Haat, Ijaa, Haa'it... Gra'tua

Posted on Mon Dec 21st, 2015 @ 5:10pm by Zrad Rezer† & Nala Sao & Sev Rezer & Klav Thurn & Mentis
Edited on on Wed Feb 28th, 2018 @ 12:51am

2,610 words; about a 13 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IV: Rezer's Edge
Location: Throne Room, Jericho
Timeline: After "Old Blood"

OLD

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.

NEW

The natural stenches contained within the rusted, ancient walls of Jericho, worn as they were like a barrier to the reality and goings-on of the wider galaxy, had been overcome by the overpowering fragrances of cooked flesh and Mandalorian revelry.

Men of all species, armed and armoured, crashed goblets together heartily, roared with the confident laughter known only to would-be conquerors, and gorged deeply on the bountiful feast laid down across the metal tables of Jericho's central chamber.

On the far side, some of the younger, drunker Exiles were banging the bars of the rancors' cage, laughing as they variably threw in food or slipped their arms between the metal. The frustration and near success of the beasts in tearing said limbs off only encouraged them, and it was not long before bets seemed to be involved.

Overlooking the cordial destruction of food and sanity was the ugly throne of mismatched blades and weapons Zrad Rezer had forged himself. Only instead of perching himself awkwardly upon the monstrous chair, however, the leader of Jericho's True Mandalorians had claimed a chair at the head of the largest metal slab in the room, dwarfing the four-legged furniture with his monstrous size.

Whilst Sev sat to his side, Zrad's mad glare climbed over the oversized tankard he held against his face, fixated upon the cultists directly opposite him. Finishing the drink in one large gulp, dark liquid spilling down across his face, he brought it heavily down upon the table, landing almost in the centre of a carved Imperial insignia, an icon of an age long past and almost smoothed out of recognition from years of abuse.

"Nautolan," he declared, letting his now free, gauntleted arm rest on the table before him, "you and your boys have barely eaten." The alor tore a platter from the hands of one of his passing men and thrust it carelessly across the table towards the cultists, some of the chunks of meat toppling off, smearing grease along the metal in their their wake. "Eat!"

Nala peered at Zrad from around one of her pale tresses, picking up a fork and stabbing a rubbery piece of meat without once glancing at it. With the reluctance of a petulant child, she closed her lips over the fork and chewed with an insolent tilt of her head.

If she had been in a poor mood before, Nala's current state of mind was beyond words. Losing touch with the Force was slowly gnawing away at her self control, forcing her to rely on her natural gifts to sense her surroundings. At the moment, Nala was overwhelmingly aware of every single Exile over the deafening din of the chamber. All their laughing, their sweating, their vomiting was currently an assault on her keen Nautolan senses.

That and the constant barrage of aroused pheromones the brutes were oozing from every pore. For the first time in her life, Nala found herself uncomfortable with the knowledge that these men seemed to exist in a constant state of sexual excitement about everything. It made her wary of what was in the food.

"Simply delicious." she announced flatly, not caring if stabbing her next mouthful squirted juice upon Trey, sitting beside her.

Seeing Trey splattered with oily meat secretions brought a slight grin to Mentis' pale lips; he always felt a sense of schadenfreude when he felt his fellow cultist's anger spike. While he could not sense it in the Force, he knew the ever-energetic Trey was holding back a barrage of frustration as he looked upon the filthy stain on his dark robe.

"I think you need a napkin, Trey," Mentis bared his teeth as he grinned across Nala to where Trey sat, knowing full well there were no napkins to be found at the table and probably on the entire space station.

"Hrgh." Zrad let out a low, amused rumble at the cultists, the corner of his dry and cracked mouth edging upwards. Letting the brief discourse slip into an uneasy silence, that same tainted intelligence Nala had sighted during her first interaction with the Exile's leader was apparent in his intense glare.

As if seeming to sense Nala's own recognition, Zrad tore his gaze away from the Nautolan, eyes passing to Sev as one hand slipped over his shoulder to clasp at a small, leather-clad protrusion. In one quick motion, a peculiar sight given his size and sitting position, he deftly, almost silently, slid a large blade from the back plating of his armour and heavily brought to rest beside his other resting arm upon the metal table, although it remained firmly clasped in the grease-soaked gauntlet of its wielder.

