Faction Into the Deep - The Evening Before [ ME ]

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

The wind wheezed with the low cricket of insects stretched across the border, their wings flapping in short bursts that ensured the edge of the camp was never silent, for all that it was quiet compared to the racket of campfires and dances. A blaze that wattered the eyes from only a few feet away was little more than a warm breath at the back of the sentinel's necks, left to disipate over the distances travelled.

With one foot propped up against a boulder that would have otherwise reached his shin, Itzhal noted the weight in his fellow Mandalorian's gaze, sharp as a vibroblade, for all that her sapphire eyes glimmered with amusement. He'd heard the title that others had whispered behind her back, spoken in hushed whispers, both respectful and dismissive, though often just as quickly silenced as they were to be spouted.

Mand'alor the Liberator.

It was a weighty title for all that Itzhal knew little of the details that had led to it. Nor, in truth, had it been the reason he'd approached. He was not so desperate to chase after the cotails of glory and past deeds, mighty as they may have been. Instead, when he looked upon Mia Monore, her face shrouded in flickering shadows, eyes fixed on a horizon they might never reach, he saw something else: a memory that lingered like a scar.

"It does often seem to be the way of things," Itzhal acknowledged, his voice harsh and solemn, burdened with a truth that neither of them could hide from.

In his own time, Mandalore had flourished for over three hundred years, its people bound by the call of Mand'alor the Uniter and his vision for all that would call themselves Mandalorian. It was a vision that had outlived the visionary. Remarkable during the time of peace that had followed the New Sith Wars, Itzhal imagined it was an almost incomprehensible feat in this modern era; then again, the end result had been much the same as what Mandalore had faced a dozen times in more recent times.

He paused then, a tilt of his head that turned towards the more current Mand'alor and the cloak that marked his passage even better than the beskar'gam he wore. Aether moved with the presence of a man who knew the power he carried, not in a blade at his hip, or the energy field that bowed to his orders, but rather the respect that those around him were willing to give as warriors the size of mountains shifted to allow him past.

Whether he would be the one to end the cycle or merely the most recent in a long list of titles, Itzhal could not say. He'd bet wrong once before. Sometimes it wasn't about belief. Sometimes, it was just about taking a step forward, again and again, until you found yourself looking back on a route that started to make a little more sense than where you began.

"Cuyi nayc bajiir'sen, Vod," He said, returning to the conversation with a tilt of his buy'ce towards his fellow Mandalorian. "I've often found that I prefer those who spend moments like this to think, rather than boast about a dozen feats that often waver between tall tales and outright dreams. It grew rather tiresome after the first few years, and I find it has improved little, for all that some of the most outlandish stories are somehow true. But, regardless, I came over to see if you desire company?"

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla slowed when Siv did, not stopping outright but letting the moment stretch the way it wanted to. His words settled easily with her, not heavy, not performative. Honest. That mattered more than reassurance ever could.

She turned her head slightly toward him when he said the last part, the quiet admission tucked in beneath the calm.

"It helps knowing you're there," she answered just as softly. "You keep people upright without realizing it. That kind of steadiness spreads."

A small pause, then a faint smile touched her mouth.

"Try not to carry everything alone," Veyla added. "Even leaders get to lean sometimes."

Her gaze shifted then, following the same line Siv's had moments earlier. The fires were behind them now, the noise dulled into background hum. Ahead, at the edge of light and shadow, one figure stood with intention written into every line of his posture.

Dral Kar'taal.

She didn't need Siv to name him. She could read warriors the same way she read terrain, and this one wasn't posturing, wasn't restless. He was anchored. Focused. Waiting.

"I'll check the line," she murmured to Siv, a quiet acknowledgment rather than a request. "Make sure everyone's settled."

Then she angled away from him and toward the guarded threshold, her steps unhurried, deliberate. She didn't approach Dral from behind. She came into his peripheral vision first, respecting his awareness, respecting the fact that he was already watching everything.

She stopped a few paces away, close enough to speak without raising her voice, far enough to give him space. Firelight caught the red of her hair; the rest of her remained half in shadow, deliberately so.

"You look like someone who prefers the edge to the center," Veyla said, tone calm, open, without challenge. "That usually means you're paying attention."

Her eyes lifted to the sealed descent, then back to him.

"Veyla Krinn," she offered simply. "Clan Kryze."

No rank. No weight. Just enough to place her.

"First time down here for you?"

Siv Kryze Dral Kar'taal

 

[Talohn Atar]

They would likely have noticed it happening here and there. The ground vibrating ever so slightly under their feet. Not enough to be a bother. It might have caused some concern had the cathar causing it not been calling out every time he did it. A sharp catharese accent every 4 hours or so had been yelling from a corner of the camp occasionally ever since the people had begun to set up. Was he there before everyone? Did he arrive shortly after the first few? Who could tell.

