Campaign Call to Banners | COV

[Vara Rasha]

THE FOUNDLING
Kestri | Tor Valum
Equipment: In Bio
Tags: Vren Rook | Romul Saxon | Celt Saxon | Carduul Akahl | Brent Warnel | Jaikell Wyrvhor

Myrkr​

Who dares wins.

And Vara?

She dared.

The young one was not found wanting when The Call was sounded, despite the bundle of doubts in her mind, dulling her eagerness. Concerns. Fears she could not bring voice to, even in the solitude of her home. Slowly, they began to thread into her mind. The echo of her unhurried footfalls melted away in the sound of the revelries, and joined the hundreds of her kin at the gathering.

Was she enough? Could she hold this vow she was about to take? She had to. There was no galaxy where she did not. Failure meant damnation and she could not bear that on her shoulders. So the path ahead was clear.

But a demand for a sacrifice this was, as much as a call for war.

What part of herself would she see sacrificed? What would she lose?

Who, would she lose?

Her sharp ears swept back at the thought of it alone. Her head snapped back, crimson gaze cutting through the armored profiles of her kin. She sought him. Her beloved.

But she couldn’t see him.

A small noise poured from her lips, barely a breath. Her snout worked back and forth in the same beat, sampling the air for his dreamy scent, but only the mouthwatering smells of roasting meat and rivers of ne’tra gal tugged at her focus.

No matter.

The Harpy shook her head, chasing away the uncertainty of what the future held for her. She tucked her helmet closer under her arm as she made for the closest keg nearby. The merriment in the air was unmistakable. Stories exchanged, laughter shared as heartily as a thirsty sip of mead. Inexpressible kinship.

The warmth of it burned hotter than flame. Even when she bore no sigil of a clan, even when misbegotten, she still felt it in her marrows.

In spite of those who would prefer otherwise.

A handful of leering she caught at the corner of her eyes. Her tender closeness to Yuri Maji , the Son of the Traitor, hadn’t gone unnoticed for long, after all. Her lips peeled to a crooked smile in thought. Let ‘em seethe, she reaffirmed her stance as she helped herself to a drink. Foam threatened to spill from the large tankard in her hand as she raised it to her lips.

One singular thought echoed in her mind as the sticky, dark ale wet her lips.

A promise to herself. Her doubts put to rest.

I dared. I won’t falter now.


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[Juno Wren]

JUNO WREN
Kestri | Rekav’dral Keep | Great Hall
TAG: Siv Dragr Jaikell Wyrvhor Carduul Akahl Romul Saxon Celt Saxon Brent Warnel Vara Rasha Zavar Kelborn Belok Karr @Everyone Else

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It had been years since Juno was last on Kestri. Glory had called her away, glory and wanderlust, the desire to carve her name in the annals of the universe, and see everything that the galaxy had to offer.

And she had, to certain extent. Not even twenty years old, and she had written her name into legend for single handedly capturing the head of the Hutt Space Consortium. Then she had fought Kyrel Ren, and though that battle was celebrated as a victory, at the time it had felt like anything but.

Then came Star's End, and all that she had accomplished, her growing legend…was lost. Forgotten to the annals of time, swept beneath the weight of a galaxy full of chaos and conflict.

And now it was time to inscribe a new legend. A new beginning.

The great hall of Rekav'dral Keep was stuffed to bursting with Mandalorians when she entered. The council stood before a massive hearth in the center of the room, the flames climbing up and up, and around them was a sea of Mandalorians, every single one armed and armored.

This is the Way.

Some of them, she knew, or knew of, rather. There was Siv Dragr, who was famous even when she was a child. There was Vren Rook, a veteran of a thousand wars. And there was Romul Saxon, a mountain pretending to be a man. Carduul Akhal and Jaikell Wyrvhor had been part of the crew that helped her escape Mytus VII, but of those whom she had fought and bled with, on Argovia or Rothana…

They were nowhere to be found. They were either dead, or lost, or forgotten. Like I was. She would drink for those who were no longer with them, and drink again for those that survived.

But that would come later. There was talk to be had now; declarations from the council, and oaths from the gathered.

The Voidbrand spoke first, and something he said spoke directly to her soul. "To live beyond our lifetimes, we must become the wind that carries the flame."

She could not have put it better herself.

