Sir Lurksalot

Star Wars: Knightfall, an interest check

+2

Star Wars: Jedi Academy

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"Y'know, Kid... the point is to hit the target. Not to start a bush-fire."

At the tone of those words, the boy's head and shoulders slumped a little for a few seconds in quiet shame. Though that abated rather swiftly as the lad abruptly took up his weapon once more in a admittedly slightly shaky grip, holding it there for a few good seconds before firing again... The resultant amber bolt going high this time, missing the steel cut-out of a Stormtrooper bolted to the side of a broad old-growth tree entirely and smacking some particularly unfortunate bird roughly the size of a melon in it's fat, surprised face as it was flying by. Blowing the poor thing apart like a balloon filled with steaming, chunky pasta sauce.

"...Well, at least we'll have chum to bait some fish later." The older Mando spoke up again, sounding actually a bit amused now. "Try again."

Another blast and another decisive lack of shooting straight followed.

"Again." This command was accompanied by a slight clinking of beskar and the crushing of grass, barely heard over the bolt summoned by it. Predictably, going wide again.

The kid bit down on his lip and adjusted his stance, extremely aware of the man's closing proximity now, but still obediently doing as he was told... Kicking up a whole mess of dirt as he struck low this time. Letting out a low shaky exhale from both frustration and fatigue, he lowered his arm and head again. Very much aware that his elder was standing right behind him now.

Though whatever scolding the boy was expecting, it probably didn't include the sight of a bronze-coloured helmet thumping down to the ground by his feet.

The boy didn't really have time to ponder that, however, as he heard some more shuffling of armourweave and clanking of beskar behind him, hinting that his companion was now crouching down behind him. Followed by a slight weight on his shoulder, and the sensation of a hand much larger than his own coming to rest against that which clutched the old, heavy pistol. Gently pushing it upward into a firing position again, while another rested against his other hand, softly maneuvering his fingers and adjusting his junior's grip. Making the boy's eyes to start to wander a bit to the side in curiosity.

"Eyes down the barrel, Vaar'ika." The elder of the two instructed before their eyes could meet. His words sharp and direct, though spoken with an almost gentle patience one rarely expected from a Mandalorian.

The little Mando, of course, obeyed. Eliciting a quiet grunt of approval and maybe just a smidgen of a smirk he just barely caught in his peripheral vision from the armoured man.

"You've already felt the recoil before, so don't let it frighten you. Simply accept and prepare for it." He continued, the hand that had been fine-tuning the lad's grip on the weapon retreating to rest instead on his little shoulder. "Now. Breathe out. Calmly, and with purpose, and squeeze the trigger as your lungs empty."

Not long after, another fiery amber bolt escaped the weapon with a thundering crack. Still high and to the left, but at least he was actually hitting the target now.

"Not good enough. Again." Another crack. Still slightly to the left, but closer to center mass. "Again."

Bullseye. The tree actually swayed at that.

"That's better. Two more."

Twice right on the money, if the boy wasn't so dialed-in to his task, he might've actually noticed that smirk he'd seen in his peripheral earlier widen just a teensy bit.

The tree, for it's part, let out a groan of protest as bits of bark launched themselves off it's far side.

"Now, Keldabe Drill. Just like I taught you."

Two bolts to the target's 'chest', and one just left of the head. Provoking a loud 'crunch!' from the tree and a little snarl of "Shabuir!" from the child's lungs that actually caught his elder a little off-guard as he quickly readjusted his stance all on his own and fired again.

Two in the chest, one in the head. A grouping so nice he then did it twice.

And then a third and forth time, progressively faster and tighter as he went, until the old tree finally gave up the ghost and keeled over with a thunderous crash, roots and all before he had the chance to give it a fifth helping of the good stuff. Finally allowing the boy to lower the hefty weapon in his hands and catch a much-needed breath.

"...Not bad, Toryn." The older of the two said, after giving the lad a moment or two to suck in all the air he wanted into his tired little body. "We just might make a warrior of you yet."

At that, the boy cocked a brow between ragged breaths and cast a quizzical glance towards the man, whose face— an aged and weathered reflection of his own; with those bright green eyes he'd inherited over a twice-broken nose and under a short cut of greying brown hair— simply met him with a cheeky half-smile. And a pair of raised hands.

Immediately, Toryn's eyes snapped back down to the weapon in his grip, and then back again. Realizing finally that he'd been holding the damned thing completely unassisted for some time now and trying to rack his brain to remember exactly when that happened.

His grandpa, for his part, merely snorted at the display.

"...Well, once you learn to pay attention, that is."

---

"Grah...FUH-!" Toryn let out with all the grace of a constipated tauntaun as the compression and kickback of the shuttle's landing struts jostled him awake... specifically by the loud 'clang!' of his armoured head against the bulkhead next to him from where he sat, semi-sprawled and previously passed out in the back corner of the ship. Growling under his breath; "...Alright, I'm up, I'm up..."

Rising with a chorus a cracks, snaps and pops from joints and vertebra that always seemed to have a negative opinion to share these days, our Mando cast a quick glance over his surroundings. The gaze of his visor very calmly drifting to each corner of the room— an old habit that hadn't gone away since his time on Taris and wasn't looking to be leaving any time soon— before he was even fully on his feet. Seeming to ease a bit when he saw a lowered loading ramp, the backs of the rest of the Knights and his fellow Apprentices and probably more importantly, a distinct absence of anything that could be immediately trying to kill him.

'Well, guess the party's started.'

Toryn thought, giving his back and shoulders one last stretch before tucking the rolled up poncho he'd been using as a pillow under his arm and stepping forward and casting a glance around at the others, gauging their body language like he'd learned through his youth and ever-so-slightly broadening his senses through the Force like Reni had taught him to not really intrude upon their thoughts so much as to just perceive what they were radiating freely, trying to get a bead on how they were handling the 'big day' so far.

The Dathomirian, Sildarg? He didn't know enough about her to make an accurate call, but he could tell she was at least a little bit nervous. Which, to be fair, they were about to casually waltz into an ancient ruin on a desolate planet at the very edge of known space; there was an entire genre of holo-cinema about how bad of an idea that usually was. Hell; him, Kada and Nova had watched at least three of those flicks on the way here just to pass the time. So that was perfectly reasonable. Airus? Quite the opposite. Full-on Gung-ho-Joe, that guy; talking about The Force and how bloody great it was to be here, how powerful this place made him feel—

Toryn had to reel back from the Force real quick, that level of sheer, undiluted sunshine was starting to hurt a little.

Mala, from what he could tell, seemed almost nostalgic to be here. Which made sense, her being one of the few Jedi of the Old Order left, though Toryn made a point of not digging much further than that. Being very aware of what the Knights of old thought of his people and not particularly wanting to accidentally provoke a confrontation. On the opposite end of that spectrum, there was Reni; a pacifist, a technophobe, an open book— pretty much Toryn's exact opposite in every conceivable way... which is probably why the got along as well as they did. So much so that it'd almost become an unspoken game between them; every time the Mirialan got the normally-reserved Mando to crack, laugh or be more open? That was a point to her, just as any time he could catch her off guard by just being himself— or better yet, make her burst out laughing with a precise application of the laconic Mandalorian wit she was supposed to hate— that was a point to him.

It was... strange comparing Reni to the stories of Jedi he'd heard as a boy. 'Ori'buyce, kih'kovid.' his grandpa would say about them; 'All helmet, no head.'. An order so convinced of their own righteousness and authority that they believed any who would dare oppose or even disagree with them by definition must be evil and in need of 'Excision'. A word that held a very particular kind of venom amongst his people; a kind that could only be birthed when a foe attacks unprovoked, devastates your worlds, kills three quarters of the population and then doesn't even have the nerve to call it a war. Merely an operation, like the removal of a tumor or an unsightly wart.

