Private Honour Judgment

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

"I didn't ask you to remove him," Itzhal remarked, his voice laced with contempt, each word a burning bolt of disdain aimed at the other end of the holocall. "What I made clear, despite your claims to the contrary, was that the next time I receive a report with such blatant misdemeanours from one of your deputies, I will handle the situation myself; they're your men, if you can't handle them, then you are not fit for duty. I am exhausted by your excuses. Resolve this situation before our people start paying for your mistakes, Itzhal out."

The holocomm flickered out with a sharp hiss of static, his thumb creaking against the soft extension of the metal handhold and the smooth curve of the internal bracket. His chest ached with the exhale that burst from his lips, a simmering boil of the frustration that had woven deep into the marrow of his bones, until his every thought found itself dissecting the conversation that had only just ended. It didn't make it any better. Somehow, the heat only expanded with every moment wasted overlooking reports that should never have required his personal attention.

He needed to move, needed to do something other than bury himself under paperwork.

Fortunately, Mandalore always offered distractions that could fill his days. With a steadying breath, he took a determined step forward, a small yet significant surge of momentum that hinted at the beginning of 'something'—even if it merely meant plunging into the vast uncertainty that lay ahead as the streets sprawled with life. Skycars zipped overhead, their sleek forms glinting like metal birds against the bright sky, while figures clad in colourful plates of beskar strode past, their gazes fixed elsewhere, oblivious to his presence as they heckled and laughed amongst their small groups. The air was alive with the delicious aromas of mouth-watering spices mingling with the tantalising scents of meat cooking at street stalls, creating a sensory overload that, no matter how many times he experienced it, always felt a little like coming home.

It was only a shame; this wasn't one of his rare off-days, but slacking now would only leave him feeling worse. He lifted his gauntlet, the sleek black metal catching the light as his eyes scanned over the assortment of gadgets that covered its form, and landed upon the most harmless of them all. With a slow twist of the dial that jutted out from the surface, the integrated holocomm filled his Buy'ce with chatter until it reached the right frequency.

"Belay that, I'm in the area, send me the details, and I'll handle it," Itzhal interrupted, well prepared for the resulting silence that followed his direct intervention. Moments later, the information packet streamed to his sensor rig with a short message that had him twisting into the next alleyway.

It didn't take long to reach his objective from there.

Ahead, he saw the four brutalistic towers that rose from the surface in a wave of gunsteel metal, marking the perimeter wall, with only the squat shape of the security booth providing a sole entrance to the facility isolated behind those measures. Raw ferrocrete, rough and unrefined, shaped the exterior walls into harsh lines and jagged edges that seemed to mock any notion of style or aesthetic appeal. Hidden beneath the portico, large, square windows framed the entranceway, covered entirely in the shadows of the second floor, raised high above by the obsidian pillars that braced below.

Itzhal barely noticed the architecture, striding past the security measures that only slowed him for a moment with each check of his identity, allowing him deeper and deeper into the facility until he reached the training rooms. The corridor was quiet, sounds beyond sealed behind the durasteel doors that marked both sides, his steps leading him past half a dozen until he came to a stop with a sharp crack of his boots. With a sharp sequence of taps against the security panel, the door hissed open, and the taste of crimson in the air leaked through his filters.

"Well, ain't this a delightful mess."

Tags: Sylor​

 

[Sylor]

Mandalore
Itzhal Volkihar
​

How it began, I couldn't say. All I knew was that the words had been spoken and the honor duel had begun. I was Mandalorian, though not by birth. I had to be honest with myself about that. But when I was given the honor and privilege of wearing the armor and carrying the name, it became something that had to be taken seriously. This wasn't something you could play with. It wasn't something you could force.

It had to be real, or what was the point? What was the point of any of this?

The duel began at close quarters. Sword against sword, and that alone. My opponent was faster than I expected, but he wasn't faster than me. He had the advantage in strength, that much was true. But speed and precision were my weapons, and I intended to use them. We exchanged a quick succession of strikes, the sound of steel cutting through the air, clearly heard with every near miss.