And if the Voidbrand spoke to her soul, then Vren spoke to her heart. "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."

That was perhaps the most important of all. A Mando who forgot why he fought was a Mando who had lost his way. Like Koda.

Then came Carduul. "…The impact we make shall echo across the galaxy and last as a story many will tell…Time and again, we have rebuilt from nothing, and inevitably we shall do so again…" They were powerful words that embodied her core beliefs.

But ultimately, words were just wind. Time would show the truth of it. She had faith enough for that. She had faith enough to move mountains.

Faith in her armor. Faith in her pistol. Faith in her rifle. Faith in her blade. She was draped in faith, and one day, faith would be her shroud as well. But until then…

"This is the Way!" The shout was out of her mouth before she realized she was speaking, her fist held high, pride bursting in her chest.

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[Darion of Myrkr]

He averted his gaze from his blade and looked at the man and asked, "And what is this work you speak of?"

Belok Karr

 

[Brent Warnel]

CIN VEHTIN
Carduul Akahl Romul Saxon Celt Saxon @All Mandos
​

Brent listened as Clan leaders and others spoke to the Mandalorians who filled the area. He procured a glass of tihaar as he stood by Romul, continuing to let the words of these leaders pour over and into him. He listened as Kelborn lit the pyre, saying his piece to those gathered who listened. As Vren Rook did the same. Brent drank, eyes following the movements of individuals who believed their words needed to be spoken to those gathered.

When Carduul stood and spoke, Brent paid closer attention, for here was a Crusader, here was his Mand'alor, regardless of what the others thought.

"Oya!" Brent shouted into the throng, raising his glass high and acknowledging those who had spoken. Acknowledging the words that these leaders had said, these words that would guide them and the Mythos fleet from here on.

Brent watched as Jaikell Wyrvhor approached and spoke his greetings to Romul. Brent had never met or seen the other individual before, but by Romul's greeting, it was apparent he was welcome here.

Brent turned and nodded softly toward Romul after his remarks. "I thank you, and the rest of the Vode here who helped me forge this anew," Brent said, tapping his helmet.

Brent continued to gaze into the gathering of the vode around him. The burning desire that had been with him during the Crusades was dormant. It was there, simmering, but it had not risen. Something was still holding him back, and he knew what it was.

Brent leaned against the side of Romul's chair, talking in a quiet voice to the big man, but mostly to himself.

"I still feel as if I have abandoned my ways," he said as he took a swig of tihaar, staring into the crowd and watching the pyre roar in the background.

"What would a pledge here and now mean when I gave my pledge in another gathering just like this. To vode just like you. Would it mean anything? What are pledges, hell, what is loyalty when it flips so suddenly? My kin died for a cause we believed in, and tonight I abandon them."

Brent downed the last bits of tihaar before setting the cup down in a nearby nondescript area. His hands went to his helmet, pulling it from his belt and staring into the t-visor. The face that stared back at him was almost unfamiliar. Was it his death on Brosi that had changed him? No, he had felt almost free after his rebirth.

Deep down, he knew what it was, the loss of the Crusaders. The loss of the vode who had brought him back from the brink sat with him still, eating away at him after their fall. Carduul was here, Feydriik was alive, Vreegan had shown his face for the first time in ages to him, but that was it. What of the thousands of others? Gone. It was time for something new, he knew it; it was just a hurdle that still needed to be crossed. The past would not die, but neither should he be beholden to it to the point his future was failing.

He turned the helmet around and set it down on his head, the seals squeaking as they closed out the atmosphere from around him. His voice came out loud and metallic as he spoke next, "Cin Vhetin." Brent walked toward the pyre, passing Carduul. As he did so, Brent slammed his fist into his chest, signalling his loyalty for his friend as he continued to the flames.

As the others had tossed torches into the pyre to stake their claims or pledge their loyalty, Brent did not. He pulled a small golden crescent from one of his pouches, his clan's symbol glinting in the firelight. Brent kneeled before the pyre, touching his clan's symbol to his helmet before placing it in the fire.

The metal would not melt; it was too heat-resistant for that. But, in the ashes, it would be born anew, just like Brent.

 

[Belok Karr]

He averted his gaze from his blade and looked at the man and asked, "And what is this work you speak of?"

