Campaign Call to Banners | COV

[Romul Saxon]

Saga of Iron and Ash I​

The Storyfire had been lit.

Kestri had been crippled by galactic turmoil, planetshift chaos, and the insurrection of mutated Vong, all of which had caused the Mandalorian Enclave - once the bastion of Mandalorian culture in a hostile Galaxy - to crumble. The cycle continued, seemingly unbroken. Mandalorians had once more scattered to the stars. Few remained on their frozen once-homeworld.

But those who had remembered. Carved their way through the Vong, recharted what had been lost, and rebuilt what had been broken. Kestri rose, forged anew. Reborn, the Mando’ade of Kestri looked to the stars. Ryloth and Dressel reminded them that this Galaxy was not the one they once knew. But they, too, had changed. Once, Kestri had been a safe harbor, a last haven of the Mandalorian people. Now, it was a frozen cradle for a burning flame.

The fleets were ready. But it was time for the Clans to coalesce. By common consent of the Rekav’dral, Zavar Kelborn , Tra’verde of the Iron Covenant, had sounded the horns on Kestri. Secret communications had been transmitted to all outposts and coverts friendly to the Iron Covenant. The Iron Covenant was to be convened in the halls of the Rekav’dral to initiate the rites of embarkment as the first Mythos Fleet launched to strike at the heart of the Mandalorian’s sworn enemy: the Sith.

But truly it was to answer an even more ancient call, one that every Mando'ade of Kestri and those who had answered its secret summons. The desire to prove themselves and write their story in the eternal annals of the galaxy. To become legend.

Do you dare?

Objective I
The Ritual​

Smoke from the fires of the Bloodforges rises through Tor Valum as smiths hammer out weapons and armor. Cookfires still burn as warriors enjoy their final meal before they depart. Final preparations are being made before the Mythos Fleet embarks for the stars. Before the combined Rekav’dral council, all Mando'ade who wish to join the Mythos Fleet's crusade have been summoned to pledge their beskad and blaster to their people. The ritual of embarkment is not taken lightly; by uttering the words, one covenants themselves and their life to the Fleet’s campaign. Join in the revelry with your fellow warriors, prepare yourself for the yet-unsung saga ahead, and consecrate your steel towards the Iron Covenant.

 

[Vortigern Mimkin]

" Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ɴᴏ ʙᴇᴀsᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ I ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴀᴍᴇ "

The great hall of Tor Valum echoed with the ringing of hammers from the Bloodforges and the low murmur of warriors sharing their final meals. Smoke curled thick through the air, carrying the scent of scorched metal and roasting meat. Torches and cookfires cast long, flickering shadows across riveted durasteel walls adorned with trophies of fang and bone.

Rath'Kandos remained motionless like a statue in the distant corner of the room, trying to keep his scent from becoming apparent. Working in the beast pens on Kestri requires a strong resolve, and getting beskar'gam dry-cleaned is no easy task, so the unpleasant smell clung to him from his curved horned helmet down to the sturdy mantle resting on his shoulders, all the way to his armored boots.

He had answered the Iron Covenant's call, but as he looked over the assembled Mando'ade, fighters from various clans and factions that were now claimed to be united, he felt his jaw clench under his helmet. Old rivalries were not easily forgotten. He had faith in very few of them. Many had shed the blood of his kin in years past, and that memory lingered bitterly on his tongue.

Still, the Mythos Fleet prepared to sail among the stars, and the Rekav'dral council waited.

 

[Siv Dragr]

G U N S L I N G E R
Kestri
​

Tag: Vortigern Mimkin

So the time had finally come.

Siv had watched from the shadows and played his part as Kestri had slowly rebuilt her strength. He remembered returning to the world after his travels, to find Tor Valum in the midst of rebuilding, his son barely alive in a bacta chamber. That seemed so long ago.

He cast his eyes about the Bannerfall as he walked through the upper district of the city. Snow was falling lightly, flakes wafting about as they reached the flickering flames of cookfires and candlebras. Torches; some would consider them ancient technology, but fire was one of the simplest things to procure, and yet its warmth was not received ungratefully on Kestri.

Siv remembered coming to this world for the first time. Indeed, the frozen world was not a kind home. She demanded much from the Mando'ade who made her home. But she, in return, had forged a breed of warrior harder than Mandalorian Iron.

