Defining Shereshoy [Devorah]

[Azrael]

Kuat Drive Yards, Republic Space​

Residential Space Station​

​

Two Hours Prior

Kuat Drive Yards was a pattern for nearly every ship manufacturing plant that decided to host their operation off-planet. The orbiting ring mimicking several asteroid belts that rotated around other planets was a staple of the system, and had been around for quite sometime. No matter which territory they resided in, KDY had been time and time again an equal opportunity builder of ships, and other tech related masterpieces. It was a relationship with the Galaxy that they held onto, and were so far, still a thriving company. Currently the planet of Kuat was in the reign of the current Galactic Republic, but that wouldn't stop them from selling to those that were willing to part with credits. If the banks of the Galaxy ever decided to fund a credit union, it was likely they could pressure the entire economy of every faction to all be swallowed up in their own single governmental body. Thankfully not even the Sith were that evil. With this reputation intact, they were also on good speaking terms with other manufacturing powerhouses such as the Mandalorian's own Mandalmotors; and such our story begins with a communication sent to Kedalbe's main station that a derelict ship matching their schematics had floated into one of their artificial gravity wells and was taken in, in need of repair and extraction.

Response from the communication had come in the form of Azrael, a salvager by trade and Field Marshal of the vode to assess the damage, and do what he could to repair and and bring it back to Mandalore for either scrap or refurbishing. The journey was rather uneventful, in the sleek and stealthy Ca'prudii fighter that had docked at the residential space station aboard the ring that surrounded the jade green aura of the planet proper. He'd docked about a half hour ago, and was currently in transit to meet the commander of the hangar bay that had spotted his derelict vessel and alerted Mandalore of the situation. Dark charcoal grey and black armor adorned the half-blood as he strode down the corridors of the shipment yard's multiple hangars. The depths of space separated beyond transparisteel panels that allowed a massive view to the star-lit canopy of space. On the other side the teals and forest greens of the planet shown through with radiance. Besk'ar boots clipped in a healthy rhythm upon the platforms as he moved with purpose, occasionally glancing down at a datapad clipped in his right hand for further directions.

"Ah, welcome Mandalorian. I am Kaza of the Kuat Drive Yards shipping department. Thank you for coming out here on such short notice. It seems the ship suffered a major hull breach and has been drifting for a while. I'd of already taken it apart, save for that Mythosaur plastered on it's bow." The older Duros politely informed Azrael as he walked towards the viewing port of the ship currently situated neatly in a row, with all the visible signs of war torn damage. Shielded from view by his buy'ce, Azrael assessed the damage with a quick readout from the internals of the helmet before he looked the Duros over and gave a curt nod.

"Looks like it's been through haran and back. I'll need some tools and some time to work. Can I get a lodging?" He asked while he typed in some information into the data pad he held, noting what he had already seen, and surmising what he'd require to get the thing movable and back to Manda'yaim for a final survey. The Duros dutifully complied and handed over and access card for the residential dormitories for guests, and a meal card that would allow him free use of the Cantina, should he need to eat before he was done.

"Certainly. Let us know if you need anything else, and as always, thank you for visiting the Kuat Drive Yards." The smiling blue skinned salesman moved away, and Azrael parted company with another nod. A kind fellow, but certainly looking to move the vessel out of his shipyards as fast as possible. They had a business to run, and they didn't need to keep something useless docked for longer than they needed to. They simply knew that pissing off Mandalorians was a bad move for business, else it would of already been scrapped as mentioned.

Presently

Within the Cantina just off the common walkway towards the lodging dorms meant for space pilots and contractors alike, Azrael sat multi-tasking. A tray of food offered up on the house by the KDY, sat idle to the right of his seat, while his buy'ce was resting on the table, the visor pointed at his body, with a data pad using an up link with the broadband antenna. On occasion he would lightly tap with his bionic left digit onto the screen to get an update on the prognosis. Currently the Mandalorian was running a few programs to determine how much time it would take, and the cost of it, if he should go ahead with a full repair, or scratch the entire vessel. It was a light freighter, big enough to concern himself with, but small enough that he didn't have to bring a fleet with him to haul it back. With enough propulsion, he could steer with his own fighter, and bring it through the hyperspace lane fairly safely, and get it back home. There was however extensive damage, and he figured at this point he might just be hauling cargo.

So wrapped up in his work, he had barely made a dent in his food, but he hadn't forgotten about it either. The open floor-plan of the Cantina, allowed people from all directions to come and go as they pleased. Several round tables littered the premises, and Azrael had one to himself. People generally didn't approach a Mandalorian unless they had something to really discuss. Children gave them more looks though - something about the armor, and the myths seemed to make their day. They were the superheroes of the Galaxy. Soldiers that were entrenched in lore, myth, and history. Azrael himself had heard the stories long before he ever met a Mando, and he still recalled them from time to time.

[member="Devorah Khaladan"]​

 

[Devorah Verd]

With a sigh, the young woman crossed her arms over her chest and frowned, gazing out of the viewport of the shuttle as they approached. She'd sat back in her seat and buckled her crash webbing for the approach, but her apprehension was still there, eating away at her confidence bit by bit at the back of her mind.