"Testing subterranean mapping matrix!" He finally called out again. He then taps a button on the screen of the datapad he's holding. A device that was sitting on the ground before him proceeded to embed itself in the dirt with a thunk. Right after that happens, the ground starts faintly vibrating for 8 or so minutes while the cathar circles about to observe it's performance. Around the work area he had set up was a basic tent and a few tables covered in a cluttered mess of weapons, gadgets and engineering supplies in equal measure.

The cathar himself wasn't in his armor. He didn't like to wear it while he was working on machinery. Instead, his attire consisted of a somewhat oil and muck stained sleeveless shirt, a pair of protective leather gauntlets, cargo pants and a pair of work boots. A pair of orange lensed goggles rested above his brow.

He paces about, repeatedly looking at the datapad while the test proceeded. By the test's end, he leers at the screen with gritted teeth, catharese spewing from his tongue. "Irhifie ztete. Eta siya uklan avesha ii nexu jalja zuy'o nid zyeda. Y'a lirearo manurriz!" He places the datapad on one of the tables before his hands move to stressfully run through his black hair while one of his feet kicks the ground, bringing up a dirt cloud.

He picks up a small tool box and clicks it open as he kneels by the device, taking out a flathead screwdriver. He pops open a panel inside, taking a pair of tweezers to begin moving the wires about so he can get at the more internal machinery. He mumbles to himself all the while. "Vibrations aren't syncing correctly with soil samples that are placed into the device. Equilibrium off maybe? Shotty density calculator? Maybe the heat inside of the device is dehydrating the dirt, throwing off the sync and causing faulty scans across the board...." His brow creases as he hisses slightly. "Time's running low..."

He looks ponderously back at a bottle of coolant and a bunch of tubes that are sitting together on one of the nearby tables. He sighs in exasperation. It's then that he sees Aether strolling through the camp. He waves while letting out a call. As one would expect of him, he decides to start the conversation in the oddest way possible. "Mand'alor the Iron! How extensive is your knowledge on the indepth particle makeup of dirt."

Aether Verd Zlova Rue @ANYONE ELSE IN THIS THREAD THAT NOTICES THE VIBRATIONS AND WANTS TO CHECK IT OUT!

 

[Sula Skirata]

Tags: Talohn Atar​

Sula liked it away from the hubbub of the campfires, where voices were too loud and expectations too high. Here on the outskirts of the encampment people were quiet, conversations were held in low voices lest they disturb the peace. She’d set her Basilisk down away from the others. She perched on the floor, legs crossed beneath her, back resting against its armoured side, engrossed in the tiny droid that lay limp in her hand, a servodriver working quietly. She reached into the back at her side, drawing out another piece of scrap metal, assessing it for a moment before tossing it aside and digging deeper in the pack.

The vibrations ran across the floor beneath her not for the first time this evening, the cathar responsible was the only exception to the quiet. Even his muttered complaints about a nexu on spice were loud. Sula let out an irritated sigh.

“He’s not adjusted his sensors to compensate for the density differentials in bes’manda.” she told Aar’ika, the basilisk let out a low whine in response.

“Help him? Why would I do that?”

Another escaped the droid not unlike a snort of derision.

“Oh…well, in that case.” She dropped the unfinished droid and her servodriver into the pack and pushed herself reluctantly to her feet. She moved quietly, not because she was trying to, but because everything about her was quiet and small. As the cathar called out for Mand’alor the Iron, she slipped up to the machine beside him, paying no mind to him she assessed it before reaching to pluck the datapad out of his hand.

“You’ve not calibrated for the possibility of cooled Bes’manda. It's beskar, but not, not until the air hits it. When the Liberator ripped the planet apart this place was torn into a volcano.” She pointed to some of the rock around them. “Volcanic.” her finger moved “Not volcanic. It’s a blend.”

Sula tweaked the settings, input new ones and wrinkled her nose at the samples. “Where did you get your samples from? They’re terrible.” A small shake of her head that shook more strands loose from the messy braid that hung over her shoulder. Another moment of tapping.

Sula looked up, offering the datapad back to him.

“Now try.”

 

[Mia Monroe]

Itzhal Volkihar​

Mia let out a low chuckle, a flicker of a memory so old it felt alien to her, of a time when she had sat with her brothers listening to them weave tales taller than they were only to shoot them down and point out the truth. It had been easier then, before the weight of the mantle had pressed against her, before the echo of Velok had broken her.

She didn’t recognise the person in those memories, not as herself at least. Had her past self and her present self met, she’d no doubt there would have been blood drawn. What was it Velok had said to her?

