Faction One Mandalore || Mandalorian Empire

[Feydrik Munin]

​

Feydrik stopped, his mind trying to contemplate what the redhead was saying. But it was the appearance of Mandalore that brought him to a bow, then to a knee, a hand across his chest. He waited for him to finish speaking, then others. More newcomers. But the same speeches, the same words vomited over and over.

Return, gather, rest, rebuild. Rebuilding. Rebuilding and rebuilding. The word nauseated him now. Mandalore did not need to be rebuilt. It needed to be reborn. The Neocrusaders were the rebirth. The reality of their people. The truth of their creed, what they were meant to do. Not give platitudes and long-winded, empty, hollow speeches.

“And if we don’t?”

He said simply, posing the question to the so called Empire in the room. He looked around at each of them, a detractor, a dissenter not satisfied.

“This Sole Ruler does not have the support of anyone but his own clan. How curious.”

He didn’t chuckle like he normally would’ve. He let the words hang in the air. He wanted an answer. He demanded one.

​

 

[Aloy Vizsla]

Wearing: Beskar'gam + Jacket
Tag: Aether Verd Feydrik Munin Runi Kuryida Carduul Akahl Ze'bast Verd Aselia Verd Vreegan Fett Careena Fett Saverok Sari'la Kandosii

The old Vizsla was sat sideling in a windowsill.

She'd kept quiet for what felt like hours, sharpening her wristblade on a whetstone while the vultures bickered amongst themselves. It was like watching a broken holo-record on an endless loop, as it had been for many decades. Arguments were repeated back and forth that the first Mandalorian Empire had levied, just like the Union after them, the Sons of Mandalore, The Enclave, The Protectors and now this.

Except these people were repeating themselves even.

"So. much. talking." she said at last.

Her voice was cool, yet rendered leathery by a lifetime of barking orders, and smokes.

"If any of you truly gave a shit about the old ways, how Mand'alor is made, you'd challenge him yourself."

She gestured at Aether Verd with a mechanical hand.

Both her arms were severed above the elbow, ending in bone-white prosthetics. They matched her leg, which clanked against the floor as the Matriarch of the Black Fleet dropped from the window with a grunt.

Upon hearing the admiral's voice, several commandos ceased their loitering nearby, paying close attention.

Upon their shoulders were various markings. Nite Owls, The Black Hand, even Death Watch Crusade. Each bore the cuts and scrapes of battle beside, their sky-blue armor having long since lost it's shine to war.

"And yet Carduul Akahl has spoken against such bloodshed."

"If he is YOUR mand'alor then pick one. Fight or listen."

Each step she took was heralded by the sickly chime of Sith-imperial coins, bent and broken, tied to the end of a blood-red scarf. Each plundered from the bowels of broken ships, and bases that could no longer be found on any map of the surrounding systems.

"Truth be told I don't give a damn who names himself what."

"I'd need both hands to count every Mand'alor to fail and abandon us in my lifetime alone."

"The name means as little as Dar'manda." she chuckled bitterly behind her fanged buy'ce.

"What I care about are actions."

"So what's the plan, Iron?" she looked to Aether Verd .

"Crusaders?" then to everyone else.

"If it's to continue bickering, I'll continue fighting the Imperialists on my own terms."