Private Family Matters

[Ijaat Mereel]

The vigil had been long, and meeting Jhira Mereel had been an ordeal, even though he had kept himself composed. The sins of his past weighed heavy on him, and though the tissue and cells were different, the sickness of his mind seemed to lay on his very souls at time. Hearing the name Mereel had caused the beast to stir, a wakening of a black rage long since thought dormant. To his rented hab here by the Solstice festival he went, stalking in hesitating steps, taking breaks to compose himself. To run through meditations and exercises learned on Tython at Vur Tepe, hardening his mind to the lure of the Dark Side and yet remaining above the Light as well. Neither embracing and feeding his fury, but also not denying it's existence or effects. It was a delicate walk, but he managed it.

Until an older warrior stepped out. There was little else said, or done, and anyone else might have thought him unsteady for the way the Iron Father jerked. But scarred and dinged as the armor was, no one could mistake the barrel of a man in dirt and ash smeared armor. Inwardly he sighed, and removed the helmet from his hip, clipping it on with a hiss and standing with his thumbs tucked into his belt, waiting. The other spoke first in a baritone boom.

"Ijaat..."
"Huric..."
"You know why I'm here?"
"Only one reason, get on with it."

A pauldron bearing Mereel's crest was flung at his feet, and not moments later a mythosaur bone axe, carved beautifully by Ijaat himself when the two were once considered close as brothers, raised in a strike as Huric charged the goran with a furious scream. Mereel, as a clan, stood on ceremony except in one thing. Challenges for honor could be this simple, if the two involved allowed it. The Clan crest of a ruus'alor would show that if Huric won the bout, he would lead the clan. Many thought, no matter what his forgiven state was, that he should vacate the post. Since being granted cin'vhetin The Quartermaster , this was not the first challenge to his authority and place. He was letting them play out, himself on a pilgrimage, before he truly resumed his place. Often they were as shortly prepped as this.

Unfortunately for the challenger, Ijaat did not just make pretty weapons. There was a schink of metal rasping on wood and metal, and the beskad at Ijaat's side hissed out and sliced, spinning in an arc trailing crimson into the air as he wiped the sleeve formally on his bodyglove's arm and sheathed it back in the same fluid motion. The crowd around them, mostly mandalorian, paid no mind. Violence was not uncommon. Ijaat walked up to the newly deceased and reached down, prying the iron heart plate from the center of his former brethren's armor and placing it in a pouch. It would likely go on the chain at his left hip which held a dozen or more of similar pieces and took the axe from a not yet stiffened grip, laying hands across chest grasping his own kal knife he unseathed. Without hesitation, he turned to one who had been there with Huric and bore the Mereel crest, but faded and scarred with a plas-torch on purpose, to show distance.

"Take his armor and bear him in honor to wherever his wishes were"

A bag of credits enough to bury anyone in honor clinked at the others' feet.

"We were brothers once. Would that you all see me so again."

Grasping the haft of the axe and hefting it to his shoulder, the smith and Alor turned to enter the hab building he was renting a small room in, sighing at the waste.

 

[Jhira Mereel]

​

LOCATION: Tor Valum, The Last Mandalorian City | Kestri
Tags: [ Ijaat Mereel ]
Equipment: Cybernetics new from her sheet.

Spoiler

GEAR
Her armor is most certainly custom-made and exquisitely well maintained, yet is obviously the work of a dozen different mechanics and techs. Scattered bits and pieces scrounged from battles, derelicts and disreputable vendors have been cleverly adapted and turned into something greater than the sum of its parts. A keen observer might notice Clan Mereel’s sigil overlaid with the image of a curled scroll upon one pauldron; Kot, Ijaat, Verburyc, Kyr’am,* (Strength, Honor, Loyal(ty), Death) are painstakingly engraved in the Mandalorian script upon the other. Jaig eyes adorn her helmet, and a mythosaur skull covers her heart, the Shield of Clan mereel intertwined with her Iron Heart.

OVER ALL:
Heavy Beskar-gam that is fully vacuum sealable, with life support for several hours. Likewise, all of her gear is made to function in Vacuum / no G / low G / settings as well as aboard ship or on planet. She can breathe / function underwater but with some handicaps. Very high G worlds / lava can also leave her at a disadvantage.


HELMET

• Rangefinder, Commlink (with encrypted channels), Transparisteel T-Visor adapted into Flash goggles., life form scanner, a powerful HUD display, all of which are adapted to work with Jhira’s Motion Interface Package.
• Breath mask and full seal helm allows Vacuum seal for full freedom in poor to no atmospheric conditions.

