Faction Inheritance (DIA)

[Zara Saga]

On the heels of: The Gravesong War
(Small thread, come have fun, nothing super serious. Follow Zara along. Provide some relief efforts. Explore, it's up to you.)​

Prologue:
Zara stood at the edge of the Central Park encampment, her long coat tugged by Taris' cold, ash-laced winds. The sky above was sick with rot-colored clouds, and the air carried that stale electric scent of too many unburied dead. The Diarchy had not arrived, not officially, but here she was, standing among scavenged tents and makeshift barricades.

Her boots crunched over broken duracrete. A child coughed in the distance. One of hers stood nearby, scanning the crowd with the practiced disinterest of a career ghost. They wore plain uniforms, old insignias sewn on with sloppiness so intentional it was practically theatrical. They were here to offer relief, not retribution. Not yet.

Zara passed through the field hospital like a specter of compassion, her fingers trailing over datapads, checking vitals, nodding at overworked medics like she belonged. She made a point of crouching beside the dying, of whispering things they'd remember, if they lived. That she was here because the Diarchy hadn't forgotten them. That order was coming. That suffering was temporary, but loyalty could be eternal.

She smiled when she said these things. She was very good at smiling.

Later, when she met with the local provisional council, Zara poured them all the same lukewarm caf and promised fire.

"You've been abandoned too many times," she said, her voice honey over razors. "Taris deserves more than warlords and absentee regimes. You deserve a future built by those who were born here… who bled here."

She let the silence stretch just long enough before continuing. "The Diarchy is not here to claim. We're here to return."

One of the bureaucrats scoffed. "You're here to make a land grab."

Zara leaned in. "I'm here because Reign and Rellik were forged on this planet. While the Alliance politicked and Mandalorians let you burn, the Diarchs were surviving. Becoming. Taris is not a symbol to us, it's a scar. And you don't ignore your scars. You grow stronger around them."

Nocturne would've applauded. Maybe even smirked.

Back in the camp, Zara found a woman named Arlen, a grizzled ex-smuggler who claimed to have known Darth Kakus when she was a teenager running spice for the Sith. She smelled like tar and regret.

"He wasn't like the others," Arlen muttered. "He didn't want to rule. He wanted to… shape. Everything. Even his kids. Thought if he got it just right, he could end suffering.

Zara took it all in, her mind cataloging every word, every twitch. A thousand threads, and somewhere in them was the true legacy of Kakus. Something the Diarchs never said aloud. Something they perhaps didn't know themselves.

She had already chosen this world as a gift for her masters. And nothing, no melody, no Mandalorian, no bureaucrat, was going to keep it from them.

---

The cantina stank of synthale, sweat, and disappointment, Zara could practically taste it in the back of her throat as she stepped onto the low platform that passed for a stage. The lights were dim, the music dead, and the crowd? Tired. Hardened. The sort of people who'd learned to stop believing in saviors sometime around their third planetary occupation.

Perfect.

She let the silence drag. Her coat was unbuttoned just enough to suggest style, not seduction. Her hair was pulled back in a severe, efficient twist that practically screamed authority, but make it hot. She didn't need a weapon. Her voice was the weapon.

"I know what you're thinking," she said, her tone teasing, almost amused. "Another outsider. Another speech. Another flag trying to plant itself on your soil and pretend it was always here."

Murmurs. Some eyes rolled. One man took a drink like it was the only thing keeping him from walking out. Zara's smile widened.

"You're not wrong. You've been passed around more than a forged credits chit. But that ends now. Not because someone out there wants Taris. But because someone from here remembers what it deserves."

She walked slowly along the edge of the platform, making eye contact like it was currency.

"The Diarchy is coming. And this time, it's not with chains. It's with fire and healing. With unity. With order. You won't be ruled, you'll be remembered."

Her voice dropped, intimate now. Almost conspiratorial.

"They say freedom is messy. That peace is fragile. That unity is impossible." A pause. "So maybe it's time we stop listening to them."

She let it hang, then raised her glass, water, not that anyone would dare question it.

"To Taris," she said. "To those who stayed. To those who fight. And to those wise enough to choose the future before it arrives."

And force, she looked so damn proud of them, it almost made them believe it too.

​

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

TARIS - CANTINA

The cantina still reeked of gunpowder and rot.

It wasn’t the smell of synthale or sour sweat that clung to the walls. No. It was the stench of war—fresh and recent. The kind that still clung to one’s armor, to one’s soul, long after the last blaster bolt fell silent. Taris had been besieged by necromantic horrors. The dead had risen—not as echoes, not as spirits, but as mockeries of life. And when the cries for help rose, it was Mandalore who answered.

The Central Park Encampment had not appeared out of nowhere. It was erected by the Mandalorian Empire, driven into motion the moment word of the crisis reached Sundari. They didn’t hesitate. They didn’t politic. Warriors dropped from orbit. Streets were cleared. Children pulled from the arms of the damned. Fires extinguished. Graves defended. Lives saved.

And now, after the last crypt had been purged, after the last civilian had been ushered into triage tents, after Mandalorians died to keep this world breathing, the Mand’alor allowed himself a moment of quiet. A single breath.

The cantina to be was his sanctuary tonight.

It was here that Aether Verd, still clad in black and crimson beskar, sat surrounded by those who had fought, bled, and lost. Supercommandos. Protectors. Civilians who had taken up arms in desperation. All of them scarred by the day’s horrors. All of them clinging to the barest edge of peace.

And then she stepped on stage.

An outsider.

He did not know her name. Did not care to. What mattered was the audacity of her words. This nerf herder spoke like a liberator, as if she had waded through the blood and ruin. As if she had earned the right to speak for Taris. As if the Mandalorian Empire had not just finished clawing this world back from the jaws of oblivion.

Strike one.

She spoke of healing and fire, of unity, of being remembered—as though her masters in the Diarchy had done a damn thing for these people. As though their arrival wasn’t insult atop injury.

