Private Ash and Treachery

[Korda Veydran]

Garqi — Outer Rim


Blood dripped from Korda Veydran's mouth and struck the cracked floor in thick, deliberate drops.

He wiped it away with the back of his gauntlet, smearing red across scorched beskar, and exhaled through his teeth. Pain flared beneath the armor. ribs bruised, maybe cracked but it was distant. Manageable. Earned. He bent down and retrieved his weapon first.
The Ashen Maw lay amid shattered duracrete and splintered furniture, its weight familiar as he lifted it, thumb brushing along the housing where heat scoring still smoked faintly. He locked it to his shoulder, then reached for his helmet. It had been torn from him during the fight, cast aside hard enough to chip stone. Fresh gouges marred its surface, proof the other Mandalorian had come close.

Close wasn't enough.
The helmet sealed with a hiss, narrowing the world into tactical overlays and muted sound. Only then did Korda look down at the body.
The traitor lay broken at his feet, armor cracked, limbs bent at wrong angles. The house around them told the rest of the story. Blaster scoring carved black scars into the walls. A load-bearing beam had been split nearly in half by a vibroblade. Outside, through the open doorway, the ground was churned and burned, a second battlefield where neither had been willing to yield.

Two Mandalorians had fought here.
Korda stared down at the corpse, visor unreadable.
"…Why?"
The word slipped out low, rough, not broadcast, not ceremonial. Just a question hurled at a body that would never answer.

"How many credits did it take?" he muttered, nudging the fallen warrior's shoulder with his boot. "One shipment? Two? Or did they promise you safety?" A sharp, humorless sound left him. "There is no safety from what you sold."

The Diarchy didn't just buy information. They bought deaths. Convoys ambushed. Warriors stranded. Families left burning in the void. Enemies of the Mandalorian Empire. Enemies of the Majestic Flame of Manda.

And for that, Mandalore the Iron had spoken.
Korda knelt and began stripping the armor.
Not in anger. Not in haste.

Each plate was disengaged properly, seals released with practiced precision. Beskar vambraces placed side by side. Chest plate set carefully atop them. Greaves aligned, helmet last. He stacked the armor outside beneath Garqi's open sky, neat and orderly despite the destruction around it.
Respect was not absolution.
He dragged the body from the house and left it beside the armor, exposed to the wind that howled across the dry terrain. Dust swept through the ruined structure behind him, carrying the scent of scorched metal and burned fuel far beyond the settlement's edge.
Korda straightened and turned slowly, visor sweeping the horizon.

Garqi was quiet, too quiet. No distant engines. No voices. Just the low wind and the cooling crackle of ruin. A place like this didn't stay empty for long. Someone would come: scavengers, agents, hunters… or worse.
He rested a gauntleted hand on the Ashen Maw.
"Let them," he said softly.
The mission was complete. The message delivered. Whatever arrived next would find him still standing among the ashes. unhidden, unashamed.

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Garqi, Outer Rim Territories

Short blades of green-hued grass, toppled with mildew, swayed in the trembling wind—clouds of acrid smoke, blackened and charred, billowed from the cracks in the lonesome structure. A single pathway, smeared in mud and scattered rubble, trailed its way from the worn farmers' roads and up towards the askew metallic door, shattered inwards with explosive force.

In the distance, a figure stepped upon the trail, framed by the glow of the setting sun and their languid steps through the mud. Armoured in solid plates of beskar, darker than the night sky and lined with a crimson sheen, he stomped forward, undaunted by the pieces of sandstone that peeked above the scorched mud. With each step, the mud clumped beneath his boots, staining the lower greaves with an unsteady line of muck and grime that the Mandalorian seemed to ignore.

He had more important things to deal with.

Closing the distance with a slow, but purposeful stride towards the settlement of one. Itzhal's visor gleamed in the dying light of the sun, a stark reflection of the sight ahead; a figure covered in beskar'gam, their plates, under the dust and ashes, an almost entirely solid colour, which might have been gold in the light of day but with the fading rays of light and murky clouds of smoke that lingered in their wake, they appeared the colour of wet sand clumped across a beach. Faint specks of blood trickled down across their chest plate, boiled into the paint where the heat had reached it, and smeared in a blanket of ash.

Itzhal's hands lingered on the grooves of his belt, inches from the handles of his blaster pistols, held within the smoothened leather embrace of twin sheathes that caressed his lower hips and thighs.

"Korda be Aliit Veydran, Ni atinii?" He inquired, as the distance between them closed and Itzhal came to a slow stop only a few meters from the Mandalorian and the stripped corpse at their feet.