Reni... Wasn't like that. And learning from and working with her these past few months had... altered... his perception of what was meant to be his people's oldest adversary.

And he could almost be certain that his grandpa— wherever he was in the stars, amongst the Fallen Kings— would probably approve if he's watching... Even if his Mirialan Master occasionally did weird stuff like stepping out into the middle of a snowstorm in her bare feet while looking damned happy about it.

...Actually, scratch that, Gramps was probably laughing his ass off right now.

A warm little almost-chuckle escaped him at the thought as he shook his head. Which distracted juuuust long enough that he only noticed Nova's attempt to emulate their master too late to try and stop her. And from the way she shot up half-way into orbit and bolted back inside almost the exact second her toes hit the powder, he really didn't need the Force to figure out what was going on in her head.

A snort escaped him— Reni's first point for the day— as he unfurled and slipped on his poncho; his armour by itself was warm enough, being rated for the void in space and all, but it tended to get starkly less so if the armourweave got soaked in the snow or his beskar began to ice up. Taking his time to adjust it to his comfort, run a gloved hand against the soft fabric and admire the old Taung patterns his mum had woven into the garment while he waited for the little blonde terror to finish tearing apart the lockers in the back of the shuttle in search of warmer clothes.

...And to be perfectly honest, Reni very nearly scored another point in absentia when Nova came half-trundling, half-waddling past him in hell knows how many layers. Pressing on into the Ilum with a fiery (if clumsy) determination that would have made her faceplant into the white stuff had Toryn not immediately started following behind and been there to give her a firm yank back upward he wasn't sure she even felt through all her insulation.

"Too many layers, Kiddo. Makes you work harder to move, which makes you sweat." Came the semi-electronic crack of Toryn's voice through his helmet. His advice sharp and direct, though spoken with an almost gentle patience one rarely expected from a Mandalorian. "And when that happens, you'll really start to feel cold."

For good measure, he kept his grip on the back of her jacket, whether she was aware of it or not for the rest of the way into the temple. The sooner the kid got outta the wind, preferably with the least amount of slips, trips and falls possible the better.

It also helped Toryn keep his mind off the growing pressure in the back of his brain, one that only grew with every step he took to the entrance of this place.

---

Entering the temple after a few more near-misses on the way from the shuttle, Toryn finally released his grip on the back of the young pilot's jacket and gave her a quick brushing off; The would-be Mando Jedi surmising that his junior might not have the mobility in her arms right now before grabbing hold of his own poncho and giving it a quick shaking out. Throwing the now snow-free garment over his shoulder as an ad-hoc cape when he was done as his visor once again calmly scanned about the main chamber as he had done in the shuttle earlier— as he did whenever he entered any room, in fact— the Mandalorian making a quick mental note of all the information that popped up in the slight orange tinge of his HUD as it adjusted to the lower levels of light; the composition and density of the stone, crevices that could be hidden in, potential angles of attack and calculations for firing solutions that would optimally respond to each... that kind of thing.

This place was... old. Toryn didn't need his scanner to know that, he could outright feel it in his bones; That 'pressure' he felt in his head earlier on the way in having migrated down and spread through the rest of his body. It didn't fill him with trepidation or anything like dread, mind you, but it did force him to stretch out his senses and pay closer attention to his surroundings.

He knew this feeling, because he'd been in places like this before; Albeit, without realizing why he'd felt it at the time... But all that aside, if his experience was anything to go by, Toryn knew that his day was likely to get very complicated, very soon.

“Well, Toryn, what do you think? Is it everything you imagined? Perhaps even more?”

Quickly, Toryn's visor snapped down to face the Mirialan. Finding her posed ramrod straight in direct parody of the temple around them and with a goofily-constructed, deliberately over-serious expression that even she was having trouble holding together with any semblance of control.

Immediately his shoulders relaxed slightly, and he loosed a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding in.

...Tag another point to the Green Lady.

"Of course." Came Toryn's wry reply, as he reached into one of the pouches on his belt and tossed Reni one of the fruit-bars he'd made before they left D'qar, likewise tossing another to the side Nova's way. "Because only the Jedi could ever build something so big, yet so very bland."

Giving his head a bit of a shake to rid himself of any remnant of that earlier tension, he fished a third bar for himself— sour, instead of sweet and made of a different fruit than the other two, as he still wasn't entirely confident that either of the other members of their three-string band were quite ready for the Mandalorian definition of 'sour' yet— and unwrapped it before pulling up his helmet slightly to take a bite. Offering a rare glimpse of the man beneath... Or at the very least, the pale skin and brown stubble around his jaw, and the long, often overlapping spider-line scars from shrapnel that traveled down his left cheek and intersected over the corner of his mouth on their way down to his chin.

"...Still, nothing that can't be fixed by an Alsakani with two days wages and a few cans of paint."

He added, piling on the sacrilege and heresies without skipping a beat as he took another bite of his snack. Lip noticeably curling upward in a wry grin as he chewed.

Star Wars: Jedi Academy

Sweeeeeet...

Star Wars: Jedi Academy

Toryn Dral

Toryn Dral

(Have some mood music)

Species:

Human

Gender:

Male

Age:

23

Appearance:

In true Mandalorian fashion (according to almost every Coruscanti holo-vid ever made at least), the most striking thing about Toryn looks is... well, how little most know about it, what with how downright shy the Mandalorian is to be seen outside of his armour. Though a brief glance at the report drafted up by the Academy's medical examiner upon his arrival may provide some insight into exactly why this is; the dispassionate, clinical record noting the presence of scarring from blaster fire, shrapnel and vibro-weaponry throughout much of his body, with a not-insignificant amount of metal fragments still lodged in the Mando's torso in areas where they'd be risky to remove surgically. Additionally, the good Doctor describes at length a series a chemical burns traveling up Toryn's right arm into his shoulder— the apparent legacy of an inopportune breach in his armourweave in the middle of an Imperial gas attack during the Mandalorian Revolt— and that his left eye is, in fact, a cloned replacement; a procedure of questionable legality at best owing to it's chances of unforeseen complication.

What most do know, however, is that Toryn stands at around 5'9" and though not shaped like a bodybuilder or powerlifter, must be built with incredibly dense, potent musculature with how he carries himself and what can be gleaned through the shifting and flexing of his apparent uniform— that being his usual combination of armourweave, Jedi robes and beskar'gam. And, of course the sight of his scarred, sometimes stubbly mouth and chin on those occasions where he tilts his helmet up slightly to eat something. Often with a wry little smirk if he catches someone staring as he does so.

Rank:

Apprentice

Personality:

Reserved, extraordinarily clever and strong-willed, Toryn at first comes across as a consummate— if dispassionate— professional. That's not to say he's in anyway cold or unfriendly, mind you, and can in fact be almost charming in his own fashion, in spite of how he wields his bone-dry wit like a weapon. More that the man in question is an extraordinarily private person; rarely talking about himself nor sharing what he's thinking or showing what he's really feeling at any given moment and responding to any questions about any of the above with either a well-timed joke to change the topic or as laconic a response as possible to end the conversation right there. Seemingly preferring instead to focus on whatever task he has at hand in the moment and generally treating his (albeit, brief) time at the Order up to this point as just another job and wanting to keep some measure of professional distance himself and his peers.

...Though that doesn't quite tell the whole story.

For while he rarely shares much of himself, Toryn never disparages others for doing so and is always willing to listen patiently and, more importantly, help if needed. Asking nothing in return and more often than not, without actually being asked. Then there's his service history to consider, both during the war and what little record exists of his mercenary activities thereafter; the former, where he'd developed a reputation for nigh-suicidal charges into harm's way to save his comrades— Mandalorian or not— and the latter, where he became known for only taking on very certain kinds of jobs, often for less pay (or none at all) to put some mad warlord or depraved crimeboss into the dirt.