Strike two.

She painted herself as a savior. Called the Mandalorians absentee. Claimed a world that was not hers to claim.

Strike three.

Aether rose.

The motion was slow. Purposeful. His gauntlet scraped the edge of the table as he stood, the sound drawing silence like a blade through the room. His helmet tilted toward the stage, golden visor unreadable—but the weight of it was unmistakable.

Every Supercommando in the room rose with him.

And the Mand’alor spoke.

"You dare walk onto our soil and speak as if your hands are bloodied with today’s war?"

His voice carried like thunder, slow and terrible.

"You call yourself a herald of unity. Of fire. Of healing. But where were you when the dead clawed through the streets? Where were you when we carried children from burning homes? Where was your Diarchy when our dead were buried with honors, and yours had yet to lift a finger?"

He took a step closer. The floor groaned.

"Taris is not a symbol to you. It is not a prize. It is an ancestral world of the Mandalorians. Since the Darkness. Since the Old Wars. This soil remembers our bootsteps. This sky remembers our banners."

He pointed one armored finger toward her.

"You are not welcome here. Not now. Not after the blood that was spilled. Not after the gall it took to piss on our dead while the ashes still settle."

There was no rage in his voice. Only truth. And weight. The kind of weight only a Mand’alor could carry.

"You will leave. Not just this cantina. Not just this city. You will leave Mandalorian space. Or I will carve a message into the stars for your Diarchy to read."

And then came the quiet clatter of rifles locking into ready position. Not from Aether—but from every warrior beside him. Their faces unreadable. Their grief weaponized.

“You want to make speeches? Do it in your own house. This one already has a roof. And a people who remember who bled for them.”

A pause. A breath.

"The Mandalorian Empire did not come for conquest. We came because we never left. We came because this is home. And we protect our own."

He turned then. Not dismissive, but done. The kind of finality that ended wars.

And as he walked back to his table, he spoke one last time—loud enough for the room.

“Taris is not a scar. Taris is a wound that we sealed shut with our own flesh. And we will not let your parasites fester in it again.”

The cantina held its breath.

And then the room roared—not with applause, but with belief.​

Zara Saga + Open

 

[Rokul]

Location: Taris
Tags: Zara Saga Aether Verd

Field hospitals weren't the place for Rokul. He knew that. It was impossible for him to put on a caring smile, or a caring bedside manner. It had to be real for him. He couldn't act. So he knew that having a man just stood there, with a cold expression on his face wouldn't help anyone. He wanted to help at the end of the day but it was impossible for him to aid in what he deemed the most important role. Saving the innocent. This was the first time he wanted to do something without being ordered to do it. Being told to do it. It had been so long ago, but he could recall records of Taris suffering from the Sith, in the same way his home of Dantooine had so long ago. So in a small, perhaps misguided way, he felt a kinship with these people. Perhaps that was why he had wanted to help...

So he did what he could do best. He lifted. He carried. The streets were damaged from the battle that had went on and whilst others would be mourning the dead, caring for their sick and injured, or debating about what steps to take next, Rokul had headed out onto the streets. A silent hulking figure that moved without a single word. Lifting rubble from piles, helping to clear out the entrances to building. Hard labour was what he was good at. Not warming people's hearts, putting their minds at ease. It was something he was slowly growing to resent about himself. But it was who he was. And who he was benefitted the Diarchy. So he wouldn't change it for anything.

The sound of tears snapped Rokul out of his thoughts as he made his way towards the source, finding a small child covered in cuts and bruises. His eyes darted towards the rubble around, pushed off to the side, with small little handprints pressed up against them. It appeared as if the child had pushed their way out from beneath the rubble. They were strong. Rokul approved. A small smile crept onto his face as he crouched down to look at the child, clapping his hand onto their shoulder, watching the tear-filled eyes looking up at him

"I dunno where my Mama and Papa are...They weren't home when the monsters came...It hurts."

His smile quivered for a moment. Rokul took in a deep breath for a moment, before raising his hand up to ruffle the kid's hair. That was meant to be comforting right? He had hoped at least.

"...They might be at the Park. There's a lot of people staying there right now. You know the way, yes? Can you move?"

Rokul waited for the child to nod, giving his own in response.

"My hands hurt, and my leg is sore...but I can walk."

Rokul gave yet another curt nod at that, turning his head behind himself for a moment to look the way he came back from.

"You can make your own way there then. You don't need my help. You're strong."

And with that, Rokul made his way off towards the nearest cantina. For once in his life, he felt like he needed a strong drink.

It was in the cantina that he saw the familiar sight of the Archon of Light. A small smile played at his face as he shook his head, making his way over towards the counter to get a drink. Zara was making a speech. She was good at those. She could inspire people. She could inspire Rokul, even during his attempts to be stoic.

Yet the atmosphere in the cantina seemed to get tense. A Mandalorian rose up to speak. Rokul did not care much for their people. Dantooine wore the scars of their involvement as much of the Sith. It might have been centuries ago, but for Rokul, grudges would last for a millennia. His eyebrows raised at the sound of the cheers and and belief, breaking out into a bemused smile, as he spoke out loud, mostly to himself.

"It's amusing how easily belief can switch from organisation to organisation. It was not that long ago that the Alliance held claim over Taris. Yet the moment it changes position in the Galaxy, it's as if the planet shrugged off all its past allegiances."

Of course, it was the Neo-Crusaders who had attacked the city when its position had changed...yet Rokul couldn't help but admire the frivolousness of a planet that would throw their Faith into the same culture that also attacked them not so long ago. It wasn't like him to speak up...but something about the situation highly amused him.
​

 

[Runi Kuryida]

Vytal Noctura had supported the Mandalorian strike against necromatic powers, but once matters turned toward sustaining the peace the two mystics exchanged places. Runi the Shaman specialized in comforting the wounded and counseling the lost; while the Witch was used to protecting her coven, her sisters, and crushing her foes. Both could serve in place of the other, but they focused on different aspects. Now was the time for healing. For dealing with the fallout even in the wake of victory.

