Mirdala Tracyn

[Ascending_1]

One of the Strong

Like all of us, at first I was strong enough only to survive. Until my growth, I was nothing special. But, my blood was strong, as was my will, and I became what I am. Many identify my by my armor, enhanced as a gift by the fat ones. And as much as it feels like a betrayal to our integrity, I cannot dislike the edge it gives me... The beskar of my family, recycled and passed down to the next generation with the death of each patriarch, coats the entirety of my body, from head to foot. After the enhancements, the entirety of the beskar'gam is of similar coloring to my flesh, a healthy gray. Spiked pauldrons serve as added defense, and a useful addition to my armory...

Beneath my armor, I am no less Taung than the next. The strength of my training, aided by the strength of my ancestors, is impressive.

Distinguished From The Flock

My focus belongs to my people, betterment of the Mando'ade and destruction of our foes. My dreams show me a perfect universe, many planets united under the command of Mandalore. I work with the worms only because I am commanded to do so by Mandalore... As tempting as it is to think that these recent actions are influenced by Arasuum, there is logic behind the decision, and I cannot dispute the wisdom of Mandalore, proven through his actions to be strong, accurate, and intelligent. As always.

In combat, my mind is singular in thought - victory. The cost should not rise to include an unacceptable number of Mando'ade casualties. While a few warriors may fall in battle, defeat is unacceptable. The cost of battle should be paid by the enemies of Mandalore. And as long as I draw breath, I will see that it is. I never show mercy, I do not believe in such a weaklings philosophy. However, that does not mean one should torture an enemy, beyond a means of gathering information. No, slaughter should not take place over weeks, but hours. Each death should be final within minutes at the most. Individuals who do battle with the Taung are not strong enough to be victorious, and clearly not wise enough to surrender. Thus, they must be cut down, for the good of our people, and the future I dream of.

The Rarest of Treats

Although I disdain action that does not directly benefit the Mando'ade, I do have a fondness... A wife and child wait for me in the future, and I continue to search for them in the proper fashion. This is but one of my pursuits in times of little combat. Another is, I hesitate to admit, artistry... I am often stirred to feelings that I must put to words by memories of combat... Poetry is not something most of us will admit to an interest in, nor is it something most of us practice... Yet, I maintain some amount of verse... Private but for the eyes of my future descendants... My words bring to mind fountains of blood, the elegance of a blade, and the ferocious strength of Mandalorian warriors...

Of course, I favor matters of combat... There really is nothing quite like the heat of battle... The death rattles of the enemy, and the war cries of our warriors... The roars of bloodlust that echo across the field of battle before the first enemy falls, and after the last lies defeated... The ring of a sharp blade as it ends its path through the flesh of my opponents... The report of my slug-thrower an instant after a man falls, dead and bleeding... And the fire... Oh, my name is well-given indeed...

An Appropriate Name

Under the command of Mandalore, I have laid waste to battalions of men, armies have fallen beneath my might... And it is never enough... Until all who oppose us lie in defeat, and Mando'ade own supremacy of the galaxy, I cannot, and will not stop... And when my time is complete, and I have moved to the ranks of the afterlife, I hope my sons shall follow in my footsteps... For Mandalore...

By the time I reached adulthood, I was an accomplished brawler, but not baptized by the fire of true combat... I was eager... I thirsted for blood, I longed to see the worlds of our enemies burn... And I became the one to set them ablaze... A favorite activity of mine has always been to watch the movement, the living and breathing of fire... Whether fires set in the home or on the battlefield, I loved to watch the intangible, undeniable power of fire... And so when it came to my tactics, my joy was unimaginable... To watch the face of an enemy as they burn, or to see their reaction to a missile of fire growing closer... The pounding of my heart becomes furious, reacting to the joy in my soul.

The Weapon of Mandalore

As a young one, I began to excel, to surpass my fellows in combat and in physical size... Before I came of age, I was able to defeat my own father in unarmed combat, although I attribute this to his advanced age, and my talent in combat. I remember our last fight as if it were yesterday... The last fight of his life, and the first true battle of mine...

