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

 

[Mar Skirata]

The Mandalorian jerked his head in the other Mando's direction, his body swiftly following the motion and nearly entering an improvised combat stance. If he had finished it, it would've been sloppy. It just wasn't Mar's day. He relaxed immediately when he registered it was one of his own.

"Mar Skirata," he replied in kind to Korda Veydran .

He knew at least one of his toes was absolutely broken; the more he attempted to put weight on the foot or flex his toes, the worst he felt. Unfortunately, he would not live it down if his mother caught wind that he had seen a medic for that on the first day of his visit to the Ark. He masked the pain with an exaggerated bravado, brushing off non-existent dust from a shoulder pauldron.

"Nah, no trouble here and no need for a medic!" He shook his helmeted head and gestured towards the dented bulkhead. "That, on the other hand, definitely needs a tech. Though I suppose if it's going to come out of my creds, I might just join them in the repairs." He started to stare at it. Compared to other Mandalorians, his equipment seemed strange. His armor was marked with wear and showed clear signs he knew how to service it, but in place of a jetpack was a backpack filled to the brim with supplies.

From the looks of it, it wasn't a combat kit. The shaped charges at his belt and the multitudes of blast caps, code cylinders, and other equipment peeking from his pack and belt made it seem as if he was geared as some kind of explosives specialist. That still didn't seem like the correct assessment. Mar seemed too lax in his movements- he was too casual. He wore the armor well enough, but it didn't seem like he was prepared for a fight. Despite that, his accent at least indicated he was born on Mandalore Prime.

With a practiced precision he had so far not demonstrated, the Mandalorian procured a heavy-duty hydrospanner and lightly tapped his damaged cargo crate. "If you know how to rip a hole through starship-grade durasteel plating ... then you're overqualified! My crate doesn't get the good stuff, just enough to keep away vagrants. The Ark's plate seems like heavier stuff. I could probably buff it out with some of my quality kit, but it'd take me long enough to definitely trigger some kind of alert to cause an even bigger fuss." He looked between Korda, the crate's dent, and the bulkhead again. "Or this kind of thing happens all the time; but I doubt it, our guys run a smoother ship than that. I'll need to sharpen up if they're going to let me into the Star Corps-"

He smacked his helmet with his hydrospanner; fortunately, it was powered off and didn't earn him more war scars. "There's no way they're letting me into the Star Corps after this!" He sure did talk a lot. He seemed resigned again.

Korda Veydran​

 

[Korda Veydran]

The other Mandalorian's motion was quick, reflexive — enough that Korda's hand twitched toward his hip again before the stance collapsed under its own exhaustion. He let the tension bleed away with a low exhale through his nose. When the name came — Mar Skirata — Korda inclined his head, the motion curt but respectful.


He listened as Mar spoke — about damage, repairs, and embarrassment in front of unseen family. The words flowed easily, tumbling one after another in the way of those who needed to fill the silence before it filled them. Korda didn't interrupt. He just watched, eyes moving from dent to crate, from bulkhead to the strange assortment of tools strapped to the younger man's frame.


When Mar lifted the hydrospanner and gave the crate a light tap, Korda's gaze lingered longer, narrowing slightly. Beneath the Mandalorian armor, he saw the signs of someone who didn't live by war — at least, not anymore. Not the stance of a shock trooper or a bounty hunter. More deliberate, measured.


"…Not a demolitions man," Korda muttered finally, almost to himself. "Too careful with the tools. Too curious about the metal." His head tilted slightly, eyes studying the pack again — the scanners, the cylinders, the dust of distant dig sites still caught in the seams. "Archaeology, then. Or something that likes to dig more than destroy."


The faintest grunt followed, something like amusement breaking through his gravelly tone.


He stepped closer, the shift of his boots echoing faintly against the deck. Then he reached out — slow enough not to spook — and laid a scarred hand on Mar's shoulder. The touch was firm, grounding, the gesture of a man who'd spent too long among soldiers to forget what steadying another warrior felt like.


