Liberator, Butcher, Conquerer

[Mia Monroe]

The argument about whether or not Ijaat would meet the shadow that had come to them on Manda'yaim alone, had been a very short one. She had had two very good reasons to not only fly him to Balowa, but to accompany him to meet the owner of the phantom that had spat venom at him. The only reason she'd needed to vocalise was that she was responsible for him. It wasn't that she didn't believe that Ijaat was incapable of defending himself, it was because she believed whoever this phantom was, they were far more powerful than he. That was something she could not leave him to face alone, no matter the cost.

There was however, a second reason. There had been something about the dark signature of the phantom. A face she couldn't see clearly, a voice muffled, a memory that wasn't hers and one she seemed to unable to reach. Velok's memories were not always crisp and clear, like any memory they faded a little over time but she couldn't shake the suspicion that whoever they were, they were significant.

It was impossible to land the Veil close to Lake Krul, the dense forest around it stretch for half a kilometer in all directions. Rumour had it that force mutants were not uncommon amidst the trees. She found a clearing at the forests edge to set the ship down. Leaving the astromech droids to keep the ship cloaked and running, she collected her weapons and moved to meet [member="Ijaat Mereel"] at the bottom of the landing ramp.

[member="Ajira Cardei"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Balowa. He supposed in a way, it was his birthplace now. His memories of his time here were seared into his mind like a laser etched stone. Nothing could have the clarity those moments did in his mind. As he waited for planetfall, he sat in a bunk while ostensibly checking over weapons. This might be the last time he had the chance to use some of his more favored weaponry. The shacklebolt, for one, was a device that was sought the mercenary world over. It would be far too hallmark as his old self. But still, he checked over it. Oiled, cleaned, checked things for burrs and files. Debates raged on in his mind as to whether he should go armored, or not.

Finally, he eyed a case he had in his footlocker of gear. Simple, not a stitch of ornamentation. Plain durasteel locks and hinges. Worshyr wood body. For now, he put it to the side, a lingering eye on it. And then he stood and grabbed a simple ballistic vest of armorweave he had taken to wearing. The vest that held his beskar'gam also sat on the bunk he had risen from. Gleaming in white and bronze with black detailing. He had repainted it on the journey, fixed it to as close to new as possible. Reaching down, he ran his fingers across the detail marks on the plates and picked it up.

Heavy weight. Responsibility. Oaths and duties. All gone now, thanks to his decision. He knew Vizsla was on Wayland, so his actions couldn't directly destroy them. But it would force them to look inward, rather than out. Force them to build and defend, or make it obvious they were merely pawns of the Sith trying to influence the rest of the Mando'ade. If his people fell for their ruse after this..,. He had done all he could. So the vest was reverently laid to the side with all it's distinctive armor on it. Turning, he instead picked up the ballistics vest and slide on the black under shirt for it, rolling it over a tattoo-covered torso and sliding the carrier over top of it.

Buckles were snapped, straps tightened. Flexing his arms and rolling and twisting he made sure the fit was right and nodded. His fatigue pants stayed, with a low-slung holster on his right thigh holding a rather non-descript blaster. A longcoat of such dark brown leather it was almost black slide over his shoulders and he mussed with the collar as he slung a pack containing a few things over his shoulder, a sword sticking from it. And overall, he looked a mercenary ready for recruit. Nothing more than anyone else who might have been sighted here. And no one here would be running to tell others he was here, even if they knew what he had done.

Something from within the box was grabbed and clipped to the belt on the inside of his left. And he walked down to meet [member="Mia Monroe"] finally.

[member="Ajira Cardei"]

 

[Ashin Varanin]

[member="Mia Monroe"] [member="Ijaat Mereel"]

The spectre snapped into view in front of them.

"I have three things to say," the silhouette hissed. "One: I have no particular patience at the moment, certainly not enough to wait while you quest and tromp your way through two kilometres of cursed jungle, only to swim a lake and so forth and so on. So here I am. Two: I still expect you to explain your actions on Manda'yaim, Mereel. Three: I told you to come alone or you would find nobody here. I'm making that promise empty because I want an explanation, but rest assured that your associate's presence doesn't well dispose me toward the matter at hand."

A hand stretched out, a finger pointing. "Volcanic eruptions across Manda'yaim. Atmospheric particulate. Plunging temperatures worldwide. I glimpsed enough to know it was intentional. You're a Mandalorian's Mandalorian, Mereel. And your associate is Mia Monroe, once Mandalore the Liberator, dar'manda once or twice yet always one who returned to the fold."

The spectre folded its arms. "You'll be the most significant fugitive in the Mandalorian sphere of influence. That means you'll need another body. That means you have to die. We both understand that, I think, but your answer will affect the painlessness of your passing. Explain yourself."

 

[Julius Sedaire]

The phantom stopped Ijaat, crunching undergrowth a bit as he watched it hiss and fume. To tell truth, he hadn't wanted Mia to come at first. But she was his responsibility, as much as he was hers. In a way, they were inextricably linked by this, good or ill. Then she asked a relevant question. Patience, or lack thereof, was not his concern really. Regardless, he owed her and respected her even if he did not owe her by oath and deed. The last bit caused a shiver down his spine, and he nodded at the prospect of death. Reaching up, he adjusted the sword hilt and seemed to almost want to draw it, but he knew better. His senses were honed to the point he could tell even something able to damage Dark Side spirits would only piss off a very powerful Force User.

