Current
I am going to smuggle wholesomeness into your RPs and there's not a damned thing any of you can do to stop me.
5
likes
2 yrs ago
"Bud, you're like a pizza cutter; All edge and no point!"
6
likes
2 yrs ago
Habanero ain't the spiciest pepper but it's pretty tasty on things, ya gotta admit.
2
likes
2 yrs ago
And in addition to boneless wings being overrated; Anybody who looks at sauced and tossed wings, lovingly spiced and perfectly crispy and says; 'I'mma dunk that in blue cheese' has missed the point.
Duncan let out a little breath of relief as the noblewoman seemed to approve of their motley trio and turned her attentions to other matters. Namely the poor girl laying wounded by the carriage. Hikari had been quick to volunteer, and Steven was not long behind her, our old man, on the other hand, well...
Two was great, but three started to make a crowd when administering first-aid in his experience— too many hands and too many brains moving about the same body and bumping into each other— and there was also the little fact that the last first-aid course he'd ever been to had been an army refresher module back in '84... And he'd honestly slept through most of the damned thing because he knew he was retiring soon and there was nobody in that bloody room who outranked him enough to give him hell for it.
So instead, Duncan busied himself by tearing off another piece of green cloak and giving his sword a wipe down; not particularly wanting all that gunk to get into his scabbard where it'd undoubtedly start to smell like all hell and be a right pain in the ass to clean out. Before tearing off another clean piece and giving the shield he'd used so enthusiastically before the same treatment, pausing for a second to register that his manic melee-ing earlier seemed to have unfastened a clasp he hadn't noticed earlier; one hiding a much longer strap that might allow him to carry it on his back instead of having to lug it around on his arm.
Which was a welcome sight, truth be told; fucking thing would probably get heavy on the arm after a while.
Frowning somewhat at a particularly stubborn piece of brain that still clung to the shield's face, he reached down to tear off another piece of green cloth and came to a sudden stop as he felt something... different through his gloves. Causing his head to cock to the side slightly and his eyes to cast down toward the corpse beside him for a moment, before he plucked up and pulled the cloak out of the way.
There he found... two rolls of paper, tucked into the back of the bandit-turned-stiff's belt. One looking like a hastily folded note and the other appearing as a more proper looking scroll. His eyes cast upward again as he gingerly plucked the two parchments free, taking another, deeper look around him.
For as much as their previous attackers had outnumbered them, and as much damage as they had done... there was an awful lot of them laying dead or dying on the ground. And Ol' MacTyr had been around the block in enough places over the course of his career to have encountered bandits and highwaymen before— less so while fighting the Germans, but definitely in Korea, Lebanon and Egypt. And it was his experience that men who operated like that generally didn't start fights they didn't know they'd win very quickly; different tools and different lands aside, men generally needed to live to spend their coin.
Which is why it now struck him as rather... odd they'd stuck in as long as they'd had— ten minutes at least by his reckoning, measuring from when Steve had picked them up with his fox-eared sonar to their arrival—, taking those kinds of losses, especially against an adversary that fought like the woman with the claymore did.
Which meant they must've been motivated by something else. Or after something specific.
His eyes turned towards the noblewoman again, and his brow furrowed. Perhaps they'd wanted to ransom her? It'd be a helluva a payout, seeing as how she's the daughter of a Duke.
'...Which also means she's very high on the food chain. And even if they did get paid out, their days would likely be thoroughly numbered... unless...' He added mentally, turning his eyes downward as he unfolded the rougher-looking note.
On it's surface he found, to his lack of surprise... a map. Of a road. With an arrow pointing down it's path and symbols he at first couldn't make out until a momentary blurring of his vision seemed to transcribe them into... numbers. With a few other accompanying notes. Not to leave a stone unturned, he quickly thumbed open the scroll as well, but only found scrawled on it a series of symbols and a merciful lack of visual distortion. Nothing he could make sense of, at least— some kind of code, perhaps?
He'd have to think about that little hallucination later, but first things first; he stood to his feet, sheathed his sword, slung his shield over his back and picked up his helmet before calmly approaching the maid who'd exited the cart last— mainly because of those nearest to the Lady, she seemed the most the most likely to put something pointy somewhere he'd rather she not if he'd approached her Liege directly, judging by that subtle movement in her arm and the look she'd given him and his fuzzy friends earlier.
It honestly kinda reminded Duncan of himself when he was younger and a bit twitchier.
Which is exactly why he stopped just barely out of arms reach of her. And made sure she was between him and the Noble she served before looking past her and speaking directly towards her boss; something borne out of equal parts professional courtesy and understanding how to act around someone who was already 'switched on'.
"Found something, M'Lady." He stated matter-of-factly, offering the documents out in one hand to whoever would take them. "A map, showing your direction of travel, numbers and disposition. The other one looks to be some kind of cypher, but I can't make heads or tails of it."
"Holy shit..." Duncan muttered under his breath, watching the armoured maid go to town with her great sword. Honestly a little surprised at the raw power she was apparently hiding in that modest frame of hers, but still rather grateful that between the force of her offensive and his own (by his standards, anyway) haphazard flailing, their emerald-caped attackers had apparently decided to cut their losses and run.
A gratitude only vocalized by a loud exhale as the old man visibly relaxed, stabbing his sword into the ground and waving Steve and Hikari over before undoing the straps on his shield starting in on those of his helmet. Taking the opportunity now that the immediate danger had passed to not only address that little cut above his brow but... well, he had crunched at least three skulls in that little melee there.
...And truth be told, the sensation (and smell!) of what he suspected were teeth, chunks of bone and bits of brain sliding down his face was more than a little unpleasant, now that he had the time to think about it.
So, taking a knee, the old man let his shield down before finally pulling off his helmet. Tearing off the cleanest piece of green cloak he could find on a nearby corpse to wipe all the gunk off his face. Slowing to a pause halfway through as something he felt through the cloth and the leather of his gauntlets' palms began to click in his head.
This... was his face— same scars, same shape, same teeth in his mouth— but not the one he had when he was on that plane; with it's many valleys, wear-lines and wrinkles.
An almost comical expression came to him as he began to put it together.
'Am I...?'
"How dare they assault a carriage belonging to my family, I-I'll have these bandits exterminated for this."
The arrival of a new and haughty to the scene caught his attention and ended that train of thought almost as quickly as it began, the man's head snapping up and catching sight of the very obvious noblewoman as she stepped out of her ornate carriage. Which both made sense, the maids and their soldiers had to have been guarding something so fanatically and presented a bit of a problem; Duncan didn't exactly have a lot of experience dealing with any aristocracy. And the ones he had met in passing once or twice over the course of his long life, well...
Ol' Queen Lizzie couldn't legally have his head lopped off on a whim. This girl? Ehhh... that wasn't so certain.
So he quickly finished wiping off his face, discarded the rag and maintained his position down on one knee. Bracing his right hand on the hilt of his sword, still stabbed into the ground, and bowing his head slightly in (what he vaguely recalled as) a gesture of respect as she addressed them and— being the closest to her at the time— responded.
"It is as you say, My Lady." He said, pulling hard on the memory of novels he read as a boy and all those D&D sessions he ran for his son and his friends when they were young. "The three of us were traveling the road before stumbling into the tail-end of that ambush. Where those men drew little distinction between our party and yours and... well, things played out the way they did."
He supposed he could have claimed that they had charged in there like big damned heroes looking to save the day, but being up-front and honest would probably serve them better in the long run.
"I am called Duncan MacTyr," He continued, before indicating towards the pair of kitsunes. "And these are my companions; Hikari Abe and Steven Yu."
"Remember what I said." Duncan noted with a resigned sigh, eyeballing the group of men who'd broken off from the main fight and were now rushing towards them and clanging his sword on his shield a few times to make sure he'd have those men's attention. And began to advance. "Keep backing up. Keep the sword up. And if you have to, run."
Those steps became a jog. Then a run. And then a full on counter-charge.
Sure, the old man didn't know a damned thing about proper swordsmanship; the footwork, the techniques or really anything you'd find in an actual medieval treatise... but he did know how to kill. How to harness his aggression. How to feel the rhythm of a fight, how to move his body, how to read an adversary and, most importantly:
How to improvise.
Hugging his large, circular shield tight to his body, Duncan rammed himself right down the centre of the fast-approaching approaching attackers. Ducking under a falchion that came at his neck from the man to his right and responding in kind with a chop to the bandit's knee that he didn't need to see to know it found it's mark with the jerk of the hilt in his hand and immediate blood-curdling shriek that followed. Not that he could anyway; his mind somewhat occupied by the scraping of the man to his left's axe against his shield— said bandit having tried and failed to hook his axe beneath it's lip— and the revelation of the existence of the man who'd been running behind those two, bill-hook held at the high-port so as not to stab his buddies if they stopped, the realization that with their combined momentum along with all the steel Duncan was wearing meant that they were about to have a very intimate encounter and the look on the guy's eyes as he realized it too.
So Duncan threw the whole of his weight behind his shield and planted the edge of it directly into the poor bastard's face. Crushing through his nose with a sickeningly wet 'Crunch!' and stopping just shy of his ears. Not that it granted him any room to breathe mind you; as the weight of his armour still made stopping a stumbling, awkward affair. With the added bonus of having a full person basically welded to his handy-dandy big ol' maybe-not-die dinner plate.
...Oh yeah, and Axe-Guy was still coming at him. Weapon up high.
'Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck..!'
Shuffling and twisting his hips in a way that might've actually killed him a week ago, the old man spun and braced his shield up with his swordarm, putting it into the path of the axe and it's meaty essentially into the face of the man wielding it. Hissing at the rattle that went up the bones in his arm at the force of the impact and quickly planting his boot into the stowaway corpse and shoving it off onto the man, keen on not feeling that particular sensation again anytime soon. Which also didn't grant him any real respite, seeing as how he was immediately afterward grabbed from behind and caught captive view of a knife that was clearly aimed for the eye-slit of his helmet careening into it's cheek. Prompting Duncan to drop his sword entirely and grab a hold of the offending wrist to stop it from finding it's mark on the next thrust because damn that.