You are a boulder rolling down a mountain, crashing through everything until you break.

A vibration that ran through her feet breaking through her thoughts, and she cast a glance towards Aether’s uncle. Whatever he was up to better be worth the peace he was disturbing. “Company would be agreeable.” she answered finally, looking back to Itzhal with a nod. “Walk the line with me.” It wasn’t a command, but an invitation as she unhooked her helm and slid it back over her head.

She’d kept her distance for long enough, it was passed time that she got to know her nephew’s inner circle. Not because Aether needed her guidance or help, but because her connection to his father meant she was obliged to see him safe.

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen was made sure the hinge of his jaw was working as the big man talked. This guy... well, they clearly were a diehard based on the rhetoric and the instincts. Korda was something Omen was not, a pure killer... The Big Man didn't need marching orders to find a conflict if he wanted one. Thankfully, he seemed to like drinking better. As for the barbarian comments, he guessed they weren't exactly the Jedi. Still, some trouble wasn't worth the cost.

"People were already calling us barbarians," Korda said, shrugging one broad shoulder. "Crosses didn't change that. Just made the message clearer." He lifted his tankard in a small, unapologetic salute. "And clarity? I'll take that over lies any day."

He guessed this was what Mandolarian Society had morphed into since the Enclave. It definitely had more of an edge to it... Guess this is what Aether Verd had warped it into, an honor-bound pack of killers. A group that would blow themselves up instead of settling for just existing. It certainly was one way to live life. Short ones at least. "Well... as you can tell, I'm still above ground as you can tell... Got to tell you something." Who knows how long that would last, though, if they really wanted to dig into who the new guy in camp was.

Giving another mock salute back with his glass, Omen managed to put a smile on his face as the tension faded away. "It's been a long time since I've been to one of these... Years... Each one of these gatherings feels a little different, depending on who's in it." That was true, the ones the Enclave hosted weren't as... rowdy... as this one tonight. Or he, at least he hadn't thought so. Maybe it just happened when so many weapons were around. Made everyone's peckers stand on end, and they had to do something to relieve themselves. "And don't worry, I have to field strip this little thing anyway. Make sure all of its parts move alright." Maybe that would bring the tension between them down to a manageable level.

Put the barely touched tankard down, the Clone started the process of fully taking his rifle apart and putting it back together again. Field stripping a weapon was like riding a bike, you never forget how. At least if you didn't want to end up underground in the reject graveyard that is. Plus it gave something for his hands to do other than looking stupid, tapping away awkardly on this bench. Letting out a breath, he eventually took over the coversation. "I guess people would call me a New Mando, if I fit in anywhere at all anymore. Guess right now, I'm just enjoying existing." Snapping the final piece of his weapon back together, he lay it across his lap and grabbed his cup again, pulling it back and taking a big gulp of its contents. Yup, for right now, existing was just fine.

Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda had already drained two tankards by the time Omen set his rifle down.
The first had gone quick. The second slower. By the time the clone began field-stripping the Verpine piece, Korda was leaning back on the crate, one boot hooked casually over the other, watching with a practiced eye. He didn't interrupt. Didn't comment. Just observed the smooth, efficient movements—the kind that only came from someone who had done it a thousand times because failure meant death.

When the rifle came back together clean and sure, Korda let out a low, approving grunt.
"Good hands," he said simply. "Anyone can carry a weapon. Not everyone knows how to take one apart and put it back together without losing fingers or their nerve." He lifted his tankard in acknowledgment, then set it aside, empty.
He caught the look then. The hesitation. The unspoken judgment. Korda didn't bristle at it, didn't even seem surprised. Instead, he chuckled, deep and unbothered.

"Yeah," he said, glancing down at himself. "I get that look a lot."
He shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees as his hand came up to The Ashen Maw. The massive weapon came free of its mag-lock with practiced ease. He wasn't posturing now, this was ritual. Familiarity. Respect.

"You're not wrong," Korda went on, tone calm, almost conversational. "I am what you think I am. I don't need marching orders to know where I stand when blood's involved." A pause. "But hear this part clearly, Omen."
He checked a selector, thumbed through firing modes with soft mechanical clicks, verified the chamber, ran a hand along the housing like a craftsman inspecting work.


"You've got nothing to fear from me," Korda said, meeting the clone's eyes again. "Not unless you betray me. Or betray the Mandalorian Empire. That's the line. Step over it, and I won't hesitate." His expression hardened for a heartbeat then relaxed again. "Stay on the right side of it, and I'll bleed for you without question."
He reseated a component, tested the balance, then mag-locked The Ashen Maw back onto his shoulder with a solid clack.


