Private Deal or No Deal?

[Jonah]

NEVARRO

The hum of repulsorlifts outside was constant, a low buzz that vibrated against the glass-paneled walls of the real estate tower. The skyline of Nevarro stretched beyond the window like a promise—cleaner than it used to be, livelier than it had any right to be. A far cry from the ancient days, when Mandalorians hid beneath the streets like ghosts. Now the city thrived on trade and commerce, wearing its resurrection like a badge of honor.

Jonah adjusted his cufflinks, then rolled his shoulders back with a quiet exhale.

He was dressed to kill, or rather, to charm—black suit, crimson tie, dark sunglasses. His armor was packed away, left behind on his ship like a set of teeth he didn’t need to show. That was the whole point of this. Subtlety. Finesse. Aether, bless his iron-plated heart, was trying. Truly. But the man’s idea of diplomacy still carried the echo of a war horn. If it were left to him, the Mandalorians would have kicked in a door, claimed a plot of land, and dared the sector to contest it.

But that was Aether in a nutshell. For all his vision, for all his command, he was still a Mandalorian. Jonah’s role? To smooth the sharp edges. To turn the warhammer into a scalpel when the moment demanded it. Not every move needed to be loud. Sometimes, the right caress in the dark changed more than a battlefield ever could.

And this vision—refuge—deserved that care.

The Empire was growing. Their people, scattered across the stars, needed sanctuaries. Not bases. Not fortresses. Safe havens. Places to rest, rearm, and disappear when the storm inevitably came. Because it would come. Jonah had seen too many nations rise and fall to believe otherwise. And so, under the old banner of House Verd, Incorporated—a name with legacy, with weight—they came looking. Not for war. For footholds.

Nevarro was perfect.

Bustling. Rebuilt. Still connected to ancient roots. Once, their people had lived in the sewers here—ghosts beneath the city. That wouldn’t do anymore. Jonah had taste, after all. He wanted access without stench. Discretion without disgrace.

The secretary—a cheerful woman with datapad in hand—ushered him through the glass doors and into the office of Ivalyn Yvarro , the one person who could help turn this quiet dream into solid ground.

Jonah stepped inside with a soft smile.

"Miss Yvarro," he said, voice smooth as polished obsidian. "I appreciate you making time for me. House Verd, Inc. thanks you for your hospitality."

A pause. Then, he slipped the sunglasses off, revealing the kind of eyes that didn’t bluff easy.

"Let’s talk about opportunity."​

Tag: Ivalyn Yvarro

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Reference: Blackwall | Blackshield Mandate | Signal Reform Act | The Redline Reformation​

New Nevarro City
Before the Signal Era

The sky above New Nevarro was tinged with rust and gold, like an old coin left too long in the sun. The city below, born from the bones of old Imperial architecture and rebuilt on promises older still, buzzed with generators and construction scaffolding. It was the sound of rebirth, halting and determined.

Ivalyn Yvarro stood at the edge of her portable command office, a thin cigarette between her fingers, unlit, more for ceremony than habit. The filtered glass panes behind her offered a view of the city's heart, where skeletal ferrocrete towers reached upward like supplicants. Wind pressed faintly against the reinforced windows, whispering dust and memory across the fractured skyline.

She had reached out months, perhaps now, a year maybe more now, discreetly, through back-channels and encrypted relays. To the Mandalorian Protectors, those few who still claimed the title with pride and honor. Not the mercenaries and brutes that passed for Mandalorians in the Outer Rim now, but the true craftsmen. The stoic inheritors of myth and forge. The Protectors did not respond, and so Ivalyn had simply buried her idea and the project to focus on other pressing matters.

It had not been a diplomatic gambit. No, it had been hope. Earnest, quiet, and costly.

At the time, she had nothing but inherited artifacts: old sets of First Order stormtrooper armor, dulled and obsolete, the plastoid yellowed by time and neglect. She remembered opening the crates in Avalonia's undercroft, her gloves brushing over the old sigils, some scratched out, others etched over with rebellion.

They were relics of a broken empire, yes. But relics still. And what were Mandalorians if not connoisseurs of legacy?

What did Mandalorians, the Commonwealth, and rusted First Imperial relics have in common?

Nothing. At least not visibly.

But that was the flaw of lesser minds. Ivalyn, Grand Vizier of the Commonwealth, descendant of Ariel Yvarro and the twilight of Dosuun, saw lineage where others saw detritus. She wanted to rebuild a civilization, not simply maintain its corpse.