"HEY! C'MON! HELP ME WITH THIS!" His would-be killer shouted, drawing the attention of another of his friends and prompting Axe-Guy to struggle even harder to get out from under the remains of his rather rotund comrade.
All as the knife inched it's way into his visor and ever-so-slooooowly began to dig into the flesh above his eyebrow.
'...Not good.' Our Canuck snarled internally, letting out a pained hiss before raising his left foot and slamming it down as hard as he could. Feeling metatarsals snapping beneath his heel and having that confirmed by the scream that soon followed.
Sure got buddy to stop focusing on his knife, however. Which allowed Duncan to yank that thing out of his face and slam the back of his helmet into his attacker's. Hearing an audible, wet 'Crunch!' that he suspected and honestly kinda hoped was the man's nose becoming a two-dimensional object, before batting away the mace of the man charging him with his shield and throwing his entire weight behind an armour-clad haymaker directly to his face. Eliciting yet another bloody crunch and making the man tumble over in an awkward heap, and then not move at all.
That got him a reprieve... for all about three seconds before Axe-Guy was on him again. Charging in out of the old man's peripheral vision and barely giving him enough time to raise his shield that came hard enough that it snapped the haft of his attacker's axe, sending another decidedly unpleasant shockwave up Duncan's arm. And, completely unfettered by the seeming loss of his weapon, latched onto the top of Duncan's shield for dear life while screaming to his buddy with broken foot and broken nose to, and we quote;
"GET OFF YOUR ASS AND KILL THIS FUCKING GUY!"
Which was a bit of a problem, seeing as how Duncan was kind of very literally strapped to that shield.
...Though a problem that was soon solved as the armour-clad and blood-soaked knight quickly looked at where the bandit previously known as Axe-Guy's hands were, down to the ground, grabbed his own wrist, looked the man square in the eye and stated flatly:
"I really don't like you."
Before bringing the sum total of his weight, that of his armour and that of his shield directly down upon the man's foot. Shearing it right in half with the brim of the latter. Eliciting a piercing scream that carried on all the way through Duncan shoving him to the ground but was very quickly silenced as the old man brought the defensive equipment down a second time upon the man's throat. With a hand up top for extra leverage.
And then did it again just to be sure.
Picking up his sword again, Duncan turned and fixed the man with the flattened foot and flatter nose— who had managed to get back to his feet and had been limping towards him to finish the job with Stumpy's discarded falchion— with an absolutely murderous glare through the slit of his visor.
"Don't."
He did. Bucking himself up and charging forward in a awkward, limping gait. Sword held above his head and screaming (also slightly whistling) at the top of his lungs. For which the old swore a little under his breath, reeled back and cracked him in the nose again with his shield, dropping him to the ground like a bag of hammers.
Now Duncan had earned an actual reprieve, bending over slightly to catch his breath and analyze what he'd just done. Fundamentally, this wasn't all that different to some of the things he got up to over seventy years ago. In practice, however... while his suit of full plate didn't really hinder his movement too much, the added weight meant that every swing, step had a whole lot more momentum behind it. Which was actually useful in some ways, but extremely disorientating in others; causing him to nearly nearly slip and fall a few times there which would've likely ended with him doing his best ground-beef impression on the edge of one guy in particular's axe. Nevermind the sweat he was working up doing this.
...Also, it didn't help that he was very clearly a little rusty.
The old man's head turned towards where he last saw the other two crash survivors; Were they alright? Did they manage to get the hell out of here?
"Uh... Well, I'm pretty sure you can't tell elevation apart when everything level, so I guess we'll go... That way?"
"Works for me," Duncan concurred with a shrug and a bit of a snort as he followed after the most-likely younger man, though minding his pace so as not to get too far ahead of Hikari who, by default, had a bit of a shorter gait than either of them to say the least. "All aboard the heel-toe express; next stop... damned if we know."
Honestly, there wasn't much to fault in that logic; any way forward was still progress at this point. And, even if they happened to run into some kind of obstacle along the way, as long as they had the road as a landmark, they could always just... turn around and go back the other way.
All that aside, it was still a damned fine day out. And the simple act of walking— without a cane, his feeble bones or the constant ache from times long past— was... surreal.Pleasant. Something he hadn't up until that very moment realized he'd been missing for decades now. Post-mortem hallucination or otherwise, our armoured old man couldn't find it in himself to protest too much about the hand he'd been dealt since waking in a grassy field in full plate and accompanied by the pair of his fellow survivors who'd apparently been resculpted and clothed by some apparent cosmic plastic surgeon.
That last thought did linger in Duncan's head for a few seconds. And again, his free hand began to travel back up to his helmet to check if anything had changed—
"...There's fighting further down the road, Be careful."
...And down the hand came again.
"What. How—?" He asked flatly, head turning slightly toward the taller man for a half-second before connecting the dots himself.
'Oh, right. Fox Ears. That's pretty handy.'
Instead that free hand found it's way to the hilt of his sword as they continued forward, until the trio came upon the cause of the steadily louder and louder disturbance; a group of apparent bandits attacking what appeared to be...
...A caravan of Knights and Maids.
Quietly, Duncan cast a quick look back Hikari's way, then down at himself before taking a deep breath and uttering a single word;
"Nuts."
And out came the sword with a calm, measured draw. As old and worn-in as his armour looked, but also just as strangely comfortable. in his hand, something he again filed away in the back of his head as he took two paces forward, both taking in a more clinical view of the carnage before him, and began paying more attention to his peripheral vision, casting his visor from one side to the other ever so slightly to not give away that he was checking his flanks.
One last time, he cast a glance down at the weapon in his hands with a narrowed glare.
Duncan was no stranger to hand-to-hand combat; in fact, he'd made a name for himself with it in places like Ortona, Falaise and the Scheldt. It was the whole reason he was handpicked to do the kinds of things he did in Korea.
But...
That was a very long time ago.
Still, his eyes came back upward as he spoke; a cold, surgical calm in his tone.
"Both of you, start backing up. Don't get separated. Steven, get that sword out; whether you use it or not, it's a barrier between you and anyone trying to kill you." He said, checking his shield one last time. "If things start going south, you grab Hikari and you run like hell."
With one last exhale, he raised his weapon.
"Am I understood?"
Sure, he'd mentioned watching eachother's backs earlier. But this was something else entirely from spooking off some wayward predator. And quite frankly, Duncan had already lived his life. He was far less concerned about his than those of his companions.
The smaller fox's question hung in the for a moment, unanswered. Not that it really needed one— Duncan knew that something was just a bit fucky here to put it mildly, a change of clothes aside. To start, all things considered, he felt fine... which was honestly kind of the most obvious that something was very wrong here; a man of his age wasn't supposed to be feeling 'fine', nor able to walk around so easily. He also rather quickly picked up on the girl's diction, tucking away in the back of his that he'd rarely— if ever— encountered a kid who spoke quite like that. And that's not even getting into the surplus of fuzzy tails in his immediate vicinity at that moment... though the thought did inspire him to unconsciously wave his free hand behind him slightly to make sure he didn't have any fuzzy bits of his own.
...He'd really need to find a mirror or something at some point.
More to the point, however, the apparent knight answered the Fox's query with a simple, flat statement as he took a quick look around him. Nodding in acceptance at the inarguable— albeit frankly ridiculous fact of the matter:
"Shit."
The old Canuck let that one hang in the air for a solid quarter minute before letting out a breath and finally actually strapping on the shield he'd been deftly holding in his left hand.
"Well, on the off-chance that every holy man I've ever met wasn't tragically mistaken and this isn't the afterlife... at least we're not screwed." Duncan continued. "We can watch eachother's backs, we have some means of defending ourselves and most importantly, we have a road: That means that people live, or at least lived nearby. And if we follow it— preferably, whichever way takes us downhill— we're likely to find a town, shelter or at the very least a source of water. Hopefully while we still have daylight."
He then cast a quick glance between the other two before adding, probably realizing he was being a little rude;
Blue skies seen through a narrow slit. A gentle breeze he could feel softly caressing his face through and below his visor, the snug, but not uncomfortable weight of his armour—
"Wait, what?"
Rapidly blinking away the mental fog of staring at what honestly looked like a pretty nice day, Duncan sat up with an ease he almost didn't register and let that last thought marinate as he cast a glance down at himself through the slit of... helmet? Yes, a helmet. Under a cloth hood he gently peeled back with an armoured hand, to get a better look at himself.
'...Why am I wearing armour?' The question echoed unanswered in his own head as he found an old shield laying in the grass beside him to his left and a sword sheathed at his waist all while rapping his curious knuckles against his cuirass; finding it rather worn but... still quite sturdy.Comfortable, even. As if he'd been wearing it and the rest of his get-up his entire life.
Which by itself was a bit confusing because— at least, as far as the old man could recall— Duncan was pretty certain he'd very recently died in a big damned plane crash. The memories of which all came flooding back to him in that moment; a bang, the screaming, the feeling of broken glass slamming into the back of his nec—
"Hey, wake up!" A voice called out from behind him. "Nothing good's going to come from lying about... Or something like that."
There was someone else here.
"Ah, I apologise, I was distracted by how much my body has changed."
What.
That got Duncan's attention, as he calmly picked up his shield and stood to his feet— albeit, not without nearly stumbling over himself with just how little effort the act took— and turned to face where those voices were coming from, where found a tall young man.
With a big bushy fox tail.
And a little blonde girl bowing to said fox man. With even more tails, and a pair of big fuzzy fox ears to boot.
Duncan felt no shame at pausing a few seconds to let the hamster wheel in his brain catch up to what he was seeing— it was kind of a new one for the old man after all. Still, that line about bodies changing stuck out in his mind— if... they weren't like this before and he certainly didn't remember dressing up like a knight, then maybe...
"I, uh..." He had to pause for a second to check his throat, the sound of his own voice sounding alien but... strangely nostalgic all at once. "I don't suppose either of you remember being on a plane recently, do you?"
Age: Physically? Somewhere in his early twenties. Mentally? One year short of a century.
