Arpat Cofal, The Rallymaster

A small communicator is clicked on, the faint of sound rain hitting windows as the cracked screen lights a dark room. A clawed and scaly finger swipes down, looking over what appears to be a personnel document.

Name: Arpat Cofal

Age: 32

Rank: Neo-Crusader Rallymaster

Species: Trandoshan

Notable Physical Features: Grey in scale, lithe and wiry with defined muscularity. A mohawk like ridge going down the length of his head, often decorated in multiple piercings.

History: A born crusader, whose parents were involved within the Neo-Crusader movement before Clan Fett sponsored and took the reigns of it, growing it into a culture reform. Quickly wanting to prove himself, he left with the first Mandalorian raids that signalled the beginning of Mandalorian Wars.

As the war continued on, he was placed as a Rallymaster. Not as a force commander, but as a drill instructor on the nearest training and forge world. Teaching the new converts the Mandalorian ways and managing the acquired non-combatants. During the last years of the war, he was given command of a single ten-crew scout frigate. His ship, men, and all his supplies were lost during the battle of Malachor V. Arpat was interred in a camp for a year as his limbs regenerated, then being released and set loose.

There was a hissing sigh emitted from the reader as he slid through the contents, stopping at a image. Then shutting off the comm-pad abruptly.

Image: A desert planet, with smoke billowing from multiple shipwrecks and destroyed bunkers. In the middle of the scene is flat land. A group of ten mandalorians appear to be in celebration, firing weapons into the air and drinking, ruining a small campsite. They represent a multitude of races, though a trandoshan male and a human male were spotted together, near the right side of the frame. One fashioned in red, the other in blue, both dotted in blaster marks and shrapnel. They appear to be sharing a embrace, leaning into each other as they look over the scene of celebration in front of them, smiling toothily.


There was a high pitched whine as a blaster pistol sent a shot screaming towards a target, then another, and another. Then a click, and a hum as the weapon powered down. Armored claws tapped against the makeshift range’s desk, the Mandalorian thought to himself in this time of pseudo peace.

“Why?”, was a question often asked to the Mandalorian as he received kolto application, during his year of recovery after Malachor. “Why? What was it all for?” The answer he gave was simple and repetitive; te Ani’la Mand’alor willed it. It is the duty of every true Mandalorian to continue Mand’alor’s will, to be the manifestation of the Mandalorian idea.

Though, of course. There was another answer buried in Arpat’s mind, one he attempted to hide often. Who cares?
Nothing is left for the Mando’ade, now there only exists the thrill of combat. The rumble of the drives, the sound of flechettes, the scatter of life pods. The sizzling of blaster against flesh, the hum of a lightsaber.

Ship against ship.
Soul against soul.
Fire in the void.

Nothing else matters.