Then an opportunity presented itself, and I took it.

I drove forward with a flurry of attacks, followed by a sharp punch that broke his rhythm. He responded with a wild swing of his blade, but it was already too late. I stepped aside and sent him crashing to the ground. No, I wasn't going to kill him. But when this duel was over, he would know my name.

I wasn't the best warrior among the Mandalorians. I was simply good enough to prove I belonged.

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

"Well, ain't this a delightful mess," Itzhal's voice resonated through the cramped confines of the duelling room, the rich sarcasm in his tone mingling with a hint of dark amusement. Beneath the polished visor of his buy'ce, his expression betrayed none of the humour in his words; instead, it was set into a deep frown, the corners of his mouth taut with concern, as he stared upon the scene before him.

A solitary overhead light emplaced in the ceiling cast a stark, harsh beam that sliced through the relative dimness of the room. The luminous glow illuminated the centre with an almost clinical precision, which reminded Itzhal of the inside of an interrogation booth, while long, jagged shadows crawled ominously up the uniform grey walls.

Beneath the piercing light stood a formidable figure, humanoid in form, completely encased in a gleaming set of beskar'gam, with not even the barest hint of paint on what appeared to be freshly produced beskar plates—it was, in a way, almost more distinct than if he'd painted it in the most garish of designs or exotic embellishments. Unusual, but not outright suspicious, nor in truth, connected to the reason why he was here.

The Morellian turned instead towards the weapon in the suspect's hand; fingers gripped around the hilt of a training blade, its edge marred and rough, bearing the scars of relentless practice and recent impacts.

Splayed out across the floor, with limbs askew, the other side of those recent impacts looked worse for wear, their once-proud armour in a familiar scheme of black and red, tattered with deep dents and scratches, particularly around the right side of their torso, where the impact of recent blows had left their body curled around the impact.

Itzhal's visor flickered to life, a relaxing blue hue spreading across the screen, as sensors scanned the figure sprawled across the floor. His buy'ce hummed softly, systems recalibrating before a holographic schematic of the figure materialised, highlighting critical areas—red light pulsing softly along their ribs, and a splodge of worrying purple around the base of their neck.

"Since neither of you happens to be dead," Itzhal drawled, his voice smooth and unhurried as he strode into the room, across the invisible boundary that separated the victorious figure of the unpainted Mandalorian and his unconscious adversary sprawled on the ground. "I suppose I shall extend the courtesy of asking questions first, rather than jumping to conclusions about why neither of you fine gentlemen appears to have the necessary authorisation to be using the facility at present."

Deliberately, he shifted his Buy'ce from side to side, his visor turning away from the armed figure, even as his visor displayed their position in stark detail. "Surely, you're aware that these duelling chambers require prior booking before any use, unless you intend to tell me that your intention for this fight was to go unnoticed?"

"At which point, I assure you, I am all ears."

Tags: Sylor​

 

[Sylor]

"Since neither of you happens to be dead," Itzhal drawled, his voice smooth and unhurried as he strode into the room, across the invisible boundary that separated the victorious figure of the unpainted Mandalorian and his unconscious adversary sprawled on the ground. "I suppose I shall extend the courtesy of asking questions first, rather than jumping to conclusions about why neither of you fine gentlemen appears to have the necessary authorisation to be using the facility at present."

"I wasn't aware this required permission to be used. He seemed quite eager to... tango." I glanced toward my fellow Mando lying on the ground and walked over, offering him a hand. Pulling him back to his feet, I gave a small shrug.

"He was eager, and it's safe to say I was eager to shut his mouth. Honor was at stake." I watched as he moved away before turning my attention back to Itzhal. "It won't happen again. Unless someone else decides to speak on matters they know nothing about. If that happens, then I'm sure the outcome will be the same. Especially if they are being incredibly rude."

My voice remained as calm as could be, despite the small duel that just too place. Code, Mandalorian Honor was not a game, and neither was speaking out of place and being disrespectful.