Tags: Korda Veydran​

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda did not turn immediately.
The wind carried the other Mandalorian's voice across the churned earth, the words cutting through the low crackle of cooling ruin. He stayed where he was for a moment longer, one gauntleted hand resting against the Ashen Maw, the other flexing once as if testing whether it still obeyed him.
Then he turned.


The visor settled on the newcomer like the weight of a targeting reticle, posture squared, stance wide, not aggressive, but ready. Fresh scoring marked his armor. Dried blood traced a thin line beneath the edge of his helmet, half-cleaned, half-forgotten.

"I am," he answered in Basic, voice roughened by exertion and something darker. "Korda Veydran."
His gaze flicked briefly, deliberately, to the stripped body and the neatly stacked beskar beside it. A statement without words.

"Who's asking?" he continued, taking a slow step to place himself between the corpse and the approaching warrior. "And before you answer that…"
A pause. Calculated. Heavy.
"…tell me why you're here."

The Ashen Maw shifted slightly as his grip tightened, not raised, but unmistakably present.
"This one sold Mandalorian blood for Diarchy credits," Korda said flatly. "Trade routes. Supply lines. Lives." His visor returned to Itzhal's. "If you came for him, you're late."

Another step closed the distance just enough to make intent clear.
"So say it plainly, vod," he growled. "Are you aligned with a traitor… or loyal to Mandalore?"

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Garqi, Outer Rim Territory

Rivers of blood and refuse leaked from the stripped corpse, their bodysuit tattered and torn where strikes had slipped underneath the beskar'gam, leaving the little grey strips of fabric to cling all the tighter to what remained. This close, Itzhal was certain that the stench must have been horrific for all that his buy'ce filtered out the worst of it. He'd never enjoyed dealing with the aftermath, and doubted he ever would.

At least this time, he wasn't sifting through the broken remnants of an innocent life, shattered pieces that could never be fixed. That small comfort was perhaps the only thing anchoring the older Mandalorian to his spot, a silent sentinel poised for action as he watched the armoured figure ahead of him, focused more on the weapon in his hand than the victim at his feet. Unsurprisingly, it didn't take long for Korda to make his move.

Quietly, Itzhal noted the other Mandalorian's slow turn towards him, before his attention settled elsewhere. Korda's weapon was a brutal thing of jury-rigged pieces and sharp edges that seemed to be ground into place, a tool of intimidation as much as whatever advantages it provided in combat. It was a weapon fit for Korda, and he alone, with a history as storied as the warrior who wielded it. In many ways, it was as much a piece of that story as their stomping stride through the mud, or the subtle flex of limbs that longed to throw themselves back into the fight.

"I came to clean up after you," Itzhal answered, with a tilt of his helm towards the charred sandstone and the creak of melting support struts. "As the Mand'alor wills it."

When he'd first received the mission, he'd assumed it meant combing over the target's home for answers: where did they store the information they sold, who was their contact, what had led him to turn?

All with answers that were burning away with the groan of crumbling ruins that he dared not hope would still exist amongst the rubble. He wondered then whether he'd ever been expected to investigate or if he'd merely been a contingency in the case the warrior had failed. It was a question he knew would receive no answer; for all that it lingered like an executioner's blade, he was not sure he would trust whatever response he received. Not when the result could have been Mandalorian blood on his hands, for reasons that he could only hope were true.

Maybe, if they were quick enough, they could salvage proof from the wreckage, rather than stumble through the mess with only accusations to guide their hand.

Cloying smoke from the wreckage twisted in the reflection of Itzhal's visor, replaced with the marked and bloody form of Korda Veydran in their beskar'gam. It was not patience that allowed him to wait, observing the other for signs of a response, but sheer practicality as he stared down the berserker that had torn through a home for the sake of duty.

This had never meant to be a discreet mission. It was a message.

"Stand down."

Tags: Korda Veydran​

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda's fingers released the trigger catch with a soft click. The Ashen Maw shifted slightly in his gauntlet, then he mag-locked it back to its shoulder mount. The weight settled there like an extension of his own arm, heavy and silent.


He surveyed Itzhal through the visor, the faint orange glow of the dying sun reflecting off dust and scorched metal. The other Mandalorian's words were measured, deliberate. aligned, it seemed, with the Mand'alor's will. That alone was enough. Korda did not know him. Had not met him before today. But the tone, the posture, the calm certainty… it spoke loyalty.