Belok Karr

Belok cooled the blade in water once more. He set it down and removed his helmet and his gloves.

He worked his thumb down the edge and brought it close to the light to inspect.

The large man let out a small grunt of approval. The edge had been reset enough on one side.

"The work? Whatever must be done to make our families safe again."

He turned slowly and gave a small nod.

"Whatever must be done."

 

[Jaikell Wyrvhor]

OBJECTIVE I
The Ritual

The hall was loud in a way that felt almost alive. as Jaikell stood near Romul Saxon as he spoke
"Jaikell Wyrvhor, Vong-bane, Come, vod." He said while slapping the stone armrest, "I trust you brought Tihaar?"

"I never go anywhere without it" he replied with a laugh, his arm over his chest in a salute out of respect,

When he finished responding, Others took their turns talking to Romul, and Jaikell watched as they did, seeing the respect they had for him.
While he watched, he saw the man from the Communication that lead him on this journey Vren Rook speak, his voice cutting through the noise.
"Raise the Mythosaur and show them that it does not forget and will never kneel again! Let that be the beginning of our Saga!"

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

When he finished another Mandalorian, Carduul Akahl spoke in agreement his words speaking to everyone gathered here today.
"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."

"This is what I remember growing up, Mando'ade together. One goal, a true shared heritage." he thought to himself, Making him miss the loss of his sister Manti Wyrvhor,

Then he heard it, a yell cutting though the rest of the cheers "This is the Way!"
Something in his posture changed right there when he heard those words, as his eyes scanned the crowed, searching for who he knew said those words,
"So she is here." he whispered as his eyes locked on to the woman him and others saved from the Prison on Mytus VII.
"Another follower of the Way of the Mandalore"

"This is the Way" he yelled as loud as he could. as he made his way over to her. "Its amazing seeing you here Vod" he said while he held his arm out for her to clasp it.

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

| Equipment: ALL |
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[Siv Dragr]

G U N S L I N G E R
Kestri
​

Tag: Skarren Mettir

As the noise in the great hall grew louder, Mandalorians shouting their approval of the Rekav'dral council's words, Siv's emotions simmered back down. The anger that had flowed through him had passed, quenched as hot iron plunged into cold water. The veteran bounty hunter usually had his emotions reigned in; his profession demanded it. Perhaps tonight, this setting, the eve before the galaxy and their movement was to be inevitably changed, had weakened his steel barrier enough to allow them to surface.

"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.

He nodded with an air of nonchalant determination. "Our foundlings must be taught our history," he said, agreeing with what Farr had said previously. Siv crossed his arms across his chest, the metal of his gauntlets clanking softly against his breastplate. He sighed. He was de facto Alor of his clan, or what remained of it. One step forward, two steps backward when it came to rebuilding it. His adopted brother, Volo, dead in the Vong incursion. His adopted son Sahan Dragr was the pride of Clan Dragr, and Jericho Dragr ... Siv needed more bonding time with the android. "I know little of Clan Farr's doings," he admitted to the beast handler. Siv knew the name; it was as ancient as they went, but he was not the most up-to-date on Clan politics. "Tell me about yourselves."

 

[Thyr Kyron]

N A U R ' A L O R
Rekav'dral Keep, Tor Valum
​

Tag: Vara Rasha | Adjacent to Belok Karr and Darion of Myrkr

Thyr was not well-accostumed to such a high volume of vode. She much preferred to be in the bloodforges working over the plasma-jets than standing in a frigid hall. Yes, it was frigid, for all that the Rekav'dral tried to do by putting in massive hearth fires. But luckily enough for her, the council had brought in some smithing tables to put in the corners. Last-minute preparations and all; apparently, makeshift smithing would be more cost-effective than regular transports from the spacebound fleet to Kestri.

Thyr didn't particularly care about the economics, but made herself busy at one of the tables. There was a pile of blasters growing ever larger, and she was currently occupied with a faulty actuating module. In her mind, it wasn't worth the effort it took to fix it; the piece was worth more as slag. But most of her vode didn't have the same practical outlook on weapons as she did.

She scowled under her helmet. She knew she should be welcoming of all of these fellow vode, that they were all Mando'ade, but she could tell that most of them were not Kestri Mandalorians. They had a certain air to them. The ones she liked the least were those who hailed from the Mandalore sector, the ones who constantly complained of the cold. Ungrateful. Soft. But she held her tongue.

