Faction Court of Iron || Mandalorian Empire

[Aether Verd]

SUNDARI PALACE, MANDALORE
"Some carry banners. Others carry blades.
And some carry both while pretending to do neither."​

The Court was quiet.

Not silent—quiet. The kind of quiet that came when warriors listened, measured, and weighed words not for their volume, but for the threat they carried. For Aether Verd, each voice in his court was a piece of a larger weapon. He listened to them all. Heard the grain in the blade. The weight. The balance.

And when Serina Calis spoke, it was like watching someone place their hand on the hilt.

Not yet drawn.

But the intent was there.

Aether’s gaze found her, unmoving beneath his helm. He studied not just her words, but the choices she made in speaking them. The deliberate calm. The clinical detachment. The invocation of the Dark Council as if they were gods to be appeased with political offerings.

She said she flew no banner. But even in the shadows, he could see the red of the Sith bleeding through her words.

His voice cut the air with the precision of an ax to bark.

“You speak of flames, Serina Calis. I wonder how aflame the minds of your Dark Council will be when they learn you’ve earned the ire of Mandalore.”

There was no threat in the words.

Only truth. The kind that sat heavy in the chest and didn’t leave.

“You say you hold no alliance. But your words carry the weight of an empire. You speak of neutrality while carving out authority on a Mandalorian world. That makes you something far worse than an enemy. It makes you a pretender.”

He let the silence breathe, unafraid to let the weight of it linger.

“Taris is Mandalorian. Its people. Its holdings. Its sky. That is not a declaration. It is a fact. One the galaxy will come to understand.”

And with that—

He moved on.

Not because Serina was dismissed, but because her place had been set. The Court would remember her, and so would he.

His attention turned to the man who had entered with poise rather than provocation.

Aether’s gaze swept toward Imperius—the one who bore the sigil of Zakuul. His armor was regal, his posture proud, and his words carried intention without insult. It was the first time in this chamber that someone spoke with the tone of a potential partner, not a vulture eyeing the carcass of war.

“Zakuul has watched the rise and fall of many banners. And still, you arrive in peace. That speaks louder than any oath.”

He leaned forward slightly, one gauntlet resting on the arm of the Iron Throne.

“I make no promises in first meetings, Imperius. But impressions matter. You’ve made yours.”

And then—something lighter.

His gaze flicked to the side, toward the crimson-skinned Twi’lek whose presence had not gone unnoticed. She stood near his uncle, and Aether knew the look in Talohn’s eyes when he glanced her way. He chuckled once, low and warm, for his father's word's leapt to the front of his mind.

‘You’ll never find a Verd with an ugly partner.’

Talohn's choice in partner was living proof of this saying.

But the time for mirth, however brief, was gone as quickly as it arrived. Aether leaned back once more, posture ironclad and at ease.

The Court remained open. And now, it knew exactly where he stood.

Zlova Rue , Talohn Atar , Imperius Indomitus , Kirae Orade , Serina Calis

 

[Jonyna Si]

TAG: Aether Verd Talohn Atar

Jonyna stared the Manda'lor down, her eyes two sapphire orbs that fixated on the armored figure in front of her. Just as she had with Mia Monroe and Carduul Akahl before, and with another. Another she cared still deeply for.

"You misunderstand, Manda'lor. If I cared to join your culture, I wouldn't be swearing allegiance to you. I would be of house Kryze, swearing loyalty to my beloved, Jenn Kryze The Redeemer. She holds my heart, and my fealty. But she had taken a different path, and I honor that. No, I am here to represent my people not as a clan leader, but as their chosen spiritual guide. You say Cathar had taken the creed, but I spoke with the tribal leaders. The elder councils who speak for the people. They sent me, to negotiate a peace. Because my people do not take your creed out of loyalty. No, they take it out of fear. My people are still recovering from an orbital bombardment from the Crusade, your Vode whom you harbor with no repercussion. Who attacked Alliance hospital ships and refugee camps, and burned City-Trees, our eldest living ancestors. If you truly learned out culture from your uncle, then you'd know that to attack a city-tree is likened to walking into your home, and shooting your grandparent in the face. I understand protecting your own, I can respect that, but you harbor those whom will happily do it again if asked."

She paused, looking to Serina Calis once more. A woman who acted like she knew better, a moral crusader who wished only to spin a yarn in her favor.

And to Talohn Atar , whom wanted to finally end the Kiltik scourge.

"But I am not here to spark conflict. I offer an alternative. I remove my fleet, and replace it with a neutral civilian station designed to do it's job just as well. Regardless of my feelings on the Crusaders, they are your people to prosecute, and I will watch such proceedings with interest. However, I will not leave my people on matters of reconstruction. My people still hurt from the Crusader raid, and I do not leave a job unfinished. As for the Kiltik..."

She looked to the projection Talohn had put out. For generations, the Kiltik had been a scourge on the planet, there was no arguing there. Bred like water flows from a mountain, and washed over the lands like a wave on a beach.

Still, her own culture had traditions.

"My culture sees the Kiltik as pests, but a pest seeped into our traditions. The Blood Hunt, the oldest of our traditions, a rite of passage for young cathar. To purge them completely would wipe that from our culture. We are a culture of hunters, and the Kiltik are our dragons to slay, just as the Mythosaur is in yours."

A long pause, as she considered something. She would not swear loyalty, no. She couldn't.

"I am not interested in becoming Mandalorian. But if becoming a citizen is what it takes to continue my task as Parra Zerpa'era of my people, then so be it. I only wish to make sure of one thing. That Cathar is not seen as one of your colonies. Your ancestors might've tried so desperately to make it seen as such, nearly wiping us off the historical record through violence and dogma, but my ancestors dared to resist such effects, and I honor them by doing the same. Cathar is not a Mandalorian homeworld. It's a Cathar homeworld."

 

[Aether Verd]

SUNDARI PALACE, MANDALORE
"The Empire does not ask you to forget who you are.
But it will never forget who it is, either."​

Aether Verd remained still.

No motion. No sound. Only the weight of his presence seated upon the Iron Throne—unshaken by the fire in Jonyna’s words. He let her speak. Let her bear her people’s pain and pride in equal measure. And when her words faded into the silence of the Court, only then did he speak.

His voice was low. Measured. Like a distant storm beginning to roll across the plains.

“Then repeat after me.”

"I choose the Empire as my home. I see its people as my kin. I offer my skill to build its future. I protect what shelters me. I answer when Mand’alor calls. For I am Domarian."

He let the words linger in the air before continuing—unmoving, unblinking.

“You do not have to wear our iron or speak our tongue. You do not have to take the warrior’s path. You only need to stand beside us.”

“That is what it means to be Domarian. Not Mandalorian. Domarian. You are not an outsider. You are not a vassal. You are a citizen. Equal under our law, bound by our duty, and judged by your merit alone. You will not be asked to abandon your customs, your history, or your soul. Only to lend your strength where it can do the most good.”

There was no condescension in his tone. Only clarity. And gravity.

“If you desired vengeance, you could have taken your beloved’s name and pursued it. Had you been of Clan Kryze, the matter would be between your Clan and the Crusade. And I would allow it. That is the way of our people. Clans settle their grievances. Blood for blood. Steel for steel.”

