Private As good steel are we

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Does it matter?
| Objective | While away the hours

I commanded warriors into battle. ​

​

I listened to their voices ring out into the night sky as they called out my name, praised me and my deeds, rallied around my banner, my cause. ​

​

I became more than mortal, for a time. On wings of glory I flew; rejecting the shackles of fate, the weight of mistakes past, soaring ever-higher towards hope.​

​

Greater still was the fall, and worse still that I could foresee it. An Alliance too bloated to defend itself, imperialism cloaked underneath pretenses of righteousness. A sickly thing, a dying thing, its tendrils spreading ever-outwards instead of consolidating its position. ​

​

Abandoning Onderon was one of the hardest decisions I ever made, and one the New Mandalorians never truly recovered from, after so much effort put into tying our fate to that world. We wandered, we erred aboard a small flotilla, naught but the Enduring Flame and a few escorts, all as I slipped and sank beneath brackish waters. Despondent and lethargic, I gave no commands from my throne, grew to bouts of irascibility, struck those who did not show me enough respect with the flat of my blade as one would discipline a child.​

​

One by one, under some pretense or other, my army left me. To join with the Mandalorian Empire, to return to mercenary work, or to try and find their way into the Galaxy, just as I once did.​

​

Now only the staunchest of loyalists remain. Those who believe that what was, may yet come again; that the Alor of House Kryze, Duchess of the New Mandalorians, may raise her sword to the heavens once more, cry out and rally our scattered people once again... a distant memory now, a mirror I look into, lost in the past and blinding myself to the future. ​

​

In this I am no better than my peers, I realize at last, lost in the pathetic throes of nostalgia. Never again shall the Mando'ade be as they once were; to attempt to restore the past, a fool's errand. Why, then, do I obsess with it so, when I surely know better? Am I truly this... foolish?​

​

Footsteps approach, and my reverie broken, looking up from yet another blade brought into the world within the sanctuary of this forge perched atop a low hill, close enough to the ocean that I may feel the breeze caress my cheek, were I to step outside. The Captain of the Enduring Flame must have informed me of this world's name, and yet I cannot recall it - in truth, I care not. It exists only for us to make a stop, reinvigorate ourselves by partaking in the raw, untamed beauty of a planet at the edge of known space, where none may come to disturb us... and then be on our way, a week, a month, a year from now; whenever my whims so direct what remains of my people.​

​

It is not Karrys I see before me. Nor Pollux. Or Ryk. Naught but the armor and helm of a Hastatus. Of those Onderon-born auxiliaries, few remain in my service, for their loyalty had ever been to their world - those who took to our traditions and put it before their home, I cherished truly. And still my heart felt heavy, at the sight of him offering me a bow, as if I remained deserving of such things.​

​

"Your Grace, a guest has come asking for you."​

​

Who would come here? Who would go through the trouble of tracking me down, to come all this way, simply to talk to me? A shadow of the Duchess that once was. What counsel could I offer now when so many had deserted me, lost their respect and admiration for me. And yet, even now, obligations aroused a remnant of the flame that once burned, for things were expected of a woman of my station. If not the Duchess, then the Forgemistress. Seeing little reason to remove my smithing gloves, or clean the soot off the shimmering blue of my armor, I merely dipped my head in answer.​

​

"Have them brought before me here, then."​

​

Nowhere was I stronger, or more confident, than within the confines of my forge. ​

​

Darth Anathemous ​

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Jenn Kryze

Mando'ade.

Several of them surrounded the Dark Lord as she departed her ship.

She'd not seen so many in one place, not for years now. Some clutched their holsters, others glanced at one another, a few refused to take their eyes off her at all. Kaila would not begrudge them, not when she strode into their lands wearing the blackest steel, beheld them in Golden eyes that shone through the dark interior even before the sun touched her freckled skin, or flaxen hair spilt over broad shoulders.

She was a monster, so far from the Manda, who could know she'd ever walked among them?

Her lordship did not speak when told to follow her escort, only returned a silent nod that she'd grown accustomed to in their care long ago, and approached the forge, heralded by the heaviest of armored footsteps, though too heavy for the model she wore.

Curiously, there was no glint of a lightsaber as she passed ducked into the doorway.

A tilt of her head, uncharacteristically soft features softened even more. The Duchess was not what she expected, not at all.

There was no bow—never a bow—only another nod, but deeper than before.

"Su cuy'gar, Kryze'alor."

​

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Does it matter? It's my forge.
| Objective | Look what comes through the door...

