Public Moving Day | Ark of Ha'rangir

[Mar Skirata]

Moving Day

Ark of Ha'rangir​

"You're good, you're good, you're good ... WAIT-"

CRASH!

The Mandalorian, just moments ago, had been guiding a gang of pit droids hauling a sizeable repulsorlift carrying what was, essentially, everything he owned stuffed into a plain-looking cargo container. Most would call it scrap. To Mar Skirata, it was his life's work so far. Now, trying to slot the crate into what had been designated his storage space had gone disastrously wrong. The pit droids had crashed the repulsorlift, as well as the cargo crate, straight into what seemed to be a structural support for the station. Neither the crate nor the bulkhead could claim victory: both had notable dents, which definitely surprised Mar, as someone had told him the Ark was practically made of beskar. Either his crate was made of stronger stuff, or someone had assigned him the cheap seats in the station.

He wasn't sure which, but what he was sure of was never trusting a contractor who assured him that pit droids were more than capable of assisting him for a fraction of the price. Next time, he'd shell out for some honest Mandalorian labor. Underneath his emotionless visor, he hoped the droids could sense his anger.

"Get out of her, clankers, before you get a bigger dent than that in kind!" He threatened, pointing in an exaggerated manner at the cargo crate. As the droids scampered off, he began to lean against the wall. The rapid and exaggerated movements were incredibly unwise. He ducked in the free space between his crate and the wall, slightly lifted his helmet, and inhaled several blue pills before reclasping his seals and peeking out again. The symptoms of his sickness caused by the Ark's artificial gravity didn't immediately lessen, but he could at least carry himself again. Mar took a deep breath and physically sagged. "Who knew dad was right about insuring this damn thing." He kicked the repulsorlift in frustration.

-That was another bad idea. His boot wasn't armored. The crate slid slightly further into the alcove as pain radiated from multiple, possibly broken, toes. He stamped the pain out and made louder than intended 'hmmm hmmm hmmmm' noises as he shifted weight to his other foot. Why did I decide to move to a Space Station? Why did I hire droids? And why did I kick solid metal!?

Maybe he could just crash inside his cargo crate and call it a day. He could splint his toes in peace and no one would know what had happened. Who the hell visited what was essentially the stations' storage depot anyway?

 

[Korda Veydran]

The crash that tore through the Ark's lower decks carried like thunder through hollow bones. Metal shrieked, walls trembled, and the soft light in Korda's quarters flickered as if in fear of the sound. His eyes opened slowly, golden in the gloom, the stillness of his prayer broken mid-utterance. His hand drifted instinctively to the vibroblade resting across his knees.

He rose in silence.

The room he left behind was stark — a cot, a half-burned censer that smelled faintly of oil and spice, and the sigil of Ha'rangir scratched into the wall above it. Korda stepped into the corridor barefoot but for heavy boots, the rest of him unarmored. The ship's artificial light traced the map of his scars, each line and welt carved by a lifetime of battle and consequence. Tattoos crawled across his chest and arms — some jagged and cruel, marked during exile and shame; others clean and ritualistic, each one a devotion to the Destroyer God.

The vibroblade hummed alive in his grip as he moved, its faint blue glow catching against the metal walls. For a moment, he looked every inch the weapon he had once been — a specter of war, bare-chested and sharp-eyed, stalking through the half-lit halls of the Ark.

He rounded the corner like a predator expecting blood.

Instead, he found chaos of another kind.

A cargo crate sat wedged into a support column, its side crushed in like a dented skull. A repulsorlift lay at an odd tilt, still hissing with dying power. And amid the wreckage stood a Mandalorian, helmeted and muttering curses at the retreating forms of pit droids that scrambled for the exit. The warrior's frustration hung heavy in the air, his boot still planted against the crate as if it had offended him personally.

Korda blinked once. Then, very faintly, his shoulders dropped.

"…I thought the Destroyer himself had come knocking," he murmured, voice rough as gravel and carrying the faint rhythm of a laugh. "But it seems you've beaten him to the task."

He thumbed the vibroblade off, sliding it into the sheath at his hip with habitual precision. The blade stayed close; those who slept under Ha'rangir's gaze did not part from steel easily.

Stepping closer, he let his gaze sweep the scene — the dented crate, the tilted repulsorlift, the Mandalorian's pained posture — and finally landed on the man himself.


"Korda Veydran," he said, his tone low but carrying a calm weight. "I'm… just passing through. And apparently, stumbling into trouble."

He offered a subtle nod toward the crate, a faint half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Need a hand with that? Or perhaps a medic for your foot?"


The warrior's bare scars and inked devotion caught the overhead light, a silent warning and an introduction all at once. Even in casual proximity, Korda was a story — half solemn, half amused, and entirely dangerous.

Mar Skirata