"You don't have to act fine," Korda said quietly, the dry edge in his tone softening for the first time. His golden eyes flicked toward the crate, then the unarmored foot. "You kicked solid durasteel like a fool. Let me see it before you lose the whole damn toe."


Without waiting for protest, he unclipped a flask from his belt and held it out, the faint scent of spiced liquor curling in the air between them.


"For the pain," he said, smirking faintly as he added, "or the embarrassment. Either will do."

Mar Skirata

 

[Mar Skirata]

Mar turned to consider Korda. The odd Mandalorian's pride was feuding with pragmatism. Korda was correct, sleeping this off was a foolish risk. He sighed, took the offered flask, and sat down on a lip of the repulsorlift. It was a sensible concession to make. Besides, a cybernetic toe was the least impressive thing he could show off to his siblings. Surely an arm or the entire leg would be a worthy war scar.

Upon taking the flask, Mar did something not unheard of among the Mandalorians, but definitely unusual. After tapping the side of his helmet, a small metallic tube extended out from his helmet and into the flask. Yeah, he was one of those Mandos. He didn't seem nearly as severe as others who followed the Way of the Mandalore. His demeanor and this conservative demonstration of ancient dogma might be a stunning contrast. An audible slurp from the mechanical straw echoed throughout the empty cargo deck.

Mar sensed things seemed to get a little strange. "Sorry, I'm sure you've heard of the custom. You're free to see my taab'ade, though. Won't need a dip in the sacred waters for that." He offered the flask back. "Thanks." Once taken, he extracted his foot from his boot. He made a great many uncomfortable noises as he did so. Finally, the appendage was extracted, then uncovered shortly after.

Ew. Quite a bit of swelling and discoloration. A physical and/or medical inspection would reveal two broken toes, but nothing that a sturdy bandaging and ample rest wouldn't fix. It looked worse than it was.

"Oh Manda. Maybe we do have to amputate."

His tone suggested a bit of deadpan humor.

Korda Veydran​

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda took the flask back, the weight familiar in his hand. The metallic straw drew a quiet huff of amusement out of him — not derision, just recognition.

"Still follow the old Creed," he murmured, eyes flicking briefly toward the visor. "Haven't seen that in years. Not since before…" He stopped himself there, the sentence cut short as easily as a blade meeting bone. "Used to wear one myself. Back when I still thought silence was the same as faith."

He crouched down beside Mar as he spoke, the motion fluid despite the muscle scars that pulled faintly across his shoulders. Setting the flask aside, he leaned in to inspect the bruised mess of a foot. One glance was enough; two toes sat at wrong angles, swollen and purpled like overripe fruit.

"Hmm," he said, rubbing his chin with a scarred thumb. "Could be saved. But an amputation would make for a fine story."

Before Mar could answer, Korda drew his knife with a soft shhhk, the blade whispering free of its sheath. The faint hum of its vibro-edge came to life, buzzing against the air. For a heartbeat, his face was utterly unreadable.

"Hold still," he said, deadpan. "Clean cut, cauterize the stump, you'll be walking by sundown."

Then the corner of his mouth twitched. A dry, short laugh — the kind that sounded like it had been buried for a while. He flipped the knife in his hand, powered it down, and drove it harmlessly into the deck plating beside them with a dull thunk.

"Relax," he said, finally smirking. "If I cut off every fool's limb I met, the Ark would be full of limbless engineers."

Reaching into the small med-pouch on his belt, he produced a field bandage and motioned for Mar to hold still. "You got lucky. Two breaks, nothing worse. You'll limp, but you'll keep all your parts."

He started wrapping with practiced precision, his tone quieter now, reflective. "You know… when I was a boy, we followed the Creed too. Couldn't take the helmet off even when the air burned your lungs. Thought it made us strong. Thought it made us pure."