Over half a metre in length and a dull, metallic grey, there was no doubting the blade's beskar composition, age, nor the Mandalorian script identifying the ancient weapon's clan of origin running its length.

Sev’s eyes tracked the blade in his cousin’s hand, for a moment breathless. Yet his gaze remained steady and dispassionate as the stone foundations of the hall surrounding them. Silent, Sev set the cup in his hand down.

"The beskad of Clan Rezer," Zrad growled to his audience, "forged by Vanar Rezer in The Undefeated's New Crusade against the Second Republic almost a millennium ago, I wonder how many jetii it has felled. No jetii'kad can slice it, for like the Mando'ade, it is indestructible - timeless. It is tradition; an instrument of war, a sceptre of divinity, and it will be the blade that rends the head of the dar'Mand'alor from his body when we storm Manda'yaim."

Scraping the blade slowly across the table, Zrad's grip on the blade tightened. "This beskad... represents what it means to be a true Mandalorian - what we fight for." He uttered the name of his people in Basic, slowly and with disdain dripping from each syllable.

Settling himself back again, dull, un-shining beskad before him, Zrad's attention remained on Nala and her fellows. "Tell me, cultist," he said, tone of voice shifting from contemplative zealot back to antagonistic host, "what exactly is it you fight for, if anything, or is it just the occasional shred of recognition from your master... or credits?" With that last word, a telling but fleeting look was offered to his cousin.

Nala, for her part, glanced surreptitiously between the silent exchanges between the Mandalorian men. She knew well when she was being used for the amusement of others, to rile or goad on another, and this was one of those instances. Because for all Zrad and Sev pronounced each other blood-kin, they’re behavior spoke of…other things.

Nala’s smile was sharp and saccharine as she faced the head of the table.

“Tsk, tsk. Poor is the host that doubts his guests.” She pronounced smoothly, setting down her fork with delicate grace as she leaned forward, “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I don’t think you care much about what we Cultists do.” Nala said sweetly.

Lifting a goblet between her slender, green fingers, Nala swirled it lightly, the acrid aroma of the cheap wine stinging her nose like crude and unrefined pig iron, straight from the ground and into the blast furnace.

“You want to me to regale you with our evil, Lord Axion approved mission statement so that you have permission to step all over it with your charmingly oversized, steel-toed boots, and feel good that we’re sitting at your table, eating your food, and your insults.” Nala smiled as she sipped lightly, “But it’s not going to happen, alor.”

Tilting her head up at the large man, unafraid, her dark eyes were challenging, smooth and hard as obsidian river stone.

“We cultists value power, and power alone, so I would wonder less about whether we are the ones who fight for the love of our Master, or the credits in our pockets, and worry more about your own brood, Zrad.”

And sitting back, Nala raised her goblet and signaled the nearest cupbearer with coy little shrug. Not a boy, yet not a man, a Human with dark curling hair came rushing forward, the golden pitcher of wine nearly sloshing over its own rim in his haste.

Nala smiled kindly at the boy and blinked, somehow making the inane action of softly touching the rim of her cup to his pitcher sensual. As the wine poured forth, scarlet and thick, Nala turned her eyes to Zrad’s—locking her gaze with his even as she addressed the cupbearer.

“Tell me, boy, what is your name?” she purred.

“Ma-Marron, um, milady.” He stammered, his dirty face turning an impressive shade of red. Nala didn’t have to look at him to know that sweat dotted his brow. She would be able to smell his impotent infatuation from miles away.

“Marron,” Nala echoed prettily, her eyes still fixated on Zrad’s expression, “Tell me. Why do you serve the Exiles?”

“For th-the glory of alor Zrad. Of course.” He answered dutifully, daring to lift his eyes and glance up at his Lord Zrad Rezer, intimidating even as he sat, a distance away.

“Oh, really.” Nala said, pleased, as she waved him back to his station, “For the glory of you, he said.” Nala spoke as she raised her glass towards Zrad in a way that was only mildly mocking. Around them, the cacophony of reveling Exiles echoed Nala’s sentiment, raising their mugs to their leader in time with her and shouting their slurred salutes.