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Unusual amongst those that have been reborn in this land, Duncan's new body... is an almost exact copy of his old one. Albeit, restored to it's prime; The wear-lines, wrinkles and liver spots having seemingly melted away to make room for the dense, compact but incredibly powerful kind of musculature that comes from a life of hard exertion, and not a gym— Enough to give him an imposing figure, even without the sheer bulk of a bodybuilder, and even while standing at a relatively average 5'8". His short cut of shock white hair, likewise, has been restored to it's more youthful brown, with bits of red that become more obvious in certain lighting, especially on his... actually quite handsome face in the early mornings or when he's too busy to shave. With the only real hint of his true age being the in the way he carries himself, or in the weathered gleam in his green eyes.
Curiously, many mementos of his old life have also carried over into this one as well; old battle scars— the most obvious being a long mark left by shrapnel going vertically along his left cheek— and faded tattoos on his shoulders and forearms still marking and marring his flesh as they did before. Whether this is simple coincidence or by the design of whoever brought them all here, he doesn't know for sure— but he isn't exactly to broken up about it, especially considering how dramatically those around him have changed in their 'rebirth'.
Stoic, but not in the way espoused by people with Greco-Roman statues as profile pictures on YouTube. More in that Duncan possesses a remarkable amount of control over himself; being only very rarely frightened nor angry with the people around him and possessing an uncanny amount of patience. This, however, does not mean that the man is some kind of impermeable rock devoid of humour and emotion, and if sufficiently prompted— or more alarmingly, sometimes when not.— release a devastatingly destructive barb or joke potent enough to cause a snort or spit-take in even the most hardened of hearts and in life, he was known to have a soft spot for kids; and wasn't even particularly shy about it either.
Of himself, however, he rarely speaks. Though he always listens when asked (and sometimes when not). The latter, because of all the friends he has outlived, far too many have gone prematurely, even after the guns fell silent. And the former? Well...
Throughout the Second World War and his time in Korea, Duncan has seen and come to know true evil in a way few others can and the very worst of what mankind is capable of doing to another. And is in no real rush to dump the kinds of things he's seen and done onto a younger audience, willing or not. And quite frankly, would probably prefer the rest not to know about that part of his life altogether.
...But would unquestioningly fight like the third monkey on the ramp to Noah's Ark to never see those evils repeated again.
Born in Northern Ontario in the February of 1925, Duncan's early life was... by no means a fairy tale, but also not particularly special for the time; the fifth of seven children but one of only two to survive a nasty outbreak of tuberculosis that took the rest of his siblings as well as his father. Which would lead to him finding employment at the age of ten at a local lumber mill to support his older sister— Abigail— and mother. The latter of whom would simply pack up her bags and leave without a word one day, leaving her two children to fend for themselves. Still, Abby and Duncan found a way to make it work, not least of all through help from their neighbours, a few trappers from a nearby reserve who'd been friends with his father, who were quite keen on making sure they at least wouldn't go hungry and a local priest who'd made sure the pair were educated— albeit, in French— and made sure they always had a good Christmas.
Then 1939, things... happened in Europe. And our boy Duncan, then aged fourteen, seeing how much more a soldier got paid than he did pushing brooms and sharpening saws at the mill, did something incredibly goddamn stupid—
He lied about his age. And joined the Army. Where for the next five years, he would man guns and fight fires during the Blitz, survive the disastrous raid on Dieppe, fight a brutal campaign up the Italian Peninsula, storm the beaches of Normandy and live the absolute carnage of the Scheldt. Sending the lion's share of his pay home to his sister and ending the war as a Sergeant at just 19; partly to his merit, partly because after a certain point, he'd become one of the most senior men left in his Company with four limbs and a pulse.
Seemed to impress somebody, however, as he was offered a full scholarship to the Royal Military College in Kingston afterward. Which he accepted and which would lead to him being deployed to Korea five years later as Lieutenant and second in command to a specialized assault company. Which of course, would lead Duncan to get into a whole new set of tough scrapes, one of which (a landmine north of Seoul) would land him in a hospital bed in Tokyo, where he'd meet Dr. Ryuuji Takeda— the son of a wealthy diplomat who'd served as a medic during the last war— with whom he'd form an unlikely, but enduring friendship that would last all the way into the modern day; writing eachother often and visiting whenever their schedules allowed. A tradition that carried on down to the families the two started an ocean apart.
Duncan, for his part, would go on to have a son with a nurse from Montreal he'd met during his first outing with the Army. Whom he would sadly outlive, losing her to breast cancer in '76, but would go on to raise his boy as best he could. Before finally retiring from The Service a decade later with a full pension to spend more time with the grandchildren his son very clumsily informed him were on the way. The eldest of which (his granddaughter) would deploy to Afghanistan and rather emphatically display that the propensity for kicking ass was very goddamn hereditary. His grandson, on the other hand, would go overseas to Japan to work as an English Teacher, staying with Ryuuji and his family in Hokkaido.
...Where he almost immediately married Ryuuji's granddaughter. The news of which was met with equal parts laughter and profanity because Duncan could almost swear that old sonuvabitch had planned that from the beginning. And quickly made plans to go visit.
Plans that would go... unfulfilled for nearly four years. As, by this point, Duncan was an old man. One who had fought two wars, been shot, stabbed, shelled, bombed and exposed to god-knows-what kind of chemicals over his long career; his insurance company flatly refused to go anywhere near an airplane. Something that left a very bitter taste in the old man's mouth, especially with the birth of his great grandson. And things would carry on as such until one day, he received a phonecall from his granddaughter-in-law—
Ryuuji, his best and, well, only friend he had left in the world was dying.
While he was trapped an ocean away, unable to even see his grandson, or his grandson's child because his insurance company was absolutely petrified at the idea of having to pay out on a policy as old as his— nevermind that at 99 years old, he didn't exactly have a lot of gas left in the tank anyhow.
So he snapped.
Made sure his will was in good order.
Then called up that snarky lady from the insurance company with a military lawyer present to goad her to the usual point of the conversation where she threatened to physically prevent him from leaving, at which point said lawyer cut in to threaten the mother of all lawsuits and inform her that the Department of National Defense would absolutely make the time for a retired Brigadier. Which prompted her to start swearing— which was honestly a mistake on her part— as Duncan had nearly a century of practice on her and was much better at it than she was.
That done, he bought a ticket. Flew himself out to Japan, spent the whole day with his great grandson— the younger 'Ryuuji'—, carried him to bed, tucked him in, told him a story and spent the rest of the evening drinking one last bottle of whiskey with the elder Ryuuji.
Two days later, Duncan was on a plane going home. Looking out the window and very much aware that one way or another, this would likely be the last time he ever got this kind of view of the Ocean. He supposed that he should should be sad, or at least melancholy... but he couldn't find it in himself to be. He had got to meet his own great grandson— see him happy, healthy and loved. See his best friend one last time. Got to finally try his granddaughter-in-law's cooking he'd heard so much about, and see her start bouncing up and down like a giddy schoolgirl when she learned she was pregnant again the morning before he left.
He was... fulfilled.
Which was why Duncan didn't kick up much of a fuss as the plane came to it's final, unfortunate destination— though he did summon what strength was left in his old bones to shield the girl sitting next to him from the glass of the window shattering next to them.
...Though even Duncan had to admit, what happened next was a a bit of a new one, even for him.
Level: 1
Stats:
STR: 3.
DEX: 2.
MAG: 1.
DEF: 3.
RES: 3.
AGI: 2.
LCK: 1.
Skills:
Skill Name: Last Man Standing
Skill Description: "A warrior does not grow old by accident." (Passive. +1 DEF, +2 RES)
Not entirely sure if this will fly, but here ya go; A wholesome (yet also slightly terrifying) old man returned to his prime.
I'll probably neaten it up a bit for easier reading after I get some sleep.
Name: Duncan MacTyr
Age: Physically? Somewhere in his early twenties. Mentally? One year short of a century.
Gender: Male
Race: Human
Unusual amongst those that have been reborn in this land, Duncan's new body... is an almost exact copy of his old one. Albeit, restored to it's prime; The wear-lines, wrinkles and liver spots having seemingly melted away to make room for the dense, compact but incredibly powerful kind of musculature that comes from a life of hard exertion, and not a gym— Enough to give him an imposing figure, even without the sheer bulk of a bodybuilder, and even while standing at a relatively average 5'8". His short cut of shock white hair, likewise, has been restored to it's more youthful brown, with bits of red that become more obvious in certain lighting, especially on his... actually quite handsome face in the early mornings or when he's too busy to shave. With the only real hint of his true age being the in the way he carries himself, or in the weathered gleam in his green eyes.
Curiously, many mementos of his old life have also carried over into this one as well; old battle scars— the most obvious being a long mark left by shrapnel going vertically along his left cheek— and faded tattoos on his shoulders and forearms still marking and marring his flesh as they did before. Whether this is simple coincidence or by the design of whoever brought them all here, he doesn't know for sure— but he isn't exactly to broken up about it, especially considering how dramatically those around him have changed in their 'rebirth'.
Stoic, but not in the way espoused by people with Greco-Roman statues as profile pictures on YouTube. More in that Duncan possesses a remarkable amount of control over himself; being only very rarely frightened nor angry with the people around him and possessing an uncanny amount of patience. This, however, does not mean that the man is some kind of impermeable rock devoid of humour and emotion, and if sufficiently prompted— or more alarmingly, sometimes when not.— release a devastatingly destructive barb or joke potent enough to cause a snort or spit-take in even the most hardened of hearts and in life, he was known to have a soft spot for kids; and wasn't even particularly shy about it either.
Of himself, however, he rarely speaks. Though he always listens when asked (and sometimes when not). The latter, because of all the friends he has outlived, far too many have gone prematurely, even after the guns fell silent. And the former? Well...
Throughout the Second World War and his time in Korea, Duncan has seen and come to know true evil in a way few others can and the very worst of what mankind is capable of doing to another. And is in no real rush to dump the kinds of things he's seen and done onto a younger audience, willing or not. And quite frankly, would probably prefer the rest not to know about that part of his life altogether.
...But would unquestioningly fight like the third monkey on the ramp to Noah's Ark to never see those evils repeated again.