Autarky was in her blood. The quiet, commanding kind. Not the loud tyranny of emperors, but the cold, calculated self-reliance of those who knew they could not afford to need others. And yet here she was, extending an olive branch wrapped in beskar.

New Nevarro itself was a curiosity, founded, allegedly, during one of the forgotten First Order regimes, perhaps even before the time of the Grand Moffs. The original Nevarro City had been handed back to Mandalorian stewardship. An unspoken agreement followed: You keep yours, we keep ours. We do not interfere. And for a time, it worked.

But that was before the Blackwall. Before Planeshift. Before hyperlanes cracked like porcelain and entire worlds woke to find themselves staring at unfamiliar stars. The newsfeeds had called it rumor, then anomaly. Then simply, truth.

Nevarro had endured. For now.

Within the temporary office, a climate-controlled mobile prefab outfitted in executive austerity, the Belisaurius Guards stood sentinel, statues in matte-gray armor trimmed in cobalt blue. Her personal retinue. Each one hand-picked from Avalonia's academies or the blood-soaked ruins of Commonwealth reclamation zones.

Outside, the Sons of the White Wolves entertained merchant-princes and colonial architects eager to place their stakes in the city's next chapter.

And then came him.

Jonah stepped through with the quiet precision of a man who did not ask for permission, because his presence was the permission. His appearance not flamboyant, but appropriate she supposed. It simply was and for now it was enough, more than enough really. House Verd. She had thought them legend. A half-remembered myth from the days of the old Crusades, involved in more than their share of Mandalorian ethos. And yet here he was.

"Well met," Ivalyn greeted with the faintest curve of a smile, her Dosuunian accent clipped and cool, "Jonah, I presume?"

Her tone was light, but not casual, never casual. She gestured with one hand, palm up, refined. "Please, do be seated."

"I do appreciate you taking the long road," she said, settling across from him, back perfectly straight, hands folded. "Especially given the current galactic... rearrangements."

Between the storm and the ash and the brittle promise of reconstruction, the future of Nevarro, and perhaps something larger, hung in the air like a hammer waiting to fall onto the anvil.

 

[Jonah]

NEVARRO

Jonah took the offered seat with the grace of a man who had done this dance a hundred times before. Smooth, unhurried, respectful. As he settled in, he offered Ivalyn a light nod.

"That I am," he confirmed. "And well met in kind."

Her accent was sharp, her poise even sharper. It wasn’t lost on him. This was a woman who moved through fire and came out clean. Not unlike his own people, in a way. Survivors. Builders. Visionaries with dust on their boots.

At the mention of the current galactic rearrangements, Jonah’s smile pulled just slightly at the corner. Not mocking—more like shared recognition of the madness that had become normal. He leaned back just enough to show comfort, but not so far as to seem careless.

"No doubt a reference to Planeshift." Or perhaps the more selective border gestures of the Sith Order not too long before that. A pause. "Either way, the galaxy has never lacked for upheaval."

He smoothed the fabric of his jacket once with one hand, then folded both atop his knee.

"My family is no stranger to long roads. We’re more than willing to go the distance if it means securing a future. That’s what brings us here."

There was no need to say Mandalore. No need to mention Covert or Watch or Creed. He was Jonah Verd—he didn’t bluff easy, but he didn’t lay his cards out all at once either.

"House Verd, Inc. is interested in acquiring property on Nevarro. We wanted to do this properly, through the right channels."

Another pause, this one intentional. A breath to let the weight of it settle without sinking the mood.

"And should we come to an agreement," he said, voice calm, smooth as obsidian again, "I believe it would mark the beginning of a very fruitful partnership."

Tag: Ivalyn Yvarro

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

The soft crackle of filtered air hummed in the background, the only competing sound to the low timbre of Jonah's voice as he spoke plainly of planeshift. That word again, inelegant, coined in panic. The press had, and continued to have, a field day with it. Yet it had increasingly entered the common vernacular, especially in conversations that mattered. Conversations like this one.

Ivalyn gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. It lingered at the corner of her mouth like smoke refusing to rise.

She didn't interrupt, didn't rush to fill the space his words had created. Instead, she leaned back with a composure born of years spent in rooms where silence was strategy and stillness was power. Her fingers hovered near the stem of her cigarette holder, an ivory piece inherited from her grandmother, its silver fittings faintly tarnished from use. She hadn't lit it. She rarely did these days. Merryn Sellek 's doing.