These things speak to a deeper well of compassion than Toryn will likely ever admit. And provide vital context to how, even if he never asks or is ever asked to be, he always seems to know his role— as the unbreakable rock that can always be relied upon to do what needs to be done. Or die trying.

...Even if people like Kada Vaa would note with concern that he was a much happier and less closed-off man when they first met two years ago.

Also a whole lot less shy about taking off his helmet.

Lightsaber:

Standard single-hilt with an orange kyber crytal. Though he has at least drawn up some blueprints for a crossguard design in his free time.

Skills:

Veteran Supercommando: Trained since the day he could walk in armour and hold a blaster like all good Mando boys and girls, Toryn was— to put it bluntly— extremely, alarmingly, damn-well terrifyingly good at his old job. Which, though his career has taken a rather drastic turn recently, still grants him a unique well of experience and talents to draw from amongst the majority of Luke's New Jedi Order.

(Slightly Modified) Form VI Niman: During his short time at the Academy, Toryn's main focus in regards to lightsaber training has been in the Way of the Rancor, valuing it for it's versatility and flexibility over the more rote and automatic movements of the more 'aggressive' styles. He's also found it to be more open than others to some level of adaptation, and has been quietly experimenting with incorporating techniques from Mandalorian swordplay into it to truly make it his own.

Efficient Armourer/Weaponsmith: "A Mando that doesn't know how to take care of his own kit is a Mando that ain't gonna live very long."; a lesson Toryn took to heart at a very young age. Being not only skilled at taking care of his own gear, but also being capable of something approaching Mandalorian Murder Sorcery if left alone at a workbench with rudimentary tools, half his weight in coffee and of course, malicious intent.

That's not to say this talent of his exists exclusively in the confines of a workshop, however. For Toryn does have a bit of a reputation for improvising in the field; being known for shenanigans ranging from jury-rigging an improvised thermal detonator from a half-dozen tibanna gas cylinders, a wooden stick and some duct tape to things like blowing out a mainframe on the other side of a building by ripping the fuse out of an ion grenade and shoving it into the right place inside a wall panel.

Decent Pilot: Having grown up on and around starships most of his life, Toryn's not too bad behind the controls of most craft. Though, he'll be the first to admit that there's better pilots out there.

Ad-Hoc Ship Mechanic: As the note above, Toryn has a pretty good handle on how to keep most starships up and running or, failing that, knows enough that he can figure it out most of the time through some brief trial and error and just a liiiitle bit of redneckery. Though if someone comes along who's an actual mechanic by trade, he's more than happy to let them take the lead and just be the extra set of hands or the guy holding the light.

Sketch Artist: A talent picked up over the war years when there was an excess of 'Hurry up and wait'. Honestly, he's actually pretty good at it; not just with blueprints for weapons, but people and especially scenery and architecture. Though he hasn't really had the spark to do it in a while.

Culinary Skill: Among his own people, considered a pretty good cook. Though it's also worth bearing in mind that the Mandalorian flavour palette can fall anywhere between 'Very Spicy' to 'HELP ME I AM MELTING', so Toryn's cooking might also count as just a bit of a warcrime when served among the wider galaxy.

Equipment:

Beskar'gam: Toryn's signature armour. Passed down unto him from his grandfather, who in turn had received from his own in a chain of hand-me-down going back generations, to which it owes it's somewhat 'vintage' appearance. Still, includes all the necessities for modern operations; a visor with multiple vision modes, a comms suite built into the helmet, the ability to seal itself atmospherically to protect against hostile environments or the void of space, magnetic hook-ups on the back for a jet-pack and on the soles of the boots to latch onto a hull or deck in the void if the need arises, etc...

Vintage Mandalorian Pistol: Another relic from his grandpa's day— a blaster pistol made for killing other Mandalorians. Hits like a damned truck, though the recoil takes some getting used to...

Lightsaber: Exactly what it says on the tin, a good ol' trusty lasersword.

Kal: Mandalorian fighting knife. Usually hidden in a boot.

Red Scarf: Hand-woven from a comfortable, fire-proof armourweave-based fabric by his mum. He's very rarely seen without it.

Personal Effects:

The Beskar'Ham: A cute little plushie of an anthropomorphic pig wearing Mandalorian armour; a gift from a little twi'lek girl he encountered during the Liberation of Taris. Has a place of honour on the desk in Toryn's quarters.

Bes'bev'ika: Traditional woodwind instrument among his people, similar to an ocarina. A memento from Toryn's childhood, it sits next to the Beskar'Ham on his desk.

Assorted Others: A few photos on his desk of Toryn's family and Aliit'ika. A few more featuring some other wartime friends (often in the middle of doing some silly shit) either on the desk or hanging on the wall. A few sketchbooks he's been doodling in since he was a boy, stuff like that.

Box o' Memories: Where Toryn keeps mementos from the war, including but not limited to; a tattered, stained Imperial banner stolen half out of spite and half to make an improvised field-dressing. Some bits of shrapnel that tried and failed to kill him, a few medals from the New Republic he's still not entirely sure how to feel about and a war-journal. Kept under his bed, out of sight and out of mind.

Weakness:

Mandalorian Complications: As a Mandalorian, Toryn already stands out almost immediately in any given crowd. Couple that with the reputation his people have developed over the course of a few thousand years and the post-war friction between Coruscant and Mandalore and he will most assuredly at best be incredibly unwelcome in most parts of the Core Worlds and the subject of constant suspicion, even amongst his fellow Jedi.

Old Wounds: One doesn't spend almost half their life at war and come out completely unscathed, and Toryn is no exception. From the grievous scars cover much of his body, the painful (and loud) cracking of his bones in the morning and a few times throughout the day and the occasional migraine brought about by his transplanted eye, it's pretty easy to surmise that the man is almost always in some kind of physical pain.

This does not tell the entire story however, as the Academy's medical staff have discretely noted down and passed on to the Knights and Master Skywalker that— even with all that Toryn has been through— much of this pain appears to be psychosomatic in nature. Coupled with frequent nightmares and the relatively recent appearance of an intermittent tremor in his hands whenever he's idle or left to let his mind wander (yet curiously vanishes when he's under stress or given something to do) which point to a much more alarming problem, one that is only compounded by his outright refusal to talk about it, if he's even aware of it at all.

Background:

Born to a House of Mandalorians that chose exile to the stars in the years after the Civil War as opposed to sharing a broken moon with the Death Watch— whom they viewed with a special kind of disgust— or throwing down their weapons and armour and joining the so-called 'New Mandalorians' in Sundari, who had preached and screamed about peace the entire conflict but hadn't lifted a finger to help anyone that didn't immediately buy into their ideals. Toryn's childhood was... actually kinda normal for a Mando kid, all things considered; despite growing up on a nomadic flotilla of Clan ships instead of anywhere in the Home Sector, him and his Aliit'ika (lit: 'Little Clan', his closest friends growing up) still went through the same beats as just about any other would— albeit, probably with a bit more intensity given the circumstances and the need of the Clans to have as many many hands working as they could.

About thirty seconds after he could walk, talk and hold a blaster (just enough time for mum and dad to stop cheering and his big sister to stop hugging him) he began to learn how to fight. By the age of six, he was apprenticed to an Armourer, repairing and maintaining gear for the teams that'd be sent out on Merc Detail to earn the House money and supplies in addition to his regular training. By twelve, he and his Aliit'ika were finally put out into the field on Recon Duty to 'Learn the Ancient Art of Sneak-and-Peak' as his grandpa put it and by sixteen him and the whole lot of his friends were finally inducted into the Ori'ramikad; The Supercommandos.