He swallowed. He felt ready to finally stop holding back. It was time for him to stop running and embrace his destiny.

Siv walked in through the massive doors of the Rekav'dral Keep, built in the ruins of the Iyarsa spire. The massive iron-wrought doors were already open as hundreds of Mandalorians filed inside and about the keep's gargantuan inner hall. At the center, where the Rekav'dral council stood, was a giant hearth fire. Siv could feel the heat even from where he stood. He knew his brother in arms Vren Rook waited there. He would deal with him later.

Casting his eyes about, he saw the symbol of a Clan few heard of. He walked up to Vortigern Mimkin , nodding his head. "You a beastmaster?" he asked, striking up casual conversation. Siv's armor wasn't atmosphere-sealed at the moment, so the waft of animal furs was noticeable. Still, Siv himself had tended to his clan's Orbak herd many a time, so the smell wasn't as unpleasant to him as it might be for some.

 

[Senec Ahn-Dross]

His father had sent him and Senar Ahn-Dross as representatives of the Clan. Their older brother was in league with the Black Sun so he could not act in the role. Naimes Ahn-Dross was old now, older than he had been when he and had first formed the clan with Cennika Hawk; he was tired. The Alor did not often venture off of his personal ship or meet with those outside of his bloodline or the Vode within his circle of trust.

Senec had answered the call for Clan Ahn-Dross.

He stood amidst the masses of Vode who caroused, drinking and engaging in feats of strength while the heat of the forges grew hotter.

It was his destiny to accompany the Mythos Fleet as it departed on its crusade.

He stood near a cookfire with a drink in hand, bringing it to his mouth and drinking deeply. It was strange but on a ship, standing on the deck plating he felt more at home than on the earth of any celestial body even Kestri. Clan Ahn-Dross was born on the ships and not down on the land, theirs was a small but powerful bloodline. At one time their Alor had been among the most potent blades in the galaxy.

Regardless of heraldry Senec felt uncomfortable, even awkward. The symbol of Ahn-Dross was not pressed into the pauldrons of many at this gathering.

Looking out over the faces and among the bodies he sought something that would distract him, face or a voice that he could focus his attention on while his mouth filled with the fire of the drink he was swallowing.

Aside from his beskar'gam he wore a vibroblade on his right hip, attached to a utility belt and his buy'ce had been clipped over his left hip.

[OPEN]

 

[Belok Karr]

BELOK KARR​

OBJECTIVE 1
TAG:
GEAR: Concussion Rifle Scattergun Warhammer

The cold on Kestri had a way of settling into the bones, even through armour. It never quite left you. Belok had forgotten that, or perhaps he had chosen to.

The signal reached him days before he acted on it. Calls like that could be considered urgent, but Belok didn't believe you threw yourself behind them on a whim. You answered them when you were ready to stand behind the answer.

The weight of the hammer rested across his shoulder as he walked, steady and unhurried, boots crunching against frost and stone.

There were others here. Clans gathering, colours worn openly. His own extensive family tree of Karrs had never settled on a colour scheme. Each picked their own. They were a tight-knit group, which was why he was still hurting from recent loss.

Belok said nothing as he passed the gathering mandalorians. His armour was worn and scarred in places. Each told their own stories, better to be written in beskar than in flesh.

He wasn't in the mood to tell those stories. Instead of finding a fire for warmth and food he found a forge that needed spare hands and set to work.

 

[Vortigern Mimkin]

" Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ɴᴏ ʙᴇᴀsᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ I ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴀᴍᴇ "

A figure moved through the crowd with with deliberate ease and stopped a short distance away. This newcomer was none other than Siv Dragr , his armor marked by genuine combat experience rather than mere display. He bore no visible weapons at the ready, yet his posture spoke of a quiet confidence that Clan Dragr always seemed to have.

The man gave a respectful nod, his voice cutting through the ambient noise with casual directness.

"You a beastmaster?"

Rath'Kandos rotated his helmeted head deliberately, the horns glinting in the dancing firelight. He examined the stranger for a moment, allowing the question to linger. Up close, the difference in scent became apparent: Siv bore only a slight hint of travel and cold iron, in stark contrast to the pungent odor that clung to him.