She'd only just started learning to fly, one of the myriad of skills she was attempting to fit into her mind. It was difficult...there were so many things she hadn't even begun to contemplate. Things she needed to know that she wasn't even aware of. Like flying.

FLYING.

A basic skill everyone should know, Devorah thought. Something she had never been taught in the Confederacy. Mostly because she had never been allowed to go anywhere alone before Michael found her on Manaan. Why would she need to know how to fly when everyone else in her short life was so certain they knew what was best for her?

Dev sighed noisily, arms uncrossing in favor of rubbing gently at her face. Maybe they were right. This whole independence thing was a beast to manage. She answered to Michael, of course, as her Master, and to the Council that governed the Jedi Order...but she was left with a great deal of autonomy that she still didn't quite know what to do with. She tucked a cinnamon curl behind her ear and glanced down to the empty seat beside her, occupied only by a soft leather bag. A few basic things to see her through the next few days on Kuat, and enough of the credits she'd taken with her when she left Krant to buy a ship of her own. Granted, even if she found one, she'd not be able to fly it back, but she was sure there could be an arrangement made for delivery.

The shuttle landed and the passengers began to disembark. Dev stood and smoothed out her sweater before shouldering her bag and doing the same.

She hated how her thoughts wandered on her when she didn't have a task at hand, she mused. They felt so scattered and useless for the most part. Still trying to find their footing...though with Michael's help, things had at least started to get better. Which was why he'd consented to let her come to Kuat alone in search of a ship. Some things, he had said, she needed to learn to do for herself.

Devorah straightened her posture and walked with a touch more confidence as she approached the appointed spot where her contact would be waiting. A blue skinned Twi'lek held a sign with her name on it, and waved as she drew near.

"Miss Khalandan?"

"Yes...that's me."

"Excellent...follow me. I'll be giving you the tour and helping you make a selection."

She blinked and followed along, her petite stature necessitating nearly two steps to his every one. He was nothing, however, if not efficient. It wasn't long before he'd given her the basic tour, and gleaned from their idle conversation an idea of what she was looking for. She soon found herself in possession of almost a dozen flimsi sheets, detailing the available ships that met her specifications and price range.

It was too much to absorb all at once, so she was given the time and space she'd need to make her decision. A room for the night and a meal card were provided, in anticipation of her needing to stay to finalize her transaction, which she no doubt would, given the arrangements for shipping she'd be required to make.

Chestnut eyes gazed down at the flimsi sheets as she walked through the cafeteria, a snack and a piping hot mug of caf resting on a tiny tray in her free hand. Gingerly, she wound her way through the tables and paused at one that had only a single occupant.

A delicate cough cleared her throat and unobtrusively announced her presence. It was only polite, after all, if she asked.

"Mind if I join you?" Dev said softly, a small smile warming her features.

| [member="Azrael"] |​

 

[Azrael]

Southern port side hull breach - 3 meters. Three leaks in outer fuselage. Navigation, commlink, and atmospheric holdings damaged - non functional. The condition of this derelict vessel was certainly going to take a lot of man hours to put back together. Whatever had happened to it was still unknown, but the extent of the damage meant that for now it was scrap. No quick fix was going to make it space worthy, that would to have to be a job for the factories on Manda'yaim to repair. The fact that it couldn't be put on auto-pilot only annoyed the Mandalorian. It was going to be decidedly harder to bring the ship back with him through the hyperlane tunnels of it couldn't auto correct it's own course and would to be towed back. If he strong-armed his way though it, there was a possibility that he could get Kaza to escort the frigate back to the planet, but then he'd be in the position of owing the salesmen a favor. Still there were enough components and parts that even scrapping the ship would be worth the price of towing it back. Ever the salvager, Azrael continually saw what he could make use of, even in a wreck like that.

The datapad was tapped again, as he scrolled through the weight distribution centers of the craft, trying to determine where he'd need to attach tow cables to, and where he could place external thrusters that he could control remotely from inside the Night Shadow. The great thing about space was the fact that there was no friction, and it was also one of the worst things about space as well. A double-edged sword that he'd have to contend with once he got into motion. Absently his right hand reached over towards his tray, grabbing a sweet-roll and taking a bite. Normally he'd not remove his helmet in public, and even with the retractable mouth piece he could eat and drink while wearing it. Azrael did enjoy the freedom of not feeling as constrained with the device, and simply using his natural vision when he didn't need all the advanced features of his buy'ce. It also settled people a bit more in public, to not have to decipher the intents of a lone Mandalorian, especially one with the bionic arm that would unnerve some sentients

The shadow of a figure soon eclipsed his data-pad (darkening the screen and causing the auto-adjust feature to enhance the view screen by sixteen percent) caught the Field Marshal's attention, as did the soon followed subtle cough to direct his gaze. Grey eyes shifted upwards, momentarily glancing at the woman who had approached his table. He hadn't expected any visitors at his table - as the reputation of the Mandalorians could go either way from feared, to admired - but always in a far off sort of way. Then again it might of been one of the dock workers - but not by the way she was dressed. Dark chestnut hair flowing in a fashion that spoke of being off-the-clock, and a wardrobe that didn't sport a single ident badge. No, this one was someone completely unrelated to the KDY. He was instantly glad she wasn't part of the company, given her appearance. The half-breed didn't put much stock in beauty, as he'd seen it be a facade more times than not, though he hadn't quite seen someone like her since Mantell - since Lahswee. This one wasn't Arkanian far as he could tell though.