Juuuust in time for the rise of the woman who'd become known as Mandalore the Liberator. Who, enraged by the state of her homeworld— ruled by a brutal Imperial Collaborationist regime under the remnants of the Death Watch, disarmed and enslaved by Zygerrian slavers given free reign to drag anyone they pleased out of their homes to work until dead in the mines to fuel the Imperial war-machine or off-world to Zygerria itself where an even worse fate awaited them— would rally the disparate Nomadic clans scattered across the galaxy (those of Toryn's House included) and come home with sword in hand and wrath in her heart. Where she and the Nomads would link up with Fenn Shysa and his insurgent Mandalorian Protectors, and together form the nucleus of an organized Mandalorian Army.

Thus began the The Great Mandalorian Revolt.

A short, but brutal affair that would see not just the homeworld, but the entire Mandalore Sector erupt in flames. Where the Imperials (still reeling from the loss at Yavin), the Collaborator Regime and the Zygerrians would go blind with absolute panic trying to quell the uprising. Even resorting to terror-bombing and gas attacks on their labour camps, mines and whole cities. Only to find that not only did that not work— in fact, it only seemed to make the Mandos fight harder— but that it also caught the attention of the wider Rebel Alliance who were more than happy to run all kinds of guns into the sector, raiding any Imperial shipping going in and out of it and watch with all kinds of glee as the Empire suffered all kinds of consequences for sticking their proverbial schlongs in the Mother of all Hornet Nests.

This would be Toryn's trial by fire. Well, one of many as Mandalore— now free and very heavily armed thanks to smugglers from the Alliance, the seizure of all the arms and armour previously confiscated by the Death Watch and the discovery of a colossal vein of Beskar— aligned itself to the Rebel cause, joining the left flank of the Hydian-Perlemian campaign; both to tie up Imperial resources in the Galactic North and away from the Rebellion advances further south but also to relieve pressure on the vital shipyards of Mon Calamari. So, for the next two years, Toryn and his Aliit'ika would be constantly on the move and constantly fighting; in places like Taris, which rapidly devolved into a close quarters, three-dimensional slog as they took the city-planet room by room by blasting through walls and floors, or the dense forested highlands of Serenno or the open plains of Telos.

Or Mirial, which our boy remembers quite fondly for the fact that by the time they all got there, the Imps had already bugged the hell out. Allowing him to spend basically an entire week just napping and another after that acquainting himself with two of what would become some of his favourite words in the entire Galactic Dictionary: Mirialan Barbeque.

He'd need that reprieve before his next destination—

Zygerria. Where the Imps he had meant to be fighting on Mirial, and most other Imperial forces in the region had pulled back to, rather alarmed at the idea of all those slaves on the planet— who had more than enough reason to hate the Empire— suddenly getting free on the literal doorstep of the factory planets of the deeper corporate sector. And so, with the remnants of the Empire's northern forces digging in for one last stand, both prongs of the New Republic campaign converging on the system with an army drawn from across the Galactic Northeast and beyond, brand new warships straight from the driveyards on Mon Calamari and the Mandalore herself assuming overall command in the absence of someone like Ackbar— who was busy fighting his way into the core— the stage was now set for the final, bloody climax of the entire Rimward Front.

If Toryn rarely speaks about the war, then he very specifically speaks of the Burning of Zygerria even less. The savage fighting, the decision of the Imps to begin 'Liquidating Living Assets' across the world and the subsequent reprisals by outraged Mandalorian and New Republic soldiers leaving a bitter taste in his mouth for the rest of his days. It also made the medal they stuffed into his hands afterward feel like a slap in the face... but he managed to stomach it at the time as he knew that after a slog like that, he was likely to be on leave for a while as their forces reorganized and resupplied. And by the way things were going, it was entirely likely that the whole damned war'd be over by then.

...That was right up until Toryn, now an Alor'ad (the rough equivalent of a Captain) in charge of a Company was called up by the Mandalore directly who informed the young man that she was voluntelling him and his commandos to grab their shit and get ready to move; as a New Republic Admiral by the name of Renkar had been asking for them by name for operations in the coming Battle of Jakku.

Within a week, they'd be linking up with elements of the 10th Mountain Division from Corellia, the Tarisian 2nd Airborne and a unit of SpecForce shocktroopers, most of them Alderaanian. The batshit plan the Admiral had gathered them all together for? To be inserted into the atmosphere while the Imperial Fleet was busy duking it out with Ackbar in orbit, ride low and fast to within a mile of the Kiras Plateau— a huge rock formation absolutely bristling with AA and orbital defense batteries, sneak up to it, climb a sheer rock wall for a few kilometers, seize the base and then hold it while every AT-AT, Stormtrooper and Imperial army grunt in the same timezone started saturating them from all sides. And also start taking pot-shots at the Imperial Fleet above with their own damned guns, if they had the time.

'Operation: Mynock' the Mirialan Madman had called it. And hoooo boy, was it a helluva time; with the facility itself falling quickly, but their expected relief being delayed by the dogged Imperial resistance above. Leaving them all— a few hundred effectively trapped there on the surface— trading fire from all sides and repelling whole divisions of the Stormtrooper Corps and Imperial Army coming up the gentler slope up the one side of the plateau they'd specifically avoided on the way there because they knew the Imps'd be watching it like hawks.

But on they held— despite a casualty rate approaching ninety percent. Until finally, the New Republic fleet managed to break through and without the batteries on the Kiras Plateau to worry about, had free reign to deploy fighter squadrons and landingcraft en masse for miles around it. Finally bringing relief to the beleaguered defenders, who were cycled out on the first available ship.

Fighting would continue for months afterward, of course. But for Toryn and those on the plateau? The war was effectively over. Toryn and his Aliit'ika (what was left of them, anyway) would largely begin to part ways over the months following the official peace treaty, some staying, most of them going into civilian jobs, a few of them into teaching or private contracting and one or two just seeming to vanish altogether. Toryn for his part, would stay on with the Mandalorian Army— as, by that point, it was damn near the only thing he knew— eventually reaching the rank of Al'verde (Major) and spending much of the next three years either operating in Mandalorian Space itself, loaned out to the New Republic as a mercenary to 'Solve Problems' when they came up and every once in a while popping down to Anaxes with a few Supercommandos to play OpFor during military exercises; traumatizing an entire generation of New Republic recruits as the 'Scary Guy in the Woods' despite being not that much older than most of them and actually younger than a few.

Honestly? It was a life that suited him. He was out there actually helping the damned Galaxy, in his own little way and, despite a cooling of relations between Coruscant and Mandalore caused by some Senators from the former calling for the annexation of the latter and not being particularly impressed by the Mandalore's official reply of an actual paper note with the words "Fuck Off." written upon it in cursive High Galactic text, actually felt pretty damned good about it.

...But then one day, Toryn simply vanished. Him and his team seemingly dropping off the radar completely for nearly two years, until he was found— alone— at a bar on Terminus of all places by a Jedi recruiter chasing a funny feeling in the Force. Now a much colder and more reserved man than he'd been before his absence and not at all forthcoming about where he'd been, where his team was or what he'd been doing all this time.

He did, however, agree to hear said recruiter out. But only on the condition that he be allowed to travel home first to see his folks, to let them know he was alive, to pick up some of his things and also to make his report to the Mandalore— Who, upon hearing that he was being scouted by the Jedi Order, ordered him to go anyway.

In the months since, he's lived as an Apprentice among the Order. Studious, hard working and with a whole lot less incident than many thought would be the case with a Mandalorian enrolled in the academy, but still very closed off about where he'd gone and why they'd found him at the very edge of the Unknown Regions of all things.

Star Wars: Jedi Academy

Finished!

Star Wars: Jedi Academy

Just throwing up a WIP to show I haven't been procrastinating this whole time.

Edit: DONE!