"I prefer the term beast handler," Rath'Kandos finally said, his voice coming out low and gravelly through the vocoder, tinged with the metallic rasp of his helmet. "You cannot gain the respect of a beast by treating them like a slave, as they will leave you the moment they sense any weakness." He had learned this lesson the hard way while training a rancor in his younger days; the cursed creature nearly devoured him when he was injured by a reek.

Around them, the great hall continued its restless pulse, the distant ring of hammers from the Bloodforges, the low murmur of rival clans forced into uneasy proximity, the crackle of cookfires and the soft hiss of snowflakes melting against hot stone. Torches cast flickering shadows that danced across fang-and-bone trophies on the durasteel walls.

"And you?" he asked, tilting his head just enough for the curved horns to catch another glint of firelight. "What do you think of the Iron Covenant. Is it worth the cost of exposing Kestri once more to assault. There are many still amongst us who recall the flame of the Galactic Alliance bearing down on us." The air between them hung thick with smoke, roasting meat, and the unspoken tension of the gathering. At the far end of the hall, the Rekav'dral council prepared to address the assembled Mando'ade.

 

[Darion of Myrkr]

Among all these brothers and sisters who bore distinguishable colors and sigils of clans, there was but one who bore nothing but the plain, monolithic gray beskar'gam of an ancient Crusader model.

Darion was a child still when his vanquished clan had surfed the stars to join the Neo-Crusaders as they carved a path of glory and conquest, of fire and blood. He'd never seen his kin ever so happy as they were being Crusaders; as if it had been a calling to their souls; and when the Crusade fell, so did their spirits as they returned to what they had done before - the monotonous but honest labor of mercenaries.

Now, he was among new brothers and sisters again, and he wondered if he would feel that calling as his clan did when the Crusades were summoned. He wondered if this was his place of belonging. No, do not think. It gets in the way. It always does. It muddies the mind and dulls the blade. No, he would trust his father's parting words and he would walk the way of the warrior as he always did.

He stepped through the throng of warriors unhurried and unpurposed. His gear, all but the greatbeskad sheathed over his back, hand long been carefully stowed away aboard the frigate he would sail across the stars. A Republic frigate he'd managed to seize during the Incident on Ryloth.

A rising pillar of smoke caught his attention and he drifted toward the forge, unslinging the sheathed blade from his back and held it in his hands.

"Brother." Darion called out to the man who had a moment ago joined the forge to work and offered him his greatbeskad. "I ask of you to sharpen this blade for there is much blood to be spilled."
Belok Karr

 

[Romul Saxon]

F L A M E W A R D
Rekav'dral Keep, Tor Valum
​

Tag: Vren Rook | Zavar Kelborn | Carduul Akahl | Celt Saxon | OPEN to all Mandos...

The title that Romul bore did not rest easy on his shoulders. He was meant to represent the flame that guarded Kestri, the stalwart head of the Verd'kandar, the last bastion of the Iron Covenant's defense. Yet to him it was a mirror of his own failures. The Rekav'dral Keep had been constructed in the ruins of the Iyarsa Spire, but the ruins remained, a reminder of when the mantle of leadership had rested upon his shoulders. A reminder of how he had failed to live up to those expectations...

Yet this embarkment was not a time for him to dwell with the ghosts of the past. The Iron Covenant promised a new saga for every Mandalorian, Kestri-bound or no. Romul yearned to redeem his Clan's name, his name, in the eyes of the Manda. He clung to the hope that their crusade against the Sith, victorious, would finally restore the honor he believed to be lost.

The giant Saxon warrior sat a step back on a simple stone chair, his council seat. Head-down rested his massive war hammer, and with one hand, he leaned against the formidable weapon. With his bright crimson and gold armor, the seat upon which he sat looked all too small for him. He did not occupy the spotlight, nor did he wish it. Zavar Kelborn was the Covenant's anointed to lead their Mythos Fleet into battle, and the fire by which the warrior had spoken had ignited something in Romul previously unfelt. Against his better judgment, he trusted this newer generation to do what his own could not have.

Amongst the assembled Vod he looked to find a familiar face. The red and gold of his own Clan was easy enough to spot, but he had not yet seen the familiar beskar'gam of Celt Saxon , one of his most trusted lieutenants. He also wondered if Jaikell Wyrvhor , who had fought the Vong beside him, or Brent Warnel , the Neo-crusader admirably loyal to his former Mand'alor, would have joined the revelry.