Born in Northern Ontario in the February of 1925, Duncan's early life was... by no means a fairy tale, but also not particularly special for the time; the fifth of seven children but one of only two to survive a nasty outbreak of tuberculosis that took the rest of his siblings as well as his father. Which would lead to him finding employment at the age of ten at a local lumber mill to support his older sister— Abigail— and mother. The latter of whom would simply pack up her bags and leave without a word one day, leaving her two children to fend for themselves. Still, Abby and Duncan found a way to make it work, not least of all through help from their neighbours, a few trappers from a nearby reserve who'd been friends with his father, who were quite keen on making sure they at least wouldn't go hungry and a local priest who'd made sure the pair were educated— albeit, in French— and made sure they always had a good Christmas.
Then 1939, things... happened in Europe. And our boy Duncan, then aged fourteen, seeing how much more a soldier got paid than he did pushing brooms and sharpening saws at the mill, did something incredibly goddamn stupid—
He lied about his age. And joined the Army. Where for the next five years, he would man guns and fight fires during the Blitz, survive the disastrous raid on Dieppe, fight a brutal campaign up the Italian Peninsula, storm the beaches of Normandy and live the absolute carnage of the Scheldt. Sending the lion's share of his pay home to his sister and ending the war as a Sergeant at just 19; partly to his merit, partly because after a certain point, he'd become one of the most senior men left in his Company with four limbs and a pulse.
Seemed to impress somebody, however, as he was offered a full scholarship to the Royal Military College in Kingston afterward. Which he accepted and which would lead to him being deployed to Korea five years later as Lieutenant and second in command to a specialized assault company. Which of course, would lead Duncan to get into a whole new set of tough scrapes, one of which (a landmine north of Seoul) would land him in a hospital bed in Tokyo, where he'd meet Dr. Ryuuji Takeda— the son of a wealthy diplomat who'd served as a medic during the last war— with whom he'd form an unlikely, but enduring friendship that would last all the way into the modern day; writing eachother often and visiting whenever their schedules allowed. A tradition that carried on down to the families the two started an ocean apart.
Duncan, for his part, would go on to have a son with a nurse from Montreal he'd met during his first outing with the Army. Whom he would sadly outlive, losing her to breast cancer in '76, but would go on to raise his boy as best he could. Before finally retiring from The Service a decade later with a full pension to spend more time with the grandchildren his son very clumsily informed him were on the way. The eldest of which (his granddaughter) would deploy to Afghanistan and rather emphatically display that the propensity for kicking ass was very goddamn hereditary. His grandson, on the other hand, would go overseas to Japan to work as an English Teacher, staying with Ryuuji and his family in Hokkaido.
...Where he almost immediately married Ryuuji's granddaughter. The news of which was met with equal parts laughter and profanity because Duncan could almost swear that old sonuvabitch had planned that from the beginning. And quickly made plans to go visit.
Plans that would go... unfulfilled for nearly four years. As, by this point, Duncan was an old man. One who had fought two wars, been shot, stabbed, shelled, bombed and exposed to god-knows-what kind of chemicals over his long career; his insurance company flatly refused to go anywhere near an airplane. Something that left a very bitter taste in the old man's mouth, especially with the birth of his great grandson. And things would carry on as such until one day, he received a phonecall from his granddaughter-in-law—
Ryuuji, his best and, well, only friend he had left in the world was dying.
While he was trapped an ocean away, unable to even see his grandson, or his grandson's child because his insurance company was absolutely petrified at the idea of having to pay out on a policy as old as his— nevermind that at 99 years old, he didn't exactly have a lot of gas left in the tank anyhow.
So he snapped.
Made sure his will was in good order.
Then called up that snarky lady from the insurance company with a military lawyer present to goad her to the usual point of the conversation where she threatened to physically prevent him from leaving, at which point said lawyer cut in to threaten the mother of all lawsuits and inform her that the Department of National Defense would absolutely make the time for a retired Brigadier. Which prompted her to start swearing— which was honestly a mistake on her part— as Duncan had nearly a century of practice on her and was much better at it than she was.
That done, he bought a ticket. Flew himself out to Japan, spent the whole day with his great grandson— the younger 'Ryuuji'—, carried him to bed, tucked him in, told him a story and spent the rest of the evening drinking one last bottle of whiskey with the elder Ryuuji.
Two days later, Duncan was on a plane going home. Looking out the window and very much aware that one way or another, this would likely be the last time he ever got this kind of view of the Ocean. He supposed that he should should be sad, or at least melancholy... but he couldn't find it in himself to be. He had got to meet his own great grandson— see him happy, healthy and loved. See his best friend one last time. Got to finally try his granddaughter-in-law's cooking he'd heard so much about, and see her start bouncing up and down like a giddy schoolgirl when she learned she was pregnant again the morning before he left.
He was... fulfilled.
Which was why Duncan didn't kick up much of a fuss as the plane came to it's final, unfortunate destination— though he did summon what strength was left in his old bones to shield the girl sitting next to him from the glass of the window shattering next to them.
...Though even Duncan had to admit, what happened next was a a bit of a new one, even for him.
Grand Bazaar of the Uniter, Keldabe, Mandalore. 25th Founding Day, Noon.
"Lor'ika. Mixed and wrapped. Two skewers and extra sauce, please."
"You want a drink with that, Vod?" The apron and armour clad woman behind the counter asked, her skillful hands already going to work while her visor remained locked on her customer— if not cocked to the side only slightly.
"Oh, shit. Yeah, big bottle of uj'gal if ya got it." Toryn replied, tossing the front of his gam'surpan over his shoulder so he could fish through his wallet, count out a few coins. Placing three on the counter and another pair in the tip jar.
For that, he received a nod in the affirmative, a friendly click of the tongue, a bright red glass bottle casually tossed into a waiting hand and an infiltration of a familiar scent of spices and cooking food that both put him at ease and made him even hungrier as she got to work.
Lor'ika— literally; 'Little Meats', thin strips of marinated and spiced meat cooked on a skewer with sauteed mushrooms and vegetables over a grill or hot plate, intermittently brushed with oil and sprinkled with a little extra spice before being drizzled with a sweet sauce and either served on the skewer, as bits on a plate or, as he preferred it, tightly wrapped in a toasty flatbread made on the spot— had been a staple street food of his people for Ka'ra knows how long, and a personal favourite of his since he was a boy. The longtime presence of Mandalorian mercenaries on the Huttese moon he once called 'home' insuring both that one was never too far from a stand and that of what few memories Toryn had of that distant time, one thing he recalled with absolution was of how much he loved going to the one across the street with Ruusad and Zara a few times a week. And how the old Mando cook there would just snort and stuff a bit of extra meat in there because the three of them looked 'too skinny'.
Something approaching a little chuckle escaped the Jedi at that thought. Pleasant and sad all at once.
The lor'ika on Keldabe was good, yeah, but he'd never quite found something that beat ol' 'Mama Mando's' in the years since.
...Ka'ra dammit he was making himself hungry; ten hours of work out on Taris and two more of travel time back had left him with just enough time to toss his armour in the ol' sonic scrubber and catch a quick nap before throwing it all back on again and heading out to Keldabe for a debrief. Before being sent back to the Dog to scrub his armour again and throw on a fancy poncho because apparently he had dinner reservations.
Needless to say, there hadn't been a lot of time between then and now to cram food into his face-hole. Or get some shut-eye. And with a few hours to go before the Feast, Toryn knew in his heart of hearts that if he tried to take a quick nap somewhere, he'd somehow wake up to either a disappointed Taung hauling him to his feet or, far worse, a certain Arkanian shaking him by the throat.
Honestly, the whole thing was giving the man three different kinds of headache. So much so that he almost didn't notice the approaching figure behind until they'd already bumped into him.
"Oh, my apologies..."
"No worries, Kiddo. It happens."
Toryn said with a shrug, instinctively checking that his wallet was still there as he gave the newcomer a quick glance; some kid in their early teens. A girl, dressed up in an Imperial uniform, near-human with blue skin just a tad too light to be pureblooded Chiss or Pantoran, a face speckled with Mirialan tattoos around the bridge of her nose, scarlet eyes (currently locked on the food being prepared) and a bob of raven hair with a slight green tinge to it.
Toryn didn't need much thought to figure out what her heritage could be.
For her part, said kid took a few seconds before she found the courtesy to actually look at the man she'd bumped into. And honestly, the look of wide-eyed shock, and open-mouthed frozen horror was the funniest thing he'd seen all day.
"You are... The Hound of Mandalore..." She finally managed to squeak out after a half-minute of awkward silence.
Toryn winced internally; he never really liked that name, though he'd never show it. Least of all in front of a kid.
"That I am. And you..." The Mandalorian stated neutrally. Coldly, even. Managing not to crack a snort as the kid visibly flinched at his words. "...Look hungry."
The twist of visible confusion on the poor girl's face was enough to finally break the dam. And out a little chuckle came from within Toryn's helmet as he turned his visor back towards the woman behind the stand, whom he noticed was having a chuckle herself at the whole thing.
"Can I get that last order doubled, Vod?"
"I'm not opposed to taking your money, Mr. Hound."
'And here I thought I was the one starving.'
Was all Toryn could think around a mouthful of food, watching the little blue terror seated next to him on the fountain's edge outright tear into her food like a starved kath hound. The quiet, awkward yet polite creature of about fifteen minutes ago lost in a ravenous hunger for cooked gizka, bantha and very quite possibly— he mused with a raised brow— anything within grabbing distance that had the misfortune of being made of meat.
If there was any confusion as to at least one side of this kid's family, that display pretty much killed it.
Still didn't stop the Mando from speaking once he'd swallowed his own mouthful, though.
"Gotta hand it to ya, Kid." he said, popping the cap off the girl's drink and handing it to her, which she took with an enthusiastic nod and a loud swallow before knocking it back to take a big gulp. "Most Imperials I've met shy away from our food."
"THAD IJ BEGUJ—"
"Swallow and breathe, Kiddo." Toryn cut her off.
"Apologies." The kid began again, after a moment of chewing and swallowing. "But if so many of my countrymen are so desperately frightened by food such as this, then I regret that you have apparently met only the cowards."
...Oh, he liked this kid.
'Maybe there's hope for the Empire, yet.' The Mando thought as he handed the girl a napkin, making a quick motion with his finger to let her know how much of her meal she was currently wearing as a face decoration. Leading her to hastily wipe herself.