Toryn Dral

Toryn Dral

(Have some mood music)

Species:

Human

Gender:

Male

Age:

23

Appearance:

In true Mandalorian fashion (according to almost every Coruscanti holo-vid ever made at least), the most striking thing about Toryn looks is... well, how little most know about it, what with how downright shy the Mandalorian is to be seen outside of his armour. Though a brief glance at the report drafted up by the Academy's medical examiner upon his arrival may provide some insight into exactly why this is; the dispassionate, clinical record noting the presence of scarring from blaster fire, shrapnel and vibro-weaponry throughout much of his body, with a not-insignificant amount of metal fragments still lodged in the Mando's torso in areas where they'd be risky to remove surgically. Additionally, the good Doctor describes at length a series a chemical burns traveling up Toryn's right arm into his shoulder— the apparent legacy of an inopportune breach in his armourweave in the middle of an Imperial gas attack during the Mandalorian Revolt— and that his left eye is, in fact, a cloned replacement; a procedure of questionable legality at best owing to it's chances of unforeseen complication.

What most do know, however, is that Toryn stands at around 5'9" and though not shaped like a bodybuilder or powerlifter, must be built with incredibly dense, potent musculature with how he carries himself and what can be gleaned through the shifting and flexing of his apparent uniform— that being his usual combination of armourweave, Jedi robes and beskar'gam. And, of course the sight of his scarred, sometimes stubbly mouth and chin on those occasions where he tilts his helmet up slightly to eat something. Often with a wry little smirk if he catches someone staring as he does so.

Rank:

Apprentice

Personality:

Reserved, extraordinarily clever and strong-willed, Toryn at first comes across as a consummate— if dispassionate— professional. That's not to say he's in anyway cold or unfriendly, mind you, and can in fact be almost charming in his own fashion, in spite of how he wields his bone-dry wit like a weapon. More that the man in question is an extraordinarily private person; rarely talking about himself nor sharing what he's thinking or showing what he's really feeling at any given moment and responding to any questions about any of the above with either a well-timed joke to change the topic or as laconic a response as possible to end the conversation right there. Seemingly preferring instead to focus on whatever task he has at hand in the moment and generally treating his (albeit, brief) time at the Order up to this point as just another job and wanting to keep some measure of professional distance himself and his peers.

...Though that doesn't quite tell the whole story.

For while he rarely shares much of himself, Toryn never disparages others for doing so and is always willing to listen patiently and, more importantly, help if needed. Asking nothing in return and more often than not, without actually being asked. Then there's his service history to consider, both during the war and what little record exists of his mercenary activities thereafter; the former, where he'd developed a reputation for nigh-suicidal charges into harm's way to save his comrades— Mandalorian or not— and the latter, where he became known for only taking on very certain kinds of jobs, often for less pay (or none at all) to put some mad warlord or depraved crimeboss into the dirt.

These things speak to a deeper well of compassion than Toryn will likely ever admit. And provide vital context to how, even if he never asks or is ever asked to be, he always seems to know his role— as the unbreakable rock that can always be relied upon to do what needs to be done. Or die trying.

...Even if people like Kada Vaa would note with concern that he was a much happier and less closed-off man when they first met two years ago.

Also a whole lot less shy about taking off his helmet.

Lightsaber:

Standard single-hilt with an orange kyber crytal. Though he has at least drawn up some blueprints for a crossguard design in his free time.

Skills:

Veteran Supercommando: Trained since the day he could walk in armour and hold a blaster like all good Mando boys and girls, Toryn was— to put it bluntly— extremely, alarmingly, damn-well terrifyingly good at his old job. Which, though his career has taken a rather drastic turn recently, still grants him a unique well of experience and talents to draw from amongst the majority of Luke's New Jedi Order.

(Slightly Modified) Form VI Niman: During his short time at the Academy, Toryn's main focus in regards to lightsaber training has been in the Way of the Rancor, valuing it for it's versatility and flexibility over the more rote and automatic movements of the more 'aggressive' styles. He's also found it to be more open than others to some level of adaptation, and has been quietly experimenting with incorporating techniques from Mandalorian swordplay into it to truly make it his own.

Efficient Armourer/Weaponsmith: "A Mando that doesn't know how to take care of his own kit is a Mando that ain't gonna live very long."; a lesson Toryn took to heart at a very young age. Being not only skilled at taking care of his own gear, but also being capable of something approaching Mandalorian Murder Sorcery if left alone at a workbench with rudimentary tools, half his weight in coffee and of course, malicious intent.

That's not to say this talent of his exists exclusively in the confines of a workshop, however. For Toryn does have a bit of a reputation for improvising in the field; being known for shenanigans ranging from jury-rigging an improvised thermal detonator from a half-dozen tibanna gas cylinders, a wooden stick and some duct tape to things like blowing out a mainframe on the other side of a building by ripping the fuse out of an ion grenade and shoving it into the right place inside a wall panel.

Decent Pilot: Having grown up on and around starships most of his life, Toryn's not too bad behind the controls of most craft. Though, he'll be the first to admit that there's better pilots out there.

Ad-Hoc Ship Mechanic: As the note above, Toryn has a pretty good handle on how to keep most starships up and running or, failing that, knows enough that he can figure it out most of the time through some brief trial and error and just a liiiitle bit of redneckery. Though if someone comes along who's an actual mechanic by trade, he's more than happy to let them take the lead and just be the extra set of hands or the guy holding the light.

Sketch Artist: A talent picked up over the war years when there was an excess of 'Hurry up and wait'. Honestly, he's actually pretty good at it; not just with blueprints for weapons, but people and especially scenery and architecture. Though he hasn't really had the spark to do it in a while.

Culinary Skill: Among his own people, considered a pretty good cook. Though it's also worth bearing in mind that the Mandalorian flavour palette can fall anywhere between 'Very Spicy' to 'HELP ME I AM MELTING', so Toryn's cooking might also count as just a bit of a warcrime when served among the wider galaxy.

Equipment:

Beskar'gam: Toryn's signature armour. Passed down unto him from his grandfather, who in turn had received from his own in a chain of hand-me-down going back generations, to which it owes it's somewhat 'vintage' appearance. Still, includes all the necessities for modern operations; a visor with multiple vision modes, a comms suite built into the helmet, the ability to seal itself atmospherically to protect against hostile environments or the void of space, magnetic hook-ups on the back for a jet-pack and on the soles of the boots to latch onto a hull or deck in the void if the need arises, etc...

Vintage Mandalorian Pistol: Another relic from his grandpa's day— a blaster pistol made for killing other Mandalorians. Hits like a damned truck, though the recoil takes some getting used to...

Lightsaber: Exactly what it says on the tin, a good ol' trusty lasersword.

Kal: Mandalorian fighting knife. Usually hidden in a boot.

Red Scarf: Hand-woven from a comfortable, fire-proof armourweave-based fabric by his mum. He's very rarely seen without it.

Personal Effects:

The Beskar'Ham: A cute little plushie of an anthropomorphic pig wearing Mandalorian armour; a gift from a little twi'lek girl he encountered during the Liberation of Taris. Has a place of honour on the desk in Toryn's quarters.

Bes'bev'ika: Traditional woodwind instrument among his people, similar to an ocarina. A memento from Toryn's childhood, it sits next to the Beskar'Ham on his desk.

Assorted Others: A few photos on his desk of Toryn's family and Aliit'ika. A few more featuring some other wartime friends (often in the middle of doing some silly shit) either on the desk or hanging on the wall. A few sketchbooks he's been doodling in since he was a boy, stuff like that.

Box o' Memories: Where Toryn keeps mementos from the war, including but not limited to; a tattered, stained Imperial banner stolen half out of spite and half to make an improvised field-dressing. Some bits of shrapnel that tried and failed to kill him, a few medals from the New Republic he's still not entirely sure how to feel about and a war-journal. Kept under his bed, out of sight and out of mind.