 

[Brent Warnel]

KESTRI
TAG: Romul Saxon
​

The call had come, and Brent had answered. He still second-guessed himself at this stage. Was he a traitor for abandoning the Crusader beliefs? Should he not have continued the cause and tried to bring warriors to his banner? Was it wrong to ally himself with a new faction of Mandos? Some of these Mandalorians in this room had no doubt spurned the Crusader cause, or actively worked against it. Yet now here he was, working amongst them.

He sighed inwardly; this train of thought was not worthy of him. Times change, and so must he. He still followed the tenets of the resol'nare, and that kept him steady. But it was time for something different, something new.

This new calling of banners, this...Iron Covenant sought to target a group that had done the most damage to his people, the Sith. For too long had the Sith been hiding in the shadows, pulling the strings of different Mandalorian leaders and empires from ancient times. Now there was a chance to change that, and he would not stand idly by.

As Brent stepped into the hall, his eyes swept the Vode that gathered around. He did not recognize any immediately, save one, who tried to sit nonchalantly on his throne and stay outside the spotlight.

"You're too big for that old man," Brent muttered to himself as he approached Romul Saxon.

Brent took his helmet off, clamping it to his belt as he stepped next to the other Mandalorian.

"Killer party," Brent said as a way of greeting, "Where's the tihaar, I have a feeling I'm gonna need it."

 

[Celt Saxon]

Location: Rekav'dral Keep, Tor Valum
Objective: Objective 1
Tag: Romul Saxon Vren Rook Carduul Akahl Brent Warnel
Equipment: In bio

Celt had not long ago expected that as Kestri became more stable and the wars abated that perhaps she might take a mate and settle down to look at the next generation of Saxons. But then the strife came back with its usual inevitability and the call was made once more. And Celt did not hesitate; what was another a new generation if there was nothing to give them.

She was loyal to death and her clan knew that so she attended. She cursed that she had not been the second Saxon in that room after her Alor, but there had been an incident. Several younger Saxons had taken the call in a more nihilistic leaning and decided to drink themselves stupid the night before. One was violently drunk, one was comatose, the third was apocalyptically depressed about the saga, it was a whole selection for the rallymaster to deal with.

She didnt know how she did it, but they now marched in time with her as something of an honour guard. She could deal with more punitive measures later if she saw fit. If they performed suitably today, then she might just forget to get round to punishment.

"Alor Romul, members of the council. I once again pledge my whole self to the future of our people." she said, bowing her head and clenching her fist over her heart. She looked at Brent Warnel who seemed far to casual for this auspiscious occasion and then let a small chuckle. Mandalorians, all the same, but all utterly unique.

This is the way.

 

[Belok Karr]

BELOK KARR​

THE FORGES
TAG: Darion of Myrkr
GEAR: Concussion Rifle Scattergun Warhammer

Belok Karr set his helmet back on top of his head as he cleared a station for himself. The forge was lit and several were already taking broken pieces of beskar, or items from the fallen, and preparing to make new.

"Brother." Darion called out to the man who had a moment ago joined the forge to work and offered him his greatbeskad. "I ask of you to sharpen this blade for there is much blood to be spilled."

Belok removed one glove and his helmet. He tilted his head respectfully as he took the blade.

They were not jedi. They did not place all their faith and respect in the blade. Everything was a tool. Only armour was sacred.

He brought the edge closer to his eyes and ran his thumb along it's edge.

"It seems that there is much more blood to be spilled Belok said of its well-used edge.

"This will take an hour."

"You have seen battle recently?" he asked as he put his helm and glove back in place. He set a sharpening wheel spinning. Made of beskar that could not be tempered again and crushed diamond edged, the wheel could reset an edge.

Belok dipped the full beskad in water to start. When used in a blade, even beskar could be overheated and ruined.

 

[Zavar Kelborn]

BLOOD, ICE, AND STEEL - CHAPTER 1
REKAV’DRAL KEEP, TOR VALUM
TAG: Romul Saxon | Vren Rook | Open
GEAR: in bio

ALL ALONG THE WATCHTOWER

[Continuing from: Writting in the Stars]​

The frozen air on Kestri bites, judges, and sharpens, as it has for a century. It’s a whetstone that stripped away the weak until only the iron remained.