Thyr continued fiddling with the actuating module until she heard a large pop. Ozone began to reek from the blaster. She wanted to curse, but composed herself. That was beneath her. She privately wondered what the Quartermaster would have done. The figure was an idol for her, larger-than-life; Thyr had grown up on her legend, and as the pre-eminent Kestri Forgemaster, she secretly aspired to the Quartermaster's status in her craft. Surely the Quartermaster had never dealt with a Mandalorian's faulty actuating module.

Briefly distracted from her chore, a Shistavanen leering near her caught her eye. She'd heard of the Maji family of Clan Krayt -- they were famous or infamous on Kestri, depending on who you asked, but Shai Maji was still a true Kestri hero in her eyes -- but she realized that this one was not a Maji. And her armor did not look well-fitting. "Hey," she called, "you trying to get that piece reshaped?" She pointed at the Shistavanen's cuirass with the electrospanner still in her hand.

 

[Vara Rasha]

THE FOUNDLING
Kestri | Tor Valum
Equipment: In Bio
Tags: Vren Rook | Romul Saxon | Celt Saxon | Carduul Akahl | Brent Warnel | Jaikell Wyrvhor | Thyr Kyron

Myrkr​

She caught her with the tankard tipped to her lips.

The Harpy stilled for a breath. The forgemaster’s armored silhouette slipped into the corner of her eyes, the spanner in her grasp pointed squarely at her. A fleeting glance, and she downed the rest. Breath poured from her lips. Her thirst quenched, only for the moment.

Vara turned to face her, casually clipping her helmet onto her battle-belt. Her crimson gaze dipped down onto her cuirass then, her freed hand patting along its surface. How strange. She neither felt nor saw a fault in her battle-gear.

But she knew better than to question an artisan in their craft.

The foundling sauntered over to the forgemaster seated beside a mountain of blasters and equipment. “Iiiiii’ve heard better excuses t’check me out.” A crooked smile adorned her lips as she threw her a quip. A hand reached for a vacant chair in her approach. The wood scraped across the floor and clacked softly against the stone as she set it down close to the woman.

The furniture let out a brief groan of protest as she sat. ”Name’s Vara.” The empty tankard rested on the floor beside her boot. She reached for the straps running over her shoulders next. ”An’ you? What do they call ya?” Unfastened, her chestrig became undone in a few moments. The girl set it aside, and began to remove the armor plating. With her deft touch, she removed the cuirass from her body glove without struggle.

”So what’s wrong with it?” Vara asked with her head tilted to the side, the rise in tone betrayed her interest. The focus in her eyes sharpened as she handed over the armor plating. Her own reflection glinted back at her from the Forgemaster’s emotionless visor. Vara hunched closer in turn, maw shut and ears perked up.

She could learn something here.


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[Kjartan Hammer-Hand]

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KESTRI | TOR VALUM
TAG: Vren Rook | Vara Rasha | Siv Dragr

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KJARTAN HAMMER-HAND​

THEME​

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"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."

Cheers erupted at the words of the Rekav'dral Council, and their proclamation of judgement against the powers of the west. The Sith had almost-always been the arch-enemies of the Mandalorians affiliated with the former Enclave, but depending on who you asked; the Jedi were foes of equal measure. It mattered not to Kjartan - for he had long ago sworn himself to his brothers. He abandoned his people in his youth, but he stood beside them while he still had vigor to give.

In the short time of his re-integration within the Covenant, he had forged a name for himself. He knew the weight upon his shoulders would be immense during the campaign. He would likely not see Kestri for some time once again, so he knew he would need to make this night count. The halls of the Buurenaar’gam would be almost entirely vacant, as the warchief had granted leave to all of his crew. Drinks would be downed in the name of honor and glory, songs would be sung in memory of the fallen and the lost, and hope would once again arise anew with the morning sun.

Hope.

It had been a long time since his people could say they held hope. Many would say that hope existed within the Mandalorian Empire, yet when he looked at what his people had become within it; he hardly recognized them.

It was time for the galaxy to remember what true Mandalorian strength could do.