Weakness:

Mandalorian Complications: As a Mandalorian, Toryn already stands out almost immediately in any given crowd. Couple that with the reputation his people have developed over the course of a few thousand years and the post-war friction between Coruscant and Mandalore and he will most assuredly at best be incredibly unwelcome in most parts of the Core Worlds and the subject of constant suspicion, even amongst his fellow Jedi.

Old Wounds: One doesn't spend almost half their life at war and come out completely unscathed, and Toryn is no exception. From the grievous scars cover much of his body, the painful (and loud) cracking of his bones in the morning and a few times throughout the day and the occasional migraine brought about by his transplanted eye, it's pretty easy to surmise that the man is almost always in some kind of physical pain.

This does not tell the entire story however, as the Academy's medical staff have discretely noted down and passed on to the Knights and Master Skywalker that— even with all that Toryn has been through— much of this pain appears to be psychosomatic in nature. Coupled with frequent nightmares and the relatively recent appearance of an intermittent tremor in his hands whenever he's idle or left to let his mind wander (yet curiously vanishes when he's under stress or given something to do) which point to a much more alarming problem, one that is only compounded by his outright refusal to talk about it, if he's even aware of it at all.

Background:

Born to a House of Mandalorians that chose exile to the stars in the years after the Civil War as opposed to sharing a broken moon with the Death Watch— whom they viewed with a special kind of disgust— or throwing down their weapons and armour and joining the so-called 'New Mandalorians' in Sundari, who had preached and screamed about peace the entire conflict but hadn't lifted a finger to help anyone that didn't immediately buy into their ideals. Toryn's childhood was... actually kinda normal for a Mando kid, all things considered; despite growing up on a nomadic flotilla of Clan ships instead of anywhere in the Home Sector, him and his Aliit'ika (lit: 'Little Clan', his closest friends growing up) still went through the same beats as just about any other would— albeit, probably with a bit more intensity given the circumstances and the need of the Clans to have as many many hands working as they could.

About thirty seconds after he could walk, talk and hold a blaster (just enough time for mum and dad to stop cheering and his big sister to stop hugging him) he began to learn how to fight. By the age of six, he was apprenticed to an Armourer, repairing and maintaining gear for the teams that'd be sent out on Merc Detail to earn the House money and supplies in addition to his regular training. By twelve, he and his Aliit'ika were finally put out into the field on Recon Duty to 'Learn the Ancient Art of Sneak-and-Peak' as his grandpa put it and by sixteen him and the whole lot of his friends were finally inducted into the Ori'ramikad; The Supercommandos.

Juuuust in time for the rise of the woman who'd become known as Mandalore the Liberator. Who, enraged by the state of her homeworld— ruled by a brutal Imperial Collaborationist regime under the remnants of the Death Watch, disarmed and enslaved by Zygerrian slavers given free reign to drag anyone they pleased out of their homes to work until dead in the mines to fuel the Imperial war-machine or off-world to Zygerria itself where an even worse fate awaited them— would rally the disparate Nomadic clans scattered across the galaxy (those of Toryn's House included) and come home with sword in hand and wrath in her heart. Where she and the Nomads would link up with Fenn Shysa and his insurgent Mandalorian Protectors, and together form the nucleus of an organized Mandalorian Army.

Thus began the The Great Mandalorian Revolt.

A short, but brutal affair that would see not just the homeworld, but the entire Mandalore Sector erupt in flames. Where the Imperials (still reeling from the loss at Yavin), the Collaborator Regime and the Zygerrians would go blind with absolute panic trying to quell the uprising. Even resorting to terror-bombing and gas attacks on their labour camps, mines and whole cities. Only to find that not only did that not work— in fact, it only seemed to make the Mandos fight harder— but that it also caught the attention of the wider Rebel Alliance who were more than happy to run all kinds of guns into the sector, raiding any Imperial shipping going in and out of it and watch with all kinds of glee as the Empire suffered all kinds of consequences for sticking their proverbial schlongs in the Mother of all Hornet Nests.

This would be Toryn's trial by fire. Well, one of many as Mandalore— now free and very heavily armed thanks to smugglers from the Alliance, the seizure of all the arms and armour previously confiscated by the Death Watch and the discovery of a colossal vein of Beskar— aligned itself to the Rebel cause, joining the left flank of the Hydian-Perlemian campaign; both to tie up Imperial resources in the Galactic North and away from the Rebellion advances further south but also to relieve pressure on the vital shipyards of Mon Calamari. So, for the next two years, Toryn and his Aliit'ika would be constantly on the move and constantly fighting; in places like Taris, which rapidly devolved into a close quarters, three-dimensional slog as they took the city-planet room by room by blasting through walls and floors, or the dense forested highlands of Serenno or the open plains of Telos.

Or Mirial, which our boy remembers quite fondly for the fact that by the time they all got there, the Imps had already bugged the hell out. Allowing him to spend basically an entire week just napping and another after that acquainting himself with two of what would become some of his favourite words in the entire Galactic Dictionary: Mirialan Barbeque.

He'd need that reprieve before his next destination—

Zygerria. Where the Imps he had meant to be fighting on Mirial, and most other Imperial forces in the region had pulled back to, rather alarmed at the idea of all those slaves on the planet— who had more than enough reason to hate the Empire— suddenly getting free on the literal doorstep of the factory planets of the deeper corporate sector. And so, with the remnants of the Empire's northern forces digging in for one last stand, both prongs of the New Republic campaign converging on the system with an army drawn from across the Galactic Northeast and beyond, brand new warships straight from the driveyards on Mon Calamari and the Mandalore herself assuming overall command in the absence of someone like Ackbar— who was busy fighting his way into the core— the stage was now set for the final, bloody climax of the entire Rimward Front.

If Toryn rarely speaks about the war, then he very specifically speaks of the Burning of Zygerria even less. The savage fighting, the decision of the Imps to begin 'Liquidating Living Assets' across the world and the subsequent reprisals by outraged Mandalorian and New Republic soldiers leaving a bitter taste in his mouth for the rest of his days. It also made the medal they stuffed into his hands afterward feel like a slap in the face... but he managed to stomach it at the time as he knew that after a slog like that, he was likely to be on leave for a while as their forces reorganized and resupplied. And by the way things were going, it was entirely likely that the whole damned war'd be over by then.

...That was right up until Toryn, now an Alor'ad (the rough equivalent of a Captain) in charge of a Company was called up by the Mandalore directly who informed the young man that she was voluntelling him and his commandos to grab their shit and get ready to move; as a New Republic Admiral by the name of Renkar had been asking for them by name for operations in the coming Battle of Jakku.

Within a week, they'd be linking up with elements of the 10th Mountain Division from Corellia, the Tarisian 2nd Airborne and a unit of SpecForce shocktroopers, most of them Alderaanian. The batshit plan the Admiral had gathered them all together for? To be inserted into the atmosphere while the Imperial Fleet was busy duking it out with Ackbar in orbit, ride low and fast to within a mile of the Kiras Plateau— a huge rock formation absolutely bristling with AA and orbital defense batteries, sneak up to it, climb a sheer rock wall for a few kilometers, seize the base and then hold it while every AT-AT, Stormtrooper and Imperial army grunt in the same timezone started saturating them from all sides. And also start taking pot-shots at the Imperial Fleet above with their own damned guns, if they had the time.

'Operation: Mynock' the Mirialan Madman had called it. And hoooo boy, was it a helluva time; with the facility itself falling quickly, but their expected relief being delayed by the dogged Imperial resistance above. Leaving them all— a few hundred effectively trapped there on the surface— trading fire from all sides and repelling whole divisions of the Stormtrooper Corps and Imperial Army coming up the gentler slope up the one side of the plateau they'd specifically avoided on the way there because they knew the Imps'd be watching it like hawks.

But on they held— despite a casualty rate approaching ninety percent. Until finally, the New Republic fleet managed to break through and without the batteries on the Kiras Plateau to worry about, had free reign to deploy fighter squadrons and landingcraft en masse for miles around it. Finally bringing relief to the beleaguered defenders, who were cycled out on the first available ship.