CUIRASS:

• Jet Pack adapted for space combat (as in Rebels) with anti-armor Missiles (six loaded) and adapted to work with Jhira’s Motion Interface package.
• Hidden storage

WAIST:

• Iyra Gravity Belt for those times when enemies shoot at her Jet Pack or when silence is more preferable then noise.
• Holster and a pair of CRP-01 Rim Cartridge Revolver. Keyed magnetic tether to keep them from being lost if she drops one or is disarmed while flying. The Revolvers are tied into her Motion Interface Packagefor range finding/heat signatures/sighting. Each Canister holds only six shots, and she must reload there after. Canisters:
  • 2 Blaster
  • 3 ion
  • 2 particle beam
  • 2 slug
  • 2 flechette canister
  • 2 flechette scattershot.
• Leather Scabbard and a Beskad made of Beskar so it can be utilized against a Lightsaber.
• Military Belt pouch- Belt pouch gear will include:
  • Shock Manacles made of Beskar, with a stun setting that can be triggered by a command given via her HUD or a physical remote
  • a restraining bolt
  • A99 Aquta Breather.
  • Plasma Cutter
  • Stim pack
  • Stim sticks
  • Rations

ARMS/GAUNTLETS/VAMBRACES

• MM9 Wrist Rocket system. Capacity: 3 Rounds designed to take out vehicles. (Right arm)
• Force Proof Grappling Line that can’t be cut by Light Sabers. (Left Arm)
• Lock picking tools Mechanical, not electronic.
• Custom Mechanics tools that run along her arms and throughout her armor. This interfaces with her HUD and Motion Interface Package, ending in cool droid-like extensions from her fingers. Combat hits can damage part or all of the system.

LEGS/FEET

• Magnogrip boots that can be toggled on/off.
• Small, concealed slug thrower - no electronic or heat signature (right).
• hidden stealth dagger (left).
• compass in boot heel.
• hidden storage in other for smuggling data chips, ID, etc.

RIFLES and HEAVY WEAPONS:

DC-15A Blaster Riffle, with stun setting slung beside Jet Pack. Keyed magnetic tether to keep it from being lost if she drops it or is disarmed while flying. The Rifle is tied into her Motion Interface Package for range finding/heat signatures/sighting.

PS-Particle Shotgun, fastened below and beside her Blaster Rifle. Keyed magnetic tether to keep it from being lost if she drops it or is disarmed while flying. The Rifle is tied into her Motion Interface Package for range finding/heat signatures/sighting.

This short-ranged weapon fires six shots per canister. Jhira carries four canisters at her waist, behind her belt pouch.

PR-1 Ravager, Heavy Particle Repeater, is on the opposite side. This heavy weapon has powerful recoil, and Jhira has paired it with a small construction droid. When Jhira deploys the weapon, the dedicated assistant drops down to form a gyroscopic support (as the droid heavy weapons did in the Clone Wars). Old tech, and slower than a shoulder shot or even a traditional tripod, the platform none-the-less gives her a a fairly decent first shot, and allows her to lay down suppression fire from kneeling, not prone. In addition, she uses her built in Mechanic’s Tools for much more stable and precise grip than can normally be maintained even in powered armor. This heavy weapon is tied into her Motion Interface Package for range finding/heat signatures/sighting, also improving her targeting if she fires in short, controlled bursts.

GRENADES:

• 7 Armor Piercing, meant for vehicles, not personnel.
• 3 Ion, meant for Droids.
• 1 Sticky, meant to hold people in place.
• 1 Concussion, meant to knock people down.
• 1 Smoke, meant to create cover.
• 1 Stun, meant to stun, not kill.

Jhira waited, with all the patience of the predator she was. Quiet, still, she might almost be accused of lurking. The night had been long, the celebration painfully healing, but sleep would elude her until some of the questions storming her heart had answers. Who, what had he once been, that Ijaat Mereel whom Saxon had been so unsure of? Unsure? No, that wasn’t right. Yet wary was the wrong word. Hostile didn’t quite cover it, either, it was too tame for what she’d felt from the man-mountain. Violence had been a mere thought away, and yet the mighty warrior had refrained without ever making her feel the danger was past. Why? Who was this man who bore her father’s sigil? All she had learned through rumor and gossip was that he’d come here to have some great sin wiped away. No one wished to discus it with her; she could not quite tell if it was fear of Ijaat Mereel, respect for the Quartermaster, or a desire to protect her. That last was always possible; the captain looked younger than she was.

The new Breshig Cybernetics detailed the world around her with clarity and precision, so she observed the slow, odd progress of her quarry long before he saw her. So focused upon meeting this other Mereel, the only one she’d ever met who was not family, Jhira did not at first register the significance of the old warrior who stopped before Ijaat.

Her heart froze as soon as the buy’ce was slid on. Years of honed reflexes sent Jhira hurtling forward. Her jet pack was yet a lifeless hulk, and without its aid she was just too far away to stop not one, but two lost kinsmen from trying to kill each other. Her HUD lit up, and she silently cursed as men and women who should know better simply looked the other way. What was the death of Clan Mereel, to them?