The newly anointed Voidbrand, Zavar Kelborn took his seat on the Covenant’s coveted council seat, besides the Echo-speaker and the Flameward. The matte-black of his Beskar breastplate was a void in the flickering light of the surrounding torches, save for the dried crimson handprint of Careena Fett that still sat like a brand over his heart. Across his horizon, his retinue, the warriors of Clan Kelborn, Fett, and Munin mingled, a living wall of different colors, unified by a single purpose.

He looked out at the gathered Mandalorians, his voice catching the wind.

"The ice of Kestri is a reminder of what we were!" Zavar began, his eyes scanning the faces of veterans and foundlings alike. "For almost a century, we have defined ourselves by the dirt under our boots and the walls we built to keep the galaxy out. We survived."

He raised his gauntleted hand, pointing toward the obsidian sky where the stars hung like distant, unreachable fires.

"But survival is not endurance. A spark in a closed room eventually runs out of air. To live beyond our lifetimes, we must become the wind that carries the flame. We must stop being a people of a place and start being a people of a Way that knows no horizon."

Zavar stepped toward the massive central pyre. He drew a heavy, vibro-edged combat blade, the durasteel singing as it cleared the sheath.

"I told the Echo-speaker and the Flameward that one clan is a spark that can be stomped out. Three clans are a bonfire. A hundred clans are a supernova." He looked toward the banners of the Fett and Munin. "Unified under the Mythos Fleet’s banner, will be a shadow that moves, a hearth that can be rekindled on a different moon every night. We will become a predator the galaxy could never pin-down."

He slammed the hilt of his blade against his breastplate, the boom of metal-on-metal echoing like a thunderclap.

"Tonight we drink. We feast. We pledge our cause to the Mythos Fleet, just like I did before taking the Voidbrand seat."

He shifted his eyes to Celt Saxon , giving her a nod of acknowledgment for her earlier pledge, before he plunged a lit torch into the base of the pyre, the orange flames roared upward, defying the Kestri’s frost.

"Tomorrow and onwards, I will see you in the stars."
​

 

[Jaikell Wyrvhor]

OBJECTIVE I
The Ritual

The forged of Kestri burned again.

Jaikell Wyrvhor stood at the edge of the Bloodforges of Tor Valum, unmoving as sparks leapt into the cold air and died against the glacier winds. The rhythm of hammer on beskar echoed through the valley like war drums. It was a sound he knew well.
It meant preparation.
It meant war.

His helmet remained fixed forward, T-visor reflecting the glow of molten metal and flame. Around him, Mandalorians gathered, some laughing, some sharpening blades, Jaikell said nothing. He simply watched them,
Mandalorians from many clans, from all over came to this one spot,
Now, Jaikell, Ori'vod of the Black Watch, Alor of Clan Wyrvhor stood here too.


Kestri had fallen once, he heard from Romul Saxon .

Vong flesh twisted across the ice. The Dead Zone swallowing warriors whole. The Enclave, broken. Scattered. Reduced to memory and ash.
But Mandalorians did not die so easily.
They rebuilt.
They always rebuilt.

His gaze shifted toward the Rekav'dral Keep, toward the gathered council and the call that had drawn warriors from the stars. The Iron Covenant had spoken. The Mythos Fleet would rise. And this time, the enemy was not some distant horror clawing its way into their world.
This time, they would carry the war outward.
The Sith.

Jaikell's hand rested briefly on the grip of his 88 Hand Cannon,

A massive figure caught his attention across the assembly, crimson and gold armor unmistakable even through the haze of smoke and fire.
Romul Saxon. seated in a large stone chair,

As he walked forward, he reminisced on the words spoken

"I did not come here to serve another war without understanding the nation behind it" His head tilted slightly. "You say you march against the Sith in days.. I will join you in it if you will have me, learn more of your people, see how they are, and then we can go from there. if your actions match your words." Jaikell says.

"I accept your conditions, vod."

Jaikell's jaw tightened beneath the helmet, unseen.

He might not be swearing his oath to theses people at this moment, but at least he knew they were reasonable people. who cared about Honor, not just plain words.

As he approached, he looked towards the two Mandalorian that stood by him ( Celt Saxon ) ( Brent Warnel )
One, pledging herself,
The other, joking and standing beside Romul,

"Romul Saxon" Jaikell said, "It's good to see you again." he says approaching the group

| Outfit: |
J O R I R
B E S K A R ' G A M

| Equipment: ALL |


​

​

 

[Darion of Myrkr]

Darion watched the steam rise with a hiss as the blacksmith plunged the greatbeskad into a pool of water and felt its pulsating heat wash over his visor.