"I suppose." Azrael replied, swallowing the last remnants of the sweet-roll, and removing any crumbs from his lips and jaw. Underneath the table, one foot pushed out, touching his boot to the bottom rung of one of the other metal chairs at the table. The sound of it unnerving, but brief as it slid out, giving Devorah a place to sit. Quirking a brow in curious thought, wondering if this was some kind of random request, or if she had business to discuss. His credits were on the latter, as people did not often just approach a Mandalorian like they would any other civilian in a public setting. Touching his tray, next he slid it to the side to give her room for her own. The stare wasn't intentional as much as it was reflex. He couldn't quite get a bead on her intentions - not without more conversation at least.

[member="Devorah Khaladan"]

 

[Devorah Verd]

“Thank you.” Devorah replied after a moment, her smile warming even as her cheeks did.

Slender fingers set the tray down on the small table, before one hand rose to absently tuck a curl behind her ear. She sat in a smooth, graceful motion even as her bag settled on the floor at her feet, with the folio that had been tucked beneath her arm finding a small spot on the table.

Her chestnut gaze rested on him for several moments, taking in the sight he presented across the small table. It was a fascinating one to be certain; a warrior by his armor and his very bearing. A Mandalorian, the young woman realized after her thoughts finally settled into place and allowed her memory to function properly once more. Perhaps, she mused distantly, this peculiar distraction and random wool-gathering was something Michael could see to with a bit of extra training.

Devorah sighed softly as she cradled the mug in her hands, the warmth welcome as she lifted it to her lips for a sip. While it was not as dark a brew as she preferred it, it would serve its purpose well enough. One hand freed itself to pick up a warm, buttered biscuit from her plate, which savored the first few bites of. A cafeteria it might have been, but whoever made the biscuits had her eternal devotion.

Fingers were wiped on the napkin residing in her lap, before her mug lifted once more for a sip of the still-steaming brew.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your work...” she echoed softly, gaze falling to the datapad in his hand before rising to meet his once more.

| [member="Azrael"] |​

 

[Azrael]

For a culture full of mercenaries, bounty hunters, and warriors - the idea of being business oriented was an easy leap to make. Azrael hadn't cut his teeth in Mandalorian culture - and despite the comrade he felt within the Mando'ade, he held quite a serious tone most of the time. Still very much a private individual that dealt with things in the silence of a brooding mentality; he was a far cry from the young man who had lost everything he scraped and saved for. That boy had changed hand over fist within the Mandalorian culture. The Manda had taught him so much, as did his brothers and sisters on Yaim. For someone to see passed this rough, and almost stoic exterior and find the part of Azrael that was able to enjoy a moment's grace - they had to look much closer than a seconds glance. This, among from the outwards signs of a Mandalorian, was probably one of the reasons he didn't have a lot of contact with outsiders unless in an official capacity.

The datapad, under the hovering shadow of his bionic hand, displayed a blueprint readout of a transport vessel, with some crude geometrical shapes to indicate the damage that the ship had suffered. There were calculations in percentages reaching into the low teens, as well as a long laundry list of damage. The ship was certainly in disrepair and could be considered derelict if it wasn't parked in one of the yard's many hangars. His gray eyes however were no longer focused on the pad, but at his present company. The dark locks of curls and waves that fell over her shoulders and down her back were reminiscent to the half-blood of a fond memory that filtered in from his days in the junkyard. Rare few had come close to eclipsing what he saw in his childhood sweetheart, and even less reminded him so distinctly of her that he generally glossed over the ideals of interest in favor of things that needed to be done, and goals to achieve. Thus, she had his attention -- even if it was divided by memories coming to light in the back of his mind.

"The real work hasn't started just yet. This is really only preliminary, and not as accurate as the datapads normally boast." His reply indicated an almost aloof interest in the readouts and the diagnostics that still flashed momentarily on the screen. He knew well from experience that the actual assessment of the situation would come first hand when he would be down in the hangar with a belt full of tools attempting to make more sense out of the wreck, and piece together a solution to either get it home, or get it scrapped. This was simply more of a big picture while he ate some lunch. He'd need fuel to work, and the KDY had been generous enough (or too afraid) to provide lodging and a meal on the house. He suspected it was the latter option, but he wasn't in the habit of looking a gift taun-taun in the mouth. A quick sashay of his gaze back and forth over her face and her posture to try and understand motivation came and went before he inwardly relented of that task. "Not really accustomed to a guile-less advance. We're not really known for our approach-ability you might say. Credit for your thoughts?" Azrael was curious what caused this striking woman to take up residence so close to an obvious member of a warring culture without what appeared to be an ulterior motive.

