The sky bled green. From above, a flight of K-Wings rained down a light show of death and carnage, cutting through the forest with ease. Bomb chutes opened, pouring their deadly cargo into the forest floor, causing the trees to explode and spray burning shards and splinters through the small clearings interspersed between the more venerable fauna, eviscerating any SCEPTER operatives unlucky enough to have survived the initial air strike.
Already, much of the forest was on fire. Smoke cloyed the senses, making it hard to see and breathe. The few remaining operatives, only three strong, huddled in the bombed out crater of what had once been a tree hundreds of feet high. Around them were scattered the remains of what had once been a ten-strong team.
“I think they’ve passed over.” One of them muttered. She was perhaps thirty, human, and had a bandage wrapped around her head, covering the oozing wound where her ear used to be.
A zabrak opposite her snorted. “That just means the cleaners will be coming through the area in a second. When they spot us, we’re dead.”
“Quiet! I can hear the Howlrunners.” The Nautolan hissed, clutching his rifle close to his chest.
Indeed, the eerie, chilling howl of a pack of Howlrunners tore the sudden stillness of the aftermath apart, making the zabrak flinch. Their padded feet could be heard rushing through the undergrowth, zeroing in on the hapless trio’s location. They steeled themselves for the inevitable.
Something shifted in the air. There was a tangible change in the day. Slowly, rain began to fall, its patter matting down the smoke, quenching the small fires, causing them to hiss. Through the mirk stepped a trio of figures. In the middle was a nondescript human male wearing a coat with a large concussion rifle slung over one shoulder. To his right was an imposing larger male who walked with the confidence of a seasoned fighter, yet seemed to still possess the exuberance of youth. On the middle figure’s other side was an equally nondescript human male with tribal tattoos over one side of his face.
They paused a second, then the middle figure, presumably the most senior, gestured with his right hand. The tattooed male leapt forward towards the beaten SCEPTER members, but instead of attacking them, vaulted them and stood at the lip of their crater, extending an electrostaff. The Howlrunners burst through the brush just as his weapon finished deploying. Displaying an uncanny ability with the stave, he slapped no less than three of them away before a single blaster bolt rang out, hitting one of the canine creatures in the flank. It yelped, hobbling away, and the others followed suit, yowling in distress.
Shouts could be heard in the distance, followed by the heavy, dull tattoo of booted feet on muddy earth.
“Where’s the rest of your unit?” The stave-wielding figure asked, briefly glancing behind at them.
“We’re all that’s left.” The one-eared human replied shakily, unsure of who their rescuers were.
“Call in any survivors in the area to our position. We’ll have a staging point here.” Celahir Erinos, former Consul of Arcona and Battleteam Leader of Soulfire ordered, before returning his full attention to the fore.
“Who are you people?”
“We’re The Erinos.” The middle figure replied, wielding a large, antiquated concussion rifle in both arms.
None of them looked particularly old, and only the largest of them was wearing any armour, though it only seemed to focus on protecting his limbs.
Rayze Erinos walked, no, swaggered forwards, smiling cheerfully, He un-holstered his blaster pistol and stood next to Celahir. Without preamble, it started. A trio of Weequay burst through the undergrowth, howling challenges, each wielding two short vibro-axes. Rayze shot two of them before they closed in. The third managed to get one swing in, which was batted aside by Celahir’s electrostaff, then he brought a fist around, punching the stunned alien in the face. However, his fist didn’t just break bones; it cut through the Weequay’s head, taking the top half off from the nose upwards. He and his severed skull dropped to the floor noisily. The former Consul wiped the vibro-knuckler on the leg of his pants, and turned his attention back to the fore.
A second wave came, more mercenaries pouring from the brush, prompting the pair into action. Rayze kept up fire with his pistol, felling three, but it was past the point where blasters could do much good. both drew their sabers and waded in. It wasn’t much of a fight. They cut through their opponents like they were practice dummies, and left the scene ten seconds later looking like a snuff holodrama.
“That’s enough. They’ll have zeroed our position now. They’ll try bombing again, then, when that doesn’t work, they’ll send in the heavies. Come back in.” Sashar Erinos said from the rear, hefting his LJ-50 Concussion Rifle.
He wasn’t wrong. There was a whine in the air, prefacing the assault like a valkyrie’s call. Sashar turned in the direction of the noise, took aim, and waited. A heartbeat passed. Two. On the third, Sashar fired. The weapon’s discharge sounded unnaturally loud, but it was replaced a moment later by two bombers flying low overhead, raking the forest with quad-laser beams. The corucsating blue bolt smashed into the wing of one of the two craft, ruining its aerodynamics. The K-Wing swerved violently to the left, catching the wing of the other bomber. Both craft careened downwards, smashing into the forest floor, further adding to the smoke and fire.
“Shab Sash, stop showing off.” Celahir remarked, wincing from the sound of the blasts.
“Make me.” Sashar replied, grinning smugly.
From the undergrowth, more figures emerged. Stumbling, shambling, half dead, each wearing SCEPTER uniforms. Their ‘re-inforcements’ had arrived.
“Get down, stay low, and if possible, try to hide under something heavy.” Rayze instructed, briefly looking over the stragglers. None were combat ready.
In the distance, there were shouts. Howls. Machinery moving. A lot of machinery.
Sashar moved to the front, standing shoulder to shoulder with his clansmen. “Rayze, did I ever tell you what your father’s favourite game was?”
Rayze glanced over quizzically.
“Mech hunt.” Sashar replied, then started forward at a jog.
The next half hour consisted of a lot of mercenary forces being ambushed by three angry, swearing, lightsaber-wielding Mandalorians. They came from above, from below, from any angle that wasn’t expected. Not one of the heavily armed mercenaries were left alive. Not one of the AT-STs remained standing, either having their legs sheared off by a lightsaber, or their armoured canopies popped like melons by Sashar’s Concussion rifle. The Erinos cut a bloody swathe through them, and left a message for anyone who’d ever be stupid enough to doubt Galeres’ strength.