Faction Our Armor Stained With Blood (Mandalorian Protectors/DM for Invite)

[Ijaat Mereel]

Theme | Location: Vametaye Temple-Keep | Objective: Revival of the Mandalorian Protectors​

The armor sat bare metal and glowing as he waited in the fortress of Vametaye, the ancient Temple-Keep Ijaat had long ago restored. His ruus'alor Jhira Mereel would likely question why this wasn't done on Gardius, but she would understand when the others arrived. For now, he sat with a sprayer in hand, slowly painting over the bare metal. Olive drab green was the primary color going onto the helmet, with white cheeks, a blue brow/visor frame, and jaaig eyes in crimson red, with a fanciful center that was the ancient symbol of the Mandalorian Royal Guard, better known as the Mandalorian Protectors. In many centuries they had been many things, and if Ijaat had his way, this meeting would see them revived, but likely changed.

The Protectors, unlike many Mandalorian institutions though, were less of a dictatorship than others. And rarely followed the ebb and flow of politics. They were originally guardians of the Manda'lor, and in more recent times had become guardians of knowledge and relics of the Mando'ade. From ancient fighting techniques and systems like the Rising Phoenix and beskad techniques to ancient mythosaur bone axes and even the rare bevii'ragir hunting spear. These were now considered, or were considered, the domain of the Protectors.

Sadly, Ijaat was the only member of that order that survived to this day, and in his age, that wouldn't be much longer on the surviving part. So he had sent out a broadwave to many characters and associates he had met in his travel, who might be ones he would either prefer to see by his side, or had wisdom he wished to impart. Those like Koda Fett or Kade Kol-Rekali or others had been invited, but been told that they were specifically requested to help impart their skills and life stories, he doubted the Codex of Honor they would hammer out for the Protectors would resonate with these men, but their stories and methods were important.

Others, like Jhira and Kranak Vizsla or even Runi Kuryida , he could potentially see as being allies or members. And others still he had on recommendations of friends and associates as likely candidates. So he waited in a long hall with an ovular table that ran the length of it. The meeting hall and armory for Vametaye. Alcoves set in the alabaster walls held suits of armor and weapons from mainly the Mandalorian culture, but in whole from the Galaxy over. Even a display case of Jedi and Sith lightsabers. A fossilized but intact mythosaur egg, painted and 'gilded' in beskar, sat in the center of the table, and Ijaat sat at the 'head' working on adding the colors of the Order to his gear.

Even if it was only him, someone needed to remind the Mandalorians of their past so that the future could be as it should be.

Spoiler: OCC

This is an interest check thread for a Minor Faction, which will operate as a home to various Mandos regardless of home faction (though Death's Hand might be awkward, you Mawdalorians! If you write a Mandalorian, or a character you want to become one, feel free to drop in and add your voice here. After this thread, if there is any interest, I'll be running DM'd threads similar to the old Treasure Hunt and Pilgrim threads for learning techniques and acquiring Mandalorian canon relics and just cool Mando doo-dads. Discord invite is here and Faction page here. Oya!

 

[Volo Dragr]

L E G A C Y
Ijaat Mereel
Hodge-Podge'gam | Mandalorian Heavy Pistol

Truthfully, Volo had lost count of how long it had been since he'd clawed his way, very literally, out of the Netherworld- Or wherever that damned witch had sent him, and that demon had dragged him- He knew only that the galaxy had moved on. His first taste of true war, of it's destruction, of the evil of the Sith. Their bloodlust, their cruelty. He despised it. He fought then for his Vod, but now? Now he would fight because he understood their battle. He understood why they waged such a ghastly war. He understood why such acts of relentless violence were acceptable.

The bombing of a city was nothing compared to what the Sith had done.

Still, though the battle played on his mind eagerly, it was not what haunted him. It was not what woke him in the middle of the night, or day; he slept when he could, screaming in a sweat. It was not what caused the tormenting agony he lived with, every step and every movement. It was not the reason each of his steps clanked, thudded and scraped. No, he had the Sith to thank for that. He had them to thank for the months of suffering he'd endured in Hell, the destruction of his sense of reality, for the horrors that haunted him. For the loss of his family's Beskar'gam.