While he was engaged in the conversation, and certainly wanted to know more, there was that esoteric itch he couldn't scratch. He'd not gotten a lot of advice on matters of the heart from the vode - despite them being a very loyal group, emotions ran hot or cold with them, and rarely were they so sentimental. It had been a while since he last saw Lahswee alive -- and time was marching on since he buried her as well. The questions of what could have been were far from his mind, and while she still existed and took up residence in a part of his very soul - he wasn't thinking of her specifically. His mind was more on why she kept coming to mind while he was looking at Devorah. He didn't know a single thing of importance about his lunch companion yet, and already there was something more about this encounter that he couldn't place. The mysteries of the Manda was all he could or would chalk this moment up to.

[member="Devorah Khaladan"]

 

[Devorah Verd]

They were grey, she decided, and flecked with crimson. A most fascinating gaze...one quite unlike any other she’d seen. There was something there, something she could not quite put a finger on. It lingered at the edge of her senses, beckoning her to reach out. But she would never cross that line...intruding on someone’s thoughts, no matter how innocently, without an express invitation to do so was a violation of the highest order.

How often, after all, had it been done to her...in the name of love and concern, even? She would have shuddered to recall those memories, but Michael had taught her well how to block them from affecting her as often as they used do.

Devorah realized after a moment, that she’d been staring at her...lunch companion...and that she still knew nothing about the ruggedly handsome gentleman seated across from her. Her cinnamon gaze dropped instantly to the precious mug of caf cradled in her fingers. It lifted to her lips for a lingering sip that she hoped would cover the slight warmth in her cheeks.

"Not really accustomed to a guile-less advance. We're not really known for our approach-ability you might say. Credit for your thoughts?"

Honest surprise registered across her features as she looked up at him, head canted to the side. Lips parted as if to speak, but silence reigned for several moments until she could gather her suddenly scattered thoughts. A guile-less advance? Not known for approachability? What was she missing...what exactly did he-

-oh. Ohhhhhh.

Understanding dawned and this time, her cheeks warmed visibly. Devorah briefly bit her lower lip as she gather her far flung wits.

“I...didn’t...it wasn’t…” she exhaled noisily and averted her gaze from his features once more. “...reasonably sure my thoughts aren’t worth an entire credit.”

She sipped at her caf, fingers tight around the warm mug. “You are far from the first vod I’ve ever seen. My half-brother Isley is...was the aliit buir of Clan Verd.” Tension was suddenly writ across her features and her shoulders, forcing her voice to emerge very softly. At least her shame was still buried deeply, let him read from her tension what he would.

| [member="Azrael"] |​

 

[Azrael]

There was a certain transition period that had taken Azrael to adjust to when he first stepped foot on Mandalore proper. Coming from an environment where hostility was an ever present reality and warm welcomes are few and far between (if at all), he'd had to adapt to a culture of family. The Mandalorians certainly had no shortage of that flooding their ranks, and soon he'd started to open up to his brothers and sisters infinitely more than he'd ever thought that he would have been capable of. Though the flip side of that proverbial coin was that he was an exclusionary half-blood, removing himself from a Galaxy of potential while focusing so deeply on that of his new adopted family. Getting out of the mindset, and learning to be approachable, and be-friend others was a learning curve he'd yet to master; though he was making sizable strides.

By default his expression was normally layered with a stoic resolve for serious endeavors - and though he didn't always outwardly show it, Azrael had a range of emotions that were complicated, rich, and full. On occasion though, he had to remind himself that his face was the biggest outwards reflection of his inward mood. With that in mind, he offered Devorah a calm smile spreading on his face while he somewhat flustered visage spoke on behalf of what she was currently thinking. Contrasted to him, the woman was certainly expressive, even if it was somewhat coy and bashful - and he found it mildly entertaining to watch the shifts in attitude and thought that were written over her face and her actions. In a absent fashion, the datapad was given a careful clawed double tap to let the feed blink out. At one time he might of put his metal digit through the device, but it was now as much a part of him as was his true right arm and hand. As further proof of the dexterity, the Field Marshal began to slice into the cut of nerf he had laying on his tray with fork and knife. Momentarily glancing down at the task to break the continued stare. She was a captivating woman to look at, only compounded by that haunting feeling that mysteriously connected Devorah to the Arkanian, though perhaps only in his mind.

A self deprecating phrase leaving her full glossy lips took the Mandalorian's gaze to flick back to her direction with the slow incline of his head to follow suit. His eyes pronounced after leaving the shade of his brow while she fumbled along with the response. Either he was still unnerving to be around based on his affiliation, or she was simply tongue tied with strangers. He'd assume the latter. A mild chuckle escaped his lips, while a wry smile almost akin to a renegade nature formed on his face. He was half Zeltron, and while he did not retain the full benefits of the species, Azrael still had a fair amount of charm on his rugged face. When he wanted to, he could put most people at ease in casual conversation with a simple look. He'd gotten fairly good at talking himself out of situations when he was younger, save for a group of kids his age that really had no off switch. The next sentence (once she collected her thoughts) stunned him though. Eyes widened, his mouth slid agape for but a moment - changing the situation into a far more familiar route.