With her bone helmet slung behind her, Runi drifted through the masses. Her hazel eyes surveyed all those in sight. Her gaze lingered at times and soon her steps followed toward a soul in need of comfort. She could see on a level few others could; perceive the pains and wounds left by the passage of time even in the living. Not all matters could be solved in a single day, but they could take the first step -- they could stop the bleeding.

The devastation had been such that Runi had called upon even the Mandokarla back in Resa, Kestri to come tend those in need. Not as guards, but counselors. It was their calling. The purpose of the Mandokarla. It was uplifting every time she saw them collectively in action -- not just as warriors, but defenders of the peace of the heart, of the mind, and of the soul.

So many in need. So little time. They would work through the night in an effort to reach every one.

Runi ducked her head down as she stepped into the cantina. Just because they weren't lain up in a cot, or outside sobbing, didn't mean the occupants were in any less need for support. Some people buried their problems with alcohol or addictive substances. Better if she could help them from ignoring the trauma that would haunt them the rest of their life if they let it -- and, often, even if they didn't.

A woman seemed to be speaking with a surprising energy given recent events. The Shaman straightened up and fixed her with hazel eyes. The Diarchy was coming? Her attention slid to the side over to where the Mand'alor sat with others that had fought on Taris' surface. His helmet made his face unreadable. His discipline kept his emotions from being read by those that knew 'the Force.' Yet, the Shaman knew the words being spoken in that moment would draw a reaction. Not the reaction Zara Saga likely expected, but a reaction all the same.

As Aether rose, Runi stepped off to one side and dropped a hand on the shoulder of a woman that sat at one of the tables. The Mand'alor didn't need her to argue for him, and the list of those in need would not grow shorter if she stopped to watch in silence as the brewing storm. She knelt down and spoke quietly to the other woman, and listened to the pains and horrors they'd witnessed. The dead rose. Mandalorians flooded the streets. The living fought to stem the tide with growing desperation not to become the enemy their selves. Countless, innocent people that had eagerly lived humble lives corraled in the Central Park; huddled, panicked, bleeding, and dying. Sights and sounds that echoed long after the haunting music had ended, and the dead had been laid to rest once more.

With a soft sigh, Runi's eyes lifted to regard Aether Verd as he sought to return to his table. Shouts of support rose, which tore the woman's gaze away. It was difficult to counsel someone with such a large distraction scarcely out of arm's length. Well, a rousing affirmation of support by the Mandalorian leader would do to ease some nerves as well.

"Deed speaks louder than word," Runi intoned. She'd heard what Rokul had murmured, even intended only for himself. "People often discard what transpired in the past in favor of a bright future tomorrow. I believe the Lady knows this," she added with a slight nod in Zara's direction. Though certain things were not so easily forgot -- especially when they had only just happened. "I am Runi." It would be impolite not to at least give the man her name, whether he chose to respond or not.

 

[Laphisto]

Laphisto had barely made land fall. Barely had the Lilaste order running damage control. Boots were on the ground soldier and warriors alike staring off the dead - or helping to mol up what was left of them - and rescuing civilians. Pulling both living and dead from the rubble of collapsed buildings. A few Squadrons had gone out of Thier way and sought out mandalorians in the area. Offering Thier support. They were a body. An extra weapon another set of hands, and the men made it clear. They were here to follow orders lend a hand anywhere the mandalorians directed them.


It was as laphisto had instructed. They were visitors. But more then that they were to a degree distant cousins. After all he had shaped. And molded the Lilaste order in Thier image. In one way or another they operated on the same base line just different. An extra branch here. A missing branch their. Similar but different in Thier own ways. It was during his March through the central encampment that Tarian flagged him down his stance was tense. As if something urgent had happened " it's bad sir. The blond one, y'know lots of attitude. It seems she's gone off and made a speech about saving this world. A few of my men are in the tavern now, and it seems she's angered the local mandalorians I figure, your clan ordo. Maybe you might be able to temper. Things before we end up in a fire fight."

Laphisto took a soft breath grabbing at the bridge of his nose. Rumbling to himself as he checked the datapad. The tavern wasn't that far. " Alright commander let's try and keep the peace ."

---

As laphisto pushed into the tavern he had managed to catch Aether Verd 's last few sentences and the Cheers as they sprang up laphisto's lone ear pinned back on his head as he grabbed a nearby cup of ale and rose it to the air. If his tall stature wings and large sweeping tail didn't command enough attention he shouted in mando'a "Par Mand'alor!"

It was only a moment later that the few Lilaste order troops on the tavern seemed to repeat the words. Wither they knew or understood the meaning was yet to be known. Lowering his glass he looked over at Zara Saga before pushing himself forwards heading for aether.

 

[Diarch Reign]

​

Location: Taris
Tags: @Open

---

He had descended alone. No Myrmidons, no fanfare. Just a man, hooded and cloaked. The relief mission had been known to him, anything involving the planet of Taris came immediately to the Diarch’s desk. But not this.. the assault of the dead that had happened here had come as a shock to Reign.

Diarchy assets had mobilized as soon as word had reached Bastion, but it appeared this mandalorian state, successor to the Neo Crusaders, had already returned order.

So he walked. Lifting rubble here, tending to wounds there. Until he found himself in front of an old fruit stall in the central plaza.

An old man sat nearby, the trauma of what had transpired clear on his face.

“I remember always getting the best Jogan fruit here. I wonder what happened to that old man. He saved my hide once getting jumped by a swoop gang”

Reign spoke with a soft smile on his lips. The times of his youth coming back to him. It wasn’t a fond memory, but growing up on Taris was hard, and it forged him into the man he was.

