visio populi
Alicio Organa paused his careful cadence at an ancient stone training ground.
He'd petitioned one of their hosts for a tour of the area, in the hours after the ratification of the Sundari Accords. Many of the Alliance delegation had returned to their ships, not eager to overstay their welcome, but not Alicio. The Mandalorian he spoke to had agreed to it easily enough- part of their agreement had involved more freely sharing information about their respective governments- but Alicio conceded a further comfort by leaving his Honor Guard behind.
Of course, he was far from defenseless, but he hoped the show of trust was still accepted.
Walking around the public portions of the palace, and the surrounding area only gave him a surface-level glimpse at what they had done so far. Taken a world broken over and over again, and attempted to give it structure. Bolstering strength to keep it that way. Creating an Empire. A nasty word, one Alicio's family had a storied history of fighting. And now...
Well, they weren't allies. But they certainly weren't enemies. The truth was somewhere in the muddied mixture between.
But Alicio found himself staring a bit longer at a forgotten training ground. It was cracked stone and earth, a far cry from the metal that decorated everything else. Three Mandalorian warriors, each with different colors of armor and clan symbolism, sparred together, each against the other. Alicio had asked to spectate, and the three warriors, and his guide, agreed. He'd sat criss-cross on a stone bench, and observed with cold-iron eyes as they tested their various weapons against each other. They took to the task with renewed vigor, trying to impress this foreign power with beskads shining, whipcords cracking through the air, the peppering of stun darts on armor, even a brief splash from a knee-mounted flame projector.
How many Alliance civilians had died burning in Mandalorian fire, the Chancellor wondered, his mouth a thin line. Were they ready to accept peace?
...Am I?