"By the Manda, that is a name I haven't heard in a long long time." Azrael replied with apparent delight lighting up his face, as he had fond memories of his brother Verd. They'd made fast friends since he was introduced to him over a year ago, and had even become a partner on a few private quests. He'd not seen or heard from Isley though - which had started to creep back to his memory. Where had had gone off to this time? A slight shake of his head brought him back into the reality of his company. The Mando'a rolling off her tongue was a lovely balm to his soul. There was certainly an added bonus to finding family (even estranged) out in this part of Republic space. "I knew him well. Any family of Verd is certainly welcome in my sight." He'd caught but the bare glimpse of some dulled tones in recalling the memory within Devorah's voice. For now he'd not press his advantage, but instead change the subject to a more informative nature. HIs right hand extended, although still gloved in armor, it was far more flesh like than the cold alloys of its bionic counterpart. "I'm Azrael of Clan Skirata, adopted son of the Mand'alor." He offered, unsure exactly why he offered up his inherited lineage, but perhaps the Field Marshal was trying to impress her. The intention of the hand of course was for an offered wrist grasp, as was custom among the Mandalorians.

[member="Devorah Khaladan"]

 

[Devorah Verd]

It had long been a failing of hers, that inability to hide the emotions that rode roughshod over her control. A failing most had taken advantage of, until she’d met Michael who had begun to teach her control. He didn’t judge her when she lost control, he simply weathered the storm with a dignified calm that she envied in so many ways.

Devorah lifted her uncertain gaze to his features, his smile going a long way to settling the turmoil that was ever-present in the depths of her mind. It made her wonder, however briefly, if he was Force-gifted, given how easily it settled in past her normally solid defenses. But there was nothing in her senses that told her he was, so she set it aside to ponder later. A soft, slow smile blossomed across her features in response to his expression and the warmth in his chuckle, but it didn’t quite reach her gaze.

"By the Manda, that is a name I haven't heard in a long long time."

Before it could, he’d continued to speak, and the young woman calmed herself with a slow, deep breath. Her mug rose as she took a lingering sip of the caf, focusing on its warmth and savoring the rich, deep flavor of it. Devorah’s gaze remained fixed to his, however, unable...or maybe unwilling...to look away.

Strange.

"I knew him well. Any family of Verd is certainly welcome in my sight."

If he’d caught her reticence, he’d chosen to not mention it, something for which she was quite grateful. Her complicated ‘relationship’ with Isley was not what she wanted to mention upon first meeting someone. Especially someone so...intriguing. Intriguing enough to let her set down her mug and accept his handshake.

Compared to his crushgaunt covered hand, hers felt particularly delicate and small, in spite of the strength and power she could command. This time, when Devorah smiled, it reached her dark gaze and made it gleam with warmth, though to someone particularly observant, the tension lingered in her shoulders. Recognition lingered in her eyes as he gave his name, the recollections of conversations long past with Isley.

“Su cuy’gar, Azrael...my name is Devorah. Isley spoke of you and Gilamar very highly. I am...” she blinked, gazing down at his crushgaunt, and recognizing the glove for what it was. It distracted her completely from her earlier flustered state, instead revealing the real woman beneath.

The one that was a student of alchemy with an affinity for working with metal and a critical eye for armor that Isley had fostered as he’d taught her bits and pieces of their heritage.

“...a shock glove crushgaunt? Interesting...I’ve not seen this application before...” Devorah said after a moment, holding to his wrist and turning it slightly as she looked at it with a critical eye.

| [member="Azrael"] |​

 

[Azrael]

The Manda calls it's own -- a phrase that was used on the day he'd fight for his life, and change it all within a few hours time. While he hadn't left Ord Mantell until that evening, Azrael had for all intents and purposes checked out weeks earlier from that planet-wide scrap yard. His salvation from that ruined childhood existence had come in the form of two Mandalorians of whom he held the deepest respect for. That phrase was Ordo's way of explaining that the arrival of the vode on Mantell was not mere coincidence, but it was of a deeper purpose. While the Mandalorian people did not worship the gods as the Moross Crusade did, they still held a very spiritual belief in the Manda. A passageway between worlds for those that had gone on before. It was regarded as the birthplace of the vode, the giver of their world, and the link among every past, present, and future clansmen that they were all knit together in a family that spanned the ages. The Manda directed certain events to it's purpose, and Azreal was already convinced it had done it again. The derelict vessel floating through the region of the KDY, and the call placed to him was no mere accident. This was a meeting of purpose and solidarity to the Field Marshal, and he was beginning to see it's direction the longer he talked with the woman.