“The old man that ran this stand is sitting right here”

The man had said sounding rather offended. He looked up at the mountain of a man, dirty blonde hair and striking green eyes stirring a memory in him.

“You’re that kid! The old healers son right? You and that wisp of a brother were always getting into fights”

Reign laughed then. His brother Diarch Rellik had been fond of mind games and taunting the gangs in their youth.

He spoke kindly to the man

“I used to be. I haven’t been able to step foot on Taris in years.. it’s good to be home.”

He left then, it was no lie, Reign had managed to return to Taris one time since his father’s disappearance and the encroachment of the Galactic Alliance had forced him and his brother out.

The Diarchy had not been strong enough to return then, nor to challenge the Mandalorian Neo Crusaders that had come. But perhaps, this new Mandalorian Empire could be reasoned with.

He set off towards a familiar cantina to see what he could discover.

 

[Ze'bast Verd]

TAG: Aether Verd | Open

Everything here seemed broken.

It wasn’t only just the structures and surrounding area, but people’s hearts. Death and rot stung his nose and left a bitter taste in his mouth. Hordes of dead still moved behind his closed eyelids. Endless droves of Taris born and dead Mandalorians. Ze’bast learned to sleep through it. Where shadows dwelled, he endured. It wasn’t the first he or his men had experienced conflict. It was a first for many to experience an abomination such as what Harrow had put them through.

Supercommandos were resilient. Tried and true warriors. It wasn’t simple to just replace one that had ample experience. Those that fell victim to this physical embodiment of depravity fought honorably. He personally made sure that their bodies returned back to Mandalore and back in the hands of their clan. Something that he made his personal policy. Leaving the bodies of his vod behind wasn’t a pleasurable experience.

As one of the Supercommando Field Marshals, he had made his rounds around the Central Park Encampment. Rifle in hand ready for any potential threats that may occur. They’ve had one too many surprises for comfort. Rally masters would give their reports and double check security points. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary so far. Dark emotions all around were strong. He could feel the tension and uneasiness in those he passed through the Force. It was like a gripping and clawing at the back of his neck. He hoped that one day, this place would find some slither of “peace.”

Ze’bast moved into the cantina and sat down close to Mand’alor the Iron. His weapon stayed ready in his hand as he sat down. He heard the words of the outsider as his eyes cut over to her direction.

Who was this she, Zara Saga ?

Was there no tact for who sat in her very presence.

Maybe she simply just didn’t understand. Could also be that she didn’t care for who heard.

But whatever her ignorance, Ze’bast wouldn’t allow the names of the dead, or what Aether had built, to be disrespected. Not in his presence. He wished no harm to anyone here, but slander had consequences.

Aether’s rising would be met by the Supercommandos rising, throughout the cantina, with him. Ze’bast tilted his head to the side with his rifle now in a low ready position. The words that lashed out from Mand’alor the Iron echoed with righteous fury. For the sake of those that fought, died, and those that lived, something had to give.

When Laphisto stepped toward the Mand’alor, Ze’bast matched his movement. One step forward. A tilt of the head. His voice came out like tempered steel.

“Ke’mot! That’s close enough.”

The t-shaped visor offered no expression, but its silence promised consequence.
​

 

[Merion Oreno]

Ze’bast tilted his head to the side with his rifle now in a low ready position. The words that lashed out from Mand’alor the Iron echoed with righteous fury. For the sake of those that fought, died, and those that lived, something had to give.

When Laphisto Laphisto stepped toward the Mand’alor, Ze’bast matched his movement. One step forward. A tilt of the head. His voice came out like tempered steel.

“Ke’mot! That’s close enough.”

Now truth be told, the death cultist in the corner, the big guy in a Central Isopter helmet with a starweird's flayed face stretched over it, had been wincing at both sides' speeches for a while. He'd overdosed on speeches back on Eshan, growing up in very self-important circles. His sense of intellectual honesty made him want to judge the Diarchy's performance here by the same standards as the Mandos' and yet he was — a human would have said 'only human' — only Echani. The Diarchy was his team and these were Mandos and the old cultural rivalry was a real and lasting thing. More than once since reaching Taris he'd found himself measuring Mandos for a fight.

He hadn't yet followed through on any such moments of speculation. Having died a hundred thousand times, he was not inclined to risk a hundred-thousand-and-first.

But when Ze'bast Verd did his rifle thing and 'close-enoughed' Laphisto , who Merion respected, Merion found his feet. He didn't pull anything from under his cultic robes. He definitely made sure his helmet recorders had enough juice left for a long day ahead. And he headed slowly for Laphisto just in case.

The moment could have used diplomacy. Alas, starweirds had eaten his diplomatic predispositions.

 

[Zara Saga]

Zara didn't flinch.

Not when the Supercommandos rose in unison like a chorus of armored judgment. Not when this Mandalorian, an avalanche of beskar and unresolved trauma, pounced on her like a panther and delivered his thunderclap of a speech. And certainly not when half the cantina looked like it might explode into a heroic last stand.

No. She just stood there, still holding her glass like it was a prop in a stage play she'd already memorized.

When the clatter of locked rifles faded, and the air thickened with anticipation, Zara smiled. Slow. Wide. Not smug, not scared, entertained. Like someone watching an overproduced holodrama and loving every second of it.

She waited until the Mandalorian sat again. Until the room remembered how to breathe.

Then she spoke.

"I must've touched a nerve."

Her tone was light, like this was a conversation over brunch instead of the aftermath of a necromantic siege. She stepped to the edge of the platform, that practiced gait of deliberate elegance, and looked directly at Aether.

"You know, where I'm from, we call this a tantrum. But I suppose in Mandalorian culture it counts as performance art."

A few shocked laughs slipped out before being strangled back into silence. She let them hang in the air like windchimes made of nerves.

"I do admire the passion, truly. It's very… on-brand. Loud, dramatic, vaguely threatening. If I didn't know better, I'd think you all enjoyed being perpetually at war."