Fighting would continue for months afterward, of course. But for Toryn and those on the plateau? The war was effectively over. Toryn and his Aliit'ika (what was left of them, anyway) would largely begin to part ways over the months following the official peace treaty, some staying, most of them going into civilian jobs, a few of them into teaching or private contracting and one or two just seeming to vanish altogether. Toryn for his part, would stay on with the Mandalorian Army— as, by that point, it was damn near the only thing he knew— eventually reaching the rank of Al'verde (Major) and spending much of the next three years either operating in Mandalorian Space itself, loaned out to the New Republic as a mercenary to 'Solve Problems' when they came up and every once in a while popping down to Anaxes with a few Supercommandos to play OpFor during military exercises; traumatizing an entire generation of New Republic recruits as the 'Scary Guy in the Woods' despite being not that much older than most of them and actually younger than a few.

Honestly? It was a life that suited him. He was out there actually helping the damned Galaxy, in his own little way and, despite a cooling of relations between Coruscant and Mandalore caused by some Senators from the former calling for the annexation of the latter and not being particularly impressed by the Mandalore's official reply of an actual paper note with the words "Fuck Off." written upon it in cursive High Galactic text, actually felt pretty damned good about it.

...But then one day, Toryn simply vanished. Him and his team seemingly dropping off the radar completely for nearly two years, until he was found— alone— at a bar on Terminus of all places by a Jedi recruiter chasing a funny feeling in the Force. Now a much colder and more reserved man than he'd been before his absence and not at all forthcoming about where he'd been, where his team was or what he'd been doing all this time.

He did, however, agree to follow said recruiter back to D'Qar. But only on the condition that he be allowed to travel home first to see his folks, to let them know he was alive, to pick up some of his things and also to make his report to the Mandalore.

In the months since, he's lived as an Apprentice among the Order. Studious, hard working and with a whole lot less incident than many thought would be the case with a Mandalorian enrolled in the academy, but still very closed off about where he'd gone and why they'd found him at the very edge of the Unknown Regions of all things.

DC Comics Roleplay: Fall of Justice

I have a GM thing I need a couple of guinea pigs volunteers for. If not I'll just have it done as a background thing, but be cool to get some people in on it.

@Sep

Uhhh... what'cha have in mind, chief?

DC Comics Roleplay: Fall of Justice

Kinda hammed it on the end there, but post's up!

DC Comics Roleplay: Fall of Justice

Dear, Bruce...

"If you've received this absolute cinder-block of a book in the mail, it means I've either finally found the balls to send it to you or some guy in a costume has managed to put me into the ground. Again.

A situation I assure you I won't be too enthused about wheresoever I might've wound up; because one premature dirt-nap was already more than enough for me, thanks.

You'll also note that I've written this whole thing with my own chicken scratch and in my own 'Particular Vernacular', as Alfred used to call it. So you'll know it's me scribbling all this junk down and not just some crackpot, crook or any combination thereof trying to get a rise out of you— Which I imagine as either you or the other you, is still a bit of problem. I even threw in some sketches, doodles and shoddily glued-in photographs here and there for good measure, both as visual aid, and so that maybe you could glean something actually useful from all these scribbled ravings of mine.

What follows in the many, many pages of this bloated tome are by no means an accusation— So don't, even for a second, go believing that any of this was your fault; I am clearly quite capable of digging my own grave, as this book will explore in exacting detail. Nor is it some half-assed plea for forgiveness, because I know it ain't coming, nor would it be deserved.

All I'm doing is telling you a story. As truthful and as uncompromising as I can remember it; the good, the bad, the ugly and the downright weird. Nothing sugar-coated.

So, first and foremost; If Alfred's nearby, hug him for me. Because I didn't do it enough when I should have and I've regretted it every day since. If he's not, go find him.

Secondly, a confession; I am, in fact, a complete and total hypocrite, a monster and an absolute fucking coward. I have, in one form another, betrayed damned near every principal and oath you ever taught me. I've used all the skills you had passed down unto me to protect those that needed it most, to instead fight, kill, murder and wage war on four separate continents and, most damning of all, I didn't even have the balls to stand before you or the rest of our your family to own up to... well, whatever the hell it is I am now.

There is no forgiving that. There sure as hell ain't any redeeming it either.

But for what it's worth, I am sorry. More than you could imagine.

...

...So anyway, about them Fuckin' Lazarus Pits..."

_{Chapter 1: Fallen Knight}

Fandingo's Fine Meats, Seattle Waterfront, 21:43

---

---

Now who's bullshit idea was it to have him hiding out in an abandoned meat-packing plant with an actual goddamn cannibal? This had B-Movie Horror written on every goddamn surface he could think of. Actually, scratch that. If this was some B-Horror, he'd at least be sporting the immaculate jawline of Bruce Goddamn Campbell. Mitch Mayo grimaced quietly as he dabbed at the beads of sweat pouring off his furrowed brow with the tomato-red handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket.

He hadn't clawed his way up from being the Condiment King, the absolute laughing stock of Gotham to put up with this shit.

It was supposed to be his first big break; the bosses in Gotham, reeling from some recent body-blows at home courtesy of the new Mayor, had sent him out here with a few good men, a nice three-piece suit and an open mandate to drum up a new revenue of income far from the reach the Commissioner, the Mayor and especially the Bat. Seattle seemed a good enough place as any to start; far to the north of the more studiously watched ports of San Francisco and Jump City but also close enough to Vancouver to cut into the fentanyl and flesh trade coming in from Asia. The only real obstacle he identified right off the hop were the local Tongs, who, though they'd largely put down their guns at some point in the nineties, still remained the largest presence within the city, acting as both power broker and mediator between the smaller local gangs and the larger groups.

Namely the local branch of the Yakuza, led by some spoiled brat with a fetish for parties and fancy cars while daddy was away overseeing things in Tokyo and the Okhrana, a particularly secretive flavour of Russian that'd been in town since at least the last Tsar kicked the bucket and rumoured to themselves be led by a Romanov. Though details on that last bit were scarce at best.

It was the Tongs, led by their 'Sifu'— a mister Chen 'Shaun' Lao— that kept the peace, kept everyone playing fair and set the rules of the game; No business where kids can see you, absolutely no human trafficking of any kind and don't poke the cops unless they poke you. Reasonable. Noble, even. The words of a man he could work with and make tidy profit alongside, given enough time.

Unfortunately, that shit wasn't gonna fly. The bosses back home wanted money now, not later and weren't at all interested in Lao or his rules. So instead they cracked open the war chest and hired him a 'Specialist' to make the magic happen.

And that's how he wound up sharing a mailing address with Flamingo, some lunatic with a fancy pink jacket and a batshit plan to kidnap the Sifu's daughter, pin it on the Yaks, have a sensible chuckle while the two tore the town apart around them killing eachother and move in on their holdings while they weren't paying attention... mixed up with a bit of going into town every once in a while to scoop up the wounded, the unsuspecting, or just anyone he happened across and fancied, to bring them back here and shove them on a meat-hook for 'Fun times and food'.

...Did he mention the part about being trapped in a meat-packing plant with a cannibal?

Because that was very relevant to how Mitch's life was going right now.

For a solid three days he'd been putting up with this insanity. And at this point, he didn't know what was worse; when Flamingo was gone and they were suddenly vulnerable to the shitstorm they'd served up all over this city and the Okhrana— whom he was convinced at this point had caught onto what they had done with how they couldn't go a block without seeing one of them— or when Flamingo was here. Terrorizing him and his men with every breath he took and occasionally throwing one on a hook when he was offended, hungry or just plain bored... hell, it'd gotten to the point where the hourly check-ins with boys patrolling the grounds was less about security and more about making sure nobody else's face had found it's way into their Specialist's stomach.