Vode an. It meant something, to Jhira.

“Ijaat … Jhira dodged a pair of lovers and leapt over a vendor’s stall without so much as jostling a hair or spilling a glass of the warm, spiced cider.

“Huric … Again a leap, this time sliding over the hood of a speeder, she was so close. If only they would keep talking!

“You know why I am here?” Slamming around a giant, ice-shrouded tree Jhira navigated the pool of ice at its feet with preternatural grace.

“Only one reason, get on with it.” A Clan Sigil was torn from Huric’s armor, his soul sundered with it, and tossed upon the ground.

“No, wait!” But her cry was too late. The ruus’alor challenged the man who had once been Alor. Which made no sense, at all, to Jhira. Why challenge for something Ijaat had already said he’d lost?

Blood spattered across Jhira, a drop or two of crimson warmth upon her face, a streak across her chest. A single blow and Huric Mereel lay crumpled at the feet of a man who had just told her that he feared he was the last Mereel.

The once-Alor leaned down and took the Iron Heart, as if proud of killing his kinsman, the action drawing her unwilling attention to a whole collection of such trophies.

Trophies for killing his own vode. But Jhira did not have time to dwell upon it; she knelt and stabbed a stim pack into the man lying in the snow. Maybe he was dead; maybe he was only nearly dead. Either way, she still slapped a trauma patch over the wound, and summoned Mia from wherever she was in the revelry via her cybernetics.

The once-Alor threw money at the feet of a third Mereel,

Jhira lunged to her feet, the movement smooth and impossibly graceful, placing herself between the two men. She knew precisely how she’d take such an act of contempt, and had no desire to see yet another lost kinsmen die today.

“Enough; enough death. You say Huric was once a brother, then throw credits at the feet of his friend? You have not even enough respect or courtesy for either of them or the name we share to simply hand over the were-guild you feel you owe?” The contempt of that last act had ignited a carefully controlled anger, for to Jhira it felt like a provocation. Yet fury would not serve her here, nor did she expect either of them to understand the lonely, grieving sorrow the death of this perfect stranger evoked. So she spoke with the calm, cool tones of a star ship’s captian, though her eyes burned.

“Why did you not simply tell him what you told me? That you were once Alor. Once, not now?” Confused, baffled - the death of a breathless hope. Aye, it was custom that if he won the surviving Clan Member’s regard he might be so again, for it was a true clean slate. But to be killing and dying over it now?

Her gaze flickered to her other distant kinsman, assessing his anger and threat level. Hard to determine the depth of his rage at the once-alor through full Beskar. But she nodded greeting to him, in any case. “cin'vhetin. They say the Quartermaster granted it.” Would he, could he, accept the clean slate while standing over the too-still form of his friend? It might well have beyond Jhira to do so.

Turning back to Ijaat, her voice dropped to baffled. “New start; white snow, only hours old.” “No rank, no crime, no past. The future is what you make of it.”

If all remained calm, she’d take a sept back, allowing her to see and address both men. “Is this the future you wish to create, for the scattered survivors of Clan Mereel? To have us kill each other until there are no more?” Jhira ached for Clan … but not for one that turned and devoured its own corpse.

Turning back to the third man, with his faded, distorted sigil, she said softly, “I’m sorry for your loss. I am Jhira Mereel. My niece, Mia Mereel, comes to see if there is hope for the ruus’alor.”

But she didn’t hold out much hope; not for the Ruus’alor or for Clan Mereel.

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

"He is gone, or will be. He made his choice to challenge my resolve. Nothing personal, strictly business. The man I was... That he saw me fall and become... I would have laid this entire square to carrion with my blade and inventions. It was as much to prove me other from that as it was for vengeance that he challenged me. And I will grieve in my room, and toast the time we hunted kryat dragons together as teens, and him showing me how to use an axe. But by Clan tradition, since I took back my name and rank, he had the right to challenge my resolve and my commitment to becoming anew"

Ijaat spoke the words almost dead, and patted the pouch where the iron heart was and the others hung.

"These aren't trophies. Some I saved the owners of. Some I killed or couldn't save. They each bear a memory and a lesson. To remind me of who I was, who I am, and who I hope to yet be before my number is finally up. Huric would hate me if I lingered to mourn, and he wouldn't want to be kept alive, he'd rather his honor intact. But you should know this with that crest.. Tell me, do you even know our words? How much did your family teach you?"

He made his guess boldly on her being orphaned or unwillingly ignorant of the House and it's ways, and seemed surprised when the other he had tossed the coins too turned his head to look at Huric, then himself. Plainly something Ijaat had said was resonating in him. The man removed his helmet, revealing a Miralukan face, and nodded.

"We will ease his passing, alor. He would be happy to see you have returned as you were."