She tilted her head, genuinely curious, eyes glittering under the cantina's flickering lights.

"And I'm so sorry your feelings are hurt by a few words in a bar. But if this planet were under Diarchic control, real control, there wouldn't have been an undead uprising to begin with. We wouldn't have needed emergency triage centers and battlefield cremations. We would've had infrastructure."

The silence was back, but this time it had teeth.

Zara's voice softened, almost maternal now, like she was explaining something to a very stubborn child.

"I didn't come to raise a banner or disrespect your sacrifice. I came because this planet is the birthplace of my Diarchs. Their legacy started in this soil, and whether you like it or not, they have every right to return here. And yes- yes- I want the people to know. To remember. That Reign and Rellik were born of this place. That they haven't forgotten it."

She glanced around the room. Less hostile now. Curious, conflicted. Some ashamed of the rifles they'd raised. Others holding them tighter.

"As for you," she added, turning back to him with a half-pout, "I don't actually know who you are. Which is sort of rude, considering how loud you were. But I'm sure your resume is just bristling with heroism and ancestral claims."

The smile returned. Sharp this time. All sugar and poison.

"I respect your pain. But don't confuse presence with providence. You may have bled for this world, but you are not the only one who claims it."

She gave a slight bow. Half sincere, half mocking. All Zara.

Then, casually, she stepped off the stage and walked to the bar like nothing had happened.

"By the way," she said over her shoulder, loud enough for the room, "If this is how you handle public speaking, I'd hate to see your dating life."

She arrived at the bar, ordered something strong and bitter, because apparently, she was in the mood for irony, and finally exhaled. She sipped her drink and watched their eyes linger on her. Still shaken. Still listening. That was enough, for now.

So is that the famous Mand'alor, she thought, swirling her glass. Loud. Loyal. Predictable. I should remember that. Might even make use of it.

She allowed herself a private smile. Victory wasn't always loud. Sometimes, it looked like staying in the room after everyone else tried to throw you out.

And for now?

She was still standing.

Interacting with:
Aether Verd​

 

[Iandre Athlea]

There were many planets in the Galaxy Iandre had traveled to in her first life. Taris was one of them. Her duties as a Jedi had brought her here more than once. It would be neat to explore it again, once peace was secured, maybe she would. Keeping up with her master, and noticing Zara was already present, she lowered her glass with the rest of them.

The Mandalorians hadn't been friendly then, and without knowing Laphisto, she didn't think they would be now. Then again, her opinion could change, and things might be different now. Taking a drink, she kept silent. It's better to observe what's going on and then react as needed. She would also follow Laphisto's actions and allow him to lead.

Being a step behind him, she stopped when Ze'bast stopped Laphisto. She could tell they were still warriors and remained calm. She took no action for or against any of them. If she could motion to Merion to stand down, she would—a simple wave of her hand to indicate to him to stop.

When Zara spoke up again, she turned her attention to her friend. If you could call their relationship that. At least, they weren't enemies and Iandre appreciated that. The verbal burns she inflicted on the Mandalorian were something truly epic, and the former Jedi hoped this wasn't about to cause a war.

Aether Verd Laphisto Merion Oreno Zara Saga Ze'bast Verd

 

[Rokul]

Location: Taris
Tags: Runi Kuryida

Rokul was watching the situation unfold. There was a part of him that felt like he should try to stop the entire bantha-poodoo he expected this to turn into. But at the same time...he wasn't ordered to do anything of the sort. He was sure Zara could handle it herself and wouldn't take any pleasure in him stepping in for her. She didn't need some soldier dressed in...well...Rokul glanced down at his clothes, at the dust, dirt and muck that covered his suit...A soldier dressed in a grime and filth covered suit. Yeah. Zara didn't need one of those to come to her help, so Rokul just leaned back.

Yet his eyes turned towards the woman who was speaking to him. He took her in for a moment, raising an eyebrow as he tried to catch what details he could. The helmet slung next to her implied that she was probably one of the Mandalorians. Not one of those ones that deemed to it necessary to wear it at all times. That was intriguing.

"Rokul. Pleasure to meet you."

He gave a short nod at that. Rokul wasn't sure if Mandalorians necessarily did handshakes so he kept his arms folded along his front. He agreed with the comment about actions speak louder than words. It was why he was a man of few words, but many actions at the end of the day. He shook his head at that thought however, turning his gaze back over towards the heart of the Cantina, even as he spoke.

"Deeds do speak far louder than words. I've seen her deeds in person. They're impressive."

In a way, it was his form of admitting that he was a member of the Diarchy. He was sure it wouldn't cause a problem, not yet at least. It wasn't as if he was important anyway. Rokul was just a grunt. A soldier. he hadn't risen through the ranks so he knew his opinion and importance was deemed very little.
​

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

TARIS - CANTINA

She would not leave.

Not after the warning. Not after the command. Not after the silence that had settled like ash over the cantina.

Zara kept speaking.

She mocked the dead. Mocked the living. Mocked the Mand’alor himself. She paraded her arrogance like a medal, wielding her voice like a blade, as if she had earned the right to breathe this air. She had not.

Aether raised one finger.

No sound. No gesture beyond that. A single command, wordless and sharp.

He closed it into a fist.

The Supercommandos responded at once. Smooth motions. Rifles lifted. Safeties switched. Positions adjusted. The air changed.

Still, she talked. Still, she walked.

Her boots carried her from the stage to the bar like it had all been theater. As if she had not just spat on the graves of the fallen. As if she were untouchable.

She was not.

Aether reached to his belt.

One motion. Fluid. Deliberate. His blaster cleared the holster. The setting flipped to nonlethal. This was not vengeance. This was justice. Mandalorian justice.

She finished speaking. He pulled the trigger. So did they.