Leaning back in her chair, her expression took on a spiteful edge, even as her features remained pleasantly smug, “I don’t need to see your books to know that more than half of your Exile army came to you jobless, and in need of a weapon and purpose, Zrad. Nor do I need to speak to any more of your people to know that, more than what they believe, they kill for you.”

Nala toyed with a hair tress as a hint of sharp teeth revealed themselves from behind a curled lip, “So do not speak to me about begging for a master’s recognition, or credit mongering. Those of the Cult of Axion, down to the last child, believe in the power the Dark Side offers us. We may not have as numerous a following as yours, but we are pure and undiluted in our ways. Can you say the same? Or are you the only believer in this army of one?”

Zrad’s goblet landed heavily on the table, the force great enough to send nearby cutlery (what little had been brought out) clattering away noisily. Marron visibly jolted at the noise, with the glare Zrad offered him finishing the young hopeful’s pittance of courage off. “You mock me, woman,” he growled, his voice low and menacing, his grip not slipping from the goblet.

The plain and obvious observation lingered heavily to those in the immediate vicinity. Some of the nearby Exiles fell silent, drinks half-lifted to mouths or hands with twitching digits resting on primed weapons. More than one click of a weapon’s safety was vaguely heard before the Mandalorian who had guided the cultists through Jericho arrived at Zrad’s side.

“What?” Zrad demanded, large lumps of yellowed spittle prancing from his mouth across the thick air.

Although Thurn’s helmet masked any visual cues, the tilt of his head altered, and Zrad’s second remained silent for longer than was comfortable. Finally, leaning towards the larger Mandalorian, a few inaudible words were muttered through the helmet’s transceiver. Whatever was said was quick in shredding the discontented malice that had painted Zrad’s face, as once more that ravenous smile tore his mouth open.

Standing up from the table, a motion that in itself threatened to topple the unsightly metal antique, Zrad crashed his goblet down twice heavily, drawing the attention of all his followers, drunken or otherwise. Already, Thurn had slinked away to the far side of the throne room, subtly nodding to the Exiles who overlooked them from the balconies above.

“Vode,” he boomed, lowering his head slightly and glowering at his men, “the moment we have been long been waiting for is soon upon us.”

Much of the din died down in an instant, heads both armoured and exposed turning to face Zrad. Many of the Mandalorians began to shuffle at their leader’s latest address. Drinks were set down, and a good number began to disperse more evenly about the room. Whilst the air remained heady with the bloodlust of dozens of desperate Exile warriors, it was clear the revelry – at least in its previous iteration – had come to an end.

Most obviously, a wide berth was given to the cultists, and Marron once more returned to Zrad’s side, offering up a large metal object to his master, a dull blue Mandalorian helmet – the kind favoured by the mainstream military of Manda’toma – that had lost its luster with age, with numerous dents and scorching to attest to its decades of (successful) use. As Zrad donned it without preamble, two of the more battle-scarred and heavier set Exiles came to side, one of whom was sporting a large and greatly modified Baragwin heavy repeater.

It was a troubling sight to see a full army of Mandalorians preparing themselves for bloodshed, even if some of these warriors were little more than vicious thugs. Mentis' eyes darted about the room, he seemed to sense the tense emotion in the room, although he wondered if it was just his own tension he was picking up on. He was hardly comfortable being the guest of the now fully-armoured Mando king.

Not wishing to speak, the cultist threw a querying glance towards Nala, wondering if she knew what was going on. Although he wondered if she had even seen him as her dark eyes seemed fixed elsewhere.

"Trouble?" Nala offered Zrad even as she stood slowly, the words empty even as they shot through the noise growing in the room. Her eyes watched Zrad's now helm-shadowed face with keen eyes, even as something just under the surface of her skin fluttered briefly, like the beating of a heart, struggling back to life. Silently, she flexed her senses, outward. If any of her cult brothers felt anything, she would soon know.

If her Nautolan instincts were anything to go by, Nala suspected that pleasantries had come to an end.

With the clicking of rifles and indicative thrumming of vibroblades whirring to life coming from behind the cultists, Nala's suspicions were proven true.

TBC

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