With that, the man knelt and spoke in soothing tones as the body of the other man stilled and passed from life, while Ijaat eyed Jhira Mereel with weighty look behind the mirrored visor. When his tin-distorted voice annunciated from the vocal unit in the helmet, it almost carried kindness on it.

"I see likely not much of politics in our sphere... Come... Have a drink with me, and I will tell you of Huric and I when we were young, so you might know our family better."

 

[Jhira Mereel]

​

LOCATION: Tor Valum, The Last Mandalorian City | Kestri
Tags: [ Ijaat Mereel ]
Equipment: Cybernetics new from her sheet.

There was nothing more personal than killing, especially if you were the victim. Ijaat had killed the man neatly, cleanly, professionally, yes. Yet his explanation made clear that to Jhira that it was also very personal. A test, a test of Ijaat’s character; to see if he could be trusted within the Clan once more. A pressing need, with a warrior this skilled … and who had apparently committed some horrific act.

Huric had been wiling to give his life to make this trial of his once-Alor. Respect for Huric’s courage and loyalty, his love of his Clan, deepened her sense of loss. Yet the more she leaned, the more wary she became. The flat tone of voice seemed as one fighting to withhold emotion, rather than dead to it. Aching. Yet how did she reconcile that sene of regret and sorrow, with that he’d taken back his rank mere moments after being offered a chance to start new? Before finding some less-lethal way to prove his intent to the Clan? There were just too few, for so wasteful a tactic.

And she did not want there to be a threat so great it justified his act. No, she did not. For the most likely such threat was a Clan member Huric didn’t think he could beat, and whom he profoundly distrusted.

For all Ijaat spoke to Jhira, her sharp gaze remained with Huric and his friend, committing to memory what little she knew of these two. Remembering. Yet the angle of her head, the faint movements therein, betrayed that she listened intently as Ijaat spoke of losing a fight as being equivalent to losing honor. A stillness came over her as dread stole into her heart. She’d seen too much of cannibalism amongst her own people, of leaders so taken in by pride and principle they betrayed everything.

Everything.

But he spoke again, this time of the trophies at his waist, and it eased her tension a bit. Enough to look at him, in any event, though a wariness and ache remained hidden in her gaze. A threat; he became a threat, being Alor rather than as a once-Alor. Yet she visibly withdrew deeper into herself, when he asked of her family and crest, that glimpsed vulnerability masked by a captain’s calm.

The third man removed his helm at last, but did not acknowledge Jhira in anyway. He called Ijaat his Alor, and Jhira remained a silent, unwilling witness to the death of Huric. An odd kindness carried from the helmeted Alor, as he invited her to mourn with him.

Called her family. A moment of pained stillness followed, though it was not in her to deny either of those.

The Miraluka had most carefully ignored her, so she contended herself with a nod of farewell, and falling into step with Ijaat.

“I was taught there is no dishonor in loosing a battle or a challenge. Only in cowardice or refusing to accept the result. If all lessons end in death or dishonor then soon there will be none of us left. Whatever it was he feared in you, he feared for the whole Clan. That, too, is something I’d like to know.”

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

"Once before I trusted someone. My mind died at the hands of a vod I believed I could rely on, that would help me salvage the spark of the Mando'ade. I saw the Sith betraying us before anyone else, saw us become their lackeys. And my rage lead me to listen to poisoned words from Monroe. She wanted to destroy us. And with my mind as her plaything, she nearly did. My hand enacted her will, and Mandalore was nearly destroyed. I fled the persecution of those actions as the horror of it brought my mind back to me, along with the aid of Ashin Cardé Varanin . I was restored to life and given the ability to commune with the Force. As our people sunk lower, I fled my debt to them and Clan and hid. Studied, developed powers, and was selfish. And what I fought so hard to stop came to be anyway, and people like Huric rightly laid as much blame at my feet as at Monroe's. But she paid for her sins, while I am continually pulled to life for one reason or the other. And the incompetency of those who claimed to be Sole Ruler afterward, their bumbling and posturing and the damage from it? In no small way, my sins as well. Huric would see that I had come back for true, and die, than see I was still weak and full of wind rather than deeds. But I have returned, in truth. Iron is our blood are the words of our House, and my will is as the same."

The small monologue done, Ijaat looked to the Miralukan and then to the younger of his clan and nodded. He seemed wearied and bent for a moment as if great weight pressed down on him. How long, if ever, had it been since he had told anyone the details of his fall? Even if brief, he had just told a street of those who bore the same familial bonds and utter strangers the full tale. Resting a hand on the hilt of his beskad and drawing up his height, he nodded to Jhira Mereel and turned to the hab entrance.

"Third on the left, if you still care to learn..."

And with that, the man stepped back into the hab unit vestibule and vanished to sight.