The handful of remaining loyalists knew how to handle the arrival of a Sith; slowly shifting about to form an encirclement around her, lazily, alike prowling predators, coordinating silently through their comm-link to synchronize their firing maneuvers. They were ready to kill her, in truth; fast-draws all, and standing but a wrong gesture away from gunning her down right then and there. But this was not to be. Merely another guest for the Duchess, and one they would be all too glad to see gone in time.​

​

"You speak the tongue," answered the dour figure of the Kryz'alor, without much introduction nor fanfare. The ethereal beauty of her armor gave but a contrast to the soot staining it, or the manner in which she moved beneath such ancient and hallowed star-metal, bestowed by the gods upon the Mando'ade; as if she had lived her entire life with it, and knew to shift its weight as one would a second skin. "Is that in mockery? Experience would prove it so; the Sith are corruptors, defiling anything my people find sacred, and I can feel the Dark within you."​

​

And yet, rather than threatening the Dark Lord, she seemed content to hold up the blade she breathed into life through good, honest smithing, examining it this way and that, before placing it back down onto the edge of the forge's cooling rocks. Jenn may have seemed bored, in the eyes of most; in truth, merely detached. Few things could command her attention, in such dark and dreary days.​

​

"You have come here seeking something. Not my fealty; I would send your head back to your masters, were it so. No, you are..."​

​

A step forward, then, abrupt, and sudden, as if jerking her body forward, moving faster than she possibly should, lost in gloom and melancholic recollection of a glorious past. And yet she had no blaster on her person, no weapon but what one might find in her vambraces, and all she cared to brandished were magnetic tongs, held up before the blonde's visage as one would an outstretched finger, pointing at her. As if the tool served as a limb of sort to the Mandalorian, an extension of her will and body alike.​

​

"... here for your own ends, aren't you? I would hazard that you've slipped off someone's chain, but I was never a betting woman."​

​

Darth Anathemous ​

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Jenn Kryze

Her masters.

The word made her jaw tighten.

Suddenly there was a weapon in her face. Many would call it a tool but Anathemous was not so foolish as to believe the Mandalorian could not fight with such an instrument.

Even so she hardly showed it.

She glanced up from the tongs, and looking Kryze'alor in the eye, and her own seemed brighter than before. That was it.

"Hmh."

It wasn't a mocking sort of laugh, almost a grunt of acknowledgement.

Her Exo-muscled arms crossed, the Dark Lord leaned against a post, and finally, pressed her glossy lips into a faint smile.

"Always did like women who were a little bold."

The Sith's voice was uncharacteristically soft, perhaps even wistful. It carried a distinctly imperial accent of course, something you'd expect from a propaganda film more than a real person. It was subtly marred however, by barking orders, and something else.

Suddenly her eyes narrowed, keeping Kryze in their corners.

"I have no master. And I never will."

Then, with a sigh, turned them away again.

She pulled something from her pocket, too small to be a weapon, but still slowly as not to alarm the Duchess nor her faithful. It... was a piece of Beskar. One side gleamed in the light, but as she held it out for Kryze'alor to take, revealed the worn colors of her house, and the iconography of a nocturnal Owl.

"...I believe this belongs to you..."

​

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Does it matter? It's my forge.
| Objective | She brought me WHAT

Naught to turn the enchanting, unnatural beauty of that golden gaze towards but the T-shaped visor, its silhouette alone emblematic of a great culture - one who had tasted death and defeat in ample portion, and yet endured throughout the ages, where others did not. The Taung were long gone, but in the choice to accept all who would bear the creed, they had become truly immortal, as were their inheritors, those children of Mandalore. Heroes and villains, pirates and corsairs, forthright and treacherous, but warriors all, indomitable and unending. ​

​

The visor betrayed nothing of the woman beneath. Of the gentle glow of her gaze, gently transitioning from one shade of blue to the next with each passing moment. The Kryz'alor cared only to show the martial visage of an oceanic ruler. Noble in its countenance, still, after all the indignities of her own mind, brought upon her own self.​

​

That smile was met, at first, with silence. It lingered in the air, enough for one to reasonable wonder if she had, perhaps, offended the sort of woman with a long enough memory and personal experience to remember some very similarly-clad individuals destroying everything she knew.​