His helm tilted slightly—not a threat, not a warning. A truth.

“But I will not persecute the Crusade for honoring their own traditions. They will face no retribution from me unless they turn their blades against this Empire. I will not condemn them for living as warriors. War is the foundation of of Mandalore. It is our roots, our proving ground, our inheritance. Just as the Jedi worship the Light and the Sith worship the Dark. That does not mean the Empire seeks it without cause. I do not march for pleasure. But I will march for my people.”

A brief pause. His attention shifted, just slightly.

“As for your station, your offer is heard. But neutrality must be proven, not claimed. Talohn Atar will oversee its review. If it is built by, operated by, or funded by a foreign nation, it will not be allowed in our space. If it is found wanting, you will be given the means to construct a new one—under Cathar's name, with our resources. The aid your fleet provides will be matched immediately by the Empire. No Cathar will suffer because of your restraint. That is the way of the Empire. We care for our own.”

And then—at last—the final thread.

“The Kiltik are your burden. But they are now our burden, too. Talohn leads the effort. Work with him. Guide the Army. Ensure the eradication of the threat does not also wipe away your oldest hunt. We know the value of symbols. We know what it means to keep a dragon.”

Aether’s gauntlet tapped once on the arm of his throne. A final statement—not of dominance, but order.

“You are not Mandalorian. I do not ask you to be. But you are Domarian now. And that means one thing above all else: We are One."

Jonyna Si , Talohn Atar

 

[Vytal Noctura]

​

It was about as much as Dathomir could hope for a galactic government with dominion surrounding their dark crucible. Security for her Sisters -- and the Brothers -- was paramount. Better the Empire acknowledge them and their contribution than seek to corral them into obedience; the latter would only result in great suffering.

As for Warden, Vytal wouldn't make any declaration. It had been some time since she'd been home. Best to learn whether her Sister was still tending the world and had plans of her own first.

"The Mandalorian people are formidable warriors. The Nightsisters may prove an invaluable ally when mystic matters surface, as the case of the recent sundering of hyperlanes," she responded formally. "And I would not mind to tarry and bear witness to what you accomplish. I have high expectations." The way Aether carried and conducted himself certainly bode well. Even after all this time the galaxy was still a boiling cauldron.

That in mind, Aether made a decisive decision regarding the Kiltik beetles that the Cathar had brought before them. Mobilize the Army? Whatever he needed? That must have been a considerable amount of resources suddenly made available for this one planet. Was it because he was regarded as 'Uncle'? Or was it simply something he would do for any world, as he'd suggested earlier? As to the latter, she doubted anyone thought he would mobilize the entire Army for any one of them so swiftly. Quite the show of commitment and force.

Then Serina Calis offered a clinical appraisal of Dathomir being part of the Empire. That didn't bother Vytal in the slightest by itself. Even the woman's appearance with a mask of six eyes did not perturb; if anything she would have liked to examine it more closely. What did cause an itch in the back of her mind was that she was a Sith, and one that recognized Dathomir's 'worth.' Many years had gone by, but a Nightsister never forgot. Yes, that could extend to the Mandalorians as well that had setup a towering base on their world so very long ago. Like her acceptance of these Mandalorians she should, in turn, be receptive to Sith changing. There was a difference between them, however, that held Vytal back -- Mandalorians had little need to squeeze the secrets of magick from Dathomir, whereas the Sith demonstrated time and again a desire to do just that. It was Aether's Hell, so Vytal would keep her thoughts private for the time being.

Another then entered the chamber and Vytal turned to regard their presence. Lord Indomitus? Of Zakuul? She couldn't say to know them, but then there was a time she'd not been on this plane. Many faces in the political sphere might remain unknown to her until meetings such as this. So long as people were not waging an inquisition to purge the galaxy of witches, Vytal had never been much for politics. She'd made exceptions later on in her time with the Confederacy, and might be forced to again, but time would tell.

Whoever they were as a person, he seemed interested in forging a bond with this Mandalorian Empire.

Another Sith-touched woman entered, but this one Vytal had known. As she recalled, Zlova had been something of a rogue. Not a reassuring quality in a Sith Lord, but no outrageous incidents had come of it and the two of them had not clashed.

Jonyna had more to say for her peace after Aether seemed pleased with Indomitus. Her passion was commendable. Vytal wouldn't look down on someone that felt strongly for the security of their people -- so long as it did not come at Dathomir's, the Nightsisters', or any Witches expense. What she said became quite interesting, in truth. The woman's talk of hunting Kiltik having become a tradition, and her concern of them being utterly eradicated affecting Cathar's culture in particular. It was reminescent of traditions on Dathomir -- not something Vytal thought to learn this day.

Passion turned to resolve, and the Mand'alor seemed inclined to respond. Was this an effort to show he didn't need a Witch at his side counseling him? Then Dathomir would just need to find so other way to make them indispensible. Not that Vytal doubted Aether's word, but they needed to be prepared for the long-term. Complacency bred weakness. Never stop learning, never strop struggling, and never think the galaxy owed you anything because the second you did the Ancients would like send a trial to erase you and yours -- they were fickle and cruel.​

Aether Verd​

 

[Marlon Sularen]

C O U R T_O F_I R O N

IMPERIAL CONFEDERATION
MANDALORE, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES

The Mandalorian Empire. Yet another new emerging Mandalorian faction, succeeding the Neo-Crusaders and the Protectors before them. Throughout the past five decades, Sularen had witnessed atleast five Mandalorian factions rise and fall, from the Mandalorian Union, to both iterations of the Mandalorian Enclave and then the Protectors and later the Neo-Crusaders. It was quite interesting to see the dynamics of this proud warrior race as they shifted from galactic power to galactic power, each with their own separate vision, doctrine and ideas. The Mandalorian Empire was going to be no different. Whereas the Neo-Crusaders were an aggressive expansionist faction, this new Empire seemed to be more passive and reconciliatory.

Nevertheless, Sularen's main concern about this new Mandalorian Empire was it's future relationship with the rising Imperial Confederation. The past two Mandalorian factions, the Protectors and Neo-Crusaders, had taken up arms against the Empire before, and Sularen had little intentions of waiting for the Mandalorian Empire to follow suit in opposing the Empire like their predecessors. Thus when word reached the Warlord of the Empire that the new Mand'alor was hosting an open gathering, he could not resist the opportunity and soon quickly made his way towards Mandalore to settle the issue of future Mandalorian-Imperial relations once and for all.

As the various individuals gathered within the throne room engaged in dialogue with the Mand'alor, the doors leading into the room opened as a single individual walked through the entrance to join the rest of the Mand'alor's entourage. Wearing his signature Crimson Red Service Uniform that featured gold epaulettes and a unique all-grey 12 square rank insignia, the Warlord of the Empire casually made his way through the gathered crowd before halting a few feet away from the foot of the throne.

"Mand'alor the Iron. On the behalf of the Imperial Confederation i congratulate you on your ascension and your work within the Mandalorian Cluster. We've heard alot of good things about you and your Empire, and the Confederation looks forward to establishing positive relationship with your Empire, setting aside any and all past grievances between the children of Mandalore and the sons of the Iron Sun." Sularen began. "But first a question." Sularen continued. "What is your stance towards the Empire and those who follow the doctrine of Imperialism throughout the galaxy?" he asked.