 

[Jhira Mereel]

​

LOCATION: Tor Valum, The Last Mandalorian City | Kestri
Tags: [ Ijaat Mereel ]

Jhira had not expected an answer here and now, on the open through-fare. Had not expected the traumatic sorrow hidden behind the concise recitation of horror, miracle and impossibility. Her mind tripped over restored to life, though she committed to memory the name he gave.

Just in case.

She stirred when he said sole ruler, but did not choose to interrupt such a painful confession.

Restored to life. Studied the force. Dead friend. A desire to be full of deeds, not wind. There was answer here, but the once-and-future alor did not seem to see it.

Iron is in our blood.

Lost in thought, Jhira stood on the cold street, watching friends mourn a kinsman she’d never known. She stood silent, unwelcome vigil there until they’d gathered Hurric up and carried him off. Still she stood, the icy wind crystallizing the blood drops on her face, depositing frost along her hair. Her heart, too, was frozen. Turning, she vanished into the habitat.

Third door on the left.

A firm, courteously brief knock.

“It doesn’t mean sole ruler. People beleive it does, and that’s when they go crazy trying to prove it,”

[/CENTER]

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

The room that was opened up as she spoke and knocked looked like part spartan soldier's bunk that had had a surprise thrift store open in it. Cases of weaponry and tools, half-finished projects. A droid deactivated in the corner was what appeared to be a heavily modified R4 unit with industrial shocks and vibro-hammers, ablative shielding... A forge worthy astromech if ever there was one.

Most of what was littered was largely covered in burlap wrappings, tagged in a neat, angular script of Mando'a as if stating what, who, and when. A private shop, perhaps? Trophies collected? Most the dates had no consistency, some in the past, some in the future. A footA bed sat to one corner, made and tucked so neatly no officer could nitpick, and the battered table sat piled with dataslates and a hardy cardstock he called 'flimsiplast' which was essentially a form of paper that could withstand forge heat better, along with stylus and pencil. An open thermos of caff sat next to them, with a bowl of spice-noodles and a small rocks glass of caramel colored spirits. Tacked next to this table, across from the place where he appeared to have been sitting, was a picture of a much younger version of himself and a red haired woman, along with a gaggle of children, some resembling them, others not, but two looking like clones of Ijaat with the redheads eyes. A battered album showed aurebesh script labeled merely 'Memories'.

A low whine and hum greeted the occupant recognizing Jhira Mereel , and the hefty particle blaster was pulled from a scant inch or two from her face, and he stood aside, cigarra clenched in his teeth wreathing his head and the ceiling in blue-grey smoke of a not unpleasant scent, and a 3-day stubble freshly shorn, towel still around his neck and lather at the jaw and ears. Sometimes, paranoia became reflex.

"Oh? Sounds like you could teach me something then. Come in, have a seat. You can tell me about this mistranslation, and I'll tell you about Mereel"

With that, he kicked the droid behind him and it whirred to life with protest.

"Come on, sha'buir, earn your spark. Help clean our guest a seat.

The droid hurtled abuse at the gar'buir in it's own language but proceeded to clean off and right a stool at the table, and Ijaat merely smiled fondly. Apparently this was their norm it would seem.

 

[Jhira Mereel]

​

LOCATION: Tor Valum, The Last Mandalorian City | Kestri
Tags: [ Ijaat Mereel ]
Equipment: Cybernetics new from her sheet.

The door opened, something Jhira had not been certain would happen. The spartan living area was crisp and empty of comfort or personal effects; the bunk would pass the most exacting inspection and clearly had not been sat upon. The larger area was filled to overflowing with a craftman’s legacy. A very nice R4 unit drew her gaze, as if she were not painfully, precisely aware of the lethal weaponry an inch or so from her still buy'ce-less face. The fact that she held her body and hands utterly still suggested otherwise. Don’t startle the angry, hurting man with a gun in your face.

“You are an Armorer.” The intonation of armorer made clear she did not mean a mere mechanic or an outlaw tech. A sacred thing, the working of beskar and the crafting of the iron skins of the Mando’ade. That droid was built with but one purpose in mind. Scanning the room, the note pad and stylus caught her gaze. “I’m fond of flimsiplast myself.” Old fashioned in some ways, she liked posters on her wall and brochures on her tables. And next to that …

Oh.

A younger version of the Alor looked back at her, frozen in time. A red-head sat beside him, children gathered around. Two held her eyes, and his sculpted features; some bore no resemblance that she could detect. Likely Clan children, or Foundlings; but perhaps he and his lady had had the strength to raise so many themselves. You did was necessary, after all. No Mandalorian was an orphan, not for long, anyway. The book of memories likewise received a long look. She suspected it was normally tucked away.

That it lay there, in anticipation of her visit. Her stomach clenched. She longed for Clan, a real clan more than she could ever express. Yet she feared such ties more than could be easily be understood. Sweet, high quality cigarra smoke wreathed about him, blue grey and deep. The scent of shaving cream and soap confirmed he’d given up on her arrival.