"Forgive me again, I am usually more... civilized... when I eat." She said between wipes.
"Don't worry about it; you're on Mandalore, we don't have much in the way of formal rules for dinner etiquette, and the one's we do have, you're basically following right now anyway." Toryn replied with a slight wave of his hand as he took another bite of his own meal. "'Sides, I've been around Chiss most of my life. I'm used to seeing that metabolism and especially that appetite in action."
The girls eyes narrowed for a second.
"I never said I was—"
"You're at least half. There's hungry, and then there's Chiss hungry. And if you've seen it even once, you'll never mistake it for anything else... well, all that, and I've yet to meet a non-Chiss kid that talks quite like you do."
The girl maintained her stare for a few seconds more before a slight upturn of her lip made itself known on her features.
"Observant... you are not quite what I expected, Hound." She said finally. "That is a pleasant surprise."
"Oh? By all means, what were you expecting." Toryn replied, taking a swig of his own drink.
"Well, according to some in my homeland; You are a Hero of the Empire, but serve different masters. You prowl the Galaxy, striking down the wicked, that fire, vengeance and fury live upon your blade and that wrath erupts from your body as lightning!" The kid explained with gratuitous flare, ham and hand gestures unbecoming of a Chiss before adding, quite flatly; "...Also, I thought that you would be taller."
Aaaand, out Toryn's nose that drink went as he desperately managed something that was all at once a wheeze, a cough and a laugh.
"Ffffucking WHAT?" He managed, between yet more laughter, even as he clenched his nose in pain. "Are you serious?"
"Extremely." The kid added, with a non-plussed tone that made Toryn laugh just a little more. "So you can understand how... reassuring it is to see that you are actually quite normal."
It took Toryn a good few minutes to recover from all that, before wiping away a tear and holding his drink out to her to toast.
"My name's actually Toryn, by the way."
"You may call me Tanis." The kid replied, clinking her bottle with his and taking a drink.
"Huh. Small Galaxy."
"Pardon?" Tanis inquired, head cocking to the side.
"Eh, Doesn't matter— Ever been to a range before, Tanis?" Toryn asked, brushing the earlier question aside.
"I have, to learn how best to defend myself and meet benchmarks set by my tutors." The kid replied, with a slight nod.
"...Ever go to one just to blow something up?"
A moment of silence passed between them. And Toryn could almost hear the cogs turning in the girl's brain as a downright diabolical smile formed across her lips.
"I have not."
Toryn met that look with a little smirk of his own as he turned his attention back to his meal.
"Well, I got at least five hours of nothing to do after I finish this. So blowing shit up is what we shall do."
Maybe... just maybe this day wouldn't be too bad, after all.
"What I do for a living... well, it ain't very conducive to a modelling career."
Standing at a decidedly unremarkable 5'8" and possessing neither the sheer mass of a bodybuilder or the gut of... someone more sedentary than he usually is, the only thing that ever usually makes Toryn stand out in a crowd on any given day is usually his signature bronze-coloured beskar'gam— of an older pattern, before the reforms and standardization of Mandalore the Uniter many centuries before he was even a twinkle in the dad he never met's eyes. Which he'll occasionally cover with a gam'surpan— literally; 'armour cover', a poncho-like garment of Taung origin— during those occasions where a Jedi would usually throw on a fancy, flow-y over-robe and almost never take off in public... save for his helmet when he's doing something like wolfing down a burger at Mando Joe's or getting a drink at the Lucky Lekku.
His family, his doctor and a very, very small circle of friends, however know that what Toryn lacks in size, he makes up for with sheer muscle density. With a body like carved beskar that could only come from living a very, very hard life and with the scars to prove it, too— burn scars up his right arm, marks from some kind of flogging implement across his back and the tell-tale jagged fissure of a Rodian deathblade across his chest, to name a few— interspersed and often crossing through now slightly-fading tattoos of a style that had gone out of fashion on Mandalore millennia ago. Both in their design, and the fact that they were put there by a mallet and chisel, each representing some milestone or action he'll probably never elaborate on and not there for pure aesthetics. Hell, not even his face has been spared from this carnage; with a spackling of what looks almost like shrapnel scars scattered around his left eye and cheek with some down to his chin and a trio of jagged claw marks cutting down through his brow, over a band of Mirialan tattoos that travel from one cheekbone to the other across the bridge of his nose and just past his lips. Relatively fresh when he'd arrived but now faded a bit over the past decade or so, they do portray an obvious story about how something large and unpleasant had managed to shatter his visor, and then immediately followed it up by trying to take his face off when the boy decided it was kinda hard to fight with your head in a bucket full of broken glass.
All this, combined with those sharp grey eyes of his, brown hair usually in a simple high-and-tight crew cut and a propensity to forget to shave sometimes have given Toryn a look that even he'd joke; "Only a Mando could love."
...Which, though he probably actually believes it, ain't entirely true; truth be told, the guy's far more handsome than he thinks, he just hides it well.
| {Equipment and Personal Belongings} |
Beskar'gam: An older— downright archaic, some would say— pattern of Beskar'gam Toryn picked up at some indeterminate point during his youth spent voyaging across the Unknown Regions. Resized to fit him as he grew and periodically updated over the years to include (among other things) an enhanced sensor and comms suite in the helmet to both track his prey and keep in contact with The Dog, a new vocabulator to help him with certain words in alien languages his human mouth is ill-equipped for and magnetic pads on the soles of his feet and sewn into the palms of his armourweave to make repairs in EVA just a little bit easier.
Daggers:Three kals, one hanging off the back of his belt and two smaller ones hidden under his vambraces.
Configurable Mandalorian vambraces: Usually equipped with a grapple-line on his right and a flamethrower on his left.
Taung Dueling Pistol: An ancient blaster pistol of Taung design, made specifically for fighting other Mandalorians; Overcoming the strength of beskar armour with enough raw kinetic force to snap bone and hemorrhage organs... and is absolutely devastating when used on plastoid. Part of a set, his older brother having the other one.
Lightsaber: Bearing a distinctive orange-red blade and a hilt made of beskar. Often does double-duty as an ad-hoc mace.
A downright ancient Dynamic-class freighter hauled out of a scrapyard on Terminus by Toryn's family when he was a boy, with most of the holes hastily patched up, an oversized powerplant aggressively rammed into place and a... creatively acquired Class 0.5 hyperdrive slapped in for good measure. The old girl has served as both his means of getting around and his home in the two decades or so since and has seen it's fair share of misadventures, tough scrapes and a whole helluva lot more close calls than it's designers had probably ever really intended it for, but it has always faithfully failed to let the Drals down even in their darkest of hours.
Probably why Toryn still refuses to part with it in favour of a more modern vessel to this day.
...And kept up the family tradition of adding new shiny bits to it.
Basic Specifications
Length: 27.24 Meters
Width: 25.94 Meters
Maximum Atmospheric Speed: 1300 Km/h
Hyperdrive Rating: Class 0.5
Navigation: Droidcore-Assisted Navicomputer
Armaments
2x revolving laser cannon turrets, mounted dorsal and ventral.
4x forward-facing laser cannon turrets, mounted on the starboard and port sides of the hull and on either side of the cockpit.
2x 24-shot concussion missile racks, mounted on the starbord and port sections of the front of the hull.
4x Forward-facing deployable laser cannon hard points, one mounted above and below both missile racks.
'Teeth': The ancient droidcore— an old T3 unit— integrated into the ship's systems long before the Drals ever got their hands on it, it's dish-like head poking out of the thick console partitioning the pilot and co-pilot seats. Outside of navigation, can take over some of the ships weapons to assist Toryn in a firefight or even operate the ship independently, running off of data supplied by Toryn's IFF while he's on the ground. Also... just a liiiiittle bit unhinged after going a few millennia without a memory wipe.
Facilities
Cockpit, equipped with a quartet of stupidly comfortable reclining chairs, comms and navigation suites, a droidcore mainframe built out of a very old, very talkative and very possibly insane T3-series utility droid and all the other bells and whistles you'd expect to find there. And a Mandalore the Paladin bobblehead. Plus a pair of fuzzy dice Solace bought him one year for his birthday.
Garage/Workshop/Forge, in the starboard-aft section of the ship.
Medical Bay aft of the ship.
Cargo Hold/Brig, port-aft of the ship.
Magnetically-sealable, beskar-plated storage compartment, center-port of ship.
Amenities
Captain's Quarters, just aft of the cockpit. Formerly the comms room.
Guest quarters, port and starboard of the ship.
Common Area, equipped with kitchen, secured dining table with magnetically-anchorable chairs, holo-entertainment suite in the center of the room and a very comfortable couch. Located centrally in the ship.
Washroom with dual-function ablution system; working as both a sonic shower for those times when Toryn's on those long treks that require some measure of water conservation (or if he's just running late for work) and an old-fashioned H2O bath/shower, for when he just wants to relax. Mandalorian-helmeted rubber duckie included.
A jury-rigged deployable hydroscoop on the bottom and slightly to the rear of the ship. Allowing Toryn to cheekily stock up on water by flying through a comet's tail if he really needs to.
A pack of Sabacc cards from the club he grew up in as a little boy. Never actually uses them, but will take them out and shuffle them once in a while when he needs to relax.
An old Pazaak deck Toryn found under his bed when his family first acquired the ship.
The Thumper MK I— A pneumatically-powered, breech-loaded projectile launcher, built by Toryn when he was a boy. Heavy, a little underpowered, yet surprisingly versatile, it operates on a simple concept; There's a hole in the back. If you can fit it in there, you can fire it accurately up to a hundred meters away. Mostly just used to amuse his niece these days.
The Thumper MK II— A more serious attempt at the original concept Toryn took on in his teenage years; a light weight, breech-loaded, break-action coilgun designed to launch grenades (or anything metal that will fit in the breech) up to seven hundred meters away with impressive accuracy.
"The Answer"— The result of that time Solace commissioned Toryn to construct a pair of wheellock, revolver blasters for her. Namely, when he cast his gaze down upon the finished product, extremely potent, but extremely fragile and decided one thing— "It's not finished.". This led to a solid month of gathering materials for a far more rugged adaptation of a crystal primed blaster utilizing individual cartridges of tibanna gas for every shot. The end result? A straight pull bolt-action rifle fed via en bloc into a ten-round internal magazine, with a barrel made of beskar to keep the damned thing from melting and furniture made of wroshyr wood just in case it feels the sudden urge to explode in his face. And one hell of an anti-material rifle.
