Private Little Jar'Kai || Izumi

[Aether Verd]

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

LITTLE JAR'KAI, TARIS

The world below his boots bore the weight of history. Once a Mandalorian world, then a battlefield, and now, once again, their charge. Taris stretched endlessly in every direction, a city so vast it swallowed its own skyline. At a glance, the towers gleamed and the streets bustled. Peace, it seemed, had returned to the world. But the Mand’alor knew better.

Beneath the surface, in shadowed corridors and forgotten levels, rot festered. The scars left by the Gravesong War had not yet faded, and wherever wounds remained open, scavengers circled. Gangs, slavers, and opportunists picked through the broken bones of a displaced people. In the alleys of Little Jar’kai, families were pressed into debt, forced to pay for safety that never came, or bled dry by those who had never lifted a weapon in the Empire’s name.

They thought themselves safe in the dark. They believed their actions small enough to avoid notice. They believed the Mandalorian gaze did not reach this far. They were wrong.

The Protectors moved with purpose, crimson cloaks drawn close, visors aglow beneath the tinted lights of the district. Aether led them through the winding streets of Little Jar’kai, where Atrisian customs lived proudly among the steel bones of the city. Lanterns swayed on wires overhead, steam rolled out from tightly packed kitchens, and shopfronts pulsed with soft neon against the dusk.

They did not come kicking in doors. Not yet.

Instead, the Mand’alor stepped into a modest teahouse tucked at the end of a narrow row. Its windows glowed with gentle warmth, and the scent of steeped leaves met them the moment the door opened. It was a far cry from the battlefield, but it had its own rhythm, its own kind of calm. There were sellswords here. He could feel it. Mercenaries resting between jobs, travelers waiting on the next bit of credits to change hands.

He chose a corner table, large enough for his warriors to sit without clutter. The Protectors settled without a word. Orders were placed quietly, and for now, they waited.

They would drink. They would listen. And when the moment came, they would act.​

Niijima Izumi

 

[Niijima Izumi]

LITTLE JAR'KAI, TARIS ​

Evening settled over the city like a velvet curtain, dimming the streets in hues of red, orange and blue. Lanterns swayed gently in the warm summer breeze, the soft hues from the lights danced in perfect rhythm to the wind. The air was heavy with the scent of cherry blossom, mixed with the ever-so familiar scent of food and drink from the various establishments in the area. It was the hour when most tourists, patrons and mercenaries would retire to their homes and lodgings. This was all true for all but one woman, Niijima Izumi.

She moved with the grace of a falling petal, her silk garments trailing behind her. The outfit she wore was both armor and a statement, an elegant samurai ensemble cut from midnight-black silk. Gold thread laced her sleeves in delicate motifs of dragons and wind, and blood-red accents knotted at her waist added beauty to the design. Her katana hung at her side in a silk-bound sheath, and though her hands rested calmly at her sides, there was no mistaking the readiness in her stride.

A wide-brimmed straw hat sat low on her head, obscuring her eyes but never her presence. From beneath it, twin earrings pulsed softly with a golden light, like embers in a storm; delicate, but unyielding. Her long black hair was bound high, trailing in the breeze like ink spilled in water. Those who passed her barely dared to meet her gaze, for even without a word, there was something ancient and deliberate in her bearing, as if she walked not through a street, but through a battlefield yet to awaken.

Upon her back, the silk parted just enough to reveal the coiled serpent inked into her skin, its body winding across the pale canvas of her back, frozen in a moment of poised strike. The tattoo moved with her breath, alive in the lantern light. As she disappeared down the narrow alleyways and into the soft shadows of the night, Izumi was less a person and more a presence, elegant, dangerous, and unforgettable.

She found herself turning a corner, her golden-brown hues resting on a tea house. It was not an unfamiliar place to her, having found herself there one too many times in the past, as both a mercenary and a geisha. Of course, there were the odd times where she was a patron there too, though those were more rare. Tonight, she was here for one of those rare moments. Although one would and could argue that her attire would give off a different vibe, she was here for some tea, remnants of the warm sake she had consumed a few hours ago still in her system, she sought for the quiet comfort of a cup of hot tea.