"As for why I look like this?" He snorted quietly. "Because I've buried enough people who thought 'existing' was the same thing as living. I chose a side. I chose teeth instead of silence." His gaze drifted briefly to the fire. "Doesn't mean I don't enjoy a drink more than a fight, just means I'm honest about what I am."

Korda leaned back again, reaching for another tankard as if nothing heavy had just been said.
"New Mando, old Mando… doesn't matter," he added, voice lighter now. "You're here. You're above ground. You handled your weapon like a professional." A crooked grin returned. "That already puts you ahead of half the idiots I've shared a fire with."

He raised the mug in a casual toast.
"To existing," he said. "And knowing when to do more than that."

Sergeant Omen Open

 

[Kurayami Bloodborn]

The presence of the one who approach was one that to those who knew him well was unmistakable, though he was clearly not in Mandalorian attire. It would draw disapproving gazes he was sure, but given the amount that Kurayami had bled for this planet and its people without asking for recognition, and indeed not wishing it, he'd earned the right to wear the armor of the systems where he laid his head now. He stood away from the others, making no attempt to approach, though if any did come to speak with him he would not turn them away.

At either hip hung his trusty modified SE-44C heavy blaster pistols, a modified TL-50 repeating blaster rifle slung over his shoulder, and as before in a specialized compartment sat his lightsaber, not to hide his identity, no that was impossible with the XC-86 armor, now it was simply to keep it out of the way of the quick draw holster. He made no sound as he removed the helmet, clipping it to his belt and taking a seat outside the mines.

For any who knew his signature in the Force and had not seen him in a long while, the change would have been surprising. Not that he had quit drinking, no the ever present flask was still held loosely in his left hand, long sips taken here and there as he stared into the abyss. It was the large amount of cybernetics and scarring visible on his head. Some of the deeper and larger scars had an eerie, green glow to them, mirroring the cybernetic eye. Meanwhile, his remaining organic eye closed slowly concentrating as he reached out thorugh the Force, whether meditatingto center himself or try to gain a picture of what lay beyond was unknown, but clearly he was preparing for whatever came next.

Tag: OPEN

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

After the first few alarming shakes that had reached beyond the screech of their owner's voice, Itzhal could find only amusement in the most recent test of Taolhn's device. This feeling grew only more so as he replayed the question that his sensors picked up on the edge of their range. Silently grateful for the transparisteel visor that covered his face, the older Mandalorian couldn't help the smirk that slipped onto his lips. After all, how much did Mand'alor the Iron know about 'dirt'?

It must have been a question on plenty of minds, if the amused mummers that followed seemed to have any correlation. Not that Itzhal had much of an opportunity to listen further, his attention snapped back to Mia as she spoke, a slight tilt of his helmet bringing his visor face-to-face with the sharp blue eyes that looked his way. He nodded in response, falling into step with her as they moved further away from the antics of camp and towards the wild expanse of Mandalore, and the sealed entrance-way of the mines.

In truth, he knew little of the threats that lingered below. Only the fact that those with more experience than he remained wary despite the tons of rock that stood between themselves and the cold descent into darkness. He knew enough, at least, to understand the debriefings and files he'd read had been only a glimpse into the madness. Their details shifted with every retelling, and more assumptions than facts carried across dossiers that often conflicted with previous sightings. If they were fortunate, he hoped it was the difference between two beings of the same species, relatively similar, but unique in the scheme of things. Otherwise, he feared it was a sign of evolution, natural or inducted, not that the creatures they faced down there could really be called natural.

"I've heard rumours," Itzhal began, once they were a little further from the others, where a hushed whisper was less likely to be carried to undesired listeners. "A few have spoken of dreams of the mines, lost in the darkness, a chill breeze nipping at their bodysuit and stone pressing in at their sides, until they hear a voice that echoes in broken mando'a. I cannot claim to have remembered any dreams here, but I wondered if you had heard or experienced the same."

He strode calmly by her side, his visor turned towards the sealed cave ahead rather than the former mand'alor he watched in the soft, glowing display of his sensor-rig. Idly, he glanced over the horizon and the vague outline of mountains that stretched across the vista, like the bowed spine of an enormous creature partially buried beneath the surface.

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Saul Whesai]

N/A

 

[Sergeant Omen]

How this man stayed in that good of shape while chugging that much alcohol, Omen did not know. Must have something to it. Maybe some Sith ritual with those red eyes... They didn't exactly grow on trees. Either way, it was like the big man was watching him play the piano, his hands hovering over the parts like they were the keys. Chuckling at Korda's boarish grunt, he took out one of the mags on his duty belt and slammed it into place. "Careful, you don't even know if it feeds yet." Pulling the bolt back and forward again, the first round seated into place before springing up with relative ease with a satisfying PING!. The bullet sailed through the air before shortly coming back down and landing in his palm. With a smirk, he finally commented. "Okay, now you can praise me." while he thought, "At least I can put a gun together better than I make conversation".

