Private old scars and new meets

[Korda Veydran]

Location: Yaga minor

Korda's boots crunched over fractured duracrete, the soles scuffing metal shards and blackened stone. The plaza stretched out ahead, familiar yet changed. Walls that had once been pockmarked with blaster holes now bore fresh plates of imported durasteel, cranes lifting new beams into place, workers murmuring under the hum of machinery.

He inhaled, tasting the faint tang of ozone and scorched circuits lingering in the air, a ghost of the firestorm that had ripped through here years ago. His hand brushed the four flasks at his belt, each a small, silent tribute.

As he walked toward the old defensive line, flashes of memory flickered in the corners of his mind: Tor charging with reckless grin, Fenn shouting over detonations, Rex holding steady as the ground shook beneath him, and Joric moving through chaos as though the world's fire could not touch him.

He paused where the junction had once erupted into hellfire, crouching over the scorched duracrete. "Tor… you dropped into that fire without hesitation," he murmured, voice low. "And I… I'm still here. I wish you could see this… see that what you fought for still matters."

He pressed the flask against his lips, tasting the bitter tang, letting the tremor of grenades, plasma fire, and screams pulse through his memory.
"Fenn… you'd laugh," he whispered, tracing the etched letters. "Always complaining about how slow they were. But look… people are fixing it. Alive again. Not just ruins. They're trying."

Rex's flask weighed heavy in his palm. "Rex… steady. Always steady. You held them so we could move… I still hear you in the hum of this plaza."
Finally, Joric. Korda lowered his head, feeling the empty space where he'd fallen. "Joric… I can see you here. Smoke, fire, screams… you ran straight into hell, believing someone would follow. I did. I always do."

He leaned on his knees, eyes scanning the rebuilt plaza. The faint echo of laughter, the clatter of construction, fragile proof of survival. His fingers brushed the last flask. "I'll carry you with me," he murmured, "every step, every fight… always."

A loose panel rattled in the breeze. Korda lifted his gaze, scanning the shadows. The ghosts were gone. The plaza breathed again. And somewhere in the corner of his vision, a figure might be approaching. He didn't flinch. He had survived worse.

Jax Thio

 

[Jax Thio]

Location: Yaga Minor
Equipment: Casual Clothes, Jax's Prosthetic Arm, Jax's Third Lightsaber, Marriage Ring to Jairdain
Tag: Korda Veydran


There was a battle that took place between the Mandalorian Empire and the former Imperial Confederation on Yaga Minor. The Mandalorians fought valiantly true to the creed they swore by and fought off the Imperials who then crumpled due to numerous economic crashes. The Imperial Confederation was struggling financially and the placed everything they got in this war with the Mandalorians, steal their terrority and benefit from the resources. Jax never understood why anyone would want to provoke the Mandos. It was like trying to attack an Exogorth with nothing but a bucket bolts.

Still, despite their victory, the Mandalorians were not without loss. In fact they lost many warriors to the Imperials. On his way to Mandalore, Jax strode through the war torn planet, the echoes of Mando and Imperial made clear through the debris, he saw a Mandalorian mourning someone and gave a sympathetic gesture.

“Greetings,” Jax said. “Are you all right?”

 

[Korda Veydran]

The voice cut through the quiet.
Korda's left gauntlet snapped up, palm angled forward, a metallic whine as the shock emitter primed, faint arcs of blue energy crawling along the housing. He shifted low, weight balanced, ready for sudden movement.

For a heartbeat, the battlefield returned. Smoke, screams, fire licking the plaza edges.
Then he blinked.
The figure wasn't moving like an aggressor. No helmet, no clan markings, robes instead of armor. Calm. Balanced. Presence.
The gauntlet hummed a fraction longer before dying to a soft hiss.

Korda straightened slowly, helmet set to the side. The four tally marks burned into the right temple caught the light, silent memorials to the four he'd lost on Yaga Minor. On his left pec, the Jaig eyes glimmered faintly, a badge of honor, and a warning: he was still a warrior, still carrying the weight of survival.

He inhaled, hand brushing the four flasks at his belt, metal clinking softly.
"I am fine," he said, voice even but rough. "Just… mourning."
"Four of my vod. We dropped into this sector together. I'm the only one who walked off it."
He angled toward Jax, measured, never hostile. "This is Mandalorian ground. Sacred to those who bled here."
A pause, deliberate. Then: "Korda Veydran. Last of Clan Veydran. Acting leader."

He inclined his head, noting the human before him, posture relaxed but trained, the kind of presence that spoke of strength and discipline. "And you," he said evenly, "do not wear beskar. Nor move like a civilian. What brings you to this forsaken place?"

The distant clatter of reconstruction carried through the plaza. Not war. Not yet. But memory lingered. And Korda's eyes, soft under the shadows of his brow, tracked Jax carefully, taking measure of the stranger standing in the echoes of a battlefield.

Jax Thio