Until now, the Mand'alor had barely touched matters concerning foreign affairs other then his brief conversation with Knight-Commander Imperius, and it would be interesting to see how he would respond. From what Sularen knew, he appeared to be a calm and reasonable man, and hopefully his openness to dialogue might lead to any sort of positive discourse between the Mandalorian Empire and the Imperial Confederation, avoiding the same Imperial-Mandalorian conflicts that he had faced in the past with the Protectors and the Neo-Crusaders. However that all depended on how he would respond to his question.

Tags | Aether Verd | Jonyna Si | Drego Ruus | Serina Calis | Kirae Orade | Vytal Noctura | Aselia Verd | Zlova Rue | Talohn Atar | Imperius Indomitus | Lysara Rynn ​

 

[Serina Calis]

"Questions... So many questions..."

Tag - Aether Verd , Kirae Orade , Jonyna Si , Vytal Noctura , Talohn Atar Marlon Sularen Lysara Rynn Aselia Verd



Beneath the glinting, six-eyed mask of the Tyrant's Embrace, Serina Calis did not flinch.

She did not frown. She did not shift. She did not tilt her head or cock her hip in that performative, serpentine way others might when slighted in public. The six violet eyes of her mask did not flare with anger, nor did her taloned hands ball into fists. No ripple of disturbance betrayed her thoughts. She simply… stood. Allowing the others to speak.

And she thought.

She thought in the kind of silence that calcifies. That clarifies. That sorts words like blades and discards those too dull to be of use.

He had answered her with iron—but also with error. Not in strength. Not in resolve. But in presumption.

He had heard fire in her words, and mistaken it for flame. Had seen the sovereign of Polis Massa and confused her observations for ambitions. Had conflated neutrality with exploitation. But worst of all—and most dangerously—he had interpreted restraint as subversion.

And that, she noted coldly, was how wars began.

"I wonder how aflame the minds of your Dark Council will be…"

No.

They would not be aflame.

They would be watching. Already watching.

And what they would see, recorded by the optics within her helm and transmitted through the encrypted black channels of her helmet, was not a Sith agent issuing threats or advancing territory. It was a Sith governor acknowledging geopolitical risk, and praising its avoidance. A Sith who had warned—not challenged. Who had spoken as a diplomat, not a dominator.

And yet, the Mand'alor had struck her name from neutrality with the same ease one might excise a tumor from flesh.

Pretender.

How absurd. How instructive.

She remembered now what it had cost to rebuild Taris. Her ancestors knew what it meant to see the cratered ruin left by Malak scrubbed clean and built again from bedrock and blood. The Galactic Alliance, the Mandalorian Neo-Crusaders, and their respective ilk had all left their marks—all. Serina had not raised her hand in that battle. But her companies had raised the hospitals afterward. Her engineers had rebuilt the mag-lev lines. Her logistics groups had stabilized food supply when the orbital blockades starved the upper sectors.

Serina had never once sent a Sith flag to fly over the cities. Never once demanded a territorial handover. She had simply done what others could not: made things function.

And now, to stand here, respectful, honest, neutral—and be called pretender?

No. No, that would not stand. Not in silence.

She did not lash back.

She corrected.

And when she spoke, it was quiet.

Controlled.

Perfectly, painfully clear.

"My words," she said, "have been taken so far out of context that all respect to this procession has been defenestrated."

Each syllable emerged like the press of a scalpel through skin. No bluster. No apology.

Only surgical precision.

"I stated that the presence of foreign fleets over Cathar would be misinterpreted by the Sith—correctly, as you yourself agreed. I commended your wisdom in refusing that risk."

She stepped forward one slow, gliding pace—her cape trailing behind her like a whisper of mourning.

"I stated that genocide draws the wrong kind of attention. I recommended a myth of salvation in its place."

Another pause.

Each step was not a threat. It was a lesson.

"And I stated—accurately—that Taris still bears the deepest scar not from Mandalorians, but from Malak. I made no claim of dominion. I acknowledged pain. I acknowledged legacy. And I stated that I would not dismantle existing infrastructure because of a change in planetary leadership. That is not exploitation. That is respect."

She stopped, now centered just enough that the light caught the glowing node in her chestplate—the core reactor nestled in the ribcage of an apex will.

And then, with a final flourish of clarity:

"If that is 'pretending,' Mand'alor, then I suggest the galaxy needs more pretenders."

She left the words hanging.

Not to provoke.

To correct.

Because if this was to be a court of truth, then truth would have its teeth.

And if he could not discern the difference between territorial maneuvering and dispassionate diplomacy, then he would need advisors who could—before the next encounter ended not in misinterpretation, but fire.

They should do well to remember Moridinae.

 

[Drego Ruus]

Tag: Marlon Sularen Aether Verd
​

Drego was quick to prep to leave. Wayland Castle had long been left unattended, and Drego wanted to move back home.

But of course, life always had a way of throwing curveballs at Drego. On the way to his ship, he noticed a parade of stormtroopers, marching in lockstep to where he had once came from. The palace of the Manda'lor.

And at the front of the formation, the most wanted man in the galaxy, or at least, the most wanted man who's title didn't start with 'Darth'.

Drego knew the bounty on that man's head. Every system had a different price. Every planet wanted him for different reasons. Genocide, Invasion, Tyranny.

Drego?

He wanted him for a different reason. A much more personal reason.

He wanted him for spilling his clan's blood.

As Sularen made his address to the court, Drego slipped back in. He had made his point, and saw no reason to question the Manda'lor, but he did have one point to make.

"That man is a criminal to the galaxy, our Vode included." Drego's voice echoed through the chamber, the gruff voice sounding like he had just finished smoking a rather large cigar. A holoprojection filled the arena, as Drego activated his helm's projector. "He was head of the Dark Empire, and led Maw Troops against the Enclave during the Second Great Hyperspace War. Slaughtered us en masse, and stole beskar for his own use. I would advise against trusting a word he says. Wanted in every system in the Alliance. A bounty hunter like myself could make a fortune turning him in."

 

[Briana Sal-Soren]

Until now, Briana had never set foot on Mandalore, and honestly, she'd never imagined she would; at least not under anything that might resemble "peaceful" circumstances, considering her own experiences with Mandalorians as a whole had been... fraught, to put it mildly. Yet, there she stood, gazing towards the vaulted ceiling of the Court of Iron, taking in the grandeur of the colossal stone figures of past Mand'alor's that were no doubt built to intimidate, as much as they were built to inspire, to remind them all of where they stood in relevance to the vastness of Mandalorian history while this new Mand'alor asked for grievances to be brought forth, to foster...unity? Or so it seemed.

Briana could at least respect the intent in its almost Jedi-like request, but unity was a tall order when the smoke from battle still hung in the rafters, when the wounds on her own home world were new enough that it still stained the floor crimson at her feet. Wounds inflicted by Mandalorians. Maybe not these, but brethren nonetheless.

