Private Long Overdue

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
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| Location | Onderon Highlands - Kryze Clangrounds
| Objective | Hearth, Home, Kin

The Clangrounds were silent.​

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Jenn had wept, and felt no shame for saying it. This was once the tenderly beating heart of her people, a testament to her unique vision for the New Mandalorians. Humbly living amidst the highlands granted to them by the Queen of Onderon, where few could reach them. Here, they were free to live unburdened by the reach of civilization, of modernity, diluting their way of life. They lived in accordance with the land, putting great value in the work wrought by one's own hands, learned to depend on no others than themselves. ​

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No longer.​

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The forge was cold, the battlements empty, the hearth attended by none. Jenn sat alone atop her throne of carved wood, at the head of the great hall, holding her head in her hands, tears rolling down her cheeks. Wondering if she had made the right choice, if she would damn herself. Before her people, she projected an image of complete confidence, of absolute control. But the truth was all too different. Alor, Duchess, Sorceress; many were her title, and yet she feared as any other woman, doubted herself as any leader did. ​

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The Edict of Exodus had been declared but two weeks ago, now. All but a few stragglers had returned to the Enduring Flame, waiting above in low orbit; those who sought to remain on Onderon had relocated to a temporary facility on the outskirts of Iziz, loaned to them by the Onderon military, still respectful of all the New Mandalorians had done for them. Haliat Kryze would do an admirable job of fostering honor and virtue among the Onderon Highlanders, those Hastati who chose to remain upon their homeworld, and dispatch the other like-minded New Mandalorians among their numbers. This much, she knew, and felt no doubt towards.​

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The Enduring Flame was a mighty ship, but there would always be the fear of being one naval engagement away from total annihilation. Aloy Vizsla had made it all work, but... Jenn was no Aloy. Their paths too different, and the greatest Vizsla she had ever met, far more storied a woman than herself. She had gone through so much, endured such evil, and remained unbroken, if weary.​

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An owl flew into the room, then, perching herself atop the Alor's shoulder plate. No language was needed between them. Owl was the totem of the House of Kryze, and through her sorcerous gift, the mighty Duchess had come to understand it better than anyone had in untold years. Sucking in a lungful of air through her gills, she slid her helmet back over her features, and turned towards the door. Watching, and waiting...​

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... until the great doors were pushed open by a pair of Hastati. Ryk and Rion. Ever-loyal, the two of them were, staying by her side through thick and thin. Their arrival surely meant that her guest had come, landed outside the gates, and been invited inside by the last two sentries left within the now-deserted village, closing the doors after his entrance.​

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The owl flew from Jenn's shoulder, and the sorceress extended her hand towards the hearth, letting it flare to life once more, the warming flame illuminating the cold and empty hall with warmth anew.​

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"We meet again, honored foe. Warm yourself by the fire. So long as you behave as befits a guest, I will extend to you the courtesy and protection demanded of a host." ​

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Silence stretched, if but for a moment, her eyes scrutinizing his helm, the Forgemistress within her admiring its unique make. Not quite her preference, but, then again, she favored a more... modern, style of helm, compared to his attachment to antiquated designs held by the Crusaders. Standing up from her throne, she walked on over to the hearth, to let the two of them stand on equal footing.​

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"It is good we meet again. It seems misfortune has struck you as soundly as it has my own self, and neither of us have the other to blame for it. Not directly. For all of our enmity, and how little I think of your... cause, you have my sympathies. Are you hungry? Thirsty? I owe you shelter and nourishment alike."​

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Carduul Akahl ​

 

[Carduul Akahl]

He had arrived alone.

It was his insistence; a discrete trip to check on the state of Dxun, to turn to the acceptance of an invitation with his return to known space. That if the platitudes of honor were to be held, it would shield him as well as any protection detail.

Carduul Akahl had expected to lay siege to these very grounds, one day. His foe expected the same. That there would be a blaze of fire and fury in a righteous battle of ideals, two sides left to refine the other until one cracked and broke. The glory of their ancestors to be seized in bloodshed.