Hell, the only reason Mitch himself was probably still around was because he was the one with the paybook.

Nevermind that spot between a rock and a hard place he'd found making sure he was always standing between the Magenta-Clad Cannibal and the six year old girl they had tied up in the back of the main office (whom his own bosses would probably grill him for still being there, irrelevant as she now was) while trying desperately not to look like he was constantly between the madman and a hot meal. Sure, he was a gangster, a crook and all manner of bad shit in between— but he still had principles, dammit.

"Tick, tick, tick..." The object of his terror chided at him from his chair across the table from him, playfully tapping at his wristwatch to remind him it was check-in time.

And the start of another rousing round of 'Who's Food Now?'

Wiping at his brow one last time and swallowing hard, the sharp-dressed, now semi-liquid man picked up the squawk box and tried his level best to at least sound like he had his shit together.

"Okay boys, how are things looking out there?"

"O'Keefe here, nothing to report." Came the first reply, quick and to the point like Dan always was.

"This is Fennech, just us and the roaches out here." Joe was second, casual as ever.

"Seleukos, west side's quiet." And there was Laz. Three down, one to go.

Yup. Just one more. Any second now.

...

...Aaaany second now.

Flamingo's eyes lit up in that creepy little way that made his blood run cold.

"...Waiting on you, Peralta."

The pink-clad cannibal let out a deep, satisfied sigh as he locked his eyes with the former Condiment King. Unblinking. Smiling.

"Peralta."

That smile turned into a grin, wide and unnatural. With bleach white teeth filed down to serrated edges broken up here and there with the odd chunk of flesh sticking to the gaps between.

Mitch suddenly became aware of the sound of his own heart in his ears as a cold, black void rose up from his stomach.

"MARTY!"

More silence. And on shaky legs, Mitch slowly began to rise from his seat.

"Sorry, Boss. Caught me in the middle of takin' a leak."

At once, the shaking stopped. And Mayo flopped back into his chair.

"All's quiet out here."

"Peralta, at the best of times you only need two fingers or a set of tweezers to aim that thing— Answer your damned radio or hand it off to someone else next time."

No sooner had the radio clattered back down to the table as Mitchell visibly deflated and all but collapsed into his clammy palms, did Flamingo let out a loud, barking laugh. A shrill, demented thing.

"Oh, you are just too much fun, Mister Mayo!" The maniac managed between laughs. "I hope this little business venture never ends!"

And that's when the power went out.

---

"Set of tweezers— Go fuck yourself, Mitch!" Marty Peralta screamed back into the radio with as much vitriol all five and a half feet of him could muster as he hastily zipped up his fly, though he at least had the sense not to have the push-to-talk pressed down when he did so.

Few could blame him though, with just nineteen years and barely a hundred pounds to his existence, the kid had been the butt-monkey for this entire goddamn trip— If it wasn't Mitch chewing him out, it was Danny threatening to kick his teeth in over every little thing, Laz passing all the bitch-work his way while eating his food or, most infuriating of all, Old Man Joe looking him up and down and saying shit like; "Kid, maybe you should go home and take up welding, or something.".

And that was all before the pink guy showed up and started eating his coworkers.

Honestly, if this wasn't his one shot to move up in the family he would've high-tailed it outta here a long time ago. But as things were, he just had to shut up and take it on the chin. Not that the thought made him feel any better as he scratched at his peach fuzz of a beard and stormed back to where him and his crew were hanging out keeping watch, the lad's pace quickening as his stomach growled in want of the food he knew should be there.

At the very least, he could drown his troubles in pizza.

"You fuckers better've saved me a slice of that pie, or SO HELP ME—!" He began to roar, slamming the door open with his boot before the words abruptly died in his throat.

What was supposed to be a room full of some of Gotham's hardest instead looked more like Pablo Picasso's take on domestic abuse; One man with both hands pinned to his ass by his own knife and his face smashed through the wooden table they'd all been playing cards on. Another stuffed head first into a steel drum, the only thing visible of him being his broken, misshapen legs sticking out the top. Some other poor bastard found himself with his head stuffed through the screen of the old CRT television they'd been using, arms so broken, the bones were sticking out of his sleeves, though that little detail didn't stop his attacker from cuffing them behind him either way.

Hell, there was even some poor bastard dangling from the ceiling by his ankles; his face full of bits of glass, and every single one of his fingers bent so far back they were damn near touching his wrists.

All told, if he couldn't hear the groaning, moaning and strained breathing through broken ribs, he'd think they were all dead. If he could think of anything at all over the panicked screaming inside his own head that screamed at his body to move.

And then suddenly the lights went out. And he felt something metallic press into the back of his head.

"Sorry, Kiddo; Think I grabbed the last slice." Came a... alarmingly casual voice from behind him around a mouthful of what the young man suspected to be his pizza. "But in my defence; extra cheese? Double pep? Italian sausage? I couldn't help myself, you guys have good taste."

A cold shudder crept up his spine and he swallowed hard in fear.

...But it was damn near pitch black in here, so maybe this guy wouldn't notice his hands slowly creeping up towards his radio and his gu—

"Marty." The man behind him spoke again to derail that train of thought, making the boy flinch slightly at both the use of his name and the sound and vibration of a hammer cocking behind his skull. "...Seriously, man. How much are these people actually paying you?"

A very good fucking point. And without further ado, complaint, or sound, up went the kid's hands.

"Smart kid." Came the voice again, with a tone that suggested some measure of approval. "You should really think about dropping this gig and taking up welding, or something."

"Oh, FUCK YOU MA—"

*WHAM!*

...And down Marty went like a sack of potatoes.

"Temper, temper..." Jason chided the now very unconscious teenager, before quickly sucking the remnants of that pizza off his fingers, pulling his glove back on and reattaching the lower part of his helmet before kneeling down to relieve the poor kid of his gun. Tossing the mag one way, the slide another and everything else behind him.

Next, he grabbed the kid's radio— which had been dangling off his vest— and started prying the faceplate of it off with his knife.

The job'd already started, after all.

So it was high time that these guys got acquainted with Jay's good pal, Freddie.

---

"Toniiiiight~ I'm gonna have myself a real good tiiime~" The squawk box suddenly piped up from out of nowhere in the dark, damn near making Mitch brown his pants on the spot. "I feel ali-hi-hi-HIVE!~"

"Oh, what now?" He said, after a few seconds of trying to wrap his head around the fact that not only was he now trapped in a meat packing plant with a cannibal, at night, in the dark, but now the radio was apparently possessed, too.

Fumbling about in the dark, he managed to quickly scoop the thing up and flip it over to channel two.

"And the wooooorld, I'll turn it inside out, yeah!~"

...Just to find more of the same.

*Click!*

"I'm floating around in ecstasy~"

Channel three as well.

*Click!*

"So, don't stop me now~"

*Click!*

"Don't!"

*Click!*

"Stop!"

*Click!*

"Meee~!"

There it was, broadcasting on every goddamn channel. Blocking out any and all means of communication.

"...What in the goddamn?"

"Because I'm having a good time! HAVING A GOOD TIME!"

The room suddenly got a whole lot brighter and louder as a trio of explosions rang out from just outside and what he was sure was bits of his own car went whipping past the nearest window.

"It would appear, Mister Mayo, that we are under attack." Flamingo observed nonchalantly, rising from his seat. "By someone who knows how to weaponize chaos."

"WHAT?" Mitch shouted, all but leaping out of his chair as his ears rang from a combination of the blaring music, the explosions and a very sudden increase in gunfire and screaming in their postal code.

"Just stay here with the girl, I'll go deal with it."

DC Comics Roleplay: Fall of Justice

@Master Bruce

At some point later on in the RP...

"At this point, Bruce, are you really that surprised that my first girlfriend was the daughter of inter-dimensional Space Satan?"