The gentle touch of her hand coming to slide over his gloved digits and tough her own fingers to his wrist wrought the catalyst to a sharp intake of breath. He hadn't expected the reaction to generate, and attempted to disguise it by a muted cough into the curled digits of his bionic arm that rose to his lips. Gray eyes flicked back towards her own while she inspected the armored hand, noting of interest that unique combination of materials that Gilamar and himself had put together specifically for the beskar'gam. Azrael remembered fondly the day he stepped into Mythosaur Customs and Arms, and presented the Cathar; Kad Kando with a paltry but unique list to start fashioning his armor. It had taken him several months to work through, and then another month to assemble and test with Gilamar until it was a functional set. Originally he thought it would have been impossible to come to terms with, but now it was as bonded to him like it was a second skin. Thus, despite her delicate touch, he could feel her fingers tracing over the plating, and the fabric, studying the design of it.

"A vod after my own heart. I was a salvager by trade on Ord Mantell, where I'm from. Spent a great deal of time matching up components to work together. Most of it was parts of junked transports, and some frigate designs. MandalMotors, however, was a ruttin' playground when I was putting this together." Rarely did he meet someone interested enough to inspect his armor other than a first glance, or for the aruetiise an imposing figure of the whole that demanded respect, and caused fear. Azrael was proud of the work he'd put in, and the quality of how it turned out. He'd been used to using scraps and getting by with a jury-rigged situation. To have top of the line armor, and fully functional components had been a dream come true, and he had still managed to put his own spin on the default beskar'gam that many of the vode sported. Each set of armor was indeed unique, Azrael's was outwardly recognized as being apart from the pack. That, and the fact it was missing an entire arm. "I've not seen you on Yaim." Azrael shifted topics in conversation, as he wanted to know more about the woman that had captured his attention, directing it away from a chore and to a friendly and beautiful face. "Are you into the freelance trade?" A question that implied she might be of the more nomadic of the Mando'ade. She didn't seem the type to be a bounty hunter or a mercenary, but there were vode of every shade across the Galaxy.

The simple things sometimes could be the things that made such indelible impressions etched for eternity into the mind. A trademark shift in posture, a repeated phrase, or the single touch of a hand could all carry weight greater than it's original purpose. Something about that touch to his hand drew Azrael back in time to a place and circumstance that he'd not visited mentally in a while. The same outward show of interest and physical contact he'd had before - when distrust had vanished in an instant the first time that another young woman in his life had reached out to physically take hold of his hand and wrist. Lahswee had been the one to bridge the gap to Azrael on Ord Mantell, letting him know that despite his circumstances, and despite the kind of treatment he was used to - it wasn't always going to be that way. Not everyone was in his way, or trying to step over him - some people would see him for something more than a warden of the scrap yards, bound to indentured work. That same touch echoed in Devorah's press of digits and it stirred something inside Azrael that he didn't even know he missed.

[member="Devorah Khaladan"]

 

[Devorah Verd]

Were his hand not covered in a crushgaunt, she’d have been holding onto it for far longer than would have been “proper”. But as it was, she was free to inspect the workmanship of it, leaning forward over the small table as she did so. Eyes brightened as they coursed over the joints and the almost delicate lines of the welds made. It never ceased to amaze her that such intricate work could be done with a bit of wire, mesh, and beskar.

Her gaze canted up to meet his, chestnut to grey, as he spoke. Cheeks warmed under his regard, and Devorah suddenly found herself unable to hold his gaze. Chestnut orbs drifted back down to the workmanship of the shock glove, before drifting to his artificial arm and hand. She almost replied that she’d never been to Ord Mantell, but then she’d have to admit that she’d only been to four planets in the entirety of her twenty-two years.

It would be difficult enough when the conversation came around to-

"I've not seen you on Yaim."

"Are you into the freelance trade?"

-and then suddenly, there it was. The proverbial pink polka-dot bantha in the corner of the room that everyone noticed but never talked about.

It was an innocent enough question, of course, and hardly one Devorah could find fault in his asking. It opened up the door to asking the same of him in return, though judging by the pure workmanship of his armor, she had an excellent notion.

The problem was, that she also knew how relations were between the Mandalorians and the Republic...and what most of them thought of the Jedi. The tension that tightened her shoulders increased and she gently, reluctantly began to withdraw her hands. “No...I...I’ve never been to Yaim. Isley never...never took me with him when he went.”

Actually, he flatly refused when I asked, but it’s not worth mentioning, she mused as she fell silent, her voice having trailed off. She took a moment to breathe, and then another, before she managed to speak past the lump that had formed in her throat.

“I share the familial gift of being able to use the Force. Isley began my training while he was part of the Confederacy, and discovered that I have a gift for working with metal and the art of alchemy. When he disappeared, I fled the upheaval his absence created and am now part of the Republic. A Jedi...a Padawan to be precise.” She said softly, her head tilted and gaze averted as she expected the worst.

| [member="Azrael"] |​

 

[Azrael]

Chance and speculation in the retreat of Clan Verd's allit'buir was debated among many, and yet all had come up with the singular fact that the true reasons were left to mystery and folklore. Azrael wasn't even certain as to where Isley went, or his reasons. The man had deep connections, and had been through haraan and back more times than he could count. While they were close in spirit and kinship, he didn't truly know the man, and doubted anyone really did. He knew of Isley's departure from the CIS though, as that was mostly common knowledge throughout the Galaxy. If it had been a simple task of tracking him down, Azrael would have done it already, but the man didn't wish to be found -- that part being truly apparent as he vanished off of every grid, and from every home he'd ever known. Whatever he left in his wake had a price he paid in his departure, one such figure now seated across from him, finishing her scrutinizing gaze at his crafted armor.