Instead, there was silence. The ruler of the Crusade was led through by the Hastati escorts, so reminiscent of the Foundlings he had cultivated anew. He could’ve felt satisfaction. As if this was just. Yet despite it all, there was an ache left in a heart suppressed by duty, as he was left to gaze upon a battleground that never was. Upon a home that was abandoned by his people—whether they disagreed with him, or not. His duty was to all of them. The ones decreed as Dar’manda, ever left the opportunity to wash their hands of it all. He had always held a distaste for the title, thrown so recklessly through the generations.

The doors had been pushed open, and he had stepped through—poleaxe left those tell-tale taps against the floor, his gaze trailing across the room to take stock of what was built. Then there was a glance to the flames that spurred anew, before it tilted to rest upon the bold woman of the hour. He had his suspicions, since they’d first met. “You continue to surprise me, Duchess Jenn Kryze.” A sentiment that meant more than one notion, the visor left to levy a measured gaze across the other as he imparted. To quietly listen, take in subtle details that had changed. The front of his helm befitting the mask of their ancestors, grooved and antiquated, whereas her that ocean-blue, the artistic rendition of the Jaig eyes to crown its design. They had fought. Disputed. Yet still they stood across from each other.

“Our cause was ever the same.” In a softened reply. The fire and rage had never left him—but it was tempered. Beneath it all, there was only ever the Scholar that had started this path. “Merely different in how we pursue it.” He could say he was glad to see them move away from the Alliance. That their crimes had at last, not gone unnoticed. But that would be a low blow, for little purpose. His gaze was left to trail aside, with the tilt of the helm. “..Tihaar, if you have it.” Unusual choice for one such as himself. “I am surprised such accommodations has not yet been transferred above.” It would’ve almost made for a tease, as if it was kept out for him, had the tone been so bereft of emotion.

“...I am saddened, to see such a place bereft of the life that must’ve once flowed through it. But I admit, I am glad its people will no longer be subject to the whims of others.” The visor swiveling to rest upon the other once again. “I was not expecting to be invited upon this battleground never-to-be.”

Jenn Kryze​

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
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| Location | Kryze Clangrounds - The Great Hall
| Objective | Gather and reconcile

For all of the enmity she held in her heart for the cause of the Neo-Crusaders... ​

​

Jenn behaved as a most excellent host, following the sacred traditions held so closely to her heart. The ancient custom of sha'kajir had ever been observed by the Kryz'alor, ever-mindful of the wisdom imparted unto her by her mother. Shelter and food, once offered, guaranteed safety. And, ruthless as he may be, she knew her guest to be a proud practitioner of the old ways. In this, they would find accord. Sanctity in the old ways.​

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"Surprise is as potent a weapon as any. I do so like to cultivate an air of mystery about my person." With such a declaration made, she seemed content to wait, one visor facing another, the both of them on opposite sides of the roaring hearth, the warmth of its gently swaying flames doing wonders for weary body and restless soul alike. The Forgemistress within her admired the craftsmanship of his new helm, the aura it projected, so different from that which he expressed as a Rallymaster, once. The weight of expectations and leadership weighed upon him now, as surely as it rested upon her own shoulders.​

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"I question the veracity of your statement," came the Duchess' blunt response. A sorceress shrouded in rumors and half-truths she might be, considered a traitor and a disreputable figure for her willingness to engage in diplomacy and politics all so readily, she remained a Mandalorian, and somewhat fond of the direct approach when it was warranted. "But I hold no doubt within my heart that you believe everything you preach to our people." ​

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Harsh, but fair. Such was her way, and the way of many among their people. The request made for tihaar was met with but a moment of silent consideration, before she humbly busied herself with the task of fetching it, thinking nothing of the menial task in spite of her status, nor her sorcerous powers. Walking on over to a cabinet and carefully bringing out a bottle and two glasses.​