Stun rounds lanced through the air from every angle. Supercommandos took aim without hesitation. Shots were directed at her position. Some from across the room. Some from a few meters away. Some from soldiers who had just buried their comrades.

This was a warning written in thunder. Because the Diarchy scum had forgotten.

Forgotten where they were. Forgotten whose soil this was. Forgotten what it meant to tread on Mandalorian blood with foreign boots.

The Jedi would have debated.

The Alliance would have rebuked.

The Suns would have made her disappear.

The Sith would have flayed her soul.

But Mandalore? Mandalore answered disrespect with fire. Zara was not kin. She was not clan. She was not welcome. None of them were.

She was just noise. And noise gets silenced.

Smoke trailed from the barrel of Aether’s weapon. He did not shout. He did not posture. He did not explain.

He spoke one sentence. Quiet. Clear. Inevitable.

"It's high time we visit Bastion."​

Then he turned away.

And the cantina remembered what it meant to provoke Mandalore.​

Zara Saga , Rokul , Runi Kuryida , Laphisto , Diarch Reign , Ze'bast Verd , Merion Oreno , Iandre Athlea

 

[Laphisto]

Laphisto halted the moment Ze'bast Verd spoke. He didn't argue or attempt to defy the Supercommando; instead, he gave a measured nod, brought a fist to his chest, and bowed his head in a gesture of respect. "Vod, I am here to speak with the Mand'alor," he said quietly, reaching up to tap the Clan Ordo sigil on his left pauldron. Up until that point, he had largely tuned Zara out but when her voice rose again, he froze, a low rumble vibrating in his throat. Did she really just say that? Here, in Mandalorian territory, and directly to the Mand'alor himself?

Laphisto pinned his lone ear flat against his skull as her words echoed through the cantina. They struck as sharply to him as they did to every Mandalorian present. He half-hissed, mouth parting to respond, but before any sound could form, he snarled clutching his head as jagged flashes of a possible future erupted in his mind.

In that instant, he saw Mandalorians Raising their weapons, felt the tension spike, and sensed the Lilaste Order troops preparing to return fire the moment they were shot at. Their training was unforgiving: the second a blaster bolt cracked, they would answer in kind unaware these were stun rounds. And then, as if struck from within, Laphisto stumbled, shaking his head and pinning his ear more tightly. There was no time to issue commands no time to calculate a response.

As the first stun bolt hissed through the air, Laphisto moved with decisive calm. In one fluid motion, he stripped rifles and swords from his nearby warriors, flinging each weapon aside so they skittered harmlessly across the floor. Simultaneously, he extended his will through the Force and guided Merion Oreno to the ground enough pressure to force him prone for cover without causing injury. At the same instant, Laphisto's wing snapped outward, its leathery span sweeping over Iandre Athlea to shield her from any wayward shots.

His commander beside him instinctively raised a blaster, but then saw Lilaste rifles and swords clattering to the floor; he let his weapon fall. A tense hush followed the final crack of a stun round. Laphisto rose fully, talons flexing against his gauntlets and tail unfurling with deliberate grace. Though his presence filled the cantina, his voice remained calm, steady.

"I will speak for the Diarchy," he intoned, claws tapping lightly against his chest plate. "With honor and clarity far truer than insults hurled in this hall. I beseech you to hear me out as a better voice for the Diarchy one who knows more respect than the arrogance of a fanatic." He glanced at Tarian and, with the barest hint of a smile, lowered his voice to a whisper: "Go find the Diarch either Rellik or Reign." He paused, letting a small chuckle slip free. "Preferably Rellik. Every time Reign and I are together, we end up being shot at." he shook his head softly at the inside joke before watching tarian quickly move to leave the tavern

Aether Verd Zara Saga Diarch Reign

 

[Zara Saga]

Zara had just raised the glass to her lips when the first stun round hit her in the ribs.

She dropped like a marionette with its strings cut, her coat flaring behind her as she crumpled to the floor in a half-spin of style and surprise. The glass shattered. Her elbow thunked the bar on the way down, which she'd be annoyed about later. Possibly bruised, possibly dramatic. Certainly memorable.

She lay there, twitching slightly, lips parted in a stunned breath, literal and figurative.

"…Okay," she said weakly, voice dry as bone dust, "that was... surprisingly nice. Someone write down the setting on that blaster. For science."

A groan escaped as she rolled onto her back, one boot still propped against the bar like she was posing for a very inconvenient fashion shoot. Her braid had come undone at the end, strands of gold hair splayed across the cracked tile like spilled sunlight.

Then she laughed. Not loud. Not unhinged. Just quietly amused, like someone who'd read ahead in the script and found out they still had lines.

"Grumpy, grumpy Mand'alor," she said to the ceiling. "Honestly, I've had harder hits from Crucible sparring droids. But it's cute that you care so much."

One of the Supercommandos approached, weapon still trained, helmet unreadable.

Zara blinked up at them, lashes fluttering with obnoxious innocence.

"Oh don't worry," she added, still sprawled on the floor like a very smug corpse. "I'm very good at laying down for powerful men. I usually charge for it, though."

A brief pause to let the joke settle.

Then she lifted one hand, fingers twitching with that same bratty defiance, and made a tiny motion as if tipping an imaginary crown atop her head.

"I came here to talk, not take over. And instead, I got a lesson in Mandalorian hospitality. Very… thorough. But next time, maybe just offer caf and a lecture? Or a napkin? I could use a touch-up."

Her body still ached, nerves humming from the stunning pulse, but her grin only grew sharper. She'd been shot. But she'd been heard.

She turned her head toward Laphisto now, catching the end of his words, still flat on her back like she was sunbathing in irony.

"Go on, then," she muttered, giving him a lazy thumbs-up. "Do the diplomacy thing. I'll just lie here and be tragic."

And she winked.

Because even after being dropped by half a room of armored warriors and insulted by a walking myth in a helmet, Zara was still Zara.

Down... but never out.