"I had never known anything but scrap yards and half-baked tourist traps on Mantell. Yaim was a breath of fresh air." Azrael stated, in both literal and proverbial states. Ord Mantell was a caustic and arid planet where the only real semi-hospitable regions were also layered with casinos and dive bars that were certainly not anywhere near classy or proper. It was a seedy planet ruled by the scrap yard industry, which certainly didn't help to enrich the planet, but only further condemn whatever natural resources had been there previously. "I'll be honest though, it didn't look like much when I stepped foot on it, but once you're with the vode -- it becomes the brightest jewel of the Galaxy." Azrael loved Mandalore, and his bias showed through while he offered a calming smile of reassurance. At this, he had decided to actually start on the task of eating his meal instead of forgetting that he had a tray full of food before him. Knife and form were slid into his digits, both bionic and of flesh while he cut up portions of the nerf-steak. Taking a bite to savour while he went on to describe his home. "It's very rural in most places, settlements with a kind of tribal feel. If it weren't for the beskar'gam, it would look downright primitive." A jest of tone in his voice before he chased his food down with a swig of the nearby beverage.

There were stark contrasts all around the planet. From the luxury of some upper-echelon apartments that were originally used in Mandalorian history when they had nobility on world. Entire cities built like the one's you'd see on capital core worlds. Contending with that were nearby grass=like huts where the vode lived and worked, farming and hunting like they lived without the aide of advanced structures or the ability to manufacture them. There were also the in-between constants like Mandal Motors which while it didn't boast a clean and sterile environment, it also was the claim to fame for most of their default shipping transports and war cruisers. Azrael's choice of residence was something along the more rustic and well worn apartments that was suitable for a salvager of his degree. Gilamar lived within Mandal Motors itself, and Azrael was just outside the limits of the factory, with intent to find his own little place carved out of the business some day. Another stab of his fork tines went into the Corellian potatoes and he scooped up some extra sauce for his next bite. Gray eyes flicked up to meet her chestnut gaze before dabbing a napkin on his chin.

"Never got into many discussions of the Force, I wasn't one of those gifted with the connection it appears." He offered with a mild shrug. He didn't need the Force to do what he did, but he also knew enough about it to understand that it certainly gave blessings and burden to those that it did affect. "Though, I'll say this for the Jedi -- if they have you, they've got something great going for them." It was a double compliment paired together with a single phrase. He was already drawn to her, and could see the hesitation in her voice and her movements to divulge her allegiance, of which he had no quarrel, but also a boon to the cause. If a woman of Mandalorian heritage was among their ranks, then they had more sense about them than most gave credit for. His observant skill however didn't always place the greatest filter of tact on his tongue. The next sentence out of his mouth was far more in line with the observations he had already made. "I'm surprised you don't think so." The straight-forward approach worked for some, a breath of fresh air, and for others it was off-putting. Inwardly biting his tongue a bit as he realized his gauge for Devorah's emotions wasn't developed enough to weigh that response before he said it. He'd said it though, and there was no retracting that statement, so here merely held her gaze.

[member="Devorah Khaladan"]

 

[Devorah Verd]

“I was born and raised on Coruscant. I’d never even seen a sun, never mind breathed fresh air, until I traveled to Krant.” Devorah said softly, a smile beginning to turn up the corner of her lips. Krant had been an unparalleled paradise at first, with warm sunlight, sweet, fresh air, and vibrant plant life. Things she’d only seen in holopics before, or read descriptions of. But the castle...the dark nexus that resided beneath it and tainted her time in the forge, slowly seeped into everything else.

Blinking, she pushed the unpleasant thoughts away, trying not to lose herself to them as she was prone to do. Besides...there was a pair of gray eyes drawing her gaze and her interest like no other had since Rhys.

A startling realization, but Devorah stopped herself from exploring it further. Nothing good would come of looking to those dark memories. Nothing.

Instead, she breathed deeply, cleared her mind and simply met his gray gaze, feeling at ease for the first time...in...a very long time. Granted, she felt comfortable in Michael’s presence, and those of her fellow Jedi on Anaxes...but this was somehow different, and she couldn’t quite put a finger on why. The Force offered no insight or answers to her when she delved into it, but the calm and steady sensation of warmth was a balm like no other.

There was silence between them for some few moments, where Azrael took a few bites of food and she availed herself of her own. She freed one hand from her mug to retrieve another warm, buttery biscuit, savoring each bite slowly. The biscuits deserved their due reverence...they were very nearly a divine thing in physical form. Perhaps, she thought with distant amusement, that was a bit far to go with the praise, but she couldn’t always help herself.