His voice went low, almost a growl — but not at Mar. "Then I leveled that same village in a fire I started."

He tied the bandage off neatly, sitting back with a grunt. "So, no judgment here. Keep your customs. Just don't kick steel again."


He nudged the flask toward Mar with a knuckle. "Drink. That's an order."

Mar Skirata

 

[Mar Skirata]

Mar continued to make his rather pathetic noises of discomfort until the bandage was securely in place and buddying up the broken toes together. He made 'hm' noise that was difficult to interpret as slowly slipped the covering and his boot back onto his foot.

"Little different for me. I come from an odd bunch. My mother follows the creed, my father ... not so much, but he does his best and my mother tolerates it. She insisted we be raised right and the habits, well, they stuck. I don't exactly have a moral problem with taking off my helmet; I think you gathered I'm not the stoic type. It just feels wrong, you know? Sometimes I feel like I'm following the tenets of the creed, not exactly their spirit. That's just me, I guess."

He wheeled his head slowly around taking in their surroundings before he once again clasped Korda's offered flask. The sense of irony hit Mar like he was in some sort of divine comedy- literally. The Ark of Ha'rangir was a space station that dripped of divinity. Holy incenses penetrated even into these decks. Yet, here he was, a casual adherent to an outdated faith. A Mandalorian who would be a useless mess without medication to tolerate the thrums of artificial gravity. The dull vibrations he could feel, if he concentrated hard enough, felt like an otherworldly judgement. Or a laugh track.

Even Mar and Korda struck a strange contrast. Mar was casual in demeanor but adhered to a severe tradition. Korda seemed deadly serious even when making a joke about amputating Mar's toes. The weight of the contrasts collapsed into a cascade of snickering from Mar. "I-I appreciate the help, ner vod. Thank you for your perspective as well. Manda, we've lived very similar, yet very different lives." He tried to sober his next words, "No war crimes from me without word from Mandalore himself. Though hopefully it doesn't come to that; I'm a part-timer in the Death Watch." His words were punctuated by an audible slurp from his mechanical straw into the flask again. "I can fight well enough, despite this new war scar. I just like, well, other things." Slurp.

Korda Veydran​

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda leaned back slightly, arms resting loosely across his knees as Mar spoke. The faintest smile flickered at the edge of his mouth — not mockery, but the rare kind of amusement that only came from seeing someone wrestle with questions you'd already lost to.

When Mar finished, Korda exhaled slowly through his nose, the sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh.

"Following the tenets but not the spirit," he repeated, voice low. "That's the story of every faith I've ever met, vod. The words stay the same, but people find a way to make the silence between them louder."

The flask was passed back, and he took a pull before continuing. "Your mother's got her faith; your father's got his patience. If they've managed that long together, I'd say that's a kind of creed worth keeping."

He smirked faintly when the talk turned to war crimes. It started as a low huff, then broke into a proper snort — the sound of someone who'd seen far too much of what those words meant.

"War crimes?" Korda echoed, shaking his head. "You're speaking to someone who's committed enough of those to fill a tribunal's lifetime. Difference is—" He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling with the flask, "—no one left to hold the trial."

His gaze drifted toward the far bulkhead, where the dented metal still bore the faint shimmer of heat from the earlier crash. "Death Watch, though. I've heard of them. Never wore their colors myself." His tone turned wry, the humor returning in small doses. "They say I'm too brutal for them. If you ever meet Domina Prime, she'd tell you that's almost true. She's the only one who sees the purpose in my kind of faith."

He turned his eyes back to Mar then — sharp, gold under the Ark's cold lighting. "Tell me, vod," he asked quietly, the question cutting through the calm like a drawn blade, "you ever hear of Clan Veydran?"

There was weight in the name. Not pride — something heavier, something buried deep and scorched black by time.


Korda watched him carefully, waiting to see if the name stirred anything in memory or myth.

Mar Skirata