Kjartan ambled to a massive, stone-hewn bar within the hall and made eye contact with the barkeep behind it. While he may have not stood out from those alongside it, those who knew the Hammer-hand would not fail to detect a difference. His normally lusty demeanor was instead, exchanged for a sobriety of thought and purpose. Even as he grasped the tankard in his hand, he paused before bringing its brim to his lips.

He closed his eyes, as if in silent prayer.

“Give me strength and resolve for the coming storm.”

He then drank his health.

It was a personal ritual he engaged in silently, with very few in his circle even knowing of it. But when reality, or the weight of a moment settled upon him; it was only this silent prayer, to whatever gods existed in the galaxy, that seemed fitting to him.


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[Skarren Mettir]

" Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ɴᴏ ʙᴇᴀsᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ I ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴀᴍᴇ "

It appeared that Siv Dragr had a somewhat receptive stance towards Rath'Kandos's perspective, recognizing that the Iron Covenant needed to instill their own foundlings with the belief that there would never be peace between them until the Sith Culture was eradicated from the galaxy.

He exhaled a harsh breath through the vocoder, tuning out the council's monotonous calls echoing from across the hall. They urged the fleet to gather and the Mandalorian Clans to allocate their resources, but his attention remained fixed on the Alor of Clan Dragr. His mistrust of the man was clear, yet he understood the necessity of forging alliances, even if merely for show, to maintain a semblance of unity.

"Surely you would not expect a member of Clan Farr to undermine his clan by revealing our current situation," Rath'Kandos said, his voice flat and even through the helmet. "United though we are in the purpose of ridding the galaxy of the Sith Scourge, there are some secrets that must be maintained should a mole arrive within our midst."

He kept his stance planted, the curved horns of his helmet steady in the firelight. Around them the hall kept rumbling, boots scraping stone, voices rising in approval as the Rekav'dral hammered on about the Mythos Fleet and the need for every clan to pull its weight. Snow kept drifting in through the high vents and melting with a steady hiss against the warm floor.

Rath'Kandos gave a small shrug that made the mantle shift on his shoulders. "I can say that when the call goes out to assemble the Mando'ade for battle, we will come to the Iron Covenant's aide. That's all anyone needs to know tonight." He let the statement hang there, simple and final.

 

[Darion of Myrkr]

Whatever must be done.

The blacksmith's words stayed with him. They settled in his mind like iron left to cool.

Had I done enough, he thought. From the bubbling pool of water emerged his clan's last stand on Myrkr. Explosions tearing brothers apart; unsatable barrels and canons raining death upon sisters; then the seismic bombs came. He remembered those most. They took the sound first and then they gave it back all at once and the air broke with it and the screams came with the wind and filled everything.

We live by the sword and we die by the sword, son.

There was no argument with that. There never had been. His father's words buried all the guilt and shame and questions back in the very depths of his mind and heart.

This was who they were. It did not change.

It would not change.

A Mandalorian did not ask for more than this.

Death in battle is the greatest honor bestowed upon us.

"Safe?" he said, his tone of voice level. "Is peace what drives you to fight, brother?"

Even after voicing the question, Darion did not feel any less puzzled.

Belok Karr Thyr Kyron Vara Rasha

 

[Belok Karr]

BELOK KARR​

OBJECTIVE 2
TAG: Romul Saxon Celt Saxon Darion of Myrkr Tal Kaja Carduul Akahl
GEAR: Concussion Rifle Scattergun Warhammer

The wheel turned again. Belok took care as he worked the other side of the edge. It was a quiet song, the blade singing as the wheel span.

"Safe?" he said, his tone of voice level. "Is peace what drives you to fight, brother?"

"For me, yes," he replied.

"My family has mercenaries and warmongers and every type of motivation. I want to fight to keep my family safe."

"Then those that do not want to fight are not forced to."

Belok did not know what he would do if they went on the campaign and emerged victorious. He felt a hollow. That was the only way to put it. He hadn't been through personal loss like this before.

 

[Siv Dragr]

G U N S L I N G E R
Kestri
​

Tag: Skarren Mettir

"Surely you would not expect a member of Clan Farr to undermine his clan by revealing our current situation," Rath'Kandos said, his voice flat and even through the helmet. "United though we are in the purpose of ridding the galaxy of the Sith Scourge, there are some secrets that must be maintained should a mole arrive within our midst."