Stepping inside the teahouse, wooden sandals hitting the floorboards with poise and purpose, her eyes scanned the inside of the place. It was quiet tonight, perhaps to her luck. Making eye contact with the teahouse owner, the other woman would bow her head to her, recognizing her instantly. Izumi returned the gesture, taking a step towards the corner of the establishment, where she usually sat. The woman loved that seat, for it gave her the ability to see everyone in the room without any blind spots. Anxiety at its peak, one would argue, and she was fine with that.

She stopped mid-step though, noticing a group of strangely armored individuals already occupying the table. Izumi allowed a small, almost inaudible sigh to escape her lops before turning to a table near one of the windows. She had not expected to see a group of men at a teahouse, armed and all, but nothing would surprise her too much. The world was an unpredictable place after all. She signaled for one of the workers to grab her her usual order, a simple pot of jasmine green tea, before sitting herself in the chair comfortably, placing her straw hat on the table gently.​

 

[Aether Verd]

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

LITTLE JAR'KAI, TARIS

Aether did not need to look to sense her. She arrived not with the clatter of boots or the swagger of pride, but with the elegance of smoke curling from a brazier. Subtle. Intentional. Measured. A breeze, not a storm. One that could still carry the scent of fire.

He watched without turning his helm. The curve of her stride. The careful silence of her approach. The hesitation, brief but telling, when she saw the table was taken. Then the graceful redirection toward the window, the quiet nod shared between her and the teahouse keeper, the practiced way she settled into her seat. He knew the type. Not just a sellsword, but one seasoned by survival. One who knew the value of sightlines. One who understood that presence was as much a weapon as steel.

She had not come to start a fight, but she would not shy from one. That made her exactly the kind of soul he was here to find.

Aether raised a hand, gloved fingers catching the attention of a nearby attendant. He spoke softly, ordering a second pot of tea, one meant to be shared among his Protectors. The gesture was as much for rhythm as for ritual. Something familiar to mark the shift from observation to intention.

His helm came free with a quiet hiss, set aside with care as the pot arrived. The steam curled upward, and he took a slow sip before murmuring another request. A small plate of rice cakes. Not for himself. For her.

When the attendant delivered them, no words were exchanged. Only a quiet nod toward the Mandalorians and the silent understanding it carried.

Aether said nothing. He did not raise his voice nor tilt his chin in her direction. But the fourth side of his table remained unoccupied. A single cushion sat waiting. It was neither demand nor plea. It was invitation.​

Niijima Izumi

 

[Niijima Izumi]

The server returned with her usual green tea, served in a nanbuteki teapot. made of cast iron which was renowned for its durability, intricate designs, and excellent heat retention. She loved these little pots, since it guaranteed that every cup of tea she had was scorching hot, perfect for someone who needed the warmth after drinking large quantities of alcohol. It came with a matching tea cup, a small little thing of black and red. The owner had said that they ordered a red and black teapot and cup just for her, as she was one of their loyal customers. Hand carved red plum blossom petals adorned both, the vibrant red made even more vibrant against the black underneath. If only she could take it home, Izumi thought to herself, though asking to do that would probably ruin whatever relationship she had with the owner.

The young woman took the handle of the teapot, her finger clasped tightly around the bail handle of the teapot. Slowly she poured herself a cup of tea, the steam clearly visible as it clashed with the outside world. She was about to take a sip from her cup when she noticed one of the servers bringing over a plate of rice cakes. Puzzled, Izumi questioned the server with her eyes. "The rice cakes are from the patron over there," the man would nod to the corner table. Still puzzled, the woman allowed for the rice cakes to be placed on her table. She turned her head to the man, noticing the armor he wore. From what little she knew, she could tell that he was some kind of warrior, and that he had come with a group of others. Without a single second of hesitation, Izumi took the plate of rice cakes and walked over to his table, placing the plate in front of him.

