at all your lovely…gifts.”

As she shared a short look at Mentis, ignoring Trey entirely, Nala left out the part about how she’d taken one whiff of Zrad’s breath and decided against breathing through her nose, possibly for forever. How anyone could work up an appetite for anything but soap in this putrid place was beyond her.

Nala took a breath through her gills, her smile perfectly plastic and unrepentant of it.

Catching Nala's brief glance before she turned away once again, Mentis felt somewhat reassured. Despite her tendency to be overly-alluring in almost any situation, she was remarkably able to swing any conversation back on track as swiftly as she flicked her delicate head-tresses over her shoulder. Mentis would be lying to himself if he did not say he saw her as attractive on a number of levels. Despite spending many a moment wishing he could usurp her position within the cult, he enjoyed his time alongside her.

Riding on his increased confidence, with anger assuaged for now, Mentis added to Zrad, "I hope there will be no more unpleasantness over the dinner table. Just in case, perhaps I should sit outside your choking range."

“Oh, my young, chalky fool,” Zrad responded, employing a voice simultaneously smooth and sinister, a sickly tone not suited to the hulking bedlamite but perfectly serving his purpose. “Nothing is outside my choking range.”

Even as the the smile Zrad had grotesquely worn crumbled in an instant, leaving it to the uncertain imagination whether the final comment remained in a tone of jest, or simple, pure megalomaniacal malice. Regardless, the great bulk of Mandalorian Exile left little time for the consideration, turning quickly away from the cultists and marching back towards his throne, receiving a surreptitious nod from the passing Thurn, who came to stand by his First.

Having reclaimed his mantle at the peak of the raised dais bar falling short of slumping proudly upon the wretched amalgamation of metals and junk that made his throne, Zrad raised his hands towards ancient doors on either side of the room, silencing the increasing number of Exiles once again babbling about the chamber as they parted noisily and slowly.

On cue, new scents assaulted the Mandalorian Exiles and their guests, as several figures trudged their way in, each armed with large platters of roasted and greasy animals – some familiar, many not - with bones angled and jutting out in various places. Their arrival, as expected, was greeted by a tumultuous uproar of the fashion only Mandalorians could muster, and many began crashing their goblets and other makeshift mugs against metal fixtures of all kinds.

“My friends!” Zrad roared, himself struggling to overcome the din of his followers. “We toast to the good sense of the dar’jetii and their gratefully accepted offerings. Sit now,” he commanded Nala and the cultists, gesturing to empty chairs at the largest table, “feast with us, as promised, to our agreement and mutual goodwill.”

Turning his attention now to the Exiles, most of whom were now lurching forth to claim their share of the banquet, whilst the sentries overlooking above remained stoic, Zrad continued his ravings, voice growing more menacing by the minute. “Ner Vode, with what we have started today, Kad Ha’rangir himself will quake at the sight of our banners, for today, we begin the long march as usurpers. Tomorrow, bathed in the blood of all those who deny us our right, we will become gods!”

Amidst the crunching, chewing, slurping and cussing, many roared in agreement with their leader. Zrad’s eyes, pupils spread widely, washed over them all, before finally settling upon Sev. Not looking away but keeping his voice raised so that all could hear, he declared with triumph and meaning, “Mando’ad draar digu!”

A Mandalorian never forgets

Sev's eyes were steady as they kept his cousin's attention, a strange quiet in their shared gaze even as the noise around them swelled. Where the sheer menace of Zrad's overbearing person would be enough to unseat any man, the danger of Sev was a much quieter brand. Had anyone been watching the cousins, the difference between them couldn't have been any more stark.

A Mandalorian never forgets, and as Sev ran his mind over the words like an old but familiar blade from a distant past, something heated emerged within the depths of Sev's green eye, a silent and vicious joy. His smile was a shallow mirror of his cousin, more like the crooked, broken grin of a child's doll.

"Mar'e." Sev whispered, something between a sigh and a promise.

At last.

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