Siv met the gaze of the Farr beast handler steadily, their visors locked one on the other. He wasn't much for clan politics; he was Alor de facto, as there had been no other members of his Clan to survive the Sith's Mandalorian Genocide. But he could detect the distrust in Farr's voice. Siv raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he was old, or there were too many new vode on Kestri. In the Enclave, there had always been a sense of kinship between all the Mando'ade, but perhaps that had been a fruit of their collective hardship.

Rath'Kandos gave a small shrug that made the mantle shift on his shoulders. "I can say that when the call goes out to assemble the Mando'ade for battle, we will come to the Iron Covenant's aide. That's all anyone needs to know tonight." He let the statement hang there, simple and final.

"I'd hope so, beast handler," Siv replied, lowering his hands as they rested above each other, right above his utility belt. "How long you been on Kestri?"

 

[Thyr Kyron]

N A U R ' A L O R
Rekav'dral Keep, Tor Valum
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Tag: Vara Rasha Adjacent to Belok Karr and Darion of Myrkr

The foundling sauntered over to the forgemaster seated beside a mountain of blasters and equipment. “Iiiiii’ve heard better excuses t’check me out.” A crooked smile adorned her lips as she threw her a quip.

Thyr was unresponsive to the quip, a statue. She wasn't one to indulge in base banter.

”Name’s Vara.” The empty tankard rested on the floor beside her boot. She reached for the straps running over her shoulders next. ”An’ you? What do they call ya?”

"Thyr," she replied flatly, holding out her hand to receive the chestplate. The metalsmith next to her worked a blade over a wheel, whetting its fine edge, creating a high-pitched ring that carried clear over the noise of the hall to Thyr's own work station. She didn't mind the noise; it was comforting to her.

”So what’s wrong with it?” Vara asked with her head tilted to the side, the rise in tone betrayed her interest.

She held the armor plate lightly in both hands, looking it over. It was a well-crafted, simple piece. Thyr recognized the design easily enough; an old Enclave cuirass. It was cheaper, no beskar, the sort of armor a Mandalorian with few items to barter or no clan -- or both -- would wear. Thyr could relate. "Nothing's wrong with the cuirass," she replied, tilting it so that the Shistavanen could see. "Could probably use some work. It's got structural integrity, but this alloy isn't beskar. Maybe you haven't noticed it, though, but this was made for a human. I can reshape it and retune the ablative dampers so it'll be more comfortable and protect you a little better. That make sense?"

 

[Skarren Mettir]

" Tʜᴇʀᴇ ɪs ɴᴏ ʙᴇᴀsᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ I ᴄᴀɴɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴀᴍᴇ "

It was clear that Siv Dragr was not satisfied with Rath'Kandos's previous remarks about Clan Farr. However, Rath'Kandos showed no intention of mending that relationship. The Mandalorians had always been fragmented, with numerous factions vying for power. If Clan Dragr shifted from ally to adversary, Clan Farr would find itself in a vulnerable position, a scenario that the beast handler was keen to avoid.

He maintained a firm stance, the curved horns of his helmet barely shifting in the gentle glow of the assembly hall's firelight. He let the question hang in the air for a moment, as another surge of shouts erupted from the Rekav'dral council, demanding ever more resources.

He replied through the vocoder, "Long enough. I arrived shortly after the fall of the Second Galactic Alliance, starting in the beast pens before earning my reputation as a handler. It's much safer here than on our home planet of Mandalore." As he spoke, the beast handler tilted his head, allowing the torchlight to glint off his horns. The crowd around them grew increasingly louder, their boots thudding in approval each time the council mentioned retaliating against the Sith.

 

[Vara Rasha]

THE FOUNDLING
Kestri | Tor Valum
Equipment: In Bio
Tags: Vren Rook | Romul Saxon | Celt Saxon | Carduul Akahl | Brent Warnel | Jaikell Wyrvhor | Darion of Myrkr | Kjartan Hammer-Hand | Thyr Kyron

Myrkr​

Zilch.

Mm, not one for banter then, Vara silently took note. The Forgemaster’s silence said enough before she spoke her name.

"Thyr," she replied flatly, holding out her hand to receive the chestplate.

She might as well have spat at her face. ”Nice t’meet ya dude!” The Harpy stretched out an arm towards the woman, hand curling to a fist. Her golden fang glimmered as her lips peeled back to a smirk. What a bore, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking, even as she reached out for a fist bump.