The blaster vanished, and he invited her in, despite her verbal challenge. No snarl of hate, no rage, no rant about how someone who’d only been to Mandalore after its destruction could possibly know anything of the matter. Only an invitation to speak her mind. Frozen for a moment, caught by the unexpectedness of his response, she could only watch as his Droid whirred to live cheerfully insulted Ijaat right back. A smile flickered, and she slipped inside though she paused at the sink and looked back at him. “May I?” if she received permission she’d clean the blood, soot and snow off of her face and hands. You did not bring dirt or infection into a dinning area.

Both helmet and gauntlets remained at her belt, a peace offering of sorts.

“I see you are eating. Do you mind if I order something in?” A lot; he wasn’t eating well. If he was the armorer he appeared to be, he’d need protein and lots of it. And fruit; she doubted there was a fresh fruit in the place. Water, too; she better be certain the unit was up to code. Kestri was new, after all; mistakes could happen.

Snagging the chair the droid had cleaned, she wedged it between piles of precious things, arranging it so that she was facing him.

him.

Ijaat Mereel.

Leaning forward, she rested one arm along the table, grave gaze studying him.

“A ruler compels obedience, they don’t earn it. They enforce their will with arbitrary laws, lawyers sworn to win a debate rather than to find the truth, and conscripted armies.” She paused long enough for him to consider this pragmatic definition of ‘ruler.’

“A leader is chosen by those who follow. They are obeyed through ties of loyalty, honor and the conscious, active, daily choice of their people.” Again, not a dictionary but the actual, cultural way the word was used amongst the Mando’ade.

“In no other instance, anywhere in our language or history, is Alor translated as Ruler, rather than leader. It is my belief that this usage was strictly meant for outsiders who cannot understand our degree of self-organization and independence. That it was never meant for one fluent in Mando’a to misunderstand this distinction.” An aching smile flared.

“And Manda does not mean ‘s - o - l -e’ referring to being the only one. Though that translation is a cognate for ‘soul’ s - o - u - l in Basic.” She let him consider that for a moment.

“But Manda is even larger than a single soul; it is our collective will and conscious, our ‘oversoul.’ The place or ideal state of being our spirits long for whilst we live and return to when we die, only to be brought forth again.” A graceful shrug followed.

“Logically, then ‘Mand’alor’ means ‘spiritual leader.’ An example of everything it means to be Mandalorian. Which becomes a huge protection for us.” she gestured to the outer world, bruised hands oddly fragile against the weight of history.

“Because it does not matter, then, if a particular foe is the fiercest warrior or most deadly Force User to challenge one of us. They must first and foremost be Mandalorian. Follow the Resol’nare fully. Protect and serve their Clan; rally when called. Teach and raise their children. Wear the armor, speak and understand the language. Do you see?” Things like Darth Maul defeating a single warrior to take over the Mandalorian people should never, ever have occurred. He simply did not qualify.

Would the alor understand?

“Self-purges, compulsorily service on threat of a clan being destroyed, and mass destruction of other Mando’ade simple aren’t possible to anyone who truly is our ‘spiritual leader’.”

“Those evils belong to the megalomania of an aruetti’s ‘sole ruler.’”

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

A long drag on the cigarra, and a flared exhale through his nose, looking like some ancient monster as he listened to her speak. Definitely educated, and passionate. Linguistics weren't his strong suit, but the gruff soldier demeanor hid a mind that had been educated and trained on dozens of planets, even before the story of his career in war began in full. Adumar itself taught him much of politics, philosophy. Courting Aerin had required he gain some polish and sheen, at least on the surface.

In this conversation, the goal wasn't to listen to prove her wrong. Nor was it truly to even listen to the deeper message of her words, though he did for his own curiosity sake. No, the goal here was to see if she could make a logical enough framework for her decision that could be married to the ideals of House and Clan. And without fail, the young warrior definitely did. Quite eloquently too.

Draining the whiskey in his glass in a pull, he sighed as she finished, and raised the bottle in offering to her as he spoke.

"I don't disagree on any point you've brought up. Spending so long in the woods, so to speak, you lose sight of the details. For most of my life we have had a Sole Ruler and not a Soul Ruler as you defined it. And no matter that I would agree with you, the march of time presses on, and your generation seems to be clinging to the outside view more and more often. A culture is a living thing, so I did my best to keep Mereel educated on both ways and let the ones to come after me decide in their own wisdom. All you can do as a leader or elder, in the end."

Another long drag on the cigarra, and a slow exhale, blowing a few smoke rings to the ceiling as he let the noodles grow cold. His time in Vur Tepe had taught him how to subsist on little to nothing at all but the Force, though he only did so when engrossed on projects or on an extended mission. It was a dangerous habit to fall into.