With a slow exhale, Korda lowered himself onto a nearby metal box, salvaged from the ruined house before the rest of it burned. The board beneath groaned, but held. He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on knees, visor sweeping over the body and neatly stacked armor at his feet.

He reached for the helmet's release latch and tilted it back, letting it roll to his shoulders. A faint hiss escaped, swallowed instantly by the wind. From a pouch at his belt, he pulled a flask and tipped it to his lips, letting the sharp burn chase the taste of copper from his mouth.

As he drank, his eyes followed the house behind him. Smoke twisted through the settling dust, beams groaned, and then, finally, the structure shuddered and collapsed inward, a cloud of char and ash marking its final surrender. For a moment, a small, dark smile tugged at the corner of Korda's lips.


He lowered the flask and glanced at Itzhal. No words were needed. With a single tilt of the wrist, he extended it toward the other Mandalorian, a silent acknowledgment of loyalty, a grim camaraderie shared in the aftermath of blood and ruin.

"I hate missions like this," he muttered quietly, voice low enough for only the wind and Itzhal to hear. "I hate having to deal in blood, even when it's earned. But this one crossed a line. Lines you do not cross when it comes to your own kin."
He leaned back, resting against the box, one hand on the Ashen Maw, the other still lightly on the flask. Patient. Watching. Waiting.

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Garqi, Outer Rim Territory

Itzhal's voice reverberated in the smoke-clogged air, words lined with heavy purpose and the iron-corded strength to carry them through, regardless of cost. They would stand down because he had decreed it so. It was only a matter of time before the rest understood the reality he had made.

For a moment, the newcomer waited, silent, for no other words would suffice. Anything more would be desperate, water thrown upon an gluttenous blaze with no end in sight. He did not doubt his convictions, whether or not more sweat and tears would be spilt upon this dreadful day.

The trigger catch clicked with all the weight of a discharged blaster bolt, impossible to ignore, as it echoed with an unspoken promise. The fighting was over. For now.

Cold steel blue eyes trailed over the movement of Korda's hands and the shoulder mount that clacked with a short magnetic hum of metal plates sealed together, the barbaric weapon held in place. The rest, an armoury of explosives and additional weaponry, remained in place, though Itzhal doubted most of it would find use in close quarters. Silhouettes smashed through the crumbling structure, and a bodysuit lined with defined muscles suggested a much more likely tool.

In the background, the tortured structure wailed with each exhale, heat billowing from every pore, a blaze feeding upon crumbling supports until the inevitable occurred. With a final groan, the roof bowed, sandstone melted to slag, and the ruins collapsed inwards. A smile spilt across Korda's lips, like a splatter of blood on a fresh canvas, dark with amusement that reflected in their eyes. Itzhal stared, not in judgment, but in acknowledgement, another piece to be considered and weighed if necessary.

Reflected in the golden glow of Itzhal's visor, the berserker's flask danced between flickering flames and creeping clouds of black ash. Slowly, the Mandalorian Journeyman shook his head from side to side.

"Justice does not discriminate," Itzhal intoned with grim certainty, his visor obscured by another shudder of twirling soot before he stepped closer. "They knew the consequences of their actions."

Highlighted in the blue glow of information flickering over his HuD, the corpse on the ground looked remarkably similar to just about every other corpse Itzhal had ever seen, an empty vessel stripped of ideals and hopes. It mattered little that the resol'nare had once guided their hand, six actions to live by, meaningless in death.

Sometimes, he wondered whether he would be any different. He doubted it. In the end, their differences were so minuscule.

"If you have lines, so be it. There are things in this world you are unwilling to tolerate, accept it, acknowledge it," Itzhal stated, hardship worn into every piece of wisdom he could share. "But do not let it lie, your silence does not carry, so ensure you are heard, scream if you have to, roar if you must. If this is your line in the sand, tell those who would command you 'no, you will not.' If they are worth your respect, they will understand."

With a tilt of his buy'ce, he looked towards the sky, battlelines scattered across the stars. "But ask yourself this: should we tolerate more because they are one of us, or should we expect better?"

Tags: Korda Veydran​

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda didn't answer right away.
The firelight danced across his face as the ruins settled, smoke curling upward into a sky that had seen far worse than this. His jaw tightened, the faint smile gone now, replaced by something harder. Colder.