When Korda glanced down at himself, he couldn't help but let out a chuckle. "Vod, you are as tall as a Wookie, look as strong as a Houk, and the tattoos and eyes that people can't help but stare at. So yeah, you get a look, including from me." He definitely looked like a super villain from a holocomic or a final demon boss what the look that he had. Very... swoop bike rider chic... And that weapon really did seem like his wife. The Clone didn't even want to think about what he did to it behind those doors, if he was feeling it like the weapon was something human now.

Jokes aside, Korda seemed okay, at least on the surface, when he wasn't threatening to kill him if he went over the imaginary line. Ones, he was intense... "Don't worry, I'm not going to go that route anytime soon. The only reason I would betray you is if your big body got stuck in one of the doorways of the mines and we had to pull you free. Then I would betray you by laughing until I couldn't breathe again." Betraying anyone was more trouble than it was worth, especially when that anyone included a world power.

Omen could say he had chosen to use his teeth, too. It hadn't gone well for him... Still atleast Korda knew what kind of man he was and wasn't apologetic about it. That was... refreshing. The Clone didn't even know what man he wanted to be half the time. And he accepted him, which kept the smile on his face as he raised his mug back up again. "To existing," and after a short pause, he said, "and all the friends we meet along the way."

Korda Veydran Korda Veydran

 

[Liorra]

​

Liorra stood apart from the firelight, where the glow faded into shadow and the ground fell away toward the sealed entrance below.

She had checked her gear twice already. There was nothing left to adjust, nothing left to prepare. Still, she remained, hands resting loosely at her sides, posture straight without being rigid, eyes fixed on the stone as if it might shift beneath her gaze.

This place did not ask questions.

It did not demand answers.

The air felt heavier here, dense with purpose rather than fear. Warriors passed in silence, some pausing only long enough to look down into the dark before moving on. Mia, Lio thought, it felt more like a distant memory to her.

She simply stood at the threshold and breathed.

Once, long ago, she might have tried to name what she felt, through the Force, through doctrine, through expectation. Tonight, she let it remain unspoken. The Watch was not a place for sorting identity. It was a place for letting it settle.

If someone familiar passed through the periphery, a presence she knew without turning. The young woman did not acknowledge it at first. Not out of avoidance. Out of respect. For the space. For the moment.

For herself.

Lio turned her head in that direction scanning the way ahead, her vision landing squarely on Mia Monroe

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda barked a laugh at the little display, the sharp PING drawing a few glances from nearby warriors. "Alright," he conceded, lifting his tankard in surrender. "You've earned it. Clean work."

He took another drink, slower this time, eyes still on Omen as the clone joked about his size and appearance. Instead of bristling, Korda rolled one shoulder, amused.
"Eyes?" he said, tapping a finger just beneath one. "Mutation. Nothing mystical about it, no Sith rituals, sorry to disappoint." A crooked grin followed. "Height's just luck. Same with the build... mostly." He thumped his chestplate once. "The rest? That's work."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, firelight catching the ink crawling across his neck. "Demolitions. Heavy weapons. Siege work. That was my clan's trade before… well. Before."
The humor drained, not abruptly, but deliberately.

"Veydran specialized in breaking things that didn't want to break," he continued evenly. "Walls. Fortresses. People who thought themselves untouchable. I was good at it. Too good, apparently." He snorted. "They said I was too brutal at the one thing we were bred to do. Exiled me for it."
Korda stared into the fire now, not Omen.


"So I proved them right," he said flatly. "Burned the village. Hunted every last Veydran who thought blood made them righteous until there were none left to say my name. so I'm the last one of my clan" No pride. No apology. Just fact.
A beat passed. The fire cracked.

"Didn't stick," Korda went on, quieter. "The Destroyer God dragged me back. Threw me at my people again like a blunt instrument and told me to earn it this time." He shrugged. "So now I destroy what needs destroying. Spill blood that deserves spilling. Call it penance if you want."
He finally looked back at Omen, the edge softened by something almost like self-awareness.

"But even monsters need downtime," he added, lifting his tankard again. "Drink. Laugh. Forget for a few hours why the galaxy keeps giving us reasons to pick up weapons."
Korda rose, hefting himself up with a grunt, checking The Ashen Maw one more time, selectors, seals, weight, before mag-locking it back onto his shoulder.

"I'll probably head out to guard the mines soon," he said casually. "Let the fire burn without me for a bit."
He paused, then gave Omen a sideways look and a grin that was sharp but genuine.
"Good talking with you, Omen. You keep existing. You're doing it better than most."