She could still hear the screams from that very first offensive, the way the sky cracked: the thunder of heavy carbine's in Theed's streets, the acrid tang of fires licking across the royal facades. Even now, rebuilding crews worked through the night, hauling away rubble that still bled red dust whenever it rained, not only in Theed but in Dee'ja Peak, too. Though hardly the worst she'd seen or experienced in relevance to what'd happened to her home these last several years, it none the less left memories that lingered in the back of her mind like uninvited ghosts. Kept her muscles coiled and her sense sharp, attuned to every movement and flicker in the Force among this sea of beskar.

Lazily and slowly, her head lolled to one side, cerulean gaze panning to look over Dominic who lingered stalwart — his expression impassive and about as indistinguishable as his brothers whenever he was in thought. He hadn't spoken yet, none of the senators she'd been sent here to accompany had. Perhaps that was simple strategy that held their tongues, letting the room breathe while gauging every micro-expression and every demand that was set before the new Mand'alor, before choosing to lay out any of their own. Perhaps they would say nothing and inform her they were ready to leave.

In either case, Briana mused, if this Aether Verd truly meant to turn a new page, he would find no fiercer advocate for peace than the world his predecessors left scarred.

OUTFIT: XoXo | TAG: Dominic Praxon , Sibylla Abrantes | EQUIPMENT: Ligthsaber, Echo Stone, Astor's Dagger

​

 

[Aether Verd]

SUNDARI PALACE, MANDALORE
"We are not the echoes of old empires.
We are the forge—where truth is hammered, and all masks melt."​

Aether Verd inclined his head toward the Nightsister, the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth offering something rare from the Iron Mand’alor: warmth.

“Your words honor us, Vytal.” His voice, low and steady, carried easily through the chamber. “And I hope in time, the Empire proves itself to be more than just a martial ally to Dathomir.”

He leaned back slightly in the throne, one hand resting on the armrest, the other upon the hilt of his blade.

“Like Cathar, Dathomir is dear to me. The Nightsisters are the people of my grandmother. Their songs were my lullabies. Their stories lit the fires of my youth. If the Witches ever wonder where they stand in this galaxy…” He looked directly to Vytal. “They may look to Mandalore. And they may look to me.”

Then, the chamber doors opened, and with them came the march of crimson.

Aether’s brow arched slightly, his eyes narrowing behind the visor. Another emissary—this one draped in the proud reds and golds of the Imperial Confederation. A figure carved from protocol, epaulettes gleaming, and posture straight-backed with intent.

He offered a small nod.

“Well met,” he said plainly. “Welcome to Mandalore.”

He listened to the question without interruption, without visible shift.

“The doctrines and leadership styles of other nations do not concern Mandalore,” Aether replied, “so long as those choices do not bring harm to Mandalore, its people, or its interests.”

Then came the tone shift.

Serina Calis stepped forward with a rebuke not just cloaked in diplomacy—but dipped in ice.

Aether didn’t flinch. He didn’t interrupt. He let her speak. And when she finished, he remained still for a moment longer than expected.

Then, with a voice quiet, sharp, and cool as beskar, he responded.

“Your clarification is noted.”

He paused—not for tension, but for gravity.

“Though I wonder what kind of court you expected to walk into… that you felt the need to explain diplomacy to it.”

The edge was deliberate now. Not fiery. Just… real.

“This is Mandalore. And we speak plainly because plain words are what survive when the fires start. I do not read between lines. I read truth. If your words were misread, it is because they were dressed for theater.”

Another pause. Final. Measured.

“Next time—say them better.”

He shifted slightly forward now, gaze steady beneath the helm.

“This Court is for builders. For warriors. For leaders who know how to speak without hiding behind masks or misdirection. If that offends you…" Aether shrugged. “Then this is not the court you were meant to stand in.”

Then the hunter spoke. Drego. His voice, gravel-rich and unflinching, cut across the Court. A holoprojection flickered to life, framing Marlon Sularen in damning light. War crimes. Slaughter. Stolen beskar.

Aether leaned forward in his throne now, interest alive behind the visor.

“If what you say is true, Brother Ruus…” his head turned to face Sularen directly, “…then he has many questions to account for.”

He let that hang.

“I would hear the context. Why did the Enclave and the Maw clash during the Second Great War? When and how did this slaughter occur? When did the theft of beskar take place? These are not questions of doubt—but of judgment. I will not wield the hammer without knowing where it must fall.”

He gave space. The room had earned it.

But even as the storm between the hunter and the warlord gathered strength, Aether’s gaze drifted across the chamber—until it caught upon something entirely other. Not armor. Not wrath. Not fire or fury.

But grace.

A woman wrapped in radiance, standing among a delegation yet untouched by the violence of speech. Like a stained-glass window given breath.

Aether blinked once behind the visor.

Then lifted a hand.

“You,” he said simply, gesturing toward Briana and her party. “Step forward. I would know the names behind such stillness.”

Vytal Noctura , Marlon Sularen , Drego Ruus , Serina Calis , Briana Sal-Soren

 

[Imperius Indomitus]

W A R M A S T E R
INDOMITUS LEGION
Through war, we bring order.
Through strength, we bring unity.

Prologue: The Iron Protocols
From Iron Comes Strength

Aether Verd
Aselia Verd | Kirae Orade | Talohn Atar | Vytal Noctura | Lysara Rynn | Marlon Sularen | Drego Ruus | Jonyna Si

IRON KNIGHTS​

Mandalore | Sundari Palace | Court of Iron

The acknowledgement was enough, the seed was planted and from it would either grow a tree or nothing. Imperius was not here to posture, challenge and outwit the new ruler in his own throne room. Manners mattered little and yet audacity and petty claims of small worlds held no value to those that spoke in earnest truth, that witnessed the rise of an Empire. Submission was not easily done, but a common neutrality in respect was.

He had made a step to the side, now observing the others that still pranced around the center to maintain the stream of attention brought to them, for vanity or somewhat more reasonable motives. But there was a clear line drawn, of what the Iron accepted, approved and what not. Who he saw as welcome and who not. It was almost humorous to see the truth and directness laid so bare that there was no way around it, that empty phrases bounced off of it like a meagre strike off of a shield.

His eyes observed his colleague and comrade enter and present himself, starched red uniform and with its rank tags still being the same old he always wore. It was not unexpected to see him appear here considering his recent investments in the bog that was Dathomir which now was under the mythosaur skull. Sularen came with agenda that was brought forward by a question. While Imperius knew that his own diplomatic skills were lacking, he wondered if others ever had considered improving theirs. Curious.

What though was not so curious and sparked not only tension in Imperius were the allegations and accusations thrown at the former Mawite Warlord. War was war and nobody gave two feths what bounty anyone held in the corrupt cesspit of decadence and falsehood that was the Alliance, whatever opposed the regime or insulted their dogmatic monk overlords was considered a crime. Imperius would not allow to see Marlon walk out in chains here today.

 

[Marlon Sularen]

C O U R T_O F_I R O N

IMPERIAL CONFEDERATION
MANDALORE, OUTER RIM TERRITORIES

After Sularen finished his address to Mand'alor the Iron, a loud voice echoed through the throne accusing Sularen of being a criminal. The Warlord of the Empire turned around to face his accuser, a Mandalorian who stood at the entrance of the throne room. Sularen did not know who he was, but it seemed that he had a great amount of contempt for him. Once the Mandalorian had the attention of everyone gathered in the room he doubled down on his accusations, hoping to dissuade Mand'alor the Iron from further engaging with him and even hinting at possibly turning him to the Alliance.