"Carnifex met me in battle on Ossus... He claimed me siding against the Sith would be displeasing, and suggested I comply with his wishes. When I did not, he implied the Manda'lor and Vizsla would know of his displeasure by my corpse. Several other statements were made in the battles duration that implied he believed himself to hold sway over the Mandalorians, through Vizsla. Think of it... The best wars of the Siths conquest, they wielded the Mandalorians as their instrument typically. Would it not fit their pattern perfectly to return to their favored ways? The Crusade? And when has Vizsla been more than a breeding ground for the Death Watch, and they in turn any more than the puppets of the Sith? People were swept in the mass hysteria of the Crusade. Following for War with hardly a thought in their heads, skulls as empty as a helmet on the rack."

A ragged breath, obvious emotion welling in him at the thought of his protege and friend, former apprentice, dead by his actions. Almost he sunk again to a pit of despair and grief, but something steeled him. This pain? This suffering? It was right he feel it, that he suffer it. Every twinge and stab was earned, and needed. Hard as iron and brutal as a butcher, he would have to be. To do that which needed to be done to purge his people and the galaxy of the filth of the Sith. Coruscant had seen his touch, now Manda'yaim... Other places too when his wife had died, and he had blazed a useless bloody path searching for the one responsible... Only for that one to come to him. Thumbs hooked into his belt as he assumed, by force of habit, an old duelist ready stance from Adumar. Soothing his mind, or trying to.

"Before this... I had long had seismic devices hidden on the planet, in case the Sith came to call... It will not destroy the planet... But it will force the mando'ade to halt this foolish crusade, stop useless wars with the Silver Jedi, and come to their senses and unite and fight the enemy. I have sent the evidence of what I mentioned to you to those in the Alors and mando'ad I trust beyond measure. The Sith will not have my people to wield as a blade to toss aside when dulled, not if they act as I believe they will. And I will die in the way you see fit, to be brought back or not... I am responsible for Mia in a way, and she I. If nothing else, she can be useful to our efforts, if I am not unfit yet to serve you. Kill me to remake me, or kill me and leave me dead. I have lost it all. Children, Wife, Friends, Apprentices, now my home and my people. All I have left is this fight. Let me do the only thing I can now..."

[member="Ajira Cardei"] | [member="Mia Monroe"]

 

[Mia Monroe]

Instinct made the scattergun in Mia's hand raise to cover the spectre as it appeared, not that it would do much damage. She lowered it reluctantly as it began to speak, anger rising in her as it's demands for explanation washed over them once more.

Ijaat spoke before she could and she watched with a touch of sorrow at his reasons. If only he knew the truth of her asking this of him. Time would reveal the truth, now certainly wasn't the time. She placed a hand on his shoulder and glowered at the spectre.

"Why should he have to justify his actions to you, areutii? Who are you to judge?"

[member="Ijaat Mereel"] [member="Ajira Cardei"]

 

[Ashin Varanin]

[member="Ijaat Mereel"] [member="Mia Monroe"]

"Who am I, dar'manda? I saved Manda'yaim three times, at no small personal and professional cost, only for you two to break it on the word of a Sith Lord. I rode bes'uliike down from orbit to destroy the Sith on any number of worlds, until Clan Ordo called me family. If I'd known that Carnifex could outdo it all with one insinuation, I'd have stayed home. You have both been played on a staggering level. You call me aruetii?" The silhouette snorted. "Look in the mirror and recall that the word also means 'traitor.' I'm afraid this will be your final state, Monroe. Thus far the Clans have let you come back from being dar'manda, primarily because they like the way you look in a metal brassiere and their daydreams. This time you've gone far enough to ruin the fantasy. Also, this time you're older. When they learn your role in these events, they won't be so patient as they were when you were...perky.

"Now for your resurrection, Mereel. Let's get you back out there to slaughter Sith and redeem yourself."

Lightning fountained from that outstretched hand. It was directed primarily at the beskarsmith.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Had he been played? Could it have been a trick? He doubted it, but it was a possibility. Had his hatred for Vizsla blinded him to the possibilities otherwise? And even without those truths, would he have pulled the switch anyhow? Opening his mouth, he prepared to retort but was cut off. Lightning flashed into him, crisping skin, and almost with paranoia he flung the pack from him and the coat came off with it. It coiled at his feet, a phrik underlining gleaming in delicately woven threads. Beskar was his preferred metal, but it would be hideously obvious to have made the coat with that. Still, he admitted an armored coat made in the manner this one was still spoke of old habits, some of which would likely never ever really die.

His face contorted in pain as flesh cracked and crisped, and he knelt. At first on his knees, then on hands and knees. But not once did he stop gazing at where the Phantom's eyes were. Anyone who knew the history of their people as deeply would know the breadcrumbs that were just dropped by it. And so his fiery eyes met hers, hate and envy and gratitude pulsing from him. Flashes of past horrors course in his mind and seared from his soul in as much or more pain than Coruscant. He was soaked in as much blood as [member="Darth Carnifex"] or more. The difference came down to ideology. And in the end, who decided what was best?

His mind was fuzzing now, pain taking him to blackness as his body was wracked. But still, he stared her in the eyes. Regret washed away. All that remained was determination. Pure steel.

[member="Ajira Cardei"] | [member="Mia Monroe"]