Aether Verd | Laphisto | Iandre Athlea | Rokul​

 

[Diarch Reign]

​

Location: Taris
Tags: Aether Verd Laphisto Zara Saga

---

Reign had walked the streets from the plaza to the cantina, seeing the work the Mandalorians were doing for the people of Taris. Those Reign considered his people. But, the new Empire was doing good by the citizens of Taris. Good enough, that Reign contemplated putting his plans of the Diarchy's return on hold for now.

These people had seen enough. Between the Galactic Alliance and the Neo Crusaders, now this plague of Undeath.. Reign was loathe to bring war to his home. Perhaps cooperation could be found, as long as the people of Taris were cared for. IF not, the Diarch would bring swift retribution.

He looked down alleyways and avenues, lost in memory of the time spent here with his father. Always in training, a man both brutal and loving, shaping who the Diarchs were today. More alike to these Mandalorians than either would like to admit he was sure. He was lost in a rather particular memory of a training session with their father when his sense in the force was piqued.

There was conflict brewing, he had known Zara had made her way somewhere along these lines before he had arrived on planet, he only hoped her biting wit had not drawn the ire of the famously hot headed mandalorians.

As if it was fate, he approached the door as Laphisto's second was leaving, apparently sent to find him.
Shaking his head with a small laugh he walked past the man just in time to hear

"It's high time we visit Bastion."

"That will not be necessary, Bastion has come to you"

The Diarch said as he entered the room and dropped his hood. Standing tall now, he was no longer sticking to the shadows to observe, it appeared that whatever had transpired here would need his direct intervention.

Taking a look at the state of the cantina, he looked to the Mandalorian that had spoken, the one he assumed to be the leader here.

"It appears we may have gotten off on the wrong foot here. Everyone please put your blasters down, and let's speak like civilized beings. I can make some assumptions about what has happened, knowing who's here. But let cooler heads prevail."

He approached the Mandalorian bowing in a sign of respect. It was not fear that drove the Diarch to diplomacy, more a want to save the people of his home planet from further conflict.

"Taris holds a.. significant status among the people of the Diarchy. To see it so battered is heart breaking. But I have walked the streets, seen what your people have done here. You've brought honor to the Mandalorians with your protection of these people.. I would like the opportunity to honor you as well. Let's put aside the rough start. Come, please sit."

He motioned to a nearby booth hoping to treat with the man in the armor.

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

TARIS - CANTINA

The first bolts were still in the air when Aether saw them. Foreign soldiers. Armed. Raised.

Their weapons turned toward him and his own. Toward Mandalorians who had bled in these streets. Toward warriors still slick with ash and grave-dust. His arm twitched. His jaw locked.

He was about to order their deaths.

But then the winged one moved.

Aether watched. One by one, the foreign rifles clattered to the floor. Swords stripped from hands. A presence in the Force surged outward. One man pushed to the ground. Another shielded beneath the span of a leathery wing. Then came the voice.

Mando'a.

And there, on the stranger’s pauldron, the sigil of Clan Ordo.

Aether raised his hand. The salvo ended. Not with confusion. Not with hesitation. With discipline. The room obeyed.

His hand shifted: two fingers, then a fist. The Supercommandos understood.

Weapons clicked. Settings adjusted. Stun was gone.

The Mand’alor’s own thumb glided across the side of his blaster. The setting rose. Lethal. No more warnings. His aim never left the woman on the floor.

She was still speaking. Still breathing. Still mocking.

He did not fire. Not yet. Instead, his voice cut through the space between them.

"You wear the symbol of Clan Ordo."

It was not a question. It was an accusation.

"Why have you brought foreign soldiers to ancestral, Mandalorian world? Why have you allowed them to raise arms against your Mand’alor?"

A pause. Heavy. Measured.

"Are you Diarchy? Or are you Mandalorian?"

Before the answer came, the door opened again.

Another stranger. This one lowered his hood. Spoke with purpose. Claimed Bastion. Spoke of peace. Spoke of Taris.

He asked for calm and to speak with honor. Yet, Aether did not move. He simply tilted his chin, just slightly, toward the woman on the floor.

Then he answered.

"You say you honor Taris. That you care for its people. But your envoy came here to spit on our dead. To speak rebellion to those who had only just stopped bleeding."

His voice was low and controlled.

"You want to speak with Mandalore? Remove her from this world. Now."

He took one step forward. Only one.

"And if you speak for Bastion, then call for every Diarchy citizen and soldier within Mandalorian space to withdraw. If they are not in this cantina, they leave. All of them."

Another pause. Cold. Final.

"Only then will I speak with you. Only then will you get words."

The blaster remained aimed at the blonde woman's skull.​

Laphisto , Diarch Reign , Zara Saga , Ze'bast Verd + Open

 

[Diarch Reign]

​

Location: Taris
Tags: Laphisto Aether Verd Zara Saga

---

Reign's eyes narrowed, just briefly, before his composure returned. Reign was not one to be talked down to, he had crushed soldiers in their armor for less, yet he was not here for conflict.

Steel in his voice he motioned to Zara on the ground

"Her lapse in judgement will be dealt with accordingly, make no mistake there, she will depart."

He thought for a moment before continuing.

"The Diarchy is here to render aid, medical and food stuffs. The only military presence here is for their protection from raiders. No people should have to shoulder the burden of rebuilding alone. Allow the humanitarian efforts to proceed, and I will pull back any military personnel. This is not a declaration of conflict, just the zeal of one unchecked person. Do not let this sour what could be a beneficial meeting."

He did not back down from when the Mand'alor stepped forward, he did not fear the other man.

"I would rather have words with Mandalore than war as I'm sure you would as well. You are no fool, a war would distract both of us from the real enemies at the gates. Imperials, Sith, the Jedi and the corrupt Alliance they serve. I wish only to help, Taris is my home, I was born not two kilometers from here. I would render aid to the people that raised me.