To do this within the throne room of the Mand'alor and as Sularen extended an olive branch from the Imperial Confederation to the Mandalorian Empire was quite insulting. Whether it was pride or arrogance, this Mandalorian seemed confident in his bold action. When he finished speaking, all eyes then turned on the Mand'alor himself who faced the Warlord of the Empire and asked a set of questions to seek clarity on the matter. At the very least the Mand'alor was willing to ask questions first before taking action, a quality that was lacking within his two predecessors who led the Protectors and Neo-Crusaders.

Thus, Sularen stepped forward eager to provide the answers the Mand'alor desired. "To answer your questions, the Maw attacked the Enclave during the last stages of the Second Great Hyperspace War, targeting the Enclave-controlled Rothana Shipyards in the hopes of gathering raw materials for usage in future campaigns against the Galactic Alliance. The so-called slaughter, Drego is referring to i believe is when the Shipyards fell out of orbit and crashed on the planet itself, an action which cost the life of the leader of the Enclave, who was simply known as the Quartermaster." Sularen explained.

"As for the theft of Beskar, i have absolutely no idea of what Ruus is accusing me of. I have never authorized any operation to steal Mandalorian beskar nor have i used it for my own use." Sularen added. He did want to offer a response to Ruus's accusations to the Mandalorian himself, but considering he was here on a diplomatic mission, he did not wish to escalate the matter any further. However if Ruus did try to escalate things, then he would be forced to take matters into his own hands and respond in kind, although the Warlord of the Empire hoped that such a thing would not have to happen, for the sake of future Mandalorian-Imperial relations.

Tags | Aether Verd | Jonyna Si | Drego Ruus | Serina Calis | Kirae Orade | Vytal Noctura | Aselia Verd | Zlova Rue | Talohn Atar | Imperius Indomitus | Lysara Rynn | Briana Sal-Soren ​

 

[Drego Ruus]

Tag: Marlon Sularen Aether Verd
​

Evidence.

That could be provided.

Silently, Drego spoke into his helm's microphone, speaking only to himself, and his suit's AI.

"Tanya, bring the corpse of that droid we killed above Tython to the palace. Tell Crow to bring a few of those Commando armors with you. The Manda'lor wants evidence."

A moment later, he spoke to the crowd once more.

"Evidence can be provided, Manda'lor. For now though, as my robotic friends gather it from my ship, let me spin you a yarn. The Warlord we speak of was once the Senator of Byss, a backwater chithole he tried to turn into his own personal empire. Back then, I was not Drego Ruus, not even Drego Avik yet. I was a cadet of the GADF, training to be a soldier among, what I had thought, was the greatest army in the galaxy. I watched as this so called senator betrayed his people, and left to go be a warlord of the Empire on some other backwater planet. The Alliance thought we were untouchable. That's what they told us. They were wrong." His holoprojector showed old new footage. The Sith sacking of Mandalore, the formation of the Maw. "After the sith turned this planet into a netherscape, our Vode were scattered. Some found the Enclave, others found a darker path. The Maw. That's where this bald senator ended up, an officer of the Brotherhood, and founding his own little cadre. The Final Dawn. Meanwhile, our brothers fought amongst themselves. Khamul Kryze declared himself Manda'lor, in opposition of the Enclave. An ally of Sularen, but not of our creed. Took the armor and used it to slay many of our own. Over the last few years, we've been quick to throw around the word Darmanda, but Khamul was the first, and some could argue the most deserving. The Maw made war against our brothers, and killed our Quartermaster, as Marlon here stated."

He paused, as the footage ended, switching to Drego's own personal recordings. HUD displays, helm footage. "At that point, I was an up and coming recruit. A man rising above my station, selected to serve in the Alliance's new test project. Shocktroopers, inspired by the Enclave and our culture." Another pause, as he took a moment to remember the dead. His voice strained a bit, as he recalled a dark memory. "It didn't end well. While the jedi celebrated the defense of Tython, I was busy counting the dead in my head. My unit had been overrun, and it had been Clan Bralor who pulled me out. Marlon was there too, engaging the Alliance and Enclave in naval combat. Only ever saw it from the ground. Years went by, and the warlord found himself without a Maw to back himself up, becoming a wanted man in every corner of the galaxy. I sat honing my skills, but my brothers of the Enclave went a different path, one I couldn't follow. We had fought with the Alliance, and while farked up command led to my unit's slaughter, I still saw them as allies in the fight. When the Enclave chose war with the Alliance for their own personal Glory, I bowed out. Found Mia Monroe , and started the Protectors. And low and behold, Marlon pops back up again, when the remnants of the Maw and New Imperial Order found comradery on Carlac. I was there when The so called Dark Empire invaded the Core, fighting alongside Alliance troops. The Protectors stood our ground once more against the Dark Imperials, which this former senator led war against. I was there when we raided Carlac, and relied on sith magic to ward us off. A coward's tactic. And finally, I was on Coruscant, watching from the ground as Marlon's allies fought my Clan Members. I watched a sith lord fall to his death, and I watched this one, get captured by jetii hands. Miraculously, he escaped imprisonment, and did well for himself. While his Empire's beloved leader went AWOL, he rose to Lord Regent himself. Good for you Sularen, all things considered."

The mechanical sound of a walker filled the court, as Drego's own War Jaws walked idly into the court, the sound of scrapping metal behind it as Drego walked into the middle of the court, and dragged the remains of a Darktrooper the rest of the way, right in front of Aether. "This thing is the remains of something I fought after the fall of the Protectors, on a space station above Tython. A droid, clad in Beskar, made from the remains of the fallen. I know my plates, and I know where this metal came from. The Maw, The Dark Empire, the NIO, all of them have killed a lot of our brethren, and had plenty of time to melt down their armor into machines of war."

Behind the walker, a small recon droid flew behind, suits of armor hanging under it.

"And these, I recovered after raiding an imperial position. The Empire is keen to use the heart of our homeworld for their own gains, in spite of our culture, just as Darth Carnifex , our most hated enemy, has time and time again. This must end, Manda'lor, lest our enemies continue to use our sacred metal against us once more. and I guarantee, if we don't now, they will."

 

[Aether Verd]

SUNDARI PALACE, MANDALORE
"We do not seek retribution for every scar of war.
But when the dead are worn like armor by our enemies—then the fallen must come home."​

Aether Verd did not speak at first. He watched.

Watched the drag of shattered durasteel echo across the stone floor. Watched the shattered droid at his feet. Watched Drego's war machine stomp its path to the throne and declare, not just its burden—but its pain.

And he listened. To every word. Every image. Every ghost dragged into the room like a trial before the court.

When it was over, when silence dared return to the hall, Aether’s voice came low and even.

“Your losses are not forgotten, Ruus.” His helm tilted slightly, not in doubt, but in solemn regard. “Nor are the battles you’ve fought. The scars you carry—many of us share them.”

His gaze lifted to the whole of the Court.