Lately, the cigarette holder had become something of a prop,a symbol, perhaps, of control. A measured indulgence in a galaxy spiraling beyond measure.

Jonah spoke again, after a pause thick enough to signal the gravity of what he was about to say.

"The galaxy has never lacked for upheaval."

The Grand Vizier exhaled quietly through her nose. "Truer these days than most," she murmured, her accent a clipped, polite, and posh Dosuunian drawl, calculated, perfectly crisp around the consonants. A holdover from the many Galidraani settlers who had arrived on her homeworld decades ago.

As Jonah adjusted the fabric of his jacket, stiff from travel, she imagined, Ivalyn took the opportunity to study him in full. The lines of his posture, the subtle restraint in his gestures. He was a man who chose his words with care. That, at least, she respected.

A corporate envoy, representing House Verd Incorporated, no less, it spoke volumes. One could change their clothing, their holdings, their trade routes, but the core of such clans never truly bent. Yes, she recalled with precision now: House Verd, once thought a relic, dusted over by myth and war songs, a name whispered in the same breath as the Old Crusades. Half-memory, half-marble. They were, as ever, equated with the Mandalorians.

She didn't need Jonah to say it aloud. She had read the dossiers. Seen the crest. Known from the moment he set foot on Nevarro.

He didn't waste time on flattery or florid nonsense. He wanted land, property. A stake in Nevarro's rebirth.

Ivalyn arched a single brow, elegant, deliberate. Sculpted as though it had been carved from marble. "Property," she repeated softly, not derisively, but with the clinical interest of a woman accustomed to parsing motive from ambition.

And then came the word she had been waiting for: an arrangement.

There it was, the real ask. Not merely land, but partnership.

She weighed his words, her gaze drifting toward the frosted window behind him, where the afternoon light slanted in against the makeshift blinds. New Nevarro lay beyond it, shrouded in steel dust and reconstruction scaffolds. A city half-risen and half-haunted. Like the Commonwealth itself. And beyond the mountains lay Old Nevarro, steeped in Mandalorian mythos and memory. "How familiar," she finally said, returning her attention to Jonah, her voice velvet over a blade. "Every century, someone finds themselves at the edge of ruin or fortune and decides that partnership is the remedy to both."

The cigarette holder twirled slowly between her fingers, more baton than indulgence.

"I will admit, Jonah, your timing is rather impeccable. The Blackwall has yet to touch this world. The hyperlanes near us are erratic, but not severed. This world is currently in the midst of stabilization."

A beat.

"And I prefer my stabilizers with discipline, discretion, and a touch of old-world civility."

She tapped the unlit cigarette lightly against the desk, once, then twice, before setting it aside with finality.

"Before we speak of partnership, I should like to know the terms. Territory. Sovereignty. Jurisdiction. Oversight. Are we speaking of a Mandalorian protectorate? An enclave? Or would this be a private investment cloaked in warrior heritage?"

Her voice did not rise. It never needed to.

"I ask not out of distrust, but out of necessity. You see, Jonah, the last time a Mandalorian said partnership within the Commonwealth, it was nothing more than an empty promise. I would prefer not to repeat that lesson."

There was no threat in her tone, only memory.

And just like that, the cigarette holder was lifted once more.

Still unlit.

Still waiting.

 

[Jonah]

Jonah listened with the same poise he had entered with: still, steady, and unreadable. A statue carved from volcanic rock and stitched with nerve. But inwardly, her words summoned thoughts that made the corner of his mouth twitch.

The Blackwall.

Its ever-creeping edge had become a favorite topic among information circles and borderworld whispers. A firewall across reality. A cage for those too curious. Jonah didn’t fear it. Not exactly.

He thought of his father.

Of the way the old man’s eyes lit up at anything he wasn’t supposed to touch. Of how many alchemists he’d trained over the years, each one bending the known and unknown into weapons, wards, or wonder. Mand’alor the Reclaimer wouldn’t have treated the Blackwall as a threat. He would have treated it as a challenge.

Jonah’s smile was faint, but real. A ghost of inherited mischief beneath his calm.

As Ivalyn finished, he leaned in, not with urgency, but intention. He rested one hand on the arm of the chair, the other atop his knee.

“You won’t find anyone more disciplined, more discreet, or more polite than my kin,” he said, tone dry with just the right touch of truth. “Old-world civility runs in the blood. Even if it occasionally tracks dust across the carpet.”