He finally said, "Ryloth, Dressel, and Thieves' Landing," but mentioned nothing of the raid on Mon Calamari. No, that was an aruetii's rat business, and he still felt stained by it.

"But these were no battles to tell tales of," he said, and felt his chest deflate. But this Fleet -- it may finally be the voyage worthy of a Saga, he thought.

"What about you, forgemaster? Will you be joining us in the Fleet?"

Belok Karr

 

[Vren Rook]

VETERAN
TOR VALUM | KESTRI
TAG: Romul Saxon | Zavar Kelborn | Carduul Akahl | Everyone else

THE WOODS​

The moment had come.

Once again he was on a seat to mobilise a people. He still didn't like it. He could still see the faces lost - those like the Quartermaster, Shai Maji and (†) Kranak Vizsla ...and who knows if Tawnita Wren was still alive. Or his son Veshok Rook . Was it really worth sending warriors away on whatever endeavour? He believed in the endeavour, it is true. But what would it cost this time?

He had even convinced Carduul Akahl to take the seat of Mythkeeper of the Covenant - to ensure their culture's endurance. Vren knew that their great enemy was still out there, oppressing other people just as they had done to the Mando'ade. While dealing with said enemy, they had to ensure that their people and culture would be preserved.

But how many would not return home?

Vren listened as Zavar was naturally the first to speak to their brethren. His words would definitely ignite the fire in the younger ones. They needed it for what lay ahead. He chewed on the words, himself. They managed to restore some belief, but he sincerely hoped that Romul's words did not come to fruition of a fire that burnt to hot and quickly would not last.

He briefly glanced at the large Saxon. They were both veterans of numerous wars - they knew the cost. They would need to temper the young ones' bloodlust. The Sith were not the Alliance. He would embody the duality of their people and travel between Kestri and the Fleet to ensure that the Fire doesn't burn out.

The Echo-Speaker got to his feet then, looking at those gathered while listening to mirth around outside the Hall.
"Listen." he spoke to all - giving them a moment to hear. "That -" He pointed toward the outside of the Hall. "Is what we fight for. That is what we seek to preserve. Not only should we spread our fire across the stars as Voidbrand Kelborn says, friends, but we should remember why we are doing it too. How long will we be able to drink and feast while the shadow of our great enemy still hang over us? How long before they decide to once again bring the hammer down on us?" His eyes flashed dangerously. "Raise the Mythosaur and show them that it does not forget and will never kneel again! Let that be the beginning of our Saga!"

He then took his own torch and threw it into the fire.

"Tomorrow, the Fleet will set sail to the West."

 

[Carduul Akahl]

Tags: Romul Saxon | Vren Rook | Zavar Kelborn | Celt Saxon | Brent Warnel | Jaikell Wyrvhor

Amongst many gathered, several knew of Carduul Akahl. Many of which had only pledged to join this cause on his behalf, Gods know how that came to be. Though the man was never really one for seats or positions, this one seemed to be his for the time being: Werla'tayla, Myth-keeper. He did not really consider it forsaking his duties, or leaving behind those who followed him—t’was a continuation in his eyes, rather. Reassurance for all those who still held hesitance in this path. In truth, it was the sort of role he had always aspired to- before fate had thrust him into greater responsibilities.

It was reassurance to himself just as much, for he was witness to yet another Crusade. Truthfully, he was grateful that he would be able to be a part of such history—that the fire had not died out from Mando'ade, where only the next generation would be the spark. It was inevitable they rebuilt, of course- but the time between such was always variable.

War was indeed, a question. One he had pondered several times to draw a slightly different conclusion each time. A fact remained, however: it was inevitable. Necessary, even. So, the only thing left to question was its cost. How many lives are you willing to trade for each engagement? How much of yourself are you willing to sacrifice, while still remaining ‘Mandalorian?’ All were inevitable facts of war, that doubtlessly many of his predecessors had to think over.