“But we must not confuse the chaos of war with the vicious intent of genocide.” He rose, slowly, from the throne. His voice strengthened—not angry, but commanding. “Carnifex turned this world to ash. He broke our bones and called it peace. That will never be forgotten.”

A pause.

“But wars between governments—between soldiers on every side of a galactic fire—that is not the same. That is not this.” He gestured to the shattered droid, to the armor, to the corpses of history now laid bare.

“The Enclave chose many things in its time. It chose to fight, to rule, to build—but it never chose a Mand’alor. It never crowned a Sole Ruler. Not once.” He looked to the crowd. “The Quartermaster led. The Council decided. But the Resol'nare was never completed. The throne remained empty.”

Then, to Drego.

“A man cannot be a pretender to a throne no one sat upon. Khamul Kryze’s actions are his own—but let us speak truthfully about who and what he opposed. The Enclave did not name a Mand’alor. And so, no one could challenge him as one.”

Aether's hand fell to his belt, resting not on his blade—but near it.

“Ruus, your tale is one of pain, and of wisdom earned in fire. But Mandalore does not serve ghosts. It honors them. It learns from them. But we bleed for the living.”

Then, the Iron gaze shifted back to Marlon Sularen.

And there, his voice softened—but only slightly.

“Still. The evidence placed before me is not old blood. It is a desecration.” He gestured to the blackened beskar frame at his feet. “Our dead, melted down. Used in machines. Not repurposed with honor—but rearmed against the stars. Potentially, against us.”

He gave no accusation. No verdict. Only expectation.

“If the Empire you represent seeks a future with Mandalore, then let that future begin here. In good faith. Not in denial. Not in deflection.”

Aether descended a single step down the dais. Then stopped.

“The beskar of our fallen should never again be used against us. Not by droid, not by soldier, not by proxy. It should be melted down—and returned to Mandalore.”

“Let the fallen come home.”

His helm inclined just slightly.

“Warlord Sularen. If your intent is truly peace—then show us. This is the gesture I offer you: not chains. Not condemnation. But an opportunity to stand with us… by releasing what was never yours to hold.”

He let the words settle. Not a challenge. Not a threat.

An invitation.

Marlon Sularen , Drego Ruus

 

[Serina Calis]

"Questions... So many questions..."

Tag - Aether Verd , Kirae Orade , Jonyna Si , Vytal Noctura , Talohn Atar Marlon Sularen Lysara Rynn Aselia Verd Briana Sal-Soren



Serina Calis did not respond.

Not with words. Not with posture. Not with a single visible movement.

She remained exactly where she stood—still as shadow, silent as an ancient tomb where truths had long been buried under the weight of civilization's lies. The six-eyed mask of the Tyrant's Embrace glinted faintly under the vaulted light of the Court of Iron, a monument to a kind of presence that did not need to speak in order to be heard.

Let him speak. Let them all speak.

Aether Verd had told her to choose her words better next time.

And so she chose none at all.

But within the armored sanctum of her thoughts, Serina dissected his declaration—not with the indignation of the slighted, but with the cold, methodical incision of a political vivisectionist. His words had not offended her. They had illuminated him. More than any doctrine, more than any title, more than any throne.

"I do not read between lines. I read truth."

Such a statement was not strength. It was exposure.

Because the truth did not exist in lines. It existed in spaces between them—in the breath not drawn, in the word not spoken, in the silence that followed instead of a blade. Civilization was not built on truth. It was built on narrative. On ambiguity. On the conscious invention of meaning. Aether had rejected the mask—and in doing so, he rejected the very essence of what allowed peoples to survive beyond the battlefield.

Serina understood masks.

Not just the literal one she wore, but the necessity of them. Masks were not deception. They were structure. They allowed a mind to compartmentalize, a state to stabilize, a people to coexist. Misdirection was not cowardice—it was civilization in motion. If truth were enough, the galaxy would need no diplomats, no courtiers, no law, no language. But truth was blunt, and society required more than blunt instruments.

Serina's mind flicked backward, to the annals of Mandalorian history—not from the perspective of legend, but through the lens of a scholar, a manipulator, a war strategist.

The Mandalorians had always claimed to "speak plainly." And in doing so, they had killed plainly. Fought plainly. Betrayed plainly. Clan against clan. Cause against cause. They had wrapped their truths in armor and made orphans of one another in pursuit of a war that rarely knew why it was being fought—only that there was someone else to fight.

Truth had not united Mandalore. Truth had fractured it, again and again, like iron hammered without tempering, until nothing remained but pride and ruin.

And now this new court rose from the ashes, clad in gravitas and resolve. It wore a new face—Verd's face. The Iron Mand'alor. The one who spoke of peace and permanence and loyalty without compromise.

But Serina had lived long enough to know that declarations were rarely built to last. They were designed to serve moments, not epochs.

And she wondered… what would happen when this empire—this Court of Iron—was forced to bend?

Not to invaders. Not to rebellion. But to the slow, insidious requirements of actual governance.

Would they learn nuance then?

Would they see the necessity of masks?

Or would they shatter themselves upon the myth of their own clarity?

Her gaze swept the court now, unseen behind the mirror-black of her helm.

They were all figures in a story still being written. Aether Verd might believe he was its author—but Serina knew better.

The galaxy did not obey authorship. It obeyed pressure.

She remained in her place on the periphery of the Court of Iron, untouched by its fury, its thunder, its ever-growing storm of ghosts and grievances. The six violet eyes of her helm did not blink—could not blink—but behind them, her thoughts shifted like tectonic plates grinding beneath a dying world.

She had seen wars. Fomented them. Dissected them. Her hands, though delicate in appearance, had signed death warrants that unspooled across planets. She knew war not as legend but as process—an engine with moving parts: ambition, pride, hunger, desperation, lies. War was not born of singular sins. It was a system that fed on need and myth alike.

And this… this was a theatre of need and myth.

Her gaze fell upon Drego Ruus.

Wounded. Righteous. A warrior who had clawed his way through the blood of decades to drag a corpse of beskar to the foot of a throne. A man driven not by revenge, not purely—but by the certainty that something had been desecrated. That the sacred had been weaponized. He was not wrong. But he was also not right. Not in the way he believed himself to be.

Drego, in Serina's estimation, was not just fighting for Mandalore. He was fighting to fix Mandalore's memory. To impose cohesion on a history that had never been cohesive. To make sense of a timeline fractured by empire, ego, and betrayal. That's why he reached into the past and pulled out names like Khamul Kryze and Marlon Sularen—not as tactical figures, but as symbols. Symbols of a wound he could never let close.

And Sularen.

That one was more… instructive.

Serina had met warlords, studied them like insects. Marlon Sularen was not an insect—but he was a type. A creature born from the carcass of fallen orders, who filled the void with ceremony and callousness. The Imperial Confederation was a patchwork quilt of nostalgia and ambition, stitched together by men like him—men who refused to die with their empires, and so chose instead to remake them in miniature.

Serina was already playing her cards there.

Little did he know, but he stood in the same room as Her 's co-conspirator.

How ironic.

He had the look of legitimacy, the bearing of diplomacy. But Serina recognized what most did not: he was a survivor. And survivors did not surrender anything unless it cost them more to keep it.