He let that sit for a beat before continuing.

“As for the terms...quiet. That’s our preference. On paper, this is a corporate holding. Storage, supply, maybe logistics. Whatever you deem appropriate. Property taxes paid. Fences raised. The usual.”

His eyes didn’t waver.

“But for us, it’s a foothold. A home. Nothing large. Nothing loud. Just a place where a few of ours can plant roots on this side of the stars. A little warmth between storms.”

He allowed a breath to pass.

“I understand the need to ask. History’s full of deals that turned to dust. But I didn’t come to Nevarro to echo failure.”

A subtle shift in posture. Still seated, still calm. But now fully engaged.

“We’re not in the business of broken promises. You’ll have my assurances, within the realm of what I can give. If something stronger is needed, I’ll bring the one who can give it.”

No bravado. Just commitment.

Tag: Ivalyn Yvarro

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Ivalyn listened to Jonah carefully, her gaze steady and unblinking, her posture the very picture of composure. She watched his facial expressions with a discerning eye, noting every subtle shift of his features as he leaned forward, intent upon his point. He spoke plainly, refreshingly so, asserting that the Mandalorians he represented, or at least implied, were disciplined, discreet, and perhaps even polite.

He laid it out simply: they wanted something quiet, a shell of operations that would serve as a foothold on Nevarro. Nothing ostentatious, nothing that would draw undue attention—merely a presence to call their own.

Given the planet's history and its deep-rooted association with the Mandalorians, it was hardly a surprise to Ivalyn. Jonah added that he wasn't there to echo failure, and as he shifted his weight in the chair, Ivalyn considered the weight of his words. She thought not only of Jonah and his kin but of the Commonwealth at large and the precarious situation in which they all now found themselves.

She studied him, her gaze unwavering and almost unnerving in its intensity, as she considered the greater needs that had to be met in the face of Planeshift, the Blackwall, and the Sith's current influence over the Commonwealth.

"I appreciate your saying so," she began, each word chosen with deliberate care, her tone carrying the refined authority of her office. "And your candor."

She paused for a moment, her expression thoughtful. "I believe we can come to something of an arrangement, although I suspect the scope of this may be broader than you had anticipated," she continued, her voice cool and precise. "To that end, allow me to brief you on what it is that we in the Commonwealth are looking for, taxes aside, of course."

Her lips curved in the faintest suggestion of a smile, one that vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "We wish to learn from the Mandalorians, the forgework that has made your people so formidable," she said evenly, her gaze fixed upon him. "We have the beskar to forge armor and weapons, and we are more than willing to share those resources with you, provided that we are able to learn from your smiths."

The Grand Vizier let that settle between them, her silence a calculated pause. "Next," she continued, her tone shifting to a more deliberate cadence, "we in the Commonwealth have a few worlds that require… a more aggressive touch." She inclined her head slightly, her expression unflinching.

"There are species that pose a risk to our settlers and our corporations. We do not wish to see these species exterminated, rather, their populations reduced to something manageable. I will provide you with two examples."

Ivalyn allowed the briefest flicker of emotion, a pragmatic resolve, to cross her features, whilst she slid a data pad toward Jonah for him to look over. "The Drengir on Mulita and the Draagax on Relkass. I believe these could be classified as good hunts for Mandalorians, perhaps even suitable enough for the verd'goten."

Another pause, just long enough to let the idea take root. "And these are merely two examples of the kind of work we require." She regarded him with a level gaze, the poise of a woman born to navigate diplomacy in corridors of power and chambers of war alike.

Yes, the Commonwealth had the means to handle such matters, or rather, it had before Planeshift had upended everything. "Under normal circumstances, we would have dispatched our Dark Wardens or military assets," Ivalyn remarked, her tone calm and assured, though a flicker of frustration edged her voice.

"However, these are not normal circumstances. Between the Blackwall and Planeshift, we are now dealing with the unknown." She allowed another moment, perhaps two, to let that reality sink in. Her gaze was steady, a steely composure that had carried her through many crises.

"And so," she continued, voice firm and precise, "the Commonwealth is willing to not only allow Mandalorians to establish a presence here on Nevarro, but also to expand elsewhere, on Relkass, Mulita, even on worlds such as Absit and Tokmia."