He paused again, trying to gauge the type of man he was dealing with.

"Taris falls under the protection of the Mandalorians, if you are adamant in shouldering the burden on your own, I will honor your request and withdraw the non military personnel as well, but, for the good of the people here I ask you to reconsider."

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

TARIS - CANTINA

The narrowing of the man’s eyes was not lost on the Mand’alor.

They were rulers. Each carved from the wars of their people. Each carrying the weight of countless lives. Reign did not kneel, but he had not disrespected the floor he walked on either. That mattered.

He was not like the blonde dog that had slipped the leash.

And when the Diarch gave his word that she would be dealt with, that she would depart, Aether responded not with praise or flourish. Only a sound.

Click.

The safety slid back into place. The weapon found its holster once more. The Mand’alor gave a single nod. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He listened.

Reign spoke of purpose. Of aid. Of food and medicine. Of soldiers who were not here to fight, but to shield. It sounded noble.

But there was not a universe where foreign hands operated freely within Mandalorian space. Not on his watch.

Aether’s voice came even: "There is an order to all things."

He stepped forward, not in threat, but in gravity. His visor met Reign’s eyes.

"Taris is wounded. Her people suffer. I will not turn away that which might ease their pain."

A pause.

"But I will not allow unchecked hands to move through our soil. Whether they bring swords or bandages. Your aid may continue. But your people will not move alone."

He turned his head slightly, just enough to motion toward the figures nearby.

"Ze’bast. The one from Ordo. They may coordinate. Mandalorian hands will help distribute your aid. They will highlight the areas most impacted by the attack. And they will ensure your efforts reach those who need them most."

He looked back to Reign.

"That is just. That is order."

There was no hostility in his tone. Only truth. Then came the final measure. The Mand’alor squared his stance. Gaze unbroken.

"Do we have an accord?"​

Laphisto , Diarch Reign , Zara Saga , Ze'bast Verd + Open

 

[Rokul]

Location: Taris
Tags: Runi Kuryida Diarch Reign Laphisto Aether Verd Zara Saga

He had been content to watch and see what happened whilst the stun rounds were on...but the moment he heard the click of various lethal settings being triggered, Rokul moved almost immediately. Yet he did not move for Aether, or towards any of the Mandalorians. No. He made his way straight over towards Zara Saga . There was no hesitation in his eyes. It wasn't as if he was given an order, but this was something more important than order in his eyes. He purposefully turned his back towards the Mandalorians, trying to almost act like a human shield between Zara and the blasters...before he raised his hand up into the air, and brought it crashing down specifically on Zara's neck in an attempt to knock the Archon out.

That...was when he heard the blasters click onto safety. The colour draining from his face as he looked at what he had just done before turning his head over towards Diarch Reign and Laphisto, giving the two a short and sharp nod. He also gave a short nod in the direction of Aether himself. He wasn't as important as the other Diarchy members but that didn't mean he could be excused with showing such disrespect.

"I...apologise for her behaviour. I also apologise for turning my back to you. It was...not intended as a slight. As a soldier, it is my duty to protect those I serve under. I will remove her from your sight. It was an honour to meet you Mand'alor."

Rokul was willing to die for most of the members of the Diarchy, in a fight of course. Though Zara was a special case. She was the only one so far that he was willing to sacrifice himself without a fight. He wasn't quite sure why that was the case but didn't matter. Instead he then turned his attention back over towards Zara, picking up the blonde and carefully throwing her over his shoulder, giving a final nod to the leadership in the building before looking over towards Runi, giving her his best attempt at an apologetic smile.

"...Hopefully we can continue our conversation at a later date in a more...pleasant environment."

And with that, he set off for the exit. He had wanted to get close to Zara again but not like this...He was going to probably get a right chewing out from her when she woke up...but she did owe him one after their last mission. So maybe what she could owe him was forgiveness for knocking her out. Either way, a rather uncharacteristic smirk crossed his face as he left. He trusted Laphisto and Reign to be able to get some kind of deal out of this.​

 

[Laphisto]

Laphisto gave a low snarl, his lone ear pinning back against his skull as he bellowed toward Zara Saga , "Zara! Keep your mouth shut." There was something more behind his tone something dark, something all too familiar. a vocal tone and accent familiar to that chamber in the temple of the twin gods. For a split second, a soft red glow pulsed behind his pupils before fading back to their usual pale haze. When Aether Verd directed his words at him, Laphisto snapped his head around, a deep rumble vibrating in his throat as he straightened to his full height.

"My men only followed their training something I have instilled in them from birth," he spoke with a bit of pride. not apology at for them raising their weapons so quickly. He paused, tail coiling and uncoiling behind him as he considered the Mand'alor's unspoken question of allegiance: Mandalorian or Diarchy? Inwardly, he knew he was both but above them both, he held his allegance to the Lilaste order above them all. after all the order was to some extend his family. He opened his maw to speak further just as Diarch Reign strode into the cantina. A soft sigh of relief escaped his lips, and he inclined his head in a rumbling glance that conveyed a simple, Glad you're here.

When Rokul knocked Zara out and began carrying her toward the exit, Laphisto exhaled another low sigh relief rippling through his shoulders. The tension of the moment shifted; the immediate threat had passed, for now. He turned to @Tarian, the Force-dead commander standing nearby, and spoke with measured authority: "Pack the men up. Send them back to the ships and await further orders. We may be getting kicked off this rock, but I want the Order ready to redeploy as soon as possible to continue lending aid wherever it's needed." He paused, letting his words sink in. "Hopefully we can come to an arrangement here."

Tarian simply nodded, expression unreadable behind his visor, then quietly left the cantina to relay orders. Laphisto watched him go, chest rising and falling with practiced calm. The red tint at the edge of his vision flickered once more an echo of something ancient but he banished it as he returned his focus to the shifting alliances around him.

Iandre Athlea Ze'bast Verd