Which meant Aether's offer—his soft ultimatum cloaked in honor—wasn't just moral. It was strategic.

Return the beskar, and stand with us. Decline, and you stand alone—with ghosts that the galaxy is growing tired of.

It was… elegant.

And dangerous.

Serina's gaze, though hidden, swept across the gathered again. These people wanted too much from honor. They kept reaching into their own mythos to justify their futures—futures they claimed to be building anew. And yet, the ghosts were everywhere. Khamul. Carnifex. The Quartermaster. Every moment of forward motion seemed shackled to another name from the dead.

She should of given Lirka Ka a call, maybe even brought the infamous legend back to Moridinae. A few good words to Carnifex here and there and she was sure the two could finish what Lirka had started all those years ago, a friendship exercise with a bit of genocide to spice it up a bit. Sith rule would indeed be a blessing to these people...

She paused herself in her mind.

That phrase, 'all those years ago...'.

That was always the failing of warrior cultures.

They could build ships, could forge blades, could unify clans under banners that bled history—but they could never leave their wounds untouched. They kept reopening them. Slicing deeper. Proving to the galaxy that even when they rebuilt, they did so upon the bones of old wars.

And yet…

Aether Verd was trying something different. She could see that now. It wasn't just the throne. It was how he wore it. With weight. With awareness. He was no fool. He knew what this room could become if left unshaped—what Mandalore could become if it settled again into nothing but fury.

He had offered Sularen not a demand, but an out. One wrapped in dignity. One that allowed the warlord to remain a warlord—if he could acknowledge, for one moment, that not everything acquired in war was a prize. Some things were meant to be mourned. Returned. Buried.

It was shrewd diplomacy.

Aether wasn't asking for Mandalore's dignity to be restored. He was baiting others into helping him do it.

Serina's thoughts drifted to the wider map. The implications.

If the Confederation complied, then the Iron Mand'alor would have achieved something Mandalorians rarely did: he would have made the galaxy bend toward their narrative, instead of simply resisting it.

And if Sularen refused…?

Then Aether had found his villain, the one he had failed to make in Serina.

And villains make thrones heavier. Stronger.

Unmovable.

It was, Serina had to admit, a beautifully laid trap.

Her lips, hidden beneath the obsidian mask, curved very faintly. Not into a smile. But into recognition.

Mandalore had chosen its iron. And for once, it seemed it had chosen well.

But still…

How long will it hold?

That was always the question. Not who sat the throne—but whether the throne mattered.

 

[Lysara Rynn]

Lysara continued to observe as others entered the chamber, glancing to each one with her own curious eye. Through the words of those present, she gleamed only a portion of what her clan had missed in the grand view of galactic affairs. While echoes of the major conflicts had reached their ears, she felt as if she were a child listening to tales from war veterans or simply an assistant listening in on some political conference behind closed doors.

What grasped her attention more than anything else however, was the recounting of history and evidence brought forth by Drego Ruus . Her eyes lingered on the beskar, the droid, all of it as gloved fingers only pulled tighter into fists, arms crossed. Despite the growing emotion, she would not act on it, this was not the time nor the place. Though she was a tad hotheaded, her mother had scolded her far too many times to learn when action is needed, or if simply keeping her mouth shut was the better option.

'Cool your jets, Lys. You've a lot to learn yet, ad'ika.'

The words echoed in her thoughts as if said by her own mother herself. Muscles relaxed slowly, if only a bit as her gaze shifts toward the Mand'alor as he speaks in response only for her gaze to shift toward Marlon Sularen . Though as her eyes observed the room, her mind was elsewhere, as if viewing a memories playing out on the inside of her visor.

Tag: Aether Verd , Kirae Orade , Jonyna Si , Talohn Atar , Vytal Noctura , Briana Sal-Soren , Aselia Verd

 

[Dominic Praxon]

Dominic Trozky-Praxon stepped forward, the soft brush of his boots against the stone floor barely audible beneath the weight of the Court’s lingering silence. The dim light of the vaulted chamber caught on the subtle embroidery of his muted charcoal coat, the crimson thread at the collar forming the faint sigil of House Praxon—barely visible, deliberately so. He stood tall, posture dignified but not rigid, one hand resting lightly over the other as he addressed the throne.

“Mand’alor. On behalf of the Royal Naboo Republic, I have the honor of presenting our delegation.”

He turned slightly, gesturing to the group at his side.

“Our two Senators of Enarc,” he said respectfully, nodding to the two figures flanking him. “Senatorial aide, Sibylla Abrantes. And Grandmaster of the Order of Shiraya, Briana Sal-Soren.”

There was no flourish to his words, only measured formality.

His hazel eyes flicked once across the chamber before stepping back into place beside Briana Sal-Soren, offering her a barely-there glance. The memories of Theed, of childhoods spent beneath brighter skies and safer halls, ghosted at the edge of his thoughts—but the present was heavy with too many shadows to linger long.

He couldn’t help but register the figures still seated or watching.

The Cathar, Jonyna, standing with defiance etched into every line of her body. The Nightsister—Vytal—her presence still curling like incense in the air, ceremonial and sharp. And Serina Calis... unmoving, unreadable, a question yet to be answered. That mask of hers unsettled him more than he’d ever admit.

And then there was the War Droid—the ruined husk of beskar dragged before the Mand’alor’s throne like a corpse on trial.

Dominic’s jaw set, if only slightly. There was so much heat in this room. And yet here they stood, Naboo’s calm reply, arriving not with accusation—but with memory.

He stepped back. The Court was Senator Calia Vonn’s now.

Senator Calia Vonn of Enarc stepped forward.​

The Senator's voice was clear and deliberate, refined not from courtly affectation but from years of negotiation across systems far less civilized than this. Clad in Naboo silk layered beneath a deep sapphire cloak, she carried herself like one who bore both the weight of her people and the clarity of purpose.

"We thank you for the audience, Mand'alor," she began, bowing her head briefly—not submissive, but respectful. "And we acknowledge the tone of unity that has been established here today. It is a tone we would like to believe in."

She looked across the chamber, her gaze level—not accusatory, but unflinching.

"However, we cannot speak of the present without remembering the recent past. When the Neo-Crusaders struck Theed, they did not strike soldiers. They struck the heart of a peaceful people. Civilians died. Monuments were reduced to rubble. Our world still bears the scars."

Her hands remained at her sides, unclenched.

"While we understand this Court has no allegiance to those who called themselves Crusaders, we cannot ignore the Mandalorian insignias worn that day. Nor can we forget the screams that echoed through our streets."

She paused. Measured. Controlled.

"We do not come seeking vengeance. But we do seek acknowledgement. And from that, understanding. Because Naboo does not forget its dead. And we will not allow our memory to be eroded in the name of peace."

She inclined her head once more.

"We are prepared to listen, and we hope you are prepared to answer. My Senatorial colleague has a formal list of grievances to present."

​

Senator Vonn stepped back into the party proper, granting her fellow Senator the floor.