That made it no less daunting of a thought. He, of all people, knew all too well how easy it was for a brilliant flame to run far too quick. Carduul had quietly listened as several amongst the newfound ‘council’ spoke first, and many drew rousing speeches. Once they were done, and the cheers died down. he felt compelled to at least say something. Rather than sitting there, brooding; it was an ill-look. Slowly he had risen with a gaze across to those assembled. Many faces familiar, and many new- between crusaders, preservists, Enclave holdouts, and many more. “...No matter what choice is made, conflict is inevitable. To be the deciders of when is a greater boon than many would think.” Was his decreed agreement. “...I believe it is important that in our wake, so too our ways remain. That the impact we make shall echo across the galaxy and last as a story many will tell. As a lifestyle and culture many will adopt, or borrow from- and be all the stronger for it.”

Head dipped some, in thought. “I am content, to see so much of our people from so many varied walks alike. To see Clans of all sorts band together to brand our Way into the stars. Regardless of what occurs from this Crusade, let this be a reminder that just as before, Mandalorians can not- and never will be- broken. Time and again, we have rebuilt from nothing, and inevitably we shall do so again. Until then, here and now, it is in our hands to put that reshaped iron to good use.”

 

[Siv Dragr]

G U N S L I N G E R
Kestri
​

Tag: Vortigern Mimkin

"I prefer the term beast handler," Rath'Kandos finally said, his voice coming out low and gravelly through the vocoder, tinged with the metallic rasp of his helmet. "You cannot gain the respect of a beast by treating them like a slave, as they will leave you the moment they sense any weakness."

Siv nodded his head in agreement. The Farr beast handler had the right of it. More and more vode filtered into the keep as the two spoke. To compensate, Siv moved a little closer to Farr to hear him better over the noise, smell aside.

"And you?" he asked, tilting his head just enough for the curved horns to catch another glint of firelight. "What do you think of the Iron Covenant. Is it worth the cost of exposing Kestri once more to assault. There are many still amongst us who recall the flame of the Galactic Alliance bearing down on us."

Under his helmet, Siv frowned. He remembered the flame of the Galactic Alliance all too well -- he'd had a role, however misfortunate, in instigating that particular war. Though with the more time he'd had since then to reconcile with himself, the thought that he'd merely been one actor in a play of a much larger scope than he'd seen had crossed his mind.

Still, Farr wouldn't know that. Would he?

"Kestri never fell to the Jedi," he pointed out. "I won't argue the risk; I'm not a decision-maker by any means. But," he continued, the paused. Then started again. "You hear reports from Mandalore. That this... these vode who never lifted a finger for decades while we fought and scraped a place into the galaxy now swipe in to claim a dead title? And they cozy up with the Sith? The very Sith who razed Mandalore, who slaughtered my clan." His voice shook, the anger in it surprising even him. "I will never miss an opportunity to put my blade at Carnifex's neck." Every word he said was said with emphasis. Pausing, he took a breath to collect himself, looking back out at the gathering of Mandalorians. Solitary as Siv was, these were his brothers and sisters, his vode, clan or no.

"This might be our one chance to rid the galaxy of them for good. To me, that is worth every risk, Farr. And to you?"

Behind him, the noise of the keep grew as the Rekav'dral began to address the assembled host. Siv, for the moment, did not pay too much attention to them.

 

[Vortigern Mimkin]

" Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ɴᴏ ʙᴇᴀsᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ I ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴀᴍᴇ "

His helmet tilted slightly as he listened to the announcements from the Rekav'dral Council at the far end of the hall, attempting to unite them to join the Mythos Fleet in a counterattack against their foes, demonstrating to the galaxy that True Mandalorians still existed, unlike those who concealed themselves on Mandalore, accepting credits from anyone and everyone.

Although his concentration was quickly disrupted by the reply he got from Siv Dragr , the man's voice trembled with genuine rage, the sort that stemmed from personal losses rather than mere historical accounts, and Rath'Kandos felt no desire to soften it. Darth Carnifex, the butcher of Mandalore was well known to Clan Farr.

He slowly tilted his head, recognizing the evident disdain the man held for their wayward brothers and sisters within the Mandalorian Empire, before he spoke from behind his helmet. "I won't argue against anything you say about our lost kin," Rath'Kandos rumbled, his vocoder transforming the gravel in his throat into a deep, metallic sound.