"They weren't one of us anymore," he said finally. His voice was low, steady but tight, like a cable drawn too far. "Not after what they did."
He pushed himself to his feet, boots grinding against ash and grit as he took a step away from the corpse. His gaze never left it.
"They sold trade routes. Supply lines. Convoy schedules." Each word landed like a measured strike. "They sold lives to the Diarchy." His hand curled into a fist. "Mandalorians I fought beside. Vod I trusted. Some of them died screaming in the dark because someone decided credits were worth more than honor."

The words came faster now, heat creeping in despite his control.
"As far as I'm concerned," Korda continued, "they picked their side. And it wasn't ours."
Something metallic whispered.
Only then did he realize his vibroblade was in his hand.


The weapon hummed softly, half-activated, its edge trembling with restrained energy. Korda stared at it for a heartbeat, then exhaled sharply and shut it down before the hum could rise any further. His fingers tightened around the grip, not in rage now, but in restraint.
"…Damn it," he muttered.

He turned and drove the blade's tip into the seam of the metal box he'd been sitting on earlier. With a sharp twist and a grunt of effort, the lid gave way, hinges screeching in protest as it popped open.
Inside: data drives. Dozens of them. Compact, military-grade, some scorched at the edges but intact. Codes etched into their housings. Trade identifiers. Encryption tags.

Proof.
Korda stepped back and gestured to the box with the blade.
"This is what they were guarding," he said, voice steadier now. "Whatever they sold, whatever else they planned to sell… it's in here."
He finally looked at Itzhal again, really looked this time.

"You asked whether we should tolerate more because they were Mandalorian," Korda said. "No." A hard shake of his head. "We expect better. And when someone chooses worse… we end it. Cleanly. Completely."
The vibroblade deactivated with a soft click as he slid it back into its sheath.
"Now," he added quietly, "let's make sure none of this ever reaches Diarchy hands again."

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Garqi, Outer Rim Territory

Justifications dripped from Korda's lips like water from a tap, each droplet measured against the flooded dam of thoughts that separated people into two simple boxes. Us and them. A tale as old as time, and yet always as fresh as the next drop of blood spilt or harsh word spat with venom.

Itzhal frowned, the twist of his lips and the furrow of his brows concealed beneath the reflective gaze of his transparisteel visor. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words slipped away, stolen by memories of yesteryear and the blood he'd spilt for reasons much the same. His judgment would help no one here.

Idly, the older Mandalorian scanned the younger warrior as they moved, creating distance between themselves and the corpse they were ever so desperate to separate themselves from, now stripped of one of the few connections that bound them. Old stains in the paint allowed the discarded beskar beneath to flicker in the firelight. Cracked around the edges of the viewplane, the Buy'ce sat, not quite sightless, a solemn witness to the burning of their owner's home. Quietly, Itzhal couldn't help but wonder what other sights the visor had seen.

His attention, however, flickered elsewhere as steel blue eyes watched Korda's hand wrap unconsciously around the grip of the vibroblade's handle, held like a lifeline, rather than a weapon they'd trained with for years. Itzhal wasn't surprised when the shock of noticing travelled across the other Mandalorian's face. He was merely tired, the type of tired that was worn into the bones, like heavy rain seeped through clothes and into the skin, desperate to ignore once it had settled.

This time, he did not reach for the comfort of the blasters at his hips.

Instead, he watched, silent as the box screeched and secrets once hidden were ripped into the light. It was an impressive sight for all that Itzhal couldn't help but stare at the discarded lid, torn open with some measure of skill; for all that it would be easy to belittle it as a measure of strength alone, he noted the evidence beneath was untouched.

"It's time to move," Itzhal acknowledged, staring towards the stars above and the invisible line he could imagine between territories. His hand flickered towards his gauntlet, a quick tap on the controls calling his ship closer, now that the immediate danger had passed. "Any mention of when they might have come to pick up?"

Tags: Korda Veydran​

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda shifted on the metal box, the edge biting into his armor-covered legs as he exhaled through teeth pressed together. His hand brushed briefly over the stack of data drives, eyes lingering on them in measured assessment.


"No mention of an exfil point," he replied, voice rough from disuse and exhaustion. "I've been here three days. Alone. No signals, no comm chatter, nothing." He flexed his ribs lightly, a sharp wince betraying the aches from the fight. The old bruises throbbed, but they were manageable. Barely.

He leaned forward slightly, tapping one of the drives with a gauntlet, letting the soft metallic click echo in the quiet ruins. "These look like copies," he muttered. "Not the originals. Whoever had the real intel… it's already gone."