She harbored nothing but sisterly love for her kin in her heart, but some of them–more than she liked–were frustratingly…

Withdrawn.

Gloomy.

Serious.

One could hardly joke with them without catching a look of daggers. Whether it was simply who they were, or what this walk of life made them, through grit and trauma–both visible and unspoken–she did not know. But a little bit of joking and smiling went a long way.

That she knew.

Vara could only hope Thyr cracked a smile under that emotionless helmet before she turned to inspect the piece of armor in her skillful hands. Vara couldn’t figure her out just yet, despite how closely she watched for tells. She was yet to grow proficient at the wholly Mandalorian art of reading expressions through the faceplate of a helmet.

"Nothing's wrong with the cuirass," she replied, tilting it so that the Shistavanen could see. "Could probably use some work. It's got structural integrity, but this alloy isn't beskar. Maybe you haven't noticed it, though, but this was made for a human. I can reshape it and retune the ablative dampers so it'll be more comfortable and protect you a little better. That make sense?"

Her gaze shifted to her cuirass in Thyr’s hands the same beat she showed her. Her snout dipped in a small nod at her words. So the discomfort she’d grown used to was just a minor flaw. And it was an easy fix. The warmth in her heart reached the grin at her lips. ”I’d appreciate it, sis.” She meant to extend her gratitude, yet her tone dipped to match the Forgemaster’s seriousness, mocking before she could stop herself.

Kark!

The corners of her eyes wrinkled as her smile carried a wordless apology. ”An’ how much is this gonna set me back?” The chair creaked beneath her as she leaned back, her hand dipping into a pouch at her hip. The contents within rattled with the unmistakable jingle of credits.


​

 

[Darion of Myrkr]

"Then those that do not want to fight are not forced to."

Darion lifted one brow beneath the helm. He had known of Mandalorians who held to various beliefs, but never one who turned from the pure test of battle.

"I have not known a brother who would refuse the proving of combat," he said. "Does not such a one yield his spirit unto Arasuum, there to wither and rust?"

A rusted blade a man may cast aside and take up another, but a rusted soul is a thing that abides, his father had told him.

How mends a man the soul which has long been left to spoil?

Belok Karr Thyr Kyron Vara Rasha

 

[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..

The Rekav'dral had spoken their words, and the Mandalorians resumed their mingling. No doubt that all felt the weight of what the morrow would bring. They would be venturing across the Blackwall into space unknown, to fight their foes and avenge their slain kin. Romul himself was thirsty for the blood of Sith to wet his hammer. So many were not here to see this.

The Quartermaster..

Romul's brow furrowed. He was resolved to avenge her death and to restore his honor for having failed to live up to her as a successor.

The warriors Brent Warnel and Jaikell Wyrvhor had left him, but undeterred, he called them back to his chair, rising up himself to the fullness of his grand stature. "Tell me," he rumbled, "have either of you fought the Sith before?"

 

[Thyr Kyron]

N A U R ' A L O R
Rekav'dral Keep, Tor Valum
​

Tag: Vara Rasha | Adjacent to Belok Karr and Darion of Myrkr

And it was an easy fix. The warmth in her heart reached the grin at her lips. ”I’d appreciate it, sis.” She meant to extend her gratitude, yet her tone dipped to match the Forgemaster’s seriousness, mocking before she could stop herself.

Fortunately for Vara, Thyr's lack of skill at interpersonal communication meant that she herself was often blunt to the point of rudeness. What might have come across as mocking was lost on the smith.

The corners of her eyes wrinkled as her smile carried a wordless apology. ”An’ how much is this gonna set me back?” The chair creaked beneath her as she leaned back, her hand dipping into a pouch at her hip. The contents within rattled with the unmistakable jingle of credits.

Thyr set the armor down on her workbench and looked at the Shistavanen. Despite herself, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had something in common with her. A Foundling? That must be it. It would explain the armor at least. "Credits aren't worth much to me," she said flatly. It was a lie. Credits could always get her more materials. But she pretended not to care for the sake of both of their egos. "Bring back to me an exotic piece of material for Sith space that I might reforge for our vode, and I will consider your debt paid." A much more sacred contract than an exchange of credits.