Devorah heard the compliment, as did the warmth in her cheeks which ratcheted up a few notches. The words contained a two-fold compliment, which left her slightly speechless. She was still unaccustomed to compliments and praise, and had trouble receiving either with grace or without a furious blush.

"I'm surprised you don't think so."

Almost in spite of herself, she straightened her posture and lofted a delicate brow at Azrael. Chestnut eyes flashed with a touch of energy – a flicker of feistiness that she normally buried quite deep. How he’d gotten through to it so quickly, she had no idea.

“Surprised? Why? Just because I’m related to Isley doesn’t mean I share in his level of ego.” She replied rather more tartly than she’d intended to, fingers pushing a stubborn curl behind her ear, where it positively refused to stay. It earned a slight sigh of frustration, her nose wrinkling delicately.

| [member="Azrael"] |​

 

[Azrael]

Work was forgotten. The datapad sat dormant at his side, and had shut the display down several minutes prior during the start of their conversation. Thoughts of having to work on a derelict ship in one of KDY's hangars in the morning was forgotten, and not exactly a missed memory in favor of his current company. He'd not labor over the schematics anymore while he had Devorah in his gaze, and on his mind. She was making the visit to the drive yards far more enjoyable than he'd have expected or warranted for such a trip through the black. Others in the area had shuffled in and out filling up their trays, and emptying them in the same concourse of time while the pair sat and talked about their past, getting to know each other's situation bit by bit. Something of a tunnel vision affect happening to the half-blood, while the chestnut gaze of warmth and intrigue was mirrored by his own haunting gray orbs peppered with flecks of crimson. Whether his eyes were from his father or his mother - even he didn't know. Azrael barely remembered his mother's face, and had never once seen his father. A single blood-test on Mantell at the onset of his career had identified his dual heritage, but apart from that all Azrael knew was that he was a son of the Manda, and that was the only family he would care about again.

Coruscanta. The Mando'a term for the city planet in the deep core. Azrael had never been there himself, and while there were a great many places in the Galaxy he also hadn't stepped foot onto, he knew about it of course. Anyone who had a smattering of knowledge in the last ten thousand years new about Coruscant. It was one of the most prominent landmarks in space for the Republic, the Jedi, and the Galactic Senate. The birthplace of billions over the centuries, transforming what was once a rock into a planet-wide economy that would rival every known and most unknown worlds for eons to come. For his tastes it seemed a bit too busy, but he'd been to plenty of other worlds that were similar in design, and it hadn't bothered him too much. He could relate though to her exodus from that Capital planet, experiencing new things for the first time, some things so commonplace and ubiquitous it bordered on confusion on why she couldn't have tasted those simple pleasures earlier.

"I can relate. I didn't leave Mantell until about two years ago - it was a day of many firsts, none of which I regret." The gentle tones of a empathetic statement wafted out. "Had to make up for lost times though, and the Manda saw to that rather quickly." An offered smirk smile tugged at his lips while Devorah seemed to pull inwards, and tuck her body against the chair. Something had unnerved her a bit from his a simple gaze, or perhaps the thoughts of her past. They all had their demons, and their skeleton ridden closets, but he wasn't attempting to rife through that particular darkened past. He was rather pleased to simply sit and talk to someone who had some connection to his adopted family, and share in their memories. Drawing his frame back against the chair, his right arm move to the rear resting his elbow against the chair's backing, and letting his left bionic stay stagnant on the table top. A tilt of the Field Marshal's head giving tell of his gaze in curious note to her posture and positioning of each micro-expression that etched over the woman's delicate skin. Mesh'la - the thought crossed his mind clear as day, admiring the woman whose outer radiance was only just a reflection of the inward beauty he was getting a glimpse of.

A touch of wide eyes came though as Devorah's demeanor shifted into something more alive, and full of vigor. Her posture changing, taking a daring post, and her inquisitive and soft features transformed into a more confident alacrity that spoke volumes without saying a word. Though her lips did part and her question of a challenge crept out, it only caused the lips of the half-blood to rise into a satisfied smile. He liked to see forward thinking people utilize their knowledge, and show their bravado. Consistent use of it could certainly be boring, but the sprinkling of it in daily life was a thing of beauty. A light chuckle escaped the Mandalorian's mouth at her somewhat tart retort.

"There it is." His right hand shifted somewhat, leveling his index at her in a casual passing gesture. "You may not have Isley's ego, Devorah -- which is a probably best, but you have the spirit of the Manda within you." He was pleased to see the soft spoken and almost timid woman had fire in her belly and energy flashing in her near chocolate gaze. "The Jet'ii have their talks about passion I've heard, but the Mandalorians feed on it. It's called shereshoy." He remarked, while picking up his last sweet roll and taking a bite while he gauged her reaction. "A lust for life. The enjoyment of every experience, and a passion to take in every moment." While some of the Mandalorians could be complete grumps, they were also notably happy when they were knee deep in a hunt, or in glorious combat for the honor of it all. Azrael took a different meaning from it, and while he might have hard times, and walk through many fires that would forge him as a stronger vod, he enjoyed the experience, and relished it.

[member="Devorah Khaladan"]