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"Not all that we erected here is to be evacuated," explained the Kryz'alor as she went to sit by the fire, inviting Carduul to follow her with but a wave of her hand, removing the cork with some effort and pouring the contents kept within the two small glasses. Tihaar was strong, meant to be drank in one quick gulp, the full aroma savored... if one could withstand the kick. "Life will return to it. Half of the Hastati remain loyal to their world above all, and so were allowed to part from our service without shame. These Royal Highlanders will still benefit from the guidance and might of the handful of warriors in my ranks who chose to renounce their vows to me and remain here, to defend this world. I hold no enmity against them. These Clangrounds shall serve them well, in time... but my heart grieves, all the same. This... was my vision of what our people should be."​

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That telltale hiss of depressurization, accompanied by a slow and meaningful motion of her hands, preceded the removal of her helmet. Striking, were the features kept hidden beneath, flecked with shimmering scales as they were, the Duchess' gaze difficult to hold for most. A fierce glow, an intense edge; power, granted to her by sorcery as well as her own strength of will. With every moment, the hue seemed to shift, as the same shimmering water of her beskar'gam.​

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"To freedom."​

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Jenn drank the tihaar first. As was the responsibility of a host before a wary guest.​

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It almost hid how melodious and enchanting her voice truly was, without the buy'ce...​

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Carduul Akahl ​

 

[Carduul Akahl]

He was a guest. Motions were gentle, deliberate, but nonetheless maintained a polite stature.

“Perhaps so. And yet I still find distaste in using that outlandish thing so casually.” Was his blunt statement in turn; not meant as an insult, merely a statement of fact. The force was an unfortunate tool. A weapon. And any weapon like that can sully the mind easily. Was it truly his place, to give advice on it? Lips purse momentarily. “Be wary.” Gaze briefly lilting aside. Perhaps it wasn't. Yet he offered something nonetheless.

A brow rose beneath the helmet. “In what way is it veracious, if I may ask?” Came the query in return, watching as the other stepped across to retrieve the requested drink. Idle conversation, not exactly significant in any way. Still, her response drew interest—there was always more to learn of other sects, if only out of curiosity.

There was a slight frown, unseen due to the visage he bore. Torn loyalties in soldiers was ever a problem—even the Foundlings the Neo-Crusaders fostered would ever hold such issue. Some were truly dedicated, wishing for a new life with a new family. Others were not, merely thugs looking for the next score. “That is a shame.” Came the reply. “The only hope I have for them, then, would be that they spread our ways to this populace. Perhaps one day you would return to more Mando’ade than when you left.” A muse in thought, as steps had begun to motion over with her beckon.

Once he had made his way, he had sat down with a shift of the poleaxe to rest upon his backside. There was an eye as the other took off her helmet—the first time he had seen the other beyond, in truth. His glass was seized, an adjustment made as a gentle motion saw a hiss of depressurization in turn. Easing the faceplate for removal, but it was not fully taken off. Perhaps it was some measure of paranoia. Or merely that he considered the mask no different from his true face.

There was a softened hum. Perhaps some part of his mind felt a freedom from burden, yet it was only eased. Never gone, entirely. “To freedom.” Came a reply in quiet agreeance, as the glass was raised with a lift of the mask’s plate. There was only a glimpse of skin to be seen from the mouth beneath—skin crossed between pale and tanned, only touched by what light caught through the armor. A faded scar to streak across the lips to the chin. The rest however, was obscured, before the glass was lowered with a swallow. A softened breath to leave him in exhale, with the kick of the drink endured.

“The next question to ask; what now?” It was posed not just to her, but a question aloud for both of them. Were they to merely reminisce over their disputes, past glories that lead them to this point? Forge something new, however meagre the gesture may seem? Or, go their separate ways after this acknowledgement, to again clash another time. He was no longer the only one to call claim to 'Mand'alor'. She could certainly be dealing with the new one upon the throne—so why, he subtly wondered, were they here.