It should be noted, that though he's gotten more than his money's worth out of this particular fruit of Solace-given inspiration in the years since... he hasn't actually told her about it. Partly because he's not sure if she'd be offended by his misgivings about her original design and partly because one way or another, he'd never hear the end of it.
Tionese Boarding Gun— A crude and primitive cycler weapon, the TBG fires a scattering of energy sheathed projectiles in a cone of absolute fury with enough force to turn most sentients and some droids to mulch in the tight confines of a ship's corridors. The downside being that it has to be loaded and fed like a slugthrower... though with a capacity of six rounds in the tube, plus one in the chamber and the ability to just keep blasting with every pump so long as you're squeezing the trigger, that's often enough. Nevermind the bayonet lug.
Various other, more standard arms and munitions
| {Physical Abilities} |
Jetii'ramikad An unusual, and rather informal colloquialism used to describe people like Toryn, roughly translated from Mando'a as "Jedi Commando", it means... well, almost exactly what it says on the tin— What happens when you mix a Jedi Knight with a Mandalorian Supercommando.
Immersed in both cultures from a young age and enduring two solid decades of brutal training and even harsher experiences has left Toryn with a very particular skill-set; As lethal with a blaster, kal or even his bare hands as he is with a lightsaber and the force and being extremely (some would say freakishly) physically and mentally tough to boot. It's no small wonder that the council usually reserves the armoured Jedi and those like him for a very certain kind of work.
Self-Sufficient As a consequence of both his life before arriving on Mandalore and his career afterward, Toryn has— by sheer necessity— become remarkably self-sufficient. Intimately familiar with his gear, his ship and how best to effectively operate and keep both in working order as well as how to survive in the wider Galaxy on his lonesome for extended periods of time.
Expert Armourer Starting as just a way to bond with his mum when he was still knee-high to a womprat— taking apart her blasters, scrubbing the scoring out of the chambers, realigning the focusing lenses and the like— the events of the next two decades of voyaging through the Unknown Regions and then becoming a Jedi Knight would only mould the boy's talent with his hands into a force all of it's own as he became a man.
Son of a Taung Being raised by a legendary Taung General who made life particularly difficult for both the Old Republic and Jedi several thousand years ago has had it's subtle effects here and there on the man. Namely in his possession of a much sharper intellect than he ever really lets on and an immense talent for strategy and tactics that only ever really bubbles up to the surface while on the job and fades back into obscurity the moment it's done.
...Also, an extensive vocabulary of expletives and phrases that would sound old-fashioned or downright archaic to most other Mandalorians.
Polyglot Having spent his early years on Nar Shaddaa and much the rest of his life among the stars, Toryn's picked up more than a few languages along the way. Speaking Huttese and Ryl just as easily as he would Basic or Mando'a and even being able to understand Lekku-Speak. Having a diplomat as his best friend has only helped this along further, allowing him to pick up conversational Shyriiwook and Dosh along the way (assisted by his helmet in speaking, of course) as well as High Galactic and several more... obscure dead languages. If only because he realized rather early on that if he was going to occasionally be sent headlong into ancient ruins from time to time to kill some big ol' spooky thing or save someone from some big ol' spooky thing, then it'd behoove him to be able to read any warning labels he might find within.
Can Cook If you spent as much time as Toryn has in the Space Boonies, you'd learn how to make a meal out of damn near anything you could find, too.
Card Shark Though he's not a gambling man, it is distinctly ill-advised to put money on a pazaak game when you're sitting across from Toryn.
"Tor-Torism" A phrase coined by a certain diplomat— often accompanied by a little snort— Toryn is... weirdly, and uniquely gifted in dealing with both kids and animals. And perhaps more amusingly, doesn't realize it at all.
Electric Judgement: Something that just seems to come naturally to him, Electric Judgement was actually the first force ability Toryn ever discovered; Accidentally. When someone was preparing to kill his adoptive brother. Since that fateful (and slightly crispy) day, Toryn's talent for occasionally cosplaying as a taser has evolved to the point where he can wreathe his own body with emerald— sometimes golden when he really wants to hurt someone— arcs of electricity and control it in outward bursts as if it were an extension of his own will; even able to arc it around people he doesn't want to harm to strike those that he does.
While the Enclaves were... naturally quite skeptical when they discovered he had such a talent after he arrived on Mandalore as a teenager. The support of his new Master, the approval of Mace Windu and some encouragement from Plo-Koon have kept him practicing and improving it even further.
Form VI Variant: Ramikad Niman Toryn's own, nigh-heretical take on the so-called 'Diplomat's Form', fomented by his decade of hard experiences in the Unknown Regions with the input of not only from his original master who first taught him the form, but his adoptive brother and future sister-in-law— a former Death Watch trooper and Jedi Padawan, respectively— and his adoptive father, a Taung General and then further honed by over a decade in service to Mandalore. The end result? A versatile and incredibly lethal mixture of traditional saber combat, Mandalorian swordplay and opportunistic attacks with the force and his other more... direct armaments, blended together seamlessly through a lifetime of fighting and made all the more terrifying by Toryn's natural proclivity for Electric Judgement.
Other Lightsaber Forms
Form VII: Vaapad
Form III: Soresu
| {Limitations} |
Not a Diplomat Toryn, though far from being an antisocial miser, has absolutely no head for the labyrinthine world of actual diplomacy. Combined with his reputation and that of those like him, it may in fact be actively detrimental to send the Mando on diplomatic missions as anything other than the spooky guy standing behind the person who is actually talking.
Jetii'ramikad Strictly speaking, when Toryn is sent somewhere on an assignment, it's generally assumed that the Enclaves, Mandalore or the Paladin himself are done talking, and a peaceful solution will not be coming forthwith. This can make his job (and his life)... decidedly more difficult than it needs to be; Specifically because of the generally accepted notion that if it's him that's been sent somewhere, it's because it's been decided by either the Mandalore or the Enclaves that something has gone very wrong or that someone has to die.
| {Personality} |
Level-headed, straightforward, easygoing and far, far more clever than he ever actually lets on, Toryn is an oddity amongst Mandalorians— especially those with a reputation like his— in that he rarely ever talks about himself; keeping a pointed silence about his life, his work, or what he's thinking or feeling at any given time. Partly due to the often clandestine nature of his profession, partly due to being satisfied enough with his life that he doesn't particularly want or need fame or glory and partly due to his extraordinarily private nature. Which makes it so damned surprising how well-adjusted he is, with what little is known about his life; having a generally friendly nature, meeting most offenses with a sharp verbal barb first and a fist second (a rarity among Mandalorians) and not at all being so self-important and serious as to be above spending time with and being the purveyor of impromptu piggy-back rides to his niece or any of the other kids in his clan.
There is... something else there, though.
Like his unique talent for sometimes laughing at things he probably shouldn't, not showing fear to things he probably should and how he looks visibly tired almost all the damned time; only seeming to come fully alive when the chips are down and the time for talking is thoroughly done. This all... speaks to a life so acclimated such a levels of stress, danger and violence that should have broken him a long time ago. With unsettling implications about what the kinds of triumphs, tragedies and traumas required to make such a man would do if left to fester unspoken, unaddressed and unmended in the back of his mind.
Implications he of course, denies and doesn't pay much mind. But there is an unspoken understanding among his family and friends that Toryn is... a very different person when he stops gracing friend and foe alike with his sense of humour and starts taking things seriously.
| {Place of Origin} |
Once an orphan, Toryn's earliest memories are of his short four years as the adoptive son of a Tionese mercenary captain— one Daesha Vao— in the employ of a Hutt information broker on Nar Shaddaa. A time he spent learning all the need-to-knows from that side of life; from blaster maintenance, to pick-pocketing and swindling drunken Coreward tourists out of all their credits with a shell game or a pack of cards and a cheeky smile. And a time he rarely speaks of, though he often looks back on it all with a sort of sad nostalgia, even as the passing years make the finer details harder to recall.
| {Background} |
Toryn's origins, to milk that tired old cliche, are shrouded in mystery... and that's not him just trying to sound cool, enigmatic or anything remotely interesting, the guy honestly has no idea just where the hell he came from. What he does know, however, is that he was barely dry from the womb before he was handed off to a mercenary named Daesha Vao and her outfit working out of the Red Light Sector on Nar Shaddaa for safe keeping. Which admittedly, does kinda sound like a terrible idea at first, if you didn't know one tiny little detail—
That Daesha Vao was considered one of, if not the most lethal merc on that whole damned moon.
An absolute mountain of a Twi'lek, and the daughter of both an infamous Tionese pirate and a slave-turned-assassin that could've built a bridge from the Smuggler's Moon straight down to the surface of Nal Hutta with all the bodies she'd left in her wake, Toryn's 'Mum' had lived up to her pedigree long before she was changing the boy's diapers or tucking him into bed with a Ryl lullaby and a little kiss goodnight. Having earned her epithet as 'The Reaver' (though she never really cared for the name) via an absolutely jaw-dropping bodycount tallied up over a decade-long career throughout Hutt Space and the Outer Rim— Something she rarely brought up in casual conversation, as she'd always fancied herself to be something of a people person and folks tended to become... a whole lot less talkative the moment they figured out exactly who it was they were talking to. And that's not even getting into the company she kept—
Jarohn Dax (affectionately called 'The Brute' by Daesha), a giant, even among his fellow Devaronians; Built like a brick wall and about as clever as one, too. A nice guy, all things considered— Strong enough to rip a man limb from limb like a wet tissue, but a nice guy.
Zara Tuul ('The Brat'), a Falleen slicer and pilot with brains and sass in equal measure. An adept at getting whatever she wanted from anyone, droid or organic and an absolute master of the pithy one-liner... and absolutely schooling Toryn (her 'little brother') in old holo-games if he remembers right.