"Now tell me... What do you know of our Clan? Do you know any of our habits, our lifestyle, our words, specialties in war or peace time? No disgrace in not, but if you're to bear our name, i'd see you know our history so you can rightly shape our future is all."

Jhira Mereel

 

[Jhira Mereel]

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LOCATION: Tor Valum, The Last Mandalorian City | Kestri
Tags: [ Ijaat Mereel ]
Equipment: Cybernetics new from her sheet.

Sweet, spicy smoke wreathed Ijaat Mereel’s head, escaping through his nose like a dragon of old. He watched her with that same measuring weight, too. Thinking. Considering. He spoke not one word to interrupt, which told her he knew how to hear a whole story without pre-judging or becoming defensive. Downing his whiskey, he offered her some and she slid a tumbler towards him in answer. The amber liquid swirled, sending beads of colored light in all directions.

Jhira relaxed, the offer an unspoken statement that she had not offended him. Reclaiming her tumbler she slid it along her lip, the spice of the smoke and bite of the whiskey mingling, nearly blinding her with sense-memories of her father. Soothing and painful; loss and gain. If the scent of ozone and plasteel had been stronger, she’d have wept.

Aay’han. The bitter-sweet.

A sigh whispered free, as he spoke of Mand’alors of the past. “I have lived in the Outer Rim and Wild space most of my life, not a direct witness to the grief and sorrow you bear. Yet I cannot escape the notion that the close association with the Sith and Force Users has led to this confusion. The Sith Coda is close enough to our own to deceive, I fear.” Finally, she allowed herself a sip of the amber liquid, testing its heat and power, feeling it burn upon her tongue. Letting it trickle down her tongue, she saluted him when he referred to choice for his people as the hallmark of a leader.

The noodles grew cold while they talked; perfect smoke rings floated heavenward in a long moment of silence. Needing to make room for the fresh food to come, she handed the abandoned bowl to the droid, unsure if he’d take it. “I ordered some steak,” a couple dozen “and some of the local fish.” a case, oops? “If there’s anything you’d like, I will get some brought in.” she did not mention the fruit or vegetables - no need to scare him. “Oh. Tihaar and desert; whatever the ‘pie of the day’ was.”

More smoke rings, another thoughtful pause, then he made a scalpel of her wounds and carved out her soul. Attention locked upon the now-empty tumbler in her hands she spoke evenly, the perfect, false calm of a Starship Captain making it seem as if she discussed some total stranger. “My father was Jerel Mereel. He fled to the rim as a young man; he would not say why. He fell in love with my mother, Misha Fett. We lived with Clan Fett; but mother took his Clan name, and they sought to raise my brother and I as True Mandalorians.” Anticipating his protest, grave, aching eyes sought out his. “He made clear I had no claim on the Clan, no rights save to what I believe.”

“He taught me the deeper meaning of the Resol’nare. How it centered our beliefs but did not stand alone. Taught that every principle of the Six Actions is founded upon protecting and nurturing one’s Aliit.”

“He taught me of the Canons of Honor - Kot, Ijaat, Verburyc, Kyr’am.” Strength, Honor, Loyal(ty), Death. “How they link back to and are built from the Resol’nare.” a long, slow breath.

“Of the Supercommando Codex, and why it matters. How our actions affect more than ourselves; more than that one battle.” Her shoulders squared, and she looked away.

“He died when I was 12, during the Netherworld incident. Simply vanished, with most of the Clan I was raised with.” Iron control kept her voice from wavering.

“When I passed by my verd’gotten the following year, I swore the oath he taught us.” A flickering glance back at the judge who sat before her.

“I adhere to the Resol’nare.”

“I am sworn to the Canons of Honor.

“Both my life and my death shall exemplify the principles of the Supercommando Codex.” A pause followed, to shore out her control; to test the level of his fury at her temerity. “As he had done for my older brother, I affixed the scroll to the Mereel badge, to indicate my oath. For I have no right to the sigil upon its own. But anyone at all can strive to be a True Mandalorian.” Her chin lifted in defiance; she wold not apologize, and did not regret it. A graceful gesture brushed the shoulder pauldron with eh badge, then the Mythosaur-and-shield that adorned the front of her armor. Indeed, her Iron Heart was formed of the Shield.

“I know nothing else.”

“I am not Fett nor Awaud, nor yet Mereel.” Only her stillness, and the pain in her eyes told him how much she feared his response.

“I have found those to care for as my Aliit; I am not dar’manda.” an eloquent shrug. “But neither am I whole.”​

​

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

"You are whole. More than I, you are whole. You lack refinement, perhaps... But that can come in time. Come with age, more than anything."

Another inhale on the cigarra and he pondered the bottle in his hand and poured another glass as he sipped this one rather than draining in one go as before. He tapped the stack of data slates and flimsiplast next to them and smiled. This was one of his moments Huric and Aerin used to curse him over. But he knew people, kark it. And this fiery young woman had stood by and berated him and encouraged him with equal fire both. That was sorely lacking these days in any society.