The Dosuunian paused, her expression resolute."Harsh worlds, the latter two, but we have settled them, and I believe that Mandalorians are a hardy enough people to withstand those environments." Her words carried the finality of a woman who knew the weight of her decisions and was prepared to stand by them, no matter the cost.

Jonah ​

 

[Jonah]

Jonah was silent. Not the kind of silence that dodged a question or weighed his options too long. This was the silence of shifting ground, of recalculating routes through territory that had just expanded far beyond the original map.

He reached for his glass, not in haste, but as a tether. A moment to collect. The Commonwealth’s ambitions were far broader than he’d anticipated.

A foothold on Nevarro was one thing. A quiet arrangement, a staging ground, a favor-for-favor pact rooted in discretion and mutual respect. But this? This was more. Much more.

He set the glass down softly, eyes still fixed on Ivalyn.

“To address the immediate,” Jonah said, voice steady, “your Drengir and Draagax problem will find no shortage of willing Mandalorians. There are few things more sacred to my people than a worthy hunt. Especially one that protects the innocent or defends a new home.”

A slight tilt of his head, respectful.

“And whoever resides at this covert, should we finalize this agreement, will stand ready to defend Nevarro. No coin required. That’s simply who we are.”

But then, a pause. His gaze narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but with the weight of caution.

“That said…”

He leaned forward just a touch, his voice quieter now, more personal.

“You’re asking for more than I came to offer.”

Jonah gestured gently toward the datapad, then toward the unspoken implications within her request.

“The secrets of our forgework, our smithing traditions, those aren’t blueprints we keep in filing cabinets. They’re rites. Legacies. Tied to blood and name and Clan.”

He shook his head once, slow but firm.

“I’m not dismissing the request. I’m only saying it’s not something I can grant. Not alone. The Mand’alor himself would need to weigh in, and I don’t presume to speak that far ahead of him.”

Jonah’s tone remained calm, respectful, but clear.

“Our vision was for one holding here on Nevarro. A quiet place. A beginning. If that trust grows? If our peoples find shared cause and mutual ground? Then yes. Expansion. Trade. Even deeper collaborations could be on the table.”

Another breath passed. Measured.

“But for now, I hope you understand I cannot walk farther than I’ve been asked to.”

He met her gaze fully, no flinch, no retreat.

“If that’s acceptable, I believe we still have the makings of a deal worth making.”

Tag: Ivalyn Yvarro

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

Ivalyn offered Jonah a respectful nod, her expression measured.

"I understand and respect your position. Perhaps, in time, our two nations might come to trust one another, deeply." It was, in truth, refreshing to speak with a Mandalorian envoy or otherwise, who could be reasoned with and who spoke with civility. "I believe, as you say, there is still a deal to be made here."

She paused, allowing a quiet breath before continuing. "Before I move to outline the terms and arrangements, I wish to make a few acknowledgements," she said, offering a graceful incline of her head. "You will find that so long as I oversee and administer these worlds, what we agree to today, and what we may yet come to agree to in the future, shall be honored." Speaking with Jonah had proven to be rather straightforward, a rare pleasure in her line of work.

A beat.

"Now, your request for an enclave on Nevarro will be approved," she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for misinterpretation.

"Provided that Mandalorians are willing to hunt the Drengir and the Draagax. Which from what I understand, exist in no small number of willing Mandalorians." She let the implication settle in the air before continuing. "We expect that Mandalorians respect our laws and regulations, and pay taxes accordingly."

The Dosuunian paused only momentarily. "For our part, we are content to let Mandalorians be as they are. You will find no interference from us, unless, of course, our citizens feel endangered or," her gaze sharpened slightly, "worse, are found no longer alive due to causes linked to your enclave."

Another pause. Her words had been clear, but diplomacy required moments of silence just as much as words.

"Are there any amendments you wish to add, or feel pertinent to include?"

Then, with a faint, knowing smile, she addressed the most delicate matter of all.

"As for discretion," Her tone shifted, becoming cooler, softer, more precise. "I should hope the two of us understand the very nature of the Commonwealth's current position as a vassal to the Sith Order. Discretion will be key in maintaining the integrity of these accords. So, publicly, let us simply call this an economic agreement."

There was no sarcasm in her voice, no slyness. Only the elegant pragmatism of a woman who knew how to protect a nation's dignity in the shadow of an empire. She met his graze fully, and was just as calm, clear and respectful. Just as there was no flinch or retreat from Jonah, he would find none with her.

Jonah ​