Jhira Mereel
Character
POLITICAL REGION: NIO SPACE, Mandalore Sector
LOCATION: Breshig
Objective: Safely deliver Mando’ade to Breshig, after their brutal imprisonment
Music: Soldiers, on spotify.
TAGS: [ @Shuklaar Krydos ]
The Echoy’la Sun slid through silver clouds and golden sunlight, descending into the atmosphere of the war-torn world. Here, too, the land had been riven. Mines stripped, destroying the ecology around them. Cities plundered, then left abandoned. If the retaliation here had been less brutal than at Mandalore, it would only have been because the hate driving the Sith had been less.
But hate was a funny thing; it never quite seemed to die.
The large freighter was dwarfed by the capital ships and their consorts who shadowed her. So many ships; and for every single one of them, Jhira was grateful. Grateful, a little awed and a little fearful. For how could those serving aboard the ships be anything but enraged by the state of their kin, their squad mates, their friends? All these ships here to defend their home, could also attack. And they were very, very good at it. And oh, how she sensed that need to turn and rend, in how they had crowded so close to protect her precious cargo almost from the moment she had erupted from Hyper Space. The ships themselves seemed to yearn for those their commander had brought home to them.
The lead squadron blinked their running lights in salute, then reluctantly turned back. Fierce as the behemoth was, she could not enter atmosphere. Captain Jhira returned the salute, and forced her attention back to the scarred earth rising beneath her. In silence she studied both her sensors and the view out of the ports, fascinated by a world that had been all but unknown to her until now.
The trip here had been utterly without incident but harrowing all the same. She’d stripped her ship, to fit as many of her burdened Vode in as possible. The Echoy’la Sun had excellent medical facilities, a full-service autochef and luxury suites, so she’d been allotted many of the worst wounded. So many badly hurt. So much joy, so much pain, so much rage.
Hate. It was the only word. But it did not stand alone, in her heart.
Sliding into the allotted space, Jhira hesitated a moment more before exiting the bridge to seek out the liaison for the prisoners. A tall, hard man he had not yet gifted her with his name. Steel grey hair, grey eyes, a face marred by scars, he met her gaze with a curt nod, tension still coiling within him like a living thing.
Consciously, she dropped her shoulders into a relaxed position and angled to speak to him from a 2/3 facing position, not full. The discipline held, keeping her from flinching away from the missing limbs. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not keep the aching sorrow and sympathy from her voice when addressing him. She suspected it was this last, that he could not forgive. “Alor’itsad,” the soft lilt of the outer rim and the cadence of her Mando’a-colored Basic rendered the rank of Lieutenant Colonel almost musical in nature. “We are here.”
“My men are ready.” Around him, the battered survivors of his unit drew together, assisting each other and disdaining any aid save for that of her medical Droid. They were dressed in simple, one size-fits all leather armor, rather than proper Beskar’gam, but it was armor, it was theirs, and bore both the weapons she’d issued them with it, and the Iron Heart. Over the week of their journey together, they’d individualized, colored and tailored them with an almost fanatical drive.
She didn’t have to ask why; why was waiting at the end of the boarding ramp, and the start of a new world.
Jhira ran a swift hand over her beaded hair, saluted and stepped away from the heart-rending sight of the proud, wounded unit forming up to march down her ramp and meet their Alor. Shaking, fighting to conceal it, she turned to take her place at the back of those survivors who could not move on their own and yet did not belong so ferociously to the Alor’itsad.
His hand upon her shoulder stopped her cold. “With me, Alor’ad.”
And so it was that she marched down that ramp in lock-step with the men she’d been determine to help rescue, feeling oddly as if she was the one who’d been brought home.
LOCATION: Breshig
Objective: Safely deliver Mando’ade to Breshig, after their brutal imprisonment
Music: Soldiers, on spotify.
TAGS: [ @Shuklaar Krydos ]
The Echoy’la Sun slid through silver clouds and golden sunlight, descending into the atmosphere of the war-torn world. Here, too, the land had been riven. Mines stripped, destroying the ecology around them. Cities plundered, then left abandoned. If the retaliation here had been less brutal than at Mandalore, it would only have been because the hate driving the Sith had been less.
But hate was a funny thing; it never quite seemed to die.
The large freighter was dwarfed by the capital ships and their consorts who shadowed her. So many ships; and for every single one of them, Jhira was grateful. Grateful, a little awed and a little fearful. For how could those serving aboard the ships be anything but enraged by the state of their kin, their squad mates, their friends? All these ships here to defend their home, could also attack. And they were very, very good at it. And oh, how she sensed that need to turn and rend, in how they had crowded so close to protect her precious cargo almost from the moment she had erupted from Hyper Space. The ships themselves seemed to yearn for those their commander had brought home to them.
The lead squadron blinked their running lights in salute, then reluctantly turned back. Fierce as the behemoth was, she could not enter atmosphere. Captain Jhira returned the salute, and forced her attention back to the scarred earth rising beneath her. In silence she studied both her sensors and the view out of the ports, fascinated by a world that had been all but unknown to her until now.
The trip here had been utterly without incident but harrowing all the same. She’d stripped her ship, to fit as many of her burdened Vode in as possible. The Echoy’la Sun had excellent medical facilities, a full-service autochef and luxury suites, so she’d been allotted many of the worst wounded. So many badly hurt. So much joy, so much pain, so much rage.
Hate. It was the only word. But it did not stand alone, in her heart.
Sliding into the allotted space, Jhira hesitated a moment more before exiting the bridge to seek out the liaison for the prisoners. A tall, hard man he had not yet gifted her with his name. Steel grey hair, grey eyes, a face marred by scars, he met her gaze with a curt nod, tension still coiling within him like a living thing.
Consciously, she dropped her shoulders into a relaxed position and angled to speak to him from a 2/3 facing position, not full. The discipline held, keeping her from flinching away from the missing limbs. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she could not keep the aching sorrow and sympathy from her voice when addressing him. She suspected it was this last, that he could not forgive. “Alor’itsad,” the soft lilt of the outer rim and the cadence of her Mando’a-colored Basic rendered the rank of Lieutenant Colonel almost musical in nature. “We are here.”
“My men are ready.” Around him, the battered survivors of his unit drew together, assisting each other and disdaining any aid save for that of her medical Droid. They were dressed in simple, one size-fits all leather armor, rather than proper Beskar’gam, but it was armor, it was theirs, and bore both the weapons she’d issued them with it, and the Iron Heart. Over the week of their journey together, they’d individualized, colored and tailored them with an almost fanatical drive.
She didn’t have to ask why; why was waiting at the end of the boarding ramp, and the start of a new world.
Jhira ran a swift hand over her beaded hair, saluted and stepped away from the heart-rending sight of the proud, wounded unit forming up to march down her ramp and meet their Alor. Shaking, fighting to conceal it, she turned to take her place at the back of those survivors who could not move on their own and yet did not belong so ferociously to the Alor’itsad.
His hand upon her shoulder stopped her cold. “With me, Alor’ad.”
And so it was that she marched down that ramp in lock-step with the men she’d been determine to help rescue, feeling oddly as if she was the one who’d been brought home.
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