Jenn Kryze​

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
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| Location | Kryze Clangrounds - The Great Hall
| Objective | Tac au Tac

"When you call the powers sent unto me by the very gods outlandish, I hear only ignorance - and it is that ignorance which leads unto intolerance, and intolerance... to the brutal repression of Ra Vizsla, butchering those of our people so blessed and cursed as I am," answered the Kryz'alor just as bluntly. "This is a frivolous use, I shall hardly contest that much. Consider it a reminder of my power. How effortlessly it doth flow through me." ​

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"Your cause is hardly the same as mine own. We shed blood, true enough; we are of Mandalore, and invoke the ways long past. You, however, fight for an ideal that only ever led our people to ruination. At Malachor V, the Jedi didst shatter our people with great ferocity, and so thoroughly were our ancestors defeated, they struggled to recover for centuries upon centuries, each subsequent attempt to recapture our past glory growing dimmer and dimmer. That, Carduul be aliit Akahl, Anointed One, is your cause. A dead cause. You walk with the ashes. I dip my hands amidst them, I kiss the earth of our beloved Manda'yaim, I honor her - but my reverence for the past blinds me not to the wisdom of moving past it. Obsessed, thou'rt."​

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Harsh words, perhaps, but the Duchess had long since grown weary of the great cause, the war, the conflict, the ego, the torment. And yet here they were, now. Sitting next to one another, sharing a bottle of tihaar and speaking to one another earnestly enough, as if they were but two warriors of the same lodge facing a disagreement, rather than key figures in their respective movements. In this, she afforded him the respect and familiarity she deemed him to be worthy of, if only for the time being. ​

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The liquid burned on the way down. It was meant to, of course; the kick, Mandalorians would often explain, only awoke the palate to the full breadth the drink's rich aroma. A distinct aftertaste of peaches, for this batch; one of the fruits favored by Carduul's gracious host. Setting down her glass, the Ersansyr blinked rapidly, all too suddenly reminded of her species' poor tolerance to alcohol.​

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"What now?" repeated the mermaid, turning her gaze to the fire, lost in thought... before focusing back on the partially-unmasked figure next to her, still mysterious, still an adherent to his own codes, his own path. "I suppose our fates shall be similar. My fleet of righteous heroes, your fleet of indomitable raiders. Roaming the stars, seeking our own fate, our purpose, all as this new upstart seeks to build the foundation of a new Mandalorian Empire... osiik! That mantle can only be claimed by one who hath gained the support of all Houses and Clans. Neither you nor this Verd shall ever attain this prestige so long as I breathe; the House of Kryze follows my command, and I see no future where my head bows before either of you." ​

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Jenn refilled their glasses, then, still lifting hers in another toast, clinking hers against his gently this time. A polite host, or merely an intoxicated one? Hard to tell, given how freely she spoke within the presence of her peer, her rival, and one of two souls she could consider her equal. ​

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"But you and I have crossed swords, have we not? I know the measure of your commitment to our people, warmaster of raiders you may be. To you, I would show respect. To you, I will speak as equal, and offer you two things. The first, be a toast to love. No mere romantic foolishness, which I have now sworn off, but love for our people. And the second... an offer, of sorts. No truce can I extend to one so drastically different to my own ideals, but quarter. If we are to emerge as a galactic power once more, we must limit our casualties during battles waged, vod against vod. My proposition is thus; in the event of any conflict between your zealots and my knights, an honorable surrender is to be accepted, prisoners treated fairly; keep them as your bondsmen if you must, but spare them, see to it that they continue to serve the Mando'ade."​

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Her words lingered in the air, then, as she took another long gulp of her drink, the ethereal beauty of her bare features almost as difficult to withstand as the near-hypnotic intonation of her voice, the lack of a helmet's modulator rendering her the image of a siren of legend. A crystalline voice, words tempting and seducing one off their path of righteousness...​

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... or, perhaps, no intonation did she wish to take, and merely was this an effect of her nature. Her words no less earnest.​

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Carduul Akahl ​