Character
Mandalore was green now.
That fact still sat strangely with Korda Veydran, even as his boots pressed into loam instead of glassed stone. The hills rolled gently beneath a canopy of dark-leafed trees, wind whispering through tall grass that had no right to exist on this world. Once, this land had been ash and iron. Now it breathed.
He did not trust it.
The house stood apart from the others—low, broad-shouldered in its construction, built of dark stone and durasteel rather than the lighter dwellings scattered farther downslope. Smoke drifted from a vented chimney in a steady, purposeful line. Not decorative. Not ceremonial.
A forge burned here.
Korda stopped at the edge of the property, visor turning slowly as his helmet optics swept the area. Old habit. The Ashen Maw rested magnet-locked across his back, its scorched frame a familiar weight. His beskar bore the marks of siege and breach—scratches, heat scoring, places where repair welds had been laid thick and unapologetic. No effort had been made to hide them.
Hilal Vizsla, they had told him.
If you want something forged right—not pretty, not polite—you go to her.
If you want something that won't fail when your life depends on it.
Korda exhaled through his nose and stepped forward.
This had been gnawing at him for weeks. The idea had come easy—too easy. A reinforced vibroblade deployment integrated into his gauntlet, something fast, brutal, meant for the space where blasters were useless and time was measured in heartbeats. Clone commando designs had danced at the edge of his thoughts… but every attempt he'd made on his own ended the same way.
Imperfect balance. Power bleed. Structural stress where there should have been none.
Failure.
That did not sit well with him.
He reached the door and raised a heavy, armored fist. The knock was deliberate—three firm impacts against the durasteel, enough to be heard over a roaring forge without sounding like a challenge.
Korda stepped back half a pace once it was done, posture squared, hands relaxed at his sides. Not submissive. Not aggressive.
Waiting.
Whatever Hilal Vizsla decided when she opened that door—whether she turned him away or listened—would be her choice.
And Korda Veydran would respect it.
…For now.
Hilal Vizsla
That fact still sat strangely with Korda Veydran, even as his boots pressed into loam instead of glassed stone. The hills rolled gently beneath a canopy of dark-leafed trees, wind whispering through tall grass that had no right to exist on this world. Once, this land had been ash and iron. Now it breathed.
He did not trust it.
The house stood apart from the others—low, broad-shouldered in its construction, built of dark stone and durasteel rather than the lighter dwellings scattered farther downslope. Smoke drifted from a vented chimney in a steady, purposeful line. Not decorative. Not ceremonial.
A forge burned here.
Korda stopped at the edge of the property, visor turning slowly as his helmet optics swept the area. Old habit. The Ashen Maw rested magnet-locked across his back, its scorched frame a familiar weight. His beskar bore the marks of siege and breach—scratches, heat scoring, places where repair welds had been laid thick and unapologetic. No effort had been made to hide them.
Hilal Vizsla, they had told him.
If you want something forged right—not pretty, not polite—you go to her.
If you want something that won't fail when your life depends on it.
Korda exhaled through his nose and stepped forward.
This had been gnawing at him for weeks. The idea had come easy—too easy. A reinforced vibroblade deployment integrated into his gauntlet, something fast, brutal, meant for the space where blasters were useless and time was measured in heartbeats. Clone commando designs had danced at the edge of his thoughts… but every attempt he'd made on his own ended the same way.
Imperfect balance. Power bleed. Structural stress where there should have been none.
Failure.
That did not sit well with him.
He reached the door and raised a heavy, armored fist. The knock was deliberate—three firm impacts against the durasteel, enough to be heard over a roaring forge without sounding like a challenge.
Korda stepped back half a pace once it was done, posture squared, hands relaxed at his sides. Not submissive. Not aggressive.
Waiting.
Whatever Hilal Vizsla decided when she opened that door—whether she turned him away or listened—would be her choice.
And Korda Veydran would respect it.
…For now.
Hilal Vizsla