With that, he took one last pull from the tankard, set it aside, and turned toward the edge of the light. leaving space for Omen to sit with what he'd just heard, or follow if he chose.

Sergeant Omen

 

[Zlova Rue]

A lethan drew up along side Aether Verd with a glass in either hand. "If that Cat dredges up a giant worm tonight... I'll feed him to it, personally." There was no levity to the voice of the crimson Twi'lek as her gold eyes stared across at the Cathar. The man knew she wasn't serious, of course. Well, most likely not serious given whom Zlova had been speaking about. "Please ignore his 'scientific' inquiries and rally the troops for the trek ahead. I'll manage the blue ball of fur."

Maybe she could find one of those science types hiding in the shadows to feed him all the information he wanted.

Someone like Sula. Oh, the woman was already tinkering around. A snort followed witnessing events unfold. "I like it when they make themselves known without having to scare them out of their labs."

With that, Zlova continued in Talohn's direction. No doubt she'd be hearing a lot of technobabble as they talked about dirt. Thank the Ancient deities. Dirt. Everyone's favorite topic. And he thought to have Aether spend his time on such a captivating subject when the man must have better things to do. Like dance around the fire like the pale witch over there. Or telling some bawdy story about a keg. Much better things to do.

"Terrible samples from a terrible world." Zlova held the drinks out to either side to mime a shrug for Sula Skirata 's benefit . "You can try to shoot the messenger, but it won't change facts. We aren't preparing to venture into the abyss because it's a healthy and thriving world full of sunshine and puppies."

One of the stout drinks was offered to her fuzzball. She expected he'd be thirsty dealing with his dirt samples and lackluster beat dropping. A real drop would have the ground visibly undulating up and down -- practically a fluid. "What are you looking for again, Cat?" Somehow Talohn Atar 's earlier explanation had slipped her mind.

 

[Raum Varad]

The Pyre
Objective I​

Raum Varad arrived with the last wave, boots crunching on frost-bitten stone, beskar plates catching firelight like they had something to say. Stolen armor, a life stitched together from bad decisions and worse luck. He rolled a cigarra between his fingers, sparked it, and let the smoke fill his lungs slow and deep. Home, or close enough to it.

The bonfire pulled at him. Everything did tonight. Noise, heat, bodies packed close. He drifted through the ring like a shark through shallows, trading nods, smirks, the occasional shoulder check. Someone laughed too loud at his scars. Someone else clocked his beskar'gam and decided not to ask questions. Good instincts, that one.

He took a ration skewer, burned his fingers, laughed when it hurt. Pain was honest. Pain didn't lie. He leaned against a crate and listened to old war stories get worse with every retelling. Mandalorians loved their myths. He exhaled smoke toward the stars and wondered which version of tomorrow would survive. Probably not the clean one.

A pair of warriors squared off near the fire, voices tight, hands hovering. Raum watched, amused. He could feel the itch in his knuckles, the old familiar buzz. Not tonight, he told himself. Save it. Tomorrow will take its due. The thought settled him more than it should have.

Someone clapped him on the back. He didn't flinch. Progress. He shared the cigarra, accepted a drink that tasted like fuel, and let the hours burn down with the ember. For a while, he was just another man by a fire, laughing at nothing, pretending the dark below wasn't waiting.

When the noise thinned and the fire sank into itself, Raum peeled off toward the pyre's warm edge. He found a patch of ground shielded from the wind, shrugged out of his pack, and used it for a pillow. Armor stayed on. Always. He took one last drag, ground the cigarra into the dirt, and stared into the flames until they blurred.

Sleep crept up on him quietly. He let it. Tomorrow was a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, the fire was warm, the ground was solid, and for a few stolen hours, that was enough.

​

 

[CT-312]

//: Ronion Mines, Mandalore //:
//: Attire //:
//: OBJ II - THE WATCH //:

CT-312 felt a subtle pull. A shift in pressure. The Scout didn’t need to look to note how the camp’s rhythm shifted. Not louder or faster, but different. Voices adjusted and footsteps paused for a moment or two. Then everything resumed like nothing had happened, except this time with an altered beat.

Ping. BARCA chimed inside her helmet. A soft beep with a signature tag. A directional vector displayed on her HUD. CT-312 turned her attention from the mines to see whose arrival altered the camp’s cadence. She recognized him immediately from the files. Aether Verd . He was not just another Mandalorian. The Scout’s eyes tracked, noting his influence over the camp. His presence carried and his voice that traveled across the camp without force or elevation, steadied and assured those throughout. Shoulders eased and stances firmed, the restlessness that hung over the camp smoothed into something more focused. CT-312 continued to watch as he continued to move through his people. Some gravitated toward him openly, while others adjusted their position subtly.