​

Laughter filled the air, then - somewhere between the boisterous sort one might hear from a hearty warrior, and the more elegant and enchanting crystalline intonation expected of a siren. It was earnest, and true, if slightly... edging towards demented. The Hastati in the room exchanged gazes, suddenly reminded of the worst aspect of their loyalty; this sense washing over them, all too often, of being trapped in a room with a mad queen, leaving them terribly afraid of the next few seconds ahead of them.​

​

"A little bold? Oh how you wound me so! And what should I call you, then, to walk in here as you have, expecting to come out unscathed?" ​

​

Giving the Sith a slap to the forearm, she leaned back against her workbench, answering the talk of having no master with but a shrug. She could go on for hours about the inherent weakness of those who swore themselves to Light or Dark, who seemed to think themselves free when they walked in the footsteps of those that came before, but she found herself immensely uninterested in bandying words with Jedi or Sith about the Force. A short-lived relationship with the former had all but made the topic undesirable, a sour taste in her mouth. Let the wizards talk about their garbage to each other in between lightsaber strikes.​

​

Besides, her guest had something much more interesting to offer. Something to make her head tilt, her posture straighten, and her hand reach out, almost instinctively. Slowly, tentatively, she closed the rest of the distance after initially stopping, taking the piece of beskar, as if she had been expecting resistance. Holding it up to catch the warm light of the forge, to gaze upon this sigil - her, sigil, no matter what Khamul or whatever pretender currently sought to be hailed as Kryz'alor had to say about the matter.​

​

Pushing the piece of beskar to her helm, she closed her eyes, letting it sit against the T visor as mournful murmurs filled the air. And when finally, they seized, she placed the small tab reverentially at the edge of her workshop, and stared down the Dar'jetii in silence.​

​

"Nothing's free in the galaxy, and I don't need to be a Fett to know that much. Why bring this back to me?"​

​

Darth Anathemous ​

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Jenn Kryze

For as long as the cackling continued, she'd not let the Forgemistress out of her sight.

Even the Exo-muscle seemed to coil and expand, as hydraulics read tensing nerve signals beneath. In those few moments, the forge was intense as any orbital drop into war, abated only by that playful slap on the arm.

"I expected to be shot in orbit." she replied with a chuckle more nervous than she'd meant.

But it warmed her chest to see the Beskar returned, the reverence with which it was treated. It slipped from her fingers with gentle ease, as though it had always belonged in Kryze'alor's hand, and her own. So too did cold guilt wash over her, when the air filled with mournful ambiance.

"Nothing's free in the galaxy, and I don't need to be a Fett to know that much. Why bring this back to me?"

"...that is exactly why..." her words came soft, distant.

Silence then, as she sifted through old memories. The Sith had rehearsed this moment a thousands times since tracking Kryze, and yet now that she was face to face—or face to helm—it left her completely.

"I met a child once."

"It feels like so long ago, I believe she called herself Varys Kryze ? or perhaps Amun."

Her features softened again, but not in a kind way, just vulnerable, uncomfortable. But Kryze deserved the truth, she supposed. And Varys, wherever she was now, deserved much more.

"She helped me remember something, a memory stolen by the despoiler."

Finally she pointed at the trinket.

"It is a scale, plucked from His cloak."

<"Tome'tayl am'gaanar tome'tayl."> she said in her first language.

A memory for a memory.

"I am Kaila, of House Solus. And I repay my debts."

​

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Does it matter? It's my forge.
| Objective | I am perfectly sane.

"Well, I would tell you to rely on guest rights and the sheer importance someone like me gives them, but,... frankly, I'd think nothing of having a Sith's throat be slit mid-sentence over a plate of food. The mid-sentence part is important; I enjoy interrupting grand speeches from wizards from either side."​

​

It was, as before, merely on the tone of conversation. A mad queen indeed, practically upbeat as she delivered such words forth, enthused and amused by the thought - until the beskar was given, and her demeanor changed altogether. Paid her respects, and listened to what the blonde had to tell her. And when this foe come to her doorstep, this loathsome Sith spoke the name of her daughter, she whose life and joy she held most precious in all of the vast breadth of creation- Jenn barely resisted the impulsive, entirely insane desire to slam Kaila against the wall, with the power she held in the Force or merely her own war-sculpted body, and bash her head with her smithing hammer until it stopped resembling anything resembling a visage. Such was the reach of her love, and of her growing... eccentricity.​