Aether Verd Briana Sal-Soren Sibylla Abrantes
​

 

[Talohn Atar]

Talohn gives a smile with a chuckle at Aether's bit of humor, showing off that maw of pearly fangs. An intimidating sight for those who weren't a cathar or didn't know how jovial he was. "I would get a hat to complete the look if most hats didn't make my pointy-ass ears crease in the most annoying way possible. Lost my custom fit one in the crash. Same with my armor." He'd await quietly as Aether peruses the info he's been given. When the Mandalor made his ruling, the cathar goes still. He opens his mouth, the beginnings of speech starting only for it to be cut off as senseless noise. He puts up his hands, taking a few moments to breath deeply. He was in such a state of bafflement that he didn't even notice Zlova's approach, his senses stunned. Even Serina's words slipped past his perception. A form of hiss left his mouth when Zlova clapped him on the back, though he registered who's voice it a moment after. His face bloomed into a delighted, wide smile as he turned about to face her. She might have wanted to be careful with displays of affection in the throne room, but the cathar didn't care one bit. Not after how long they had been stuck apart.

He gently grasps her shoulders as he leans in to press his forehead to hers for a few moments. "My Pizezrera. Good thing I'll have you to help me with the organizing." After taking a few more moments to look into her eyes and enjoy her presence, he releases his light grip, turning about to face Aether again. He gestures to Aether as he speaks. "Zlova, this is...Lord...Mandalor? Mandalor Aether...? Lord Aether?" He lets out a few helpless grumbles before he settles on his final attempt. "Big man in charge." Talohn's lack of affinity for titles was well known at this point. He made up for it in a multitude of other ways at least. He then gestures to Zlova. "This is Zlova Rue. My partner of..." He pauses, his expression going blank as he attempts to do the math in his head. About 1.5 seconds in, he gives up, breaking into a warm smile. "Many amazing years." He proceeds to look over and see the absolute mountain of a fellow bulked in armor was approaching the throne. "That looks urgent." He looks back to Aether. "We will begin organizing. There's some more indepth reconnaissance due first, now that I have access to more than some old trail cams and a half fried motion sensor relay hooked up to a speeder battery." He snickers, stepping back to be beside Zlova so the Imperial can fully take the floor.

The cathar remains silent simply listening in as others bring their concerns to the new Mandalor. Sometimes he nods his head side to side, as if to the beat of a tune in his own head. He was trapped on a deserted planet for two years after all. It was amazing that was all he was doing. Though those orange eyes did drift to Serina for a moment as Aether spoke to her. He shared a look with Zlova, his expression somewhat nonplussed. Once Jonyna finishes speaking with Mandalor, Talohn gestures for her to join he and Zlova off to the side of the room. If she obliges, he speaks when she comes in earshot of his whispers. Over here. We can discuss more indepth while they sort out-" His attention is momentarily drawn by metal scraping as an entire robotic heap of beskar was dragged into the room. A form of wheeze laugh, induced by sheer shock, leaves his mouth as he quickly covers it with his hand. "That." He finishes, looking back to Jonyna and Zlova. "I'll answer any questions you got."

Aether Verd Zlova Rue Jonyna Si Serina Calis

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia had been watching quietly, leaning against the court's walls, doing her utmost to ignore the giant statue of herself. She never did enjoy pomp and ceremony. Hell, she ignored the throne in Sundari entirely when she held the mantle. Both times, she ran things out of Keldabe and the Ouyubaat. She had been a ruler of the people. If any of her Rally Masters had seen her on a throne... she chuckled the sound concealed beneath her visor. Times were different then. Mandalore needed a different kind of ruler.

Aether handled himself well, weighing the words of those who came before him. He was fair yet firm, but most important of all, he was restrained. Serina Calis would have been assaulted by now, if not by the person on the throne, then by a hothead who felt they could swing their axe in the Mand'alor's name. The Mantis clan came to mind.

She pushed herself off the wall as Drego was making his case against Sularen, a sick feeling rising in her stomach as the bastardised armour was dropped on the floor. It wasn't the first time she'd see beskar in the hands of those it didn't belong to, but Carnifex's time would come. She just needed to get Malum to tell her where the first phylactery was.

She came to a stop beside the Sith who had ruffled feathers and been firmly shut down. "A word of advice Serina Callis," she said softly, keeping her voice low enough as not to disturb the proceedings. "Leave. Don't let the door hit you on the way out. And when you get back to Sith space, tell Carnifex, Monroe sends her regards and she hopes he liked her gift"

 

[Serina Calis]

"Questions... So many questions..."

Tag - Mia Monroe


The Court of Iron was already burdened with enough ghosts—ideologies resurrected in armor, vendettas dragged in like carrion offerings, and warriors shouting into the void of history, trying to make their scars matter more than the next man's. Serina Calis had endured all of it without flinching.

The misreadings.
The veiled warnings.
The outright insults, dressed up in culture and pride.

She stood beneath the cold burn of overhead light, the violet glow of her six-eyed helm casting refracted rays across the stone floor like a spectral coronet. She had listened. She had spoken. And now, she was silent again, content to observe the Mandalorian theater unfold with its expected combination of tribal memory and operatic rage.

Until a new presence slinked close.

Not one of the ironclad patriarchs or the fiery-eyed heirs to blood feuds—but a woman. Armored. Hardened. Familiar in the way someone might be familiar after being poorly described by a room full of soldiers who remembered her better for what she destroyed than what she built.

Monroe.

Serina didn't recognize her.

Serina didn't react.

Didn't twitch.
Didn't shift.
Didn't even incline her head.

She simply let the words hang in the air like a badly told joke:

"Tell Carnifex, Monroe sends her regards and she hopes he liked her gift."

Serina blinked—once, slowly—beneath the obsidian sheen of her mask. Her thoughts didn't race. They didn't need to. Her mind was already ten steps ahead, cataloguing the variables.

The realization brought no anger.

Only annoyance.

Serina tilted her head slightly—precisely calibrated—like a predator examining roadkill.

And then she spoke.

Only once.

Softly. Coldly. With a tone that didn't echo, but slithered across the stone like oil on steel.

"Who the fuck are you?"

There was no venom. No heat. Just surgical contempt—the kind that doesn't come from hatred, but from irrelevance.

Mia Monroe could have walked into the Court of Iron naked and on fire, and Serina would've shown more interest—because at least that would've been novel. But this? Some washed-up former ruler projecting half-baked threats and mistaken associations like she was casting bantha bones in a tavern?

It was beneath her.

Serina didn't even turn her helm fully to face her. Just a sliver of movement. Enough to show that she could look at her—but chose not to.

She let the silence that followed be the real response. A silence that said:

I don't know you.
I don't care to.
And if you do anything stupid, I'll just end you with the Force.

She resumed watching the court. She had more important things to study than relics pretending to be warnings.

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia sighed and shook her head. "Come now, Serina. You might have been stupid enough to come here with the attitude that you know better than the man on that throne. But are you so stupid as to be incapable of putting two and two together? I sincerely hope not; otherwise, your career as a Sith is likely to be extremely short-lived."

The dark visor remained front-facing, thumbs looped through her belt. Relaxed, calm and equally unbothered by the Siths defiance.

"You really should deliver that message to Darth Carnifex , though. I'm sure he'd like to know who took such care preserving his son's head so it didn't decay in transit."

Serina Calis