Private Deus Praebet

[Carduul Akahl]

Ithor
Tafanda Bay​

It had been some time since the battle was won. The Imperials had pulled back their troops and resources to culminate into a roaming fleet, whilst the majority of Mandalorian forces had moved onto new conquests and warfronts. Warriors had distinguished themselves upon this field of battle, Soldiers had found new purposes, and Heroes had begun to make their claim to the galaxy.

But the invasion of Ithor and Selnesh had not been won by the Mandalorians, alone. It took a spark to light the fire. Proponents of his people had been reluctant to push the Empire out of Mandalorian space, and that spark gave all the excuse the Crusade needed. And so, the person holding the flint and steel had been tracked down. Somehow, somewhere, a Mandalorian had made contact with this mysterious figure by his command. The relayed message was simple:

“Mand’alor has granted you an audience on Ithor.”​

And like breath on a mirror, they were gone without further fanfare.

This audience was not random. Rather, it was earned upon the field of battle. They had bravely initiated conflict against the Dark Empire, and so sparked the resolve needed to push his own people to oust the threat from their borders. Shedding blood with his troops. Perhaps not for the same cause, but shedding it nonetheless. That had earned them this much, at the very least.

A conversation with the warrior behind the mantle.

Who fought in the slaughter of Manaan.

Who ordered the culling of Kashyyyk.

Who’s armies now marched upon Naboo.

…But what did they get out of it?

That remained to be seen. In the main chamber of the floating city, he had just sent away the Ithorian emissary—one of many, today—with one of many pleas, pledgings, or issues. A transfer of power was always a somewhat messy affair, no matter how much one delegated the task to others. Every politician, banker, and strong-feeling citizen wanted the Mand'alor's ear. Promises of support, of backlash. Counts of deaths, of costs. It was not often thought that Mandalorians cared much for the territories they conquered, but even Carduul did. Every single one, in some bizarre way. It could be seen on the way here there were recovery efforts of some kind—and so too were refurbished outposts and camps.

Only when the large, empty hall fell totally silent, did his attention tune back from the bureaucracy that had plagued him, and focus upon the large pair of doors to the makeshift throne room.

Mother Askani

 

[Mother Askani]

ITHOR | Carduul Akahl

The air carried the smell of damp metal and the lingering musk of war. She had seen the signs of destruction on the way in, and yet, among the ruins, there were signs of rebuilding. Not mercy, not kindness--just practicality. The Mandalorians hadn't simply razed and abandoned; they occupied, repurposed, consumed.

And now they wanted words.

The invitation had gnawed at her since it had arrived, carried by some warrior who vanished once the message had been delivered. She wanted to refuse. Needed to refuse. To give this Mand'alor the dignity of an audience was to acknowledge him in ways she didn't want to.

But the screams of Naboo, Kashyyyk, and Ithor haunted her. The Wookiees whose homes had been torched. The elders who had vanished into chains. The Ithorians, caught in the storm of conquest, now wandering without a world to call their own. The Nabooians suffering more in the wake of their recovery.

She had sent aid to Kashyyyk. Smuggled as many as she could from the slaughter. The same had been done on Ithor. And whether she had intended it or not, her name had crossed into Mandalorian circles, whispered beneath their helmets, marked on some warrior's datapad.

She was on their radar -- and now she hadn't even the knowledge they were marching on Naboo again, preparing as they spoke.

So she came. Not as a supplicant, not as an equal, but as the person holding the flint and steel.

The throne room was cavernous, the echoes of bootfalls swallowed by the sheer scale of it. A Mandalorian throne was not some gilded seat of indulgence--it was a command center, a war leader's perch, built for decisions. She moved cautiously, her steps deliberate, her posture neither bowed nor hostile. Mandalorians respected warriors, but they also respected force. If she played this wrong, if she looked too weak, too desperate, they would see it as an invitation to take. But she would not posture as one of them either--she was no soldier in their war machine. And there'd be no formal alliance.

Her gaze locked onto Mand'alor the Anointed; Carduul Akahl was the warlord of this Crusade. And yet, he had granted her this meeting.

She studied him as he dismissed some Ithorian emissary--yet another plea, yet another voice begging at the feet of conquest; she couldn't stand it. Whatever was said between them had left no mark upon his expression, and when the Ithorian was gone, the silence stretched long enough for Askani to wonder if he would acknowledge her at all.

But then, she decided to speak, "Mand'alor..."

This was a battle like any other. Not of weapons, not yet, but of will.

If words could help stay the Crusade, she would wield them like blades. If they failed, then...she would be ready; She'd have to find a way to be.

-----

"What have I sacrificed? Everything..."


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