Korda's visor flicked to Itzhal, the firelight glinting faintly off the scratches in the transparisteel. "Do we return this… or burn it? Make sure it never reaches anyone? If the originals are still out there, maybe this won't matter, but at least we keep this off Diarchy hands."

A pause. He shifted his weight, pressing a gloved hand lightly against the ribs that reminded him just how close he'd come to too many things in the past few days. The pain was dull but constant, like a tether to the reality of this job.


His gaze returned to the glowing pile of data drives. "I don't like missions like this," he admitted, quieter, almost to himself. "But they're necessary. And we finish them."

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Garqi, Outer Rim Territory

Unease settled in Itzhal's soul, an unconscious weight that squirmed in his stomach, prickling over the nerves of his back in a slow crawl upwards, where instincts whispered he was overlooking something vital. No exfiltration. No signal to be found. Nothing to show that a negotiation was intended.

In an instant, the distance between Itzhal and the stack of data drives vanished, leaving a faint cloud of dust in his wake. He leaned forward, perched over the crate, a shadow that darkened row after row of minuscule slats stretching towards escape.

With one hand, he reached for his equipment belt and the cylindrical tube that expanded into a datapad, a slight blue glow emitting from the screen as he reached out towards one of the tiny devices, the size of his fingerprint, with only a small access point that slipped perfectly into the side of his datapad. Seconds later, viruses attempted to ravage the device, a war of black-and-white lines that ended with a soft click. The prize was revealed with a flicker of light, exposing the secrets once hidden in the dark.

He wished it hadn't.

He needed to see it regardless.

Betrayal always burned a little differently from other sins. For all that it was hardly personal, this one was no different, a crime committed against the collective rather than buried in his back, still burned for the waste of it all. Their name had not been one that Itzhal had known before the mission, another faceless soul in an array of clans and connections. It was better that way, he assured himself, a glance over the corpse that was best unnamed and forgotten to the passage of time.

At least, this time, he knew this entire situation wasn't a lie.

"We keep them," He answered, turning his helm towards the injured Mandalorian.

They couldn't spare the chance that something here was valuable, even if it was details they already knew. Whether it was the Diarchy or someone else, every piece of information here was now something that they might know about. At this stage, burning it would mean nothing but a denial of answers, an enemy left to lurk back into the shadows, with only Mandalorian blood spilt in the aftermath.

He would not tolerate such a victory.

Superheated air screeched as a sleek vessel approached, its slender form haloed in a fiery glow that reflected off the silver plates that sculpted the stretched neck and extended wings. Burning off heat in the descent, it fell like a blazing comet, leaving trails of light behind as the vessel's silhouette dimmed around the edges and the skies' screams faded to nothing.

"Come on, we're done here," He said, running a finger over the seal of one of the boxes before he pushed it towards the descending landing ramp.

Tags: Korda Veydran​

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda nodded once.
No argument. No hesitation.


He reached down and resealed the container, the clasps snapping shut with a firm, deliberate series of clicks. With a grunt, he hoisted it up onto his shoulder, the weight settling against his armor as naturally as a weapon. His ribs protested immediately, a sharp, angry spike of pain that drew a quiet breath through his teeth, but he ignored it.


"Then we keep them," he said simply.
The ship's descent washed the clearing in heat and light, engines howling as the landing ramp began to lower. Korda moved first, crossing the churned ground and setting the container down inside the hold with care that bordered on reverence. Intelligence was a weapon too, one that demanded restraint.


He turned back toward the ruins without a word.
One by one, he gathered the armor he'd stripped from the traitor. Beskar plates, scorched and bloodstained, lifted with the same care he'd shown earlier. He did not rush. Did not flinch. The body was left where it lay, but the armor… the armor still mattered.


"It'd be a waste to leave this to rot," Korda said quietly as he carried the last of it toward the ship. "Beskar doesn't belong to traitors. It belongs to Mandalore."
He paused at the foot of the ramp, adjusting his grip.
"This can be melted down. Reforged. Used for young Mandalorians who haven't yet earned their plates." A beat. "Or repainted. Cleansed of this bloodline's stain and given to someone faithful to the Empire."


The implication was clear: legacy could be reclaimed.
Korda set the armor down inside the hold and straightened slowly, one hand bracing briefly against the bulkhead as his ribs reminded him again of their existence. He exhaled and pushed the pain aside.


"This one's story ends here," he added, glancing back toward the smoldering ruins of Garqi. "What matters is what we build from what's left."
He turned toward Itzhal, visor catching the ship's interior light.
"Let's go," he said. "Garqi's done with us."

Itzhal Volkihar