​

"She's my daughter," answered the Kryz'alor instead, grasping the edge of the workbench in an attempt to ground herself in the moment, rather than a half-lucid ideation of brutal, shameful murder. "Courageous little bird. So, she must have gone into Sith space, then. Foolish, but brave. I'm proud of her, you know? For all her growth, her journey, and how she came back to me after all of this, and decided she wanted, above anything else, to be my child. Trade the name of the Clan she was born alongside with for mine! I am blessed beyond measure to have a daughter like her."​

​

With a wistful sigh, she shrugged, then threw up her hands, and finally moved to clasp both hands on the Sith's shoulders, giving her a little shake. Yes, certainly eccentric indeed.​

​

"Ah, but is that who you are? You can't be Darth and Mando'ad both. Are you Kaila Solus, or are you Darth- you haven't introduced yourself, actually, and, much as I hate to bash your ego with mine, you're not the sort of fearsome reaver the Galaxy whispers about in fear. Not enough for that kind of reputation to reach my ears, anyway. I'm sure you'll get there."​

​

And then she gave the side of her head (the one with the least hair to trawl through) a little tap, either meant to be condescending, familial, perhaps both, and walked on out of the forge, expecting the Sith to follow. Her Hastati certainly did, before she dispatched them with clear orders. Jumping quickly from intense mourning to something more light-hearted, in a manner one might call flighty, if charitable; outright unpredictable to the point of insanity, if not.​

​

"Tihaar for me and my guest! Plate us some tiingilar too, will you? She'll remember the spices long after today!" And with a hearty laugh, she waved away her loyalists, walking along the verdant plains she had elected to have her warriors set up this semi-temporary camp in, sitting down atop the hill to gaze at the ocean, patting down the spot next to her. ​

​

"Now, you really must tell me your tale. And spare no details! I am bored, Kaila Solus, bored of the song of my own failure, bored of the hissing of the forge, bored of my own memories. They called me wise, back when I commanded the New Mandalorians, and that name meant something; maybe some of that wisdom will come back to me, and I can impart some of it unto you before you take to the skies again. Or maybe I really will be as useless to you as I am to these loyal fools. Either way, it fills out an afternoon, yes?"​

​

​

Darth Anathemous ​

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Jenn Kryze

"Never was one for speeches." she'd tilt her head at the woman.

Getting a read on Kryze seemed like a fool's errand, causing her brows to knit. Inconsistent, conflicting, and very likely unstable. It made turned her gaze curious, and that was a dangerous thing, for both women. Experience told Kaila to avert her eyes as though glancing upon the sun, because she knew well her obsession with dangerous things.

"She's my daughter,"

Brows raised, she now understood the violent flavor on the air.

Her expression lingered dangerously close to empathy, perhaps even respect.

Then the Mandalorian closed the gap. Gloved hands left soot on her broad shoulders, earning a glance. Words stole her focus then, as did that visor, deep and dark as the empty sea. The Dark Lord was unsure if Krzye meant to belittle or state facts, but the distinction between Darth and Mando'ad bit deep. Her lips pulled into a subdued frown that admitted much.

"Hrmh..." she then grunted at that little pat.

Kaila marched behind with half a mind to punch the soft part of her armor, but instead took a deep, steadying breath.

Much as she wanted to see how the duchess fought, she was a guest here.

Silence was broken only by the Mandalorian's hearty laughter and unusually heavy gait with which the Sith walked, sounding more like a titanic wardroid than a young woman.

When they reached the hilltop, she stood there a moment, arms crossed, gazing out to sea.

The young Darth closed her eyes a moment, taking a deep breath of salty air, hair tossed by oceanic breeze.

Grass rustled beside her, and she glanced down at a sitting Kryze.

For the first time in a long awhile, she smiled, genuinely.

"Tihaar and an ocean view. Is this a date, Lady Kryze?"

Lips twisted into a toothy smirk, and she sat beside the Mandalorian, bringing her knees to her chest. It coiled her muscles in a way which revealed their immense strength, in stark contrast to the soft demeanor on display.

"Not sure where I'd start. I've lived a short but eventful life behind the Blackwall, we'd be here more than one afternoon I should think. My boots bear the dust of a hundred worlds, and my back scarred by many a betrayal."

"That's what I am, really." she murmured.

"A scar."

​

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Atop a hill, gazing oceanward...
| Objective | I am perfectly sane.

