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The locals were a people long plagued by conflict, their planet constantly commandeered for use as a battlefield. Brask knew little about their civil wars or their role in the wider Separatist movement of the Clone Wars, only that they certainly had a lot of leftover military material to make use of during the most recent siege.

They were a culture of civilians forced into soldiery, and Brask felt bad for them. His pity had been expressed through attempts to keep the Telosians out of the crossfire. While he had once taken part in operations where collateral damage was the goal it wasn't something he particularly enjoyed.

Once all the blaster fire had come to an end the veteran mercenary began to settle into his new, shared quarters. There was only so much space that could be spared for the disparate rebel hoard so slumber parties were the rule rather than the exception. No matter. One of the first lessons a soldier learned was to ignore any discomfort they felt sharing space with other people.

He had been in the bathroom cleaning out his eye socket when the first message came in, pulled away from the mirror with unkempt fur and the gaping hole in his head uncovered. The MMS was neither a surprise nor an annoyance, the Empire had enough resources to hire an army of competent slicers and Brask had no one to contact that wasn't a superior. A moratorium on comms wasn't the end of the world.

The second MMS was more concerning. Whatever weak point the Empire had found must have been a big one if it required explanation by both the Commander and his pet spook. But there was no use guessing at it when all would be explained in a matter of hours. Brask put the situation out of his mind for the time being, focusing instead on taking a well-deserved rest after such a hard-fought battle.

The roof of their quarters was as good a spot as any to sit for lunch, the Shistavanen parking himself next to his fellow Mando without bothering to ask for permission. A bit of old paint flaked off the side as he swung his armored legs over the edge, dangling his feet above the city. 

[color=DC143C]"Glad you got out in one piece, old timer."[/color]

Alric was similar to him in many ways: a middle-aged veteran and a stickler for the old ways of Mandalore, not one of the spineless "pacifists" that had run their society into the ground. Even if they were from different clans and houses Brask saw him as a brother. 

[color=DC143C]"Our luck'll run out eventually, but not yet eh?"[/color]

His own meal was less varied than the Human's, just lumps of near raw meat in some sort of off-white sauce. Simple and unappealing to look at, just like Brask himself. 		

[@Psyker Landshark]