"Those are journals. Treatises. Essays. Not even a fraction of the Clan Library, with thankfully Garron and others failed to purge when I had my fall. From Adumar to Kashyyk and Denon to Coruscant to Mandalore. War. Peace. Philosophy. Even how to play the Adumarian sky-lute in one. Those can refine the mind, but cannot instill the spirit of our family. And that is what you have already. What Huric had, and I have in some part still. It varies, but it is something that I would say you can't learn, but are born with..."

Slow and with a sigh of pleasure tinged with memory, he drained what was left in his glass, a few sips only as he had been steadily imbibing throughout his small explanation to her. He seemed to consider his next words for a moment, fiddling with something on his left hip holster before fishing it out and spinning it out as he spoke.

"Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad. You are whole, if you so wish it. My children have died, or disowned me as father. I will teach what you will need, and when I am gone, you or the one you pick will lead us to the next steps in our path. Do you accept?"

In his hands, between fingers, was a long worn knife of mythosaur bone with a faint Mereel crest on it. He had taken it from the stronghold, and by the etchings it was one of Jaster's blades. Nothing fancy, but the meaning was inherent.

"Besides, I find myself in need of a new Ruus'alor. You'll learn all of our industries, even if you do not pursue the craft. We will design you armor, weaponry, and we will teach you the hallmarks of our Clan and it's ways of war. What say you?"

Jhira Mereel

 

[Jhira Mereel]

LOCATION: Tor Valum, The Last Mandalorian City | Kestri
Tags: [ Ijaat Mereel ]
Equipment: Cybernetics new from her sheet.

Again Ijaat Mereel heard her out; once more he answered her with grace, forgiveness and wisdom. The assertion that she was more whole than he concerned her; clearly some great trauma lay on his heart and tore at his soul. Jhira only nodded agreement about her lack of refinement, a gently amused smile fleetingly appearing. It was as apt a summary of her life as anything she’d ever heard. Mostly, she’d gone from crisis to crisis.

Smoke wreathed them as he refilled his Tihaar, then drew her attention to the stack of data slates and flimisplast she’d been so careful not to stare at. His smile was brilliant; a bittersweet joy, the very embodiment of Aay’han. And oh, but she thought she understood it, as he told her of the precious documents he’d somehow preserved. Spoke of how Clan Garron and Clan Mereel had clashed; so much was hidden in what he said, waiting for her to decode. He traced the history of her people across the galactic map with a few key places.

War. Peace. Philosophy.

A sky-lute?

She clenched her hands to keep from reaching for the collected wisdom, gaze once more drawn to his as he spoke of the spirit of … of our family. Her breath stilll; the felt the power of the plural possessive in his phrasing. She flushed and then paled, a shy smile appearing. To be held to hold the spirit of Clan Mereel wrapped her soul in healing. Though he paused then, to drain his glass, she could not find the way or words to thank him for his gift.

And then.

And then….

Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad

I know your name as my child.

Tears pooled in her eyes. Jhira had not wept since the destruction of her home-world, yet it took all she had not to, just then. Even so shaking hands reached out to clasp his arm, before gently cradling the proffered knife.

“Buir.”

Father.

She was whole, and more than whole. A tear slid free, along with a shattered, sun-bright smile.

“Ba'jurir ni, Buir.”

Teach me, father.

A vast weight lifted from her shoulders; slipping out of her chair, she’d forward and offer to wrap him in a gentle hug, before settling back down into her seat. A moment more of silence followed, before she could achieve coherent speech. Battered fingers slid over the ancient knife, teasing out the signet embedded therein. He could not have found a gift that touched her more deeply, save the one he’d already given her. Aliit.

Clan. Family. Belonging.

“Ruus’alor,” she whispered. It was a vast position of trust; a trust that must run both ways, to the Clan and from it. Yet she had not yet been found when whatever terrible schism had wrenched the Clan apart; it might be she was a choice that would unite the Clan rather than divide it. A still-misty gaze met his once more, considering. He also knew she would speak out, if it were necessary. Help him finish healing. A double duty. “I will safeguard the honor of the Clan, and you wounded heat. I will not fail your trust.”

A deep breath. “I am a ship’s captain so I have no concern over leading, in or out of battle. I have some basic, very basic skills in metal smithing. And I’ve designed some of the modifications to my ship.” Her grin flared brighter; it was clear she took true delight in what technical skills she’d scavenged. “My formal education, however, is indeed lacking.” she nodded reverently to the gathered documents.

Spoiler

ba'jurir	[bah-jur-EER]	educate
ba'jurir	[bah-jur-EER]	raise children

<3 I only put this in, because the double meaning is intentional; both ‘teach me,’ specific knowledge and ‘raise me as your child’

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