Blasters Ready (Part 1)

Perimeter sensors were always on her belt and the Mirialan pulled a few more off as she took a slow walk around the large scouted site. The pirates who'd escaped the fate of their comrades in the tunnels had cleared out, the woman checking her HUD to make sure the only life around was wildlife. One blaster was holstered as she changed the power cell out, switching blasters around to do the same for her second one, keeping them warm, safeties off.

The bodies still doting the area were piled up in a makeshift pit, lighter fluid doused on them all before she ignited it. The bonfire crackled and Mirisk kept her helm on, counting on the filtration system to make sure the tell-tale scent of burnt flesh didn't offend her nose. Rot and decay and blood and sweat were the way of life - but that didn't mean the scent of scorched flesh was perfectly pleasant.

"A'lor," a voice called out on the comms channel used by the Clan, "--cuyan." Torenth's voice was grave and sedate, belying the manner the Rattaki conducted himself in.

"Who missed their round?"

"New kid, in training," came the calm reply.

"Catch them."

"Confirmed." The comm flicked off then, the bulky man breaking off from the skeleton crew making the slow survey and heading through the thick amazon forest. It was impossible to hear anything of the probable exchange between Torenth and the survivor over the chirp and sounds of the jungle but in due time Torenth returned, another corpse slung over his shoulder.

It was added to the still-burning pile.

Later on, before the small crew broke off from the perspective clan home and returned to their own ships, a campfire merrily burned and almost rustic shelters were erected. Bottles passed around between the members of the clan present, helms set aside but armor proudly worn as they sang and ate. The meal was small and simple, roasting one of the local lizards (even though the initial party containing herself, Jet, Hawk and Bear had ridiculed the idea) and discovering they were pleasant enough on the spit.

They were family, hard and lean, molded by combat and camaraderie. When they broke camp Mirisk was the last to leave, making sure her people were lifting off before she headed to her own vessel. Sensors linked to her console, Mirisk waited until the last ship aside from hers had become nothing more than a glimmer in the sky before she initiated liftoff protocols, shouting at the navi-system before making her own way to the stars.

The clan would thrive here, she thought - enough space to allow the clan's armortechs the room to refine their craft, the armstechs to produce the weapons that helped keep the clan in the high ranks. Enough room to set up training rings for the children, the teens. She unhooked her helm and set it on the flight console, hitting it on the hook to stay in place. Enough water and nearby game to hunt and keep the clan safe if their supplies were cut. And clear access to the stars from something that'd make a good landing pad. All they'd need to do would be get a few towers in for communications, move their munitions in... her mind ran over the checklist.

"Incoming message-" the system chirped, Mirisk fitting her helm back in place before checking the name. One of her clients, of course.

"Risk, 'ere."

Back to business.