The ground shuddered suddenly beneath her boots. A low rumble rolled through the camp as a voice yelled out. It was sharp, loud —BARCA auto-zoomed her HUD— and… unmistakably Cathar. BARCA pulled the HUD’s zoom, returning her wider view. CT-312 exhaled faintly. The camp was… something. A moment passed as that brief disturbance sparked an entertaining idea. She turned away.

Her footsteps carried along the outer perimeter of the base camp. Gradually increasing the distance between herself from the fightlight, sealed mines, and noise. To anyone watching, it would look like a routine perimeter check. A Scout doing what scouts do. There was no urgency or spectacle.

At the back of the base camp the lights thinned and the land opened outward into darkness. Mandalore stretched beyond the reach of illumination. CT-312 stopped. Facing away from the camp and toward the unseen terrain beyond. “BARCA.” The word was barely audible as her tone was more intent than command. A series of soft beeps answered inside her helmet as data scrolled across her HUD. Requesting confirmation.

“No. Two will suffice.”

Another set of tones as text flashed across her overlay. [ACKNOWLEDGED].

CT-312 raised her vambrace. A holokeypad appeared in a wash of dim light. Just bright enough for her eyes. Typing out a short concise message, her gloved finger hovered over the send icon for a moment longer than necessary. It would make things more interesting. A quiet hum slipped from her. “Hmm.” Tapping the key —Send— the holokeypad vanished.

Spotting a nearby boulder, CT-312 perched herself on top. From there, she had a clear view of the camp that was spread out before her. Watching those who clustered near the fire, the ones who lingered at the Watch, and the few who kept to themselves at the edge of the camp like she did.

Now... she waited.

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda arrived without announcement.
The ground here was packed hard by boots and machinery, marked with the shallow scars of repeated staging. Crates sat in disciplined rows, cables coiled and secured, weapons checked and rechecked by sentries who spoke only when required. Beyond them loomed the sealed descent, stone and durasteel fused shut, swallowing light instead of reflecting it.

His helmet sealed with a quiet hiss, visor dark, HUD dimmed to the bare essentials. No floodlights cut across the space, only low-mounted work lamps and the steady glow of instrument panels, enough to see without banishing the shadows entirely. The dark was allowed to exist here. Respected.


He stood still, hands resting at his sides, shoulders rising once with a slow breath.
"Last chance to turn around," he murmured to himself, the words barely audible even inside the helmet. A habit. Not doubt, just acknowledgment.
The sentries didn't look at him. They knew better. Everyone did.
Korda tilted his head slightly, gaze fixed on the sealed entrance. On the weight beneath it. On what waited, patient and buried.


"Still breathing," he added after a moment. "Means I'm not done."
No response came, nor did he expect one. The Watch wasn't a place for answers, only for resolve.
After a few seconds more, he stepped forward, boots crunching softly against the ground as intent settled into something sharp and immovable.

Korda slowed as he reached the edge of the overlook, stopping just short of the threshold. He stood there for a moment, broad silhouette framed against the sealed door, eyes lingering on the dark beyond as if it might stare back. Whatever waited below was not unknown to him, but it was patient, and patience demanded respect.
He disengaged The Ashen Maw from its mag-lock, the weapon settling into his hands with familiar weight. A final check followed: seals intact, modes cycling cleanly, housing firm. He ran a thumb along the etched metal once, then locked it back into place with a solid clack that echoed faintly against the stone.


Satisfied, Korda took up position near one of the support struts overlooking the entrance. He rested a hand on the grip of his weapon, posture relaxed but unmistakably ready. Around him, other warriors stood in similar silence, some checking gear, some speaking in low tones with commanders, others simply staring into the darkness with their thoughts laid bare.


Here, there was no need for speeches. No need for threats or promises.
At The Watch, intentions settled.
Korda exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes fixed on the sealed depths of Mandalore, and waited, content to be the last thing standing between the dark and the fire behind him.

Tags; Open

 

[Veyla Krinn]

Veyla felt the shift before she fully registered him.

Not the sound of boots or the scrape of armor, but the way the space at The Watch subtly rebalanced itself around someone who had chosen his place and would not be moved from it. She did not turn right away. This ground was not for quick reactions or performative acknowledgment. Silence here did the measuring.

When she finally glanced his way, it was brief and deliberate.

He stood near the threshold like a fixed point, posture relaxed but unmistakably ready, attention locked on the sealed descent rather than the people behind him. No restless energy. No need to prove presence. Just intent held steady, the kind that came from someone who understood exactly what waited below and had already accepted the cost of facing it.

Veyla shifted her weight slightly, adjusting her stance so she shared the same line of sight without crowding him. Close enough to speak without raising her voice. Far enough to respect the space he had claimed.