"Carnifex and his Sith followers have turned Mandalore into a graveyard. That blood is on their hands, and it doesn't wash away easily. But here's the thing, Dragr, we are an oral tradition. Tales of our tragedies and triumphs passing from helmet to helmet, from fireside to fireside. If the vode of that so called Mandalorian Empire aren't teaching their foundlings our history, then they will grow up unaware of what we've always understood. The Sith are no friends, they are a blade turned against us." His gloved fist flexed momentarily at his side before coming to a halt. While it probably wouldn't quell his anger, it served as a valuable reminder that the Mandalorians have been passing down tales since the dreadful Gulag Plague. If those stories remained untold, it was hardly surprising they would choose to ally with the Sith Order.

"This might be our one chance to rid the galaxy of them for good. To me, that is worth every risk, Farr. And to you?"

Behind him, the noise of the keep grew as the Rekav'dral began to address the assembled host. Siv, for the moment, did not pay too much attention to them.

"To me?" he finally repeated the question, his voice softer now, almost intimate amidst the escalating noise of the hall. "Is it worth the risk? If it means plunging a spear into the heart of the Eleventh Sith Empire, then absolutely. But we must keep our expectations in check; we can certainly defeat them, but eradicating their culture as they have ours will require another lifetime, more than either of us has left." He straightened a bit, the sturdy mantle shifting on his shoulders, and for the first time, a faint hint of a warrior's grim smile touched his tone.

 

[Romul Saxon]

F L A M E W A R D
Rekav'dral Keep, Tor Valum
​

Tag: Vren Rook | Zavar Kelborn | Carduul Akahl | Celt Saxon | Brent Warnel | Jaikell Wyrvhor | @All Mandos..

"Killer party," Brent said as a way of greeting, "Where's the tihaar, I have a feeling I'm gonna need it."

The voice was familiar enough. Romul looked up and, despite himself, grinned to see the Neo-crusader looming over him. It was probably a change of pace for both of them for Brent to be looking down on the Alor. "Your helmet," he boomed, quietly. "I am glad to see you had it mended." He slapped the armrest of his stone seat, beckoning for the Neo-crusader to join his side.

"Alor Romul, members of the council. I once again pledge my whole self to the future of our people." she said, bowing her head and clenching her fist over her heart.

"Well met, Alor'aan Celt," Romul rumbled in return. "Clan Saxon is strengthened by your leadership in the battlefield." The fiery warrior was a key of Romul's pride of his clan. He turned to Brent. "Now about that Tihaar.."

"Romul Saxon" Jaikell said, "It's good to see you again." he says approaching the group

The booming voice of the other newcomer interrupted him, but not unpleasantly. "Jaikell Wyrvhor, Vong-bane," Romul thundered. "Come, vod." He slapped the stone armrest again. It might crack under the force. "I trust you brought Tihaar?" He was getting incredibly thirsty. Suddenly, Zavar Kelborn stood to speak. Romul, out of respect, stopped to watch and listen to the young firebrand. In his head, he remembered when Rook and he had assented to granting Zavar the title of Tral'verde. This would be who they followed into the stars. Rook himself, then Carduul Akahl, the former Mandalore, spoke in turn one after the other. Words. Romul did not have more to add. Enough had been said. It was time to drink and then set sail.

He slammed a fist into the stone armrest, and with the force, it cracked ever so slightly. But it was loud enough to be heard throughout the hall. He slammed it again and again. A salute. Clan Saxon warriors followed suit, striking their own fist against the breastplate of their armor, demonstrating their loyalty and support for the Iron Covenant. He expected the rest of the assembled vode to follow suit.

 

[Belok Karr]

BELOK KARR​

OBJECTIVE 2
TAG: Darion of Myrkr
GEAR: Concussion Rifle | Scattergun | Warhammer

Working a beskar blade was not easy. He kept both hands gloved and manually worked it against the wheel. It would have to go back into the water to cool the blade from the huge amount of energy that it required to sharpen being dumped into heat.

Then Belok would remove one glove and feel the edge. It was not a science. It was feel and careful work and ritual.

"What about you, forgemaster? Will you be joining us in the Fleet?"

Belok gave a slight cant of his head.

"Not a forgemaster. Not yet," he replied.

Typically Belok would have been jovial at the forge, engaging in conversation and the telling of wild tales.

His spirit was more muted today. Several of the closest members of his family lost to the Yuuzhan Vong.

"I will be joining," he replied. "And I will not be leaving whilst I still stand. Not until the work is done."