Itzhal Volkihar​

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

"You might find it remarkable just how frequently the phrase 'I didn't know' is wielded as an excuse on this planet, or perhaps you wouldn't, given the circumstances you're currently facing," Itzhal remarked, as he turned his buy'ce slightly, allowing a sliver of his visor to be visible to Sylor as he continued "People often use ignorance as a shield, but in reality, it only highlights a lack of responsibility."

Dropping to one knee, his fingers wrapped delicately around the thin stretch of the unconscious Mandalorian's wrist, bringing their gauntlet closer as his own extended a slender stretch of metal that slipped into the connection port with a soft click. "If you find yourself curious about the matter, the reason enclosed sparring rooms like this require a scheduled appointment is so we are aware of your location. It allows us to be prepared, especially in the case that someone is injured."

He paused, his breath slow and steady as information streamed across his visor in a haze of blue light.

"When one decides to avoid those measures, it becomes a question whether it is a sign of incompetence or malice," he slowly pivoted his Buy'ce towards Sylor, the bright spotlight overhead casting a harsh glow over the sleek plane of his visor. In the reflection of transparisteel, the freshly produced beskar plates gleamed with their naivety. "I assure you, they care very little whether or not it was a matter of honour. Nor is your honour likely to be particularly bothered if you find yourself in a jail cell, as a consequence of your actions."

With deliberate care, he began to lower the Mandalorian's wrist back to the ground, allowing it to settle with a dull thump, the metallic gauntlet ringing softly as it made contact with the hard plating of the floor. "On this occasion, I think you are fortunate that it appears Mr Vevut has suffered no worse than a minor synaptic scramble."

Pressing off the ground for support, Itzhal lifted to his feet with a shuffle of steps that placed himself between the two suspects, "Still, while we wait for the medics, perhaps you would explain what you considered so impactful that it had the possibility of shattering your honour, such that it could only be recovered by smacking each other with metal sticks. For the record, of course."

Tags: Sylor​

 

[Sylor]

Mandalore
Itzhal Volkihar​

Sylor didn't smile, just kept a stone cold face beneath the visor, the more he heard, the more he understood. However he unnderstood this many years ago. "Perhaps a better excuse would be, I didn't care. When you say a word against Clan Verd, joking or not." He glanced over to the one he put on his ass. "Someone is getting knocked down, and it isn't going to be me."

Sylor moved to the table off too the side, raised his helmet for a brief moment, taking a small swig of water.

He set it back down, lowering his helmet.

"Introductions are in order I see. My name is Sylor, Protector to House Verd, and our Mand'alor." He held his hand out towards Itzhal. "You are?"

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

As always, one of his people managed to achieve the remarkable feat of saying so little. It was hardly surprising; it seemed almost part of the job, since he could hardly count the number of people who had answered his questions with the barest of excuses. In that regard, the man standing before him was no different from the rest, delivering retribution for an insult that left no mark on his beskar'gam. He wasn't the first, nor would he be the last—not as long as Itzhal held the reins.

There would always be more people determined to solve their problems with a fist to the face.

At times, Itzhal blamed the culture of his people—the ingrained violence that had spiralled from the legend of Mand'alors and the belief that might made right. He wasn't wrong on those days. Nor was he entirely right; there were so many problems that could be reasonably addressed with a perfectly executed punch to the deserving target. It wasn't as if Mandalorians had a stranglehold on the entire concept. In fact, he was sure they had tried. Just as he was sure that somewhere, someone else was already winding up for the next strike.

"I worry for House Verd's foundations, if it cannot weather laughter," Itzhal remarked, his voice as dry as the dunes of Ordo.

He trailed closely behind them, the space between the victorious combatant and their unconscious victim widening with every step, until finally they came to a halt. When the victor announced their name—albeit in an abbreviated form—Itzhal took a moment longer than he would have preferred to fully grasp the significance of it. A slight itch at the back of his head, certain he knew more than just their weathered face. The last pieces of the puzzle slotted into place with the mention of their role; Supercommandos were a rare breed, and the name Artorious Sylor Varek would never be mistaken for a common name, not within Mandalorian Space at least.

