https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WxHQwQz7J6c
[member="Davon Karr"] | [member="Cole Dagos"] | [member="Kaia"] | [member="Thurion Heavenshield"]
Waiting. It made him impatient. Truth be told, he was one of the few Mandalorians of note who had any sort of connection to the Silvers. And his was very minimal at best. [member="Coci Heavenshield"] probably didn't exactly connect his face from their brief lessons to that of the haggard Iron Father of the Mandalorians. Sighing, he checked a chronometer. As the only real proper Mandalorian on this one, and easily the most senior of many, he had a sort of informal leadership. There had been a gift planned to the Silver Jedi on his end. A symbol of goodwill, made by his own hands on the trip here from Mandalore. It was rare he did much work of a purely ornamental variety. But, he understood that meetings like this had a certain symbolism and protocol to follow. Gestures sometimes meant more than words, really.
Gesturing back into the shadows of his ship, an astromech trundled forward hauling a repulsor lifted casket with a transparisteel top. It rolled down the ramp to where Ijaat waited. Nestled inside was a beautifully carved and forged replica of an olive branch, oddly enough. Well, to be perfectly truthful it was a bundle of them, bound by electrum bandings capped with symbols of both factions. The idea was that, provided the Silvers did their part and were honest, it would be a gift symbolizing that the two peoples would work together to keep the peace and fix this debacle. But, again, Jedi had proven they were too high and mighty. They were notified of his coming, and of the meeting, by the Cuir Rekr, @Davo Karr. It was no ambush diplomacy or anything.
Yet still, he waited. No one came to greet him. No message of regret. More than a few hours had he stewed with his temper. And now? Now it hand honestly broken past the point of recall. You didn't get to ride upon your high horse to the rest of the Galaxy, claiming Light and Honor. and then spit on people extending a truce they had no obligation to extend in the first place. His eye behind the visor was a narrow slit of pure fury as he gazed on the second item in the gasket. Priceless beyond worth, really. It was a war axe from the Crusades, made of real mythosaur bone. One from his personal armory and collection. Things like these were almost lost to his people, and it was included with the symbol of peace to represent the restraint and support the Mandalorian Clans would offer.
But a different plan lurked now that they had woken his ire.
The casket hissed open at his deft touch, and he withdrew the axe. Hefting it, spinning it in his hands, he smiled thinly behind the T-Visor of his helmet. Dockhands nearby seemed nervous, he could tell that even without the Force. Their fear was a palpable thing that any veteran of war learned to taste on the wind of battle just the same as the coppery tang of blood and the stench of burnt flesh. Muscles quivered as he raised the ancient weapon and focused his mind and the Force and his muscles to the task. Worn and salt-stained leather that had been grasped by countless hands creaked in his grasp, and he sighed in regret as he brought the weapon down in a savage strike aimed for the middle of the velvet lined casket of durasteel.
As he struck, anyone nearby would feel a swell in the Force, and particularly those precognizant or mystically inclined to visions and the like, near and far, would feel a sense of foreboding and dread. The closer they were, the stronger it would become, with those nearest feeling almost an insufferable wave of anger and contempt boiling from where Ijaat stood in his armor. The axe sliced cleaned through casket and branch,stopping only at the repulsor bands the casket was held in, and the impact nailing it to the hangar floor. A thud and depression of air resounded and the Mandalorian sagged for a moment, ragged breath raging from his helmet. He had only wielded this ability once before to this level, and both times it had left him drained and weak for days.
Turning, he ripped the anchors of his cloak off and let it fall, the twinned emblems of Clan Mereel and the Mandalorian people thudding to the ground. They would know who had been here. And unless they had no wisdom between them, they would know what his feelings were. Whilst he had not the authority to declare war in earnest, there was little else to be done from his end. And given he had been trusted enough to be sent on this mission, it was unlikely that he would be ignored. A great deal it would take, in his estimation, for the Council and Cuir Rekr and Manda'lor to not feel the same or think the same of this failed encounter as he did. So he stalked up the ramp to his ship, droid clattering behind him without the casket, and sent out a broadwave to his cohorts as his armor connected to his ships comms.
"Mereel to the Mando'ade delegation.... The Silvers have seen fit to play haughty and ignore us. I left a message... Return to your ships at once and leave system. Do not stop to bandy words with the jetti'se even if they show. They had their chance. Times up."
Slumping into the command chair and drawing a haggard breath he ripped his helmet off and dropped it to the co-pilots seat. His hair was matted with sweat, more black than dark brown because of it, and sticking and clinging to his scalp. Beads of it dotted his forehead. But the look in his cold eyes was utter iron and death. And he began sending a comm to the one who had sent them on this mission, to tell him of his findings, as his ship lifted off and left. They could try and stop him, he supposed... But a beskar hulled ship would be hard to stop, and they'd loose any claim to moral high ground if they did. And that seemed very important to these Silvers. Which saddened him. Thoughts of them initially had proven him wrong. He hated being wrong.