Jenn did not particularly relish the way she had the Sith on the ropes, unable to read her - because that would have required a level of emotional stability she simply could not muster. A truly warm and pleasant host one moment, and a protective mother considering brutal dismemberment the next! How could one get a read on a woman like this, no matter their strength in the divinatory arts of the Force?​

​

Looking up to her guest as she closed her eyes, the Mandalorian allowed herself a moment to appreciate her beauty, and to wonder if she was, even if but for a single moment, somewhat at peace. The sea air never failed to make her feel a little more alive, and yet still she retained her buy'ce, refusing to part from her helm so easily. In truth, few managed to make her remove it, these days. Only Varys seemed capable of doing so on with any kind of consistency, treasured as her daughter was. This, she supposed, was what love had done for her, in spite of her bitter experiences in romance. Lovers may come and go, but her daughter? Aside from the pride she felt when looking at how far Varys had come from her days as an arrogant teenager, their moments together never failed to grant her warmth, joy, and solace. Romance came and went, but the love of a mother for their child endured.​

​

And then she was pulled out of her reverie by such bold words, the oppressive weight of her insanity spreading over the both of them like a storm cloud once more. A dozen different fates considered at once, some bloody, some unspeakably cruel in words, if not actions; and each and every one of them? Considered, if a woman with such a difficult grasp on her own emotions could consider anything. As likely to choose one as the other.​

​

"The day is young," answered the Kryz'alor, with clear mirth in her voice. "Maybe with enough tihaar in our system, we might just end our evening by peeling off each other's armor. And I will have absolutely no wizardry to facilitate this! I swear, the very idea offends me. I want grasping hands on me, desperately looking for the straps keeping it all in place."​

​

Oh. Very forward. And without shame. What use was any of it to someone who thought herself a ruler still, if one veering from extreme self-importance and a feeling of immense imposter's syndrome?​

​

"Fenix's breath, but you're depressing, and this is coming from the failed Mandalorian wallowing in her own failures and misery all day," groaned the sorceress. And then, she sighed, shifting to a more comfortable sitting position, before lying down altogether. ​

​

"Then again, I'm sure my story isn't much better. It begins with the Sith murdering everything and everyone I cared about. I think you get my feelings on them from that, mh? I was there when they ruined Mandalore forever. Yes, I'm that old. Or maybe I'm not and I will be forever young because being Ersansyr has its perks. O' maybe, maybe, maybe! The stories I could sing on all those maybe." ​

​

Laughter filled the air, then, as she lazily brought her hand to rest against her helmet, lying down on her side to face Kaila. Intrigued by her, in truth.​

​

"If you've lived a long life, Kaila, then save the important bits. Those that might amuse me so I don't kill you over lunch, maybe? Or those that bother you enough you feel you should exteriorize somewhat not to go insane inside your own head. It's not as if I might tattle to your friends, rivals and enemies- I'm far too busy feeling sorry for myself. I'm not sure if I owe you that much, or if you owe me that - let's not get caught up on the details, it's dreadful. Let's see about a story for a story, what do you think?"​

​

Darth Anathemous ​

 

[Darth Anathemous]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Jenn Kryze
Mentioned: Tamsin Starfall

Kaila blinked once. Twice.

"Fanged God." she stammered.

Then peeled her lips back in a coy smile, as she looked down at Lady Kryze.

"And here I thought I was forward."

And "depressing", apparently. she shrugged one shoulder, unable to argue. Then again, it sounded as though the Mandalorian was similarly depressing, like all warriors she'd known. Frankly, she didn't trust the ones who weren't. When she laid in the grass, Kaila hesitated a moment. Her guard should have been up, she knew, but for just a moment the Ersansyr was quite disarming.

"Hm."

She considered a moment a longer, the visor reflecting conflicted eyes to stare back at her.

"...a story for a story..."

Finally she lowered herself to the ground, awkwardly shifting her shoulder so as not to lay on her wide pauldron, leaning on her padded elbow, an arm draped lazily over the curves of her waist.

"Well, I suppose in some way, our stories are not so different?"

"I was just a Verd'ika when the purge began. A foundling originally. When the Treaty of Vanquo was signed, I figured it was better they take me than separate a mother from her daughter."

Her gaze sharpened towards the sea a moment, as though she shouldn't be saying this, a vulnerable weakness laid bare before a woman who'd not even reveal her face.

"My former master, He uhm. He found me then, erased the memory. I spent years piecing together my origins, then left His service soon as I figured it out."

The Sith idly picked the grass. Despite her soft voice, hate radiated from her being much as pain and relief that it was over. Or soon to be, at least. Then something else.

Pride, of sorts.

"My sister and I, we've gone rogue since. No masters, no emperors."

"I suppose she's my Varys." she smiled softly.

​