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(Open to Death Watch)
Mikha'el Atin'al sipped at his hot cup of caf as he strolled casually down the dura-steel reinforced stone corridors of Ha'rangirs fortress. The Death Watch had been spending so much time operating of the hidden installation on Roon and consolidating their new acquisitions on Rodia and Geonosis, he'd hardly had time to visit the old mountain redoubt. The remote and heavily defended fortress in the northern mountains, surrounded by dense forests and volcano ranges, was home to a growing contingent of warriors, weapons, and heavy equipment. The barracks bustled with activity, and the hangars and workshops were filled with the sound of arc welders and machinery work. Technically here on Mandalore they were still "Ha'rangirs Chosen", a legally registered military contractor, and their contract activities off world were protected under Mandalorian law from being investigated or prosecuted here on their homeworld. They were safe here, for now, so long as they kept their heads down. Even if they weren't, Mik thought as he paused to gaze out a blaster slat in the wall at one of the towering air-defense turbolasers on the outer wall, it would be a hell of a good fight to oust them.
The Warpriest looked down as he felt something bump into his foot. Prudii Kyramud had thought it endlessly hilarious to tamper with the cleaning droid Mik had recently brought back and let loose in his office, thereby limiting the number of people that ha access to his personal spaces. Now, it trailed him around everywhere he went in the fortress, quietly vacuuming in his immediate wake. He had his suspicions it was Jemma's idea, and he would bide his time until he had calculated his revenge. Until then at least he wouldn't have to clean up after himself. He continued his way down corridors and stairwells, taking his time and eschewing the use of the turbolifts. He was enjoying his caf. He nodded to warriors he recognized, and returned the reverent greetings of those who recognized him. The Death Watch was much closer knit than the Chosen had been, he thought- they all had a common goal and interest now beyond fortune and fame. They also loved to party.
Finally, he arrived at his destination- The Fun House. Formerly an ancient dungeon- that had been moved deeper underground during remodeling a century ago- the space was wide with high ceilings and recessed lighting. Work benches and tools filled the central space, while weapons racks and cages lined the walls. The back of the room was full of shelves and crates of spare parts, broken down droids (assassin, battle, astromech, and even more cleaning droids) explosives, accessories, and other assorted aids for inventive methods of causing death and destruction. Normally bustling with creative young warriors tricking out their favorite weapons, Mik had reserved the space for himself and a short list of trusted Death Watch associates- though getting an RSVP from this lot of hooligans was a difficult task, so there was never any telling who would show up.
Mik made his way to a large work bench in the center that had been prepared for the occasion and sat in a comfortable rolling chair. He drained the last of his caf and refilled the designer durasteel mug with a smoky dark tihaar bottle that was sitting next to the corpse on the table. Kick for kick. Kyramud had his spices- Mikha'el had more refined vices. One hand on his mug, one hand in his pocket, Mik sighed and looked over the work table, figuring out how he was going to work this.