"While I appreciate your hospitality, I do not accept gifts of any kind from strangers I don't know..." her voice came out melodic, though her eyes locked onto the man before her. As sweet as she sounded, her facial expression would probably give away her true feelings; guarded, cold and inapproachable. She allowed her eyes to break away from the man and towards the others sitting around him for a moment, before turning her attention back on him. "Is there something you want from me?" Her voice still soft, it held an edge. Despite her attire, the woman was a warrior of her own, and she was also not afraid of groups like this. In fact, she welcomed them.

She continued to stand, unsure of what the stranger was going to say. She tried to assess him and the others, but Izumi always felt like an outsider in situations like these. Izumi would stand there, waiting for the man to giver her the answer she wanted, patiently.​

 

[Aether Verd]

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

LITTLE JAR'KAI, TARIS

The rice cakes were returned with grace, not spite. That, he could respect.

Aether regarded the woman as she spoke, her voice melodic, yet sharpened like the edge of a blade kept too long in the rain. There was no insult in her words, only the armor of someone who had learned too often that kindness bore conditions. When her eyes broke from his and swept across the others, he did not stop her. Let her measure them. Let her see they were not jackals circling a prize, but warriors at rest, each one shaped by fire in their own way.

He did not rise. His helm remained at his side, his features plain, unguarded, and sincere. When he spoke, it was with the quiet cadence of a man who had no need to posture.

"You are right to question the gesture. If I have overstepped, then I offer my apology." His tone carried neither pride nor regret, only the steadiness of intent. "Where I come from, we offer food before words. A sign of peace. A habit born in war."

He looked to the plate now resting between them, then back to her.

"I do wish something from you, but not as a demand. You are not a stranger to danger. That much is plain. Nor are you one to be swayed by charm or titles, so I will not offer either."

He shifted slightly, bracing a forearm across his knee, fingers steepled.

"I need strength. Wisdom. A steady hand not easily shaken. We are undertaking something that may soon draw fire across this very sky. And while I command armies, what I seek now is smaller. Sharper. Someone who can walk through chaos and still hear their own steps."

The tea between them steamed gently in the silence that followed.

"If you are willing, I would ask for your aid. Your sword, your insight, your voice. All for a cause that may yet change the shape of this world. Name your price. If it can be paid, I will see it done."

He let the words hang, not with expectation, but with respect. She would decide what came next.​

Niijima Izumi

 

[Niijima Izumi]

Izumi listened in silence, her expression unchanging even as his words carried the weight of sincerity. She neither flinched nor softened, though inwardly she noted the rare steadiness in his tone. A man who commanded armies yet chose humility, such restraint was uncommon, and therefore suspect.

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before shifting back to the plate of rice cakes. She did not touch them. Symbols of peace or not, she had learned long ago that gifts often carried chains, invisible though they may be.

When she finally spoke, her voice was low, measured, and even, like a blade held steady in a practiced hand.

"You speak of strength and wisdom as though they are easily bought. They are not. Nor do I lend them freely to causes I do not understand."

Her fingers rested lightly on the curve of her scabbard, not in challenge, but in the quiet familiarity of one who trusted her weapon more than any spoken promise. Her eyes remained fixed on his, unreadable.

"I have no qualms with you, nor with those who follow you. But neither do I have reason to stand at your side. Words of peace are not the same as proof."

She allowed the silence to stretch, unhurried, as though testing whether he would falter beneath the weight of it. Finally, she inclined her head the slightest fraction, a gesture that was neither acceptance nor refusal.

"If your cause is as you claim, it will show itself in time. Until then, I will watch. I will listen. Only when I see truth with my own eyes will I consider drawing my blade for you."

Her gaze sharpened then, not with hostility, but with a quiet, deliberate curiosity.

"Tell me," she said, her tone calm yet probing, "what makes your cause different from the ambitions of men who wage war for power, or for pride? If I am to weigh your words, I must know what sets them apart."

Her voice carried no challenge, only the patience of one who demanded clarity before judgment. Izumi stood as still as stone, giving nothing of herself away, yet her question lingered in the air like an unspoken trial.
​