Ruusad Vass ('The Kid'), a lad barely old enough to shave and certainly not old enough to buy a drink in most places outside of Hutt Space. Born and raised to live and breathe all things 'Deathwatch', but had a... slight falling out with his clan and glorified death cult over the whole 'Killing other Mandalorians' thing and was very likely considered dead or Dar'manda— possibly both— to his entire extended family. Daesha never once doubted the boy's loyalty though— she had always had a soft spot for strays, especially ones that could peg a fly off a piece of bantha dung from a mile away without disturbing the pile.
Then there was Narkuul ('Pops'), a Hutt information broker and the crew's employer and Tavor, his Muun bookkeeper. The former keeping Daesha and her mercenary pseudo-family on the payroll partly because he'd employed both of the Twi'lek's parents in the past and even officiated at their wedding, partly because as a slug in his particular trade, he often came across the odd lead he felt too juicy not to cash in on himself and partly because on Nar Shaddaa, a Hutt wasn't really a Hutt until they had their own personal death squad. And the latter? well, the less said about him the better— there was always something... wrong... behind his sunken, beady little eyes and Daesha had always made a point of keeping him as far away from her crew and kid as possible.
And last but certainly not least; 'Sunny'. Narkuul's substantially sized and substantially ancient war droid of a type Toryn would never see the like of in all his years afterward. Narkuul's personal bodyguard, named for his... way with words and baritone delivery.
And so it was that, against any and all convention, our boy Toryn was raised in perhaps the safest, out-of-the-way place imaginable— amongst a happy family of some of the galaxy's most notorious killers.
Ever the precocious little shit, the kid picked up on Ryl, Huttese and even some Mando'a alongside Basic via sheer osmosis from being exposed to so many languages at such a young age. And from the time he could walk, talk and be relied upon not to put shiny things in his mouth, Daesha had him sat down learning how to pull apart and maintain damn near every blaster in her considerable arsenal and how to get a vibroknife so sharp you could drop it on a bantha steak and watch it fall through the table before you even heard a sound— Something the boy seemed to have a natural gift for.
Another thing the kid had a gift for? Counting cards, shell games, magic tricks and all the other basic scams, shams and hustles Pops could cram into his puny little head ('Investing in a future employee', the Hutt would always reason it if asked), being good enough to set up his own stand on the main strip of the Red Light with a fold-out table and a little plasteel crate on which to stand and make a killing absolutely robbing naive and/or drunk tourists from the Inner Rim blind with a little slight of hand and a beaming smile. And a fully armed and armoured Mandalorian leaning on the wall behind him and watching at all times, mind you, but that was more for the off-worlders than any of the local scum and villainy in all honesty, as they all knew better than to go after Daesha's boy.
And Toryn's life probably would've just kept on going like that; learning to work all the angles of the Smuggler's Moon to his and his family's gain, chatting up off-duty dancers with all his precocious little charm to give 'em a much-needed laugh and to get the occasional fat tip when Narkuul had him tending bar and generally being on the fast track to becoming just another scoundrel from Nar Shaddaa, far away from the complications of the wider Galaxy and the horrors of the Clone Wars.
It was, however, not to be. As, at just four years old, Toryn's life would take a sharp turn as Tavor finally made his move; patiently waiting for Narkuul— and more importantly, his giant kill-bot— to be away on business on Nar Kaaga before dialing up his own contacts— Mandalorian mercs and expats dissatisfied with the rise of the new Mandalore— for a raid on Narkuul's club. Knowing that Daesha's crew couldn't be bought off and would have to be removed if he wanted to secure his hold on Narkuul's assets, network and fortune... and with with his in-depth knowledge of the layout and security systems of the place and his own extensive notes about the persons in question, it seemed to him that it'd all go off without a hitch.
And it may well have, had Ruusad, Zara and Toryn not burst through the front door, the elder two gasping for air and the younger off his feet and bodily held up under the Mando kid's shoulder but looking just as tired. All three of them back way ahead of schedule from their daily round of swindling tourists and all three wild-eyed in panic trying to think up a way to explain to their 'Mom' exactly who the youngest in their trio had decided to pick-pocket. Just as a rather angry and unladylike voice called out from behind to remind them of their error;
"WHERE'S MY DAMN LIGHTSABER YA IDJITS?"
That being the voice of Arlia Vohn; Pantoran, Alsakani and Veteran Padawan.
...Also, kind of pissed.
This wasn't going how Tavor planned it— Daesha and Jarohn had suddenly left earlier without saying a word, the kids were back early and they'd apparently brought the single angriest Jedi he'd ever heard of back with them who stormed towards the building riding the winds of an endless stream of Alsakani invective and brandishing what appeared to be her other lightsaber.
So, being a Muun of typical Muun temperament, he did the Muun thing—
He panicked. And signaled his trap too soon, turning what was meant to be a swift and efficient execution into a roaming gunfight through the streets of Nar Shaddaa. Which only became more vicious when they met up with Daesha and Jarohn, who as it turns out had been meeting with Rena Thyran— Arlia's Master, who had a bit of an unconventional reputation herself— who'd come to Nar Shaddaa on Council business and had found her Mirialan self in need of a word with the Twi'lek murdermachine.
Truly an absolute shitshow by any conceivable measure. As they all fought block by block, street by street, room by room until finally, they'd reached the port... just in time to watch Daesha's gunship detonate on the pad where it sat. With their foes seizing control of the Port Master's office to lock down any other chance of escape.
Rena's shuttle, however. Remained intact, for all the good it would do them, with the port's tractor beam ready to snatch and tear apart anything trying to leave.
A thunderous, doomed silence followed for a few heartbeats that seemed to last hours. Before Daesha pulled Jarohn into a hug. Then Zara and Ruusad, before removing her red scarf, tying it around Toryn's neck and giving him a peck on the forehead and holding him as tight as she could.
"You. Jedi." She hissed Rena's way through clenched teeth, struggling against herself to let go of her youngest. "Do what you have to, but swear to me you'll keep them safe. I'll take care of the rest."
This would be the last time Toryn would ever see his mum— as he was soon after hauled up and bodily carried off by Jarohn— the sight of her sad half-smile and little wave as she shrank into the distance buried into his psyche for the rest of his life.
As would the series of explosions that rocked the port not long after they'd made it to Rena's ship, letting them all know that it was time to leave.
Their destination? Coruscant. The plan? Well, the Republic's original mission of enlisting The Reaver's aid in the war effort had now quite thoroughly failed. But Rena had given Daesha her word, and she'd see it through, regardless.
...That, and there were now other "Complications" to figure out she added quietly, fixing the now very exhausted and distraught boy in Jarohn's arms an uncomfortable stare before going back to flying the ship.
Unfortunately, 'Seeing it through' would turn out to be much more complicated than first thought. As, after a few days in hyperspace, Arlia, Rena and oddly enough even Toryn were abruptly struck with an overwhelming sense of dread; the cause of which would only become apparent when they exited hyperspace soon afterward and their motley crew quickly with front row seats to the opening stages of The Shattering of Coruscant. Something they could all only stare at in awe and horror as the burning light of the Galaxy's heart filtered through the cockpit and bathed the ship's interior with an ominous off-orange glow.
...For a moment, anyway. Before the ship's proximity klaxons began to scream out the approach of droid fighters and Arlia found the presence of mind to slam a few buttons on the console and jump them the hell out of there.
Where they wound up wasn't much better. With a Corellian captain of the House of Halcyon they had managed to contact and rendezvous with being both aware of the bounty Tavor had by this time placed on all their heads out of spite and aware that there was no longer a central government to stop him from collecting on it. Forcing the lot of them to fight their way off of his ship and to subsequently be charged with High Treason.
This would set the tone for the following months; with them arriving at some new supposed 'safe' harbour, only to find themselves found and immediately pursued by either Grievous' Jedi-Hunting squads, bounty-hunters from Nar Shaddaa, or forces from what would become the Corellian Hegemony. Constantly hunted, constantly running, constantly driven further and further to the Galactic South.
In that time, Zara would be lost; suddenly dragged off, screaming via a Mandalorian grapple-line punched through her thigh and never seen again. Ruusad would lose an arm to a particularly sadistic with a vibroblade and Toryn would lose his innocence; leaping onto that same mercenary's back before he could finish the job and unknowingly cooking him alive in his armour with gouts of green electricity, his first real use of the force. And his first kill.
This would continue until they reached —or rather, crashed into— the port of Terminus, far in the galactic south. The end of the Known Galaxy and the end of the line. It is here, while hiding out in an old boneyard essentially waiting to die, their ship too broken to ever fly again that they finally caught wind of the Republic in Exile far to the Galactic North. On Mandalore, of all places. Some distant shore where, hypothetically, they could've been safe, if they weren't trapped on the other side of the galaxy, hiding out from Tavor's bounty-hunters who they knew were already planetside and hunting them down.
Which is about when they encountered a strange... red-eyed Pantoran, who was also hiding out in that boneyard for reasons she would not elaborate on. Who suggested a novel solution to their problem; going around the long way. Through the Unknown Regions.
Thus, with no better options. They found the most intact ship they could in that yard— a downright ancient Dynamic-Class, as it turned out— and hastily got to work making her space-worthy again, pulling parts off of nearby ships as necessary.
It was close, and Jarohn— himself already wounded from the crash— had to pick up his gun and go out and buy them time in one last furious stand against the advancing mercs, but they made it out by the very skin of their teeth. Slipping past the various ships in orbit meant to cut off any potential escape, and into the unknown.
Eleven years after that harrowing escape from Terminus, the Jedi Enclaves on Mandalore were paid a visit by a... most unusual guest. One Toryn Dral, the apparent foundling son of Atin Dral, a Taung General from the Mandalorian Wars who had curiously reemerged in the present day. Making port in Keldabe and the day before and apparently quite surprised to almost immediately be met by the Paladin himself, who he'd been touring the planet with since.
Unusual not only for his old-fashioned, bronze-coloured armour, not just for the carefully wrapped bundle of cloth in his hands but also for the lightsaber dangling at his hip, and how he walked, talked and generally carried himself in a fashion more befitting a veteran several times his age and not all that dissimilar from a Jedi. The idea of Taung calling a kid like this 'son' was, well... a little strange, from what they had on record.