It was the day before I was to join Mandalore's ranks, and truly become a soldier... My father had long since retired from true battle in favor of seeing me into adulthood, and teaching the young warriors of our tribe. My mother had contracted some ailment which, although drawn out, was by no means curable, and almost certainly fatal. I had just gathered the beskar for my own armor, which had yet to be forged, and was considering the design when my father interrupted me. A friendly cuff to the neck, and I was summoned to the combat circle. You can imagine my surprise when he announced his challenge: A fight to the death. I knew he was serious. No Taung jokes of a duel to the death. When I voiced my objection, he silenced me with the removal of his armor.

"Yours is not yet complete, I know... When you are victorious, the beskar of your father, and his fathers before him, shall be yours, to be combined with the fresh harvest and fashioned into your own protection." He had said, removing his helmet and displaying his age in public for the first time since his own childhood. He was truly worn, diminished by many years in battle, and the lines in his face attested to just a few sleepless nights too many. And then, he removed the rest of his armor, leaving only his leggings and his sash in place. His body was old, but that didn't diminish his impressive physique, or the sheer presence he had. His stature was like that of a monument, straight and tall and powerful. And while I didn't see it, my body was just as well made, if not better, than his. Where his skin had begun to fade to a paler shade, mine was strong and dark. The lines in his muscles were not as pronounced, and he had grown thicker outside of the tempering fire of the battlefield. I still had my youthful slenderness. The difference in height was only slight, enough to be considered unimportant.

When my father drew his blade, a sword that was nearly the height of him, I knew he fully intended to kill me, should I prove incapable of finishing him off first. I took up my own weapon, at the time a simple beskar spear, which had previously only been used for hunting. And we clashed.

Father brought his massive blade down in a powerful, crushing blow. I angled the blade away from myself by raising the haft of my spear, and his sword became embedded in the ground. From this position, with the tip of my spear above my own shoulder, I did not have the leverage to finish the battle with a thrust. Instead, I rammed into the man with my shoulder, pushing him back into the optimal range and freeing his blade in one action. Before he could heft the weapon, however, I had slashed him across the chest with the blade of my spear, leaving an ugly wound in his once proud chest. I expected no surrender, and he didn't disappoint me. The old warrior fought on, now holding his incredibly long weapon in a reverse grip. He utilized quick footwork and brought the blade of his sword to my side half a dozen times. My spears shaft didn't hold out under the onslaught, and it was cut to pieces, leaving me with a weapon that I still use to this day, although it too has been enhanced by the fat worms we have allied ourselves with.

Both of us wounded, my father with a large wound on his chest, and myself with a long yet superficial cut in my abdomen, we circled each other, moving counter-clockwise. My newly made short-spear was raised to thrust, and his blade was dragging in the dirt in his right hand, while he led with his left, already in preparation for a massive swing. The timing of our strikes was perfect, and it decided my survival, and my ascension to the status of warrior. As my father brought his blade around, the strongest strike in his life as well as the last, I bent low to the ground and launched myself forward, piercing his heart in mid-swing. His hand released his blade, which sailed off into the distance, and he collapsed to the dirt with the shortened haft of my spear protruding from his chest. We met each others eyes, he nodded proudly at me, and he passed on. I had succeeded in killing my father, just as he had done, and his father before him. A tradition exclusive to my family, and one we expect to be carried out without fail.

After the duel with my father, I melted down his armor, and combined it with my own beskar. My honor pushed to the level of a warrior, I had earned my beskar'gam. There was enough of the metal left for a few other tools, so I made use of it as well, re-forging my hunting spear, Dral'ca, into a glorious weapon of combat. It has since been equipped with vibration emitters, making it emanate with a fierce roar when activated. Along with my spear, I crafted a long-sword, and I have given it a coat as black as the fate that awaits the enemies of my people, and named it Darasuum Tor. Both have served me well, as has my armor. And all three shall continue to serve me, as I serve Mandalore.
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