Private Iron & Silver

[Seris Mataan]

The shuttle cut a clean silhouette against the twin suns of Mandalore as it descended through the dry air. Its hull bore no insignia sleek, quiet, purpose-built. It did not roar as it landed; it settled, as though it belonged there.

When the ramp hissed open, Seris Mataan stood at its threshold like a figure drawn from myth.

She wore robes of silver, smooth and flowing like forged moonlight, layered beneath a long, matching cloak that swept behind her like the echo of a tide. The hood was drawn forward, shadowing her features, but a cascade of crimson hair spilled from beneath the cowl—vivid against the muted steel of her garb.

Her steps were soft, deliberate.

No guards challenged her. They didn't need to. The Force moved around her with a quiet rhythm not dark, not light, but alive. Vibrant. Present. She carried herself with the serene bearing of a dancer and the presence of someone who did not need to announce what she was.

Not Jedi.
Not Sith.

But something different, perhaps purer a vessel of the Living Force.

As she approached the massive gates of Sundari Hall, she found them already opened.

Not for her.

But perfectly timed.

And Seris, understanding the language of moments, stepped through without pause.

Inside, the hall was vast and echoing, its banners high above red, gold, black, the proud sigils of clans old and new. The stone beneath her feet bore the weight of generations. Firelight flickered along the walls, and at the far end, beneath the looming crest of the Mandalorian people, sat the Mand'alor.

She paused.

Then, with deliberate grace, she lifted both hands and drew back her hood. The crimson cascade of her hair caught the light, as did the calm sharpness in her green eyes. The Force around her pulsed faintly, like a held breath. Yet she waited, until she was waved forward and only a few steps.

She stepped forward, and her voice carried clearly.

"Mand'alor, my name is Seris Mataan, daughter of Taiia. My father was of Clan Wren."

She held the Mand'alor's gaze a moment longer, then added, her tone neither boastful nor supplicating:

"My mother once served your father, in the days of the Confederacy. She fought beside him many times, I have come to you at her request."

It was not a name-drop. It was an offering. A bridge.

A moment passed.

Then Seris inclined her head not a bow, but something respectful. The nod of one heir to another. The stillness of someone who knows the history they carry and chooses to bear it well.

She stood tall, poised, awaiting the Mand'alor's answer.

TAG: Aether Verd

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[Jonah]

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[Aether Verd]

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

COURT OF IRON

The Court did not rumble. It watched.

Stone and steel lined the vast hall, the heart of Sundari reforged by fire and stubborn will. Crimson carpet stretched from gate to throne, the color deep as spilled blood and twice as proud. On either side, the statues of former Mand’alors stood as columns of iron and obsidian, watchful relics of eras past. Their visors bore down like sentinels, and though no breath stirred within, it felt as though they saw her. Judged her. Measured her.

And then there was him.

Seated beneath the banner of the Mandalorian people, where red and gold met black in burning unity, was Aether Verd. He did not rise. He did not need to.

His throne was wrought of war, of metals reclaimed from beskar, from durasteel, from the bones of broken enemies. Firelight painted his armor in shades of rust and sun, but the helm upon his head glowed with an unyielding gold. One hand rested against the armrest, fingers curled in thought. The other was still.

As Seris entered, he regarded her not as a threat, nor as a curiosity, but as something rare.

The air seemed to shift with her words.

When she named herself, daughter of Taiia, child of Clan Wren, there was no immediate reply. Just silence. Consideration. Then, slowly, his head dipped in recognition.

“Then you are welcome here.”

The words were firm, resonant beneath the vocoder. But there was something else, buried beneath the steel of his tone—something quiet.

Not Jedi. Not Sith.

But Mandalorian.

Heritage first.

That mattered.

“The service your mother gave to my father speaks to her strength,” he continued, his voice steady. “But your blood, Clan Wren, carries weight of its own. More than name. More than favor. It carries choice.”

He raised one hand, palm open in silent invitation.

“You’ve come to Mandalore by request.”

The visor remained fixed on her—bright, unblinking.

“What is it she asks of us, Seris Mataan?”

A pause, then the words that closed the distance.

“Mandalore is listening.”​

Seris Mataan