Private Beneath The Armour, Who Are We?

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

Itzhal may not have been a Mandalorian from birth, but throughout his later life, he had always held the city of Sundari close to his heart. In his memories, it was a vibrant and bustling place, filled with life, colour and the warmth of community. Tall spires of intricate architecture reached towards the sky, stained glass glittering in the sunlight as it told a thousand tales of glory and valour, surrounded by lush parks and even more vibrant markets where the air was perfumed with the scent of spices and flowers from across Mandalore, while people heckled and cheered in equal measure over the most ridiculous of sources. Oh, it was not perfect—no place ever was—but it had flourished, a shining beacon of their people's progress after the New Sith Wars and the conquests that had come before it.

But that Sundari was a city of memories.

The Dral'Han had made sure of that.

In its wake, the once vast and open skies had been smothered by an oppressive dome of cold, lifeless metal; the sheer enormity of the structure was staggering, demanding more raw materials than Itzhal could even comprehend. In his distraction, he gazed beyond the glimmering skyscrapers—distracting structures intentionally crafted to draw attention away from the desolation that lay beyond—he couldn't shake the chilling memories of Coruscant, where nature had been mercilessly eradicated beneath the relentless march of urbanisation, leaving a stark, sterile wasteland of alloys rather than allies.

As he stood before the dome, his head tilted towards the sky that did not grace him with its presence, the memories of the first Sundari flickered like ghosts in his mind—leaf-laden trees, gently swinging in the breeze, while closer to the cobblestone pathway, luminous flowers bloomed in an array of colours that had more in common with a glittering rainbow than the dome that loomed above in silent judgement. Or perhaps that was cruel; perhaps, instead, it was kinder to imagine the dome bowed over in protection of those it held dearly, a spark of the Mandalorian endurance that had carried it and their people through countless tragedies.

He was not sure if he had it in himself to be kind.

Not today, at least.

So, in turn, he had wandered through the streets where people still heckled and cheered in equal measure—their lives, in truth, not much different from what he remembered, for all that they lived beneath a false sun. Spectres of old, both imagined and not, guided his steps through a city that he did not recognise, for all that he had first stepped foot upon it over two years ago. It was those same ghosts, not people, not memories, but also not quite nothing, that ultimately led him to the gardens of Teupt. There, leaf-laden trees swayed gently in the breeze, and stone paths were lined with the soft glow of reaching plants.

Tags: Seris Mataan​

 

[Seris Mataan]

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Seris sat beneath the shade of one of the larger trees, far enough from the main path that Sundari's passing voices had faded into little more than background noise. She was a young woman, striking without seeming particularly conscious of it, with long crimson hair falling loose around her shoulders and tapered, pointed ears marking the Eldorai blood in her features. Her eyes were closed for the moment, hiding their unusual grey-green as she sat with her legs folded beneath her.

Her white beskar had been set carefully beside the trunk, leaving her in the fitted dark layers beneath it, while her spear rested across the grass within easy reach. The lightsaber at her hip remained where it was. The garden had proven one of the easier places in Sundari to find something resembling quiet. Beneath the leaves, with the sound of water somewhere nearby and the faint movement of branches overhead, the metal dome above became a little easier to ignore.

Footsteps eventually drew closer along the stone path.

Seris remained still for another few moments before opening her eyes, her grey-green gaze settling upon the unfamiliar man as he came nearer. She watched him only briefly, enough to acknowledge his presence without staring, before shifting slightly and easing one leg out from beneath the other.

She had encountered plenty of unfamiliar faces since coming to Sundari. There was little reason to assume this one required anything more from her.

Still, when he wandered close enough that silence began to feel less natural than speaking, Seris offered him a small nod.

“Hello.”

Her attention rested on him properly then, calm and quietly curious.

“Quiet is a rare commodity on Mandalore, isn't it?” She turned to regard him again. "My name is Seris. You are?"

TAG: Itzhal Volkihar
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[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

Step by step, the Mandalorian Protector navigated the curated path laden with picturesque pebbles and stones, his boots leaving a winding trail against the uneven surface that shifted under his steps. In the background, a destination lingered—the concept of a place he did not know existed, for almost all he knew had crumbled to dust or been crushed under heel, another marker in a lifetime of pain. He did not know what he searched for. Only that what remained was the journey.

The park was just another step.

As he walked, he took in the sights and sounds—the crunch of gravel beneath his feet, the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the distant call of insects chirping amongst the bushes—real in a way that the memories so often weren't. At least, today, they didn't feel quite so real.

Still, even with that in mind, something of a fleeting resemblance to the spectres of his memory lingered in the woman who appeared before him. Her crimson hair cascaded down her back like a trail of fire, catching the light of the false sun above, as unusually pointed ears struck against the ripples of recognition that dared to settle. His eyes flickered from the plates of beskar, carefully laid to the side, to the eerily familiar weapon at her hip, which contrasted with the image of a young Mandalorian training—but then again, that was hardly fair. Nowadays, one did not negate the other.

Sometimes he just had to remind himself of that.

"It is," he acknowledged, reflecting on the quiet that surrounded them, the hustle and bustle of the outlying city reduced to errant signals on the edge of his buy'ce's communications suite. "I am Itzhal Volkihar."

He inhaled slowly, the filters of his helmet working seamlessly to draw in the gentle breeze that carried the delightful smell of freshly cut grass.

"Apologies if I interrupted you." He glanced at the discarded armour and the well-crafted spear that lay within easy reach. "An interesting set of weapons."

Tags: Seris Mataan​