Slowly, his visor shifted towards the extended hand.

"Ni cuyir Itzhal be Ha'yr Volkihar, Cabur be Nadetr," Itzhal's voice resonated with authority as he made his proclamation. He did not merely introduce himself; he decreed it, demanding recognition from those who understood the mantle that lay upon his shoulders, an honour and a burden of responsibility in tow.

With a measured grace, Itzhal extended his arm, the movement fluid and purposeful, as he reached out to shake hands with the man standing before him. A thin, grim smile lingered just beneath the shadow of his visor, as his fingers sank deeper into the callouses of Sylor's hand. "Bal naasad cuyir yihycin va."

Tags: Sylor​

 

[Sylor]

Mandalore
Itzhal Volkihar​

"I worry for House Verd's foundations, if it cannot weather laughter,"

He chuckled lightly. "Noted" Sylor gave a slight tilt of his head. "Believe me, the foundations are strong." Sylor looked back as everything seemed to fall back into place, they were talking amongst themselves once more, life in this land would go on. Just as it had for centuries.

He clasped the hand of the Mandalorian before him. He declared who he was, and Sylor reacted with a simple nod. Perhaps the announcment of his title to ease things back into place, or even perhaps to strike a semblance of fear into those that didn't know who he was. Either way, it seemed to be working for the masses.

"Well met, Itzhal, Protector of Law." Sylor released his hand. "None are untouchable." He repeated as he glanced back before facing him once more. "Unbroken, that's another matter entirely."

"Shall we walk, Protector?" Sylor inquired, cool eyes peering through the visor of his helm.

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

With deliberate slowness, Itzhal withdrew his hand, letting it drift down to rest against the sturdy metal brace of his belt. His index finger instinctively curled into the hollow space where a flashbang should have been, a stark reminder of the preparations that had fallen to the wayside in the pursuit of ensuring the Protectorate flourished. It was necessary; one man alone was not enough to police the frontier, nor could an empire function without those who enforced the laws of civilisation upon their varied cultures. A single missing flashbang was hardly an inadequate exchange for the dozen men and women he'd organised in the past few hours, no matter how much the little twinge in the back of his head complained about an incomplete arsenal.

He was hardly unarmed. Still, it was something to fix once he had a moment—one never knew when a sudden flash might be helpful. Under the circumstances, though, he imagined that one right now might be rather provocative.

Better to just keep things to an exchange of words, at least for now. Not while Sylor was interested in keeping the peace, fragile as it may have been, with an offer to head elsewhere. The harsh light of the spotlight above followed the gleam of Itzhal's buy'ce as it shifted towards the downed member of Clan Vevut, still unconscious, though his scanners didn't report further worrying symptoms beyond an assortment of bruises along their right side, reduced as the blows were by the impact gel within his armour.

"Another time, perhaps," Itzhal drawled, the metallic tinge of his vocalizer carrying the sound of his voice across the room with practised ease. "I'd best make sure the medics arrive before I leave this one. One question, though. That final blow; it didn't hit anywhere near the helm, nor do my scanners pick up a shock-implement in your blade, and yet he lies unconscious. I take it you used the force somehow?"

Tags: Sylor​

 

[Sylor]

Mandalore
Itzhal Volkihar ​

"Another time, perhaps,"

"I'd best make sure the medics arrive before I leave this one. One question, though. That final blow; it didn't hit anywhere near the helm, nor do my scanners pick up a shock-implement in your blade, and yet he lies unconscious. I take it you used the force somehow?"

"Fair enough." Sylor responded easily, and then after the next question a soft chuckled escaped his mouth. "No." He said with an easiness, and truth to it. He looked back towards him, on the ground before back to Itzhal.

"No, I only use the force, as a very last resort. And that would be in more deadly situation." Sylor leaned in just a bit. "Much more deadly." His vocalizer giving the perfect tone.

"It was....interesting to say the least, to meet you, Protector of Law." Sylor gave a slight nod as he moved passed him. "Good luck on your path."

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