"You chose the right place to stand," she said quietly, eyes still on the sealed door rather than on him. "The fire's good for noise and stories. This is where people decide what they're willing to carry."

A pause followed, unhurried, letting the weight of the Watch remain what it was.

She turned her head just enough then to meet his peripheral vision, not pressing for attention, simply offering presence.

"Veyla Krinn," she said. "Clan Kryze."

No rank. No expectation.

She returned her gaze to the descent, settling back into stillness beside him, another silhouette facing the dark. Whatever waited below would reveal itself soon enough. Until then, silence was the truest introduction.

Korda Veydran Dral Kar'taal Siv Kryze

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda's visor caught her movement in the periphery, a flicker against the dim glow of the low-mounted lamps and the subtle gleam of the sealed descent. He didn't shift his stance. Didn't acknowledge more than necessary. The Watch demanded patience, quiet calculation, and the kind of presence that didn't need constant proof.


"Korda Veydran," he said at last, voice low, deliberate, carrying a subtle weight that seemed to settle into the stones around them. "Last of Clan Veydran." There was no pride in the declaration, only history and obligation, a lineage etched into muscle, scar, and blood.


His fingers brushed lightly along the side of The Ashen Maw, feeling the familiar contours, testing the balance even as the weapon rested on its shoulder mount. The motions were ritualistic, grounding. The weight of the rifle was a constant reminder of what he carried and what he had already endured.


He exhaled slowly, letting the sound hiss faintly through the sealed helmet. "You're right," he said, eyes returning to the dark void of the mine below. "Fire is for noise. For stories. For those who need to be seen. Here…" His voice dipped lower, almost reverent. "…here is where we decide what we're willing to carry. What we're willing to give. How far we'll go to see Mandalore returned to its pure state."


Korda's gaze lingered on the sealed threshold. It was silent. Waiting. Patient. A mirror of the resolve in him. "I've made my choice," he continued, tone steady, measured. "I'll gladly follow Mand'alor the Iron into the mines. And if I don't walk back out…" He paused, letting the weight of the words settle. "…then Kad Ha'Rangir will see that I don't. That light of day isn't promised to those who cross the path of what must be cleansed."


There was a strange, bitter peace in that certainty, a quiet calm that steadied his heartbeat and anchored the shadows around him. He adjusted his grip slightly, the subtle clack of the mag-lock on The Ashen Maw a private punctuation to the thought.


Korda shifted just enough to balance his weight, boots pressing into the dust and grit of the staging area. The low hum of machinery and the distant echoes of other sentries faded into near silence, leaving him alone with the magnitude of the sealed descent and the dark waiting beneath. He thought briefly of the fire back at the camp, the laughter, the stories, the chaos and the contrast made the calm of the Watch feel like a rare commodity.


"The Watch is quiet," he murmured, almost to himself, the words lost in the hum of the mine. "But the work below? That's where silence becomes action. Where intent turns into consequences."


He exhaled again, steady, deliberate, feeling the familiar weight of responsibility settle over him like armor heavier than the durasteel on his chest. Korda allowed himself a single moment to simply stand there, a fixed point in a world that demanded movement, a sentinel ready to meet whatever awaited in the depths.

Veyla Krinn

 

[Mia Monroe]

Tags: Itzhal Volkihar Liorra​

The noise of the camp faded as they walked, replaced by the soft whisper of wind over stone and the choir of insects chirping in the moonlight. They were not entirely alone, sentries were placed beyond the camp line perimeter, armour glinted and heavy boots shifted on the stone beneath their feet, casting little more than a glance Mia and Itzhal's way as they passed.

Her brow furrowed beneath her helm at his words. More often than not, dreams were just dreams, but dreams shared by many? Unease crept up her spine. "I haven't but then I am, by design, far more removed than yourself." She was quiet for a beat, thoughtful. "When death and destruction tear through a world as it did this one, it leaves a wound in the force. When close to those wounds, that darkness can do strange things to a person's mind or mood. It's possible that there is one of those wounds here and these…dreams are simply its manifestation."

She shrugged a hint of amusement in her tone. "Or the mines are haunted."

Whatever was waiting for them behind the sealed entrance, they would face as they always had. Fearless and with sharp blades and a true aim. "Are you worried?" she asked. It wasn't an accusation, but an opportunity for him to speak freely, without judgement.

She drew them to a halt, a spot far enough away from any ears that their conversation could not be heard, and in that moment, Mia felt it. Eyes on her, behind them a presence that brought an ache to her chest. She turned slowly, visor reflecting the stars above, the gaze behind it fixed on the girl that she would have named daughter.

She held Liorra's gaze, listening to Izthal's response and waiting. Waiting to see if she would come, or if she would turn away like the last time they had spoken.