Though when Roka Alleron, the Jedi who had gone out to meet him, asked the boy what the Jedi Enclaves could do for him, things started to make a little more sense as he unwrapped the cloth in his hands and produced Rena Thyran's lightsaber... before throwing another curveball her way and apologizing that Arlia— Rena's Padawan— couldn't be here to return the blade herself; She had gone into labour that morning and wouldn't be in any condition to go anywhere anytime soon.
Roka, to her credit, just looked the boy up and down as if he were a colour from space before saying;
"...Kid, you're throwing an awful lotta shit at me right now. Why don'cha come inside and we'll have a talk?"
And talk they did. Admittedly, a bit awkwardly at first on the kid's part; clearly being unused to being around people. But balanced out by Roka's frank... Roka-ness, which seemed to put the lad more at ease. Their meandering eventually leading to the training halls of the Council of Swords where he would lay eyes upon the four-foot-and-nine-inches of terror that was Miravera Alleron for the first time in his life. Who was currently busying herself with dismantling everyone and everything that got on that mat with her with an almost... bored indifference bordering on contempt for her fellow pupils.
Toryn decided that as... entertaining as this girl was to watch work, it was probably in his best interest to avoid her. Partly, because she seemed to have the mother of all sticks up her arse and partly because he had no idea that she was going to become his best friend one day.
Though to be fair regarding that last one, nothing seemed further from the truth after the scoff the pale girl threw his way after somebody (Roka) surreptitiously stuck a training saber into his hand while he wasn't paying attention and gave the lad a firm shove forward. Nor the two quick thwacks he got upside the head before his guard was even up, cutting off his protests about being voluntold.
Nor the glare the younger girl gave him after he intercepted what was meant to be the third smack to his dome with his training saber... and immediately shoved her to the ground by bracing his own blade against his beskar vambrace. Which she quickly recovered from, bounding back to make space and immediately, flawlessly, going into the opening flourishing kata and stance for Makashi, with one arm folded behind her back and her saber pointed directly at him in the other. Something the Mandalorian met by calmly slipping into a relaxed, wide stance with his left foot forward and his saber held loosely to his side and slightly behind him in both hands, pointing away from his foe— something that didn't really exist in Jedi manuals.
Something that brought the kind of smug smirk to Roka's face that only comes when you're proven right as Miravera— prodigy of the blade who had been rapidly becoming one of the foremost duelists in the whole Council of Swords, her own niece, for the first time squared off with... an actual warrior. An opponent with absolutely no concept of dueling etiquette or propriety and who'd actually give her the kind of fight she needed to truly grow.
...Though to be fair, she wasn't exactly expecting the two to take it so far that it'd spill out into the hallways, corridors, other classrooms, one of the kitchens and even Zatli's greenhouse before they'd managed to launch themselves off the side of the damned Citadel and splash down in the courtyard's fountain. Where she and an uncharacteristically amused Dooku would find them soggy, bruised and... actually laughing their asses off about the whole thing now that they'd cooled down (manually).
This chance encounter would earn Toryn the life-long friendship of the girl who'd come to be known as "Solace". And put the kid on the Enclaves' radar, which would lead Roka to approach him about a month later— after the Paladin had granted his father the right to properly refound and settle Clan Dral in the Forge of Kad Ha'rangir; a river valley in the forested highlands far to the north of Keldabe where the old Taung had actually grown up and where they would found the settlement of Atin'yaim— to recruit him as her Padawan. Reasoning that it'd be best to extend that offer to him herself some other, more... orthodox Knight or Master got to him first, after having met the kid.
Which took a bit more poking than she thought it would, honestly; the boy apparently having his own plans of opening his own tool shop and living a quiet life. The two of them quickly forming a relationship that was less the traditional Jedi teacher-and-student dynamic and more of a partnership; As, though he was indeed learning from the Arkanian, it became quite clear rather early on that this wasn't Toryn's first rodeo. And though he'd never fully elaborate on where it all came from, she did find herself picking things up from him almost as much as he did her— even taking to donning a suit of beskar'gam he'd made for her at some point, after she'd sufficiently started cracking him out of his socially-awkward shell.
And for two years, the two of them made for a helluva team, even if they were somewhat on the outs with the more formal core of the Council of Swords; Roka, for her actions during the Clone wars that had earned her the epithet "The Red-Stained" and a lack of decorum and protocol most unbecoming of a proper Jedi and Toryn for... well, being too damned Mandalorian for many of the more conservative sections of the Enclaves. But they did manage to carve out a niche for themselves as an unconventional pair to be sent to deal with things that more orthodox Jedi might have trouble with; like saving archeologists who'd poked something they probably shouldn't have, playing bounty hunter to deal with wanted criminals directly, or— as became their hallmark— seeking out other Jedi who'd been left unaccounted for after Knightfall and either making sure they were alright, extricating them from bad situations or, as was sometimes the case, putting them down if the trauma of the Clone Wars and the Shattering of Coruscant had made them a threat to the people of the Galaxy.
It was often grisly work. And more often than not, largely unappreciated by the Council of Swords, but it did quickly earn Toryn a reputation amongst the Enclaves as someone who could be relied upon to get the job done, damn the odds and damn the unpleasantness. Though he did begin to notice more and more the way some in their order talked about his Master, despite all the work they'd done and started finding it harder and harder to bite his tongue; never mind the one Knight who had thought it a good idea to say something particularly unkind about previous Master, and who very quickly found Toryn's hand on their throat in an uncharacteristic slip in composure Solace would have to talk him down from.
Until, one night. Roka called her Padawan out to the woods near Atin'yaim— by then a decently-sized town in it's own right made up of modular pre-fabs and parked starships— to ask a personal favour, far from the eyes of the Council of Swords.
She had found Pong Krell. Her former Master who had betrayed her, the Grand Army and the whole of the Republic, leading to the deaths of thousands on Umbara and beyond, combatants and civilians alike and dragging her name through mud stained with the blood of all of her friends to that very day.
She had found the fucker, camped out in the old Jedi Temple on Telos. And the Council of Swords refused to let her go after him. Citing a lack of resources to be devoted to her rather obvious thirst for revenge. But if she let him slip away again, it could be another decade before she got another cha—
"Fuck 'em." Came the boy's flat response as he picked himself up off the rock he'd been sitting on and headed back towards his ship/home at an easy pace. "Let's go kick his ass."
No questions, no doubts, no misgivings. Just affirmation and purpose, damn the consequences. Truth be told, as much time as she'd spent with her Padawan over the past two years, that had still caught her way the hell off guard.
"This man hurt you, so I am going to feed him his own hands and the Council can fuckin' like it." He added over his shoulder, as if sensing her confusion. "...Now are we doing this thing or not?"
...And while few really know for sure the exact specifics of what happened on Telos— where the two apparently disembarked about a mile out from their target in the middle of an arctic snowstorm, snuck in through an old sewage pipe and then set about causing as much mayhem inside that old facility as physically possible; destroying the gears that controlled the hangar bay with an arm-full of jury-rigged explosives to prevent any means of escape, carving their way through the small army of hired guns Krell had surrounded himself with, detonating their ammo-dump just to add to the chaos before outright jumping the traitorous Besalisk before he could figure what was going on— it is a matter of record that when they returned home about a week later and presented a dumbstruck Council of Swords with about two-dozen force-sensitive kids the bastard had kidnapped over the years and a carbonite block that looked an awful like the man himself... that said block had a curious absence of his grabby-bits.
They then both immediately resigned. And went to find a bar.
...Or, more accurately, were grabbed and bodily dragged into a local dive on the Citadel Grounds almost as soon as they were out the door by a bunch of old clones who'd seen what they'd come in with. Where two shots of something called "Lethan Lovelies" were placed in front of them and a crowd of old warriors gathered 'round, eager to hear the story and many of them making impromptu holo-calls. The staff very pointedly going into overdrive to get as much alcohol and food ready as possible.
Things got... rather loud after that. In a happy, Mandalorian kind of way.
And they'd soon be joined by others; like the children of clones whose fathers had survived the hell of Umbara, Mandalorians who'd heard what they'd done and came to celebrate, other Jedi— either those personally affected by Krell's treachery or who had become disillusioned with the oft-dogmatic traditionalism and bureacratic nature of the Council of Swords— and, perhaps most prominently, Mace Friggin' Windu. Who— himself an outlier on the Council of Swords and still living with the shame of Coruscant's burning during his tenure as Master of the Order— took in all the merrymaking, comradery and general togetherness between Jedi, Clones, Mandalorian warriors and those that they existed to protect.
And suddenly, he had an epiphany. And pointedly sat down next to the two Jedi-turned-folk-heroes to share it with them.
And it was on that night, in that bar cobbled together from scraps of starship and durasteel plate in the midst of celebrating one of few real big wins the Enclaves had had since their founding, that a new order would be forged; one unshackled by millennia of Jedi tradition, whose doors would remain always open to those they served and whose Knights would never shy away from doing what was right.
The Council of Iron.
And it was here that Toryn— knighted on the spot via a Commando Cocktail; a Mandalorian tradition involving a big beskar goblet passed around the bar until near-overflowing with a little bit of everyone else's drinks, something that'd become a set tradition to the Iron— would start to find his true calling in life.
...Which, as it turns out. Was much the same as what he was doing before, but now with much more freedom to act, and often being sent out into the galaxy on his lonesome more often than not; in the early days, because Mace and Roka had their hands full building up a new council of the Enclaves from scratch— buying out that bar and converting it into a sort of Warrior's Lodge where, true to their mission statement, anyone would be welcome to walk in, petition for aid, learn a skill or... just get a hot meal— and much later because, frankly, the boy who was rapidly becoming a man started getting really, really good at hunting down bad people and preventing bad things from happening. To the point where by the time he was in his twenties, it wasn't uncommon for him to receive requests directly from Secretary Suard or The Mandalore Himself whenever they encountered a problem that required a very specific kind of solution. Which in turn, would earn him the nickname: "The Hound of Mandalore". And a reputation for ferocity and sheer tenacity that would begin to spread even beyond the borders of Mandalorian Space more and more with every pirate or crimelord brought to justice, every person saved and every weird old spooky thing dealt with.
Hell, it even earned him a saying;
That "Every second you aren't running, he's only getting closer."
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