Even now, his feet thudded and clunked, scraping along the floor of the Fort. Fort? Stronghold? Keep? Whatever the transmission had named it. The name escaped him now. He could scarcely remember details now; all save the most important seemed to escape him, replaced by the constant reliving of his desperate fight for survival.

Volo's arms swung loosely, but minimally. The black synthweave cloak hung from his shoulders, the fabric shifting from the smallest of drafts; it was thrown over the Mandalorian's shoulders, obscuring the hodge-podge Beskar'Gam that he wore beneath. It was a mix of various scratched and tarnished plates of various materials- Plastoid, mostly. He did not keep a helmet with him now, nor the barely-functioning jumppack that he'd received with the armour.

He raised his one good limb in greeting, stepping through the doorway into the Meeting Hall. His tired and tormented eyes gazing down to the opposing end of the chamber, hand dropping down as he stepped inside- His face was gaunt, cheeks hollow and skin pale. He moved down the hall, each step lumbering and still unused to the new legs. His head was hung down, focused on the ground infront of him like a newborn learning to walk again. He raised it not, not even to gaze upon the many relics held in the chamber. It was not till he was but halfway down the length of the chamber that he called out a greeting-

"Su cuy'gar, ner vod." His voice rough, even by standards for his age, he finally paused, steps faltering as he looked around, considering the table; empty save for the man at the end, eyes not so much as lingering on any of the many artefacts, "Suppose I'm the first?" His gaze returned to the man. Ijaat. Ijaat Mereel, of Vametaye. The name finally returned to the troubled man's memory...

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[Aisha Garon]

Ijaat Mereel | Volo Dragr

The call had been sent out, and the message received. The Iron Father sought the rebirth of the Mandalorian Protectors. An Auzituck-class gunship soon descended from the sky, streaking toward the coordinates of Mereel's fortress-monastery. However, it did not land until transmitted identification codes. What was sent displayed a chain code unique only to the members of Clan Lok.

Once on the ground, two figures departed from its innards. One was clearly a droid, brown with tan patterns that recalled Kashyyyk architecture. The machine was seemingly a cobbled model, having the seeming head of a protocol droid placed on the chassis of an archaic New Republic sentry droid. Yet, the droid was ordinary compared to his companion. A large, hairy individual clad in beskar'gam. Needless to say, a Mandalorian Wookiee.

The pair walked through the grand hallways of the fortress before making their way to the meeting hall that Old Mereel and Volo awaited. Upon seeing the other two individuals, the wookiee and the droid stopped at the entry way. The beastly Mandalorian reached up slowly and removed his helm, revealing his face. Tucking his helmet under his arm, the two companions gave a respectful bow before the Wookiee strung a phrase of seemingly animalistic grunts.

"Salutations. I am N-5PX, organic-cyborg relations." The droid spoke with a deep, accented vocabulation, "This is Chewurra of Clan Lok. He bids his greeting to the esteemed Ijaat Mereel and Volo Skaigh."

Chewurra watched over the other two with his monocled eye, his visage bearing resemblance to the historical hunter called Snoova. More Shyriwook filled the chamber.

"Chewurra comes in response to your call to reform the Protectors, Master Mereel." Enfive translated, "He believes in its cause."

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

Theme | Location: Vametaye Temple-Keep | Objective: Revival of the Mandalorian Protectors - Welcome the next generation ( Volo Dragr | Aisha Garon )​

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As the wookie trundled in and spoke, Ijaat attempted to decipher the language based on what little he knew. Admittedly, he wouldn't have been able to hold anything approaching an intelligent conversation. The droid head working as translator and microphone almost helped immensely, and after greeting Volo with a solemn nod and look that held a hidden pool of thoughts, he stood, bowing to both. He was garbed in the undersuit and armored vest of his beskar'gam, and the plates remained on the rack next to him, the paint half-finished. Two wasn't much to swell the ranks, but it was a start. Wars had been won or lost on slimmer margins. A few of those said wars he had fought in, after all.

Aged eyes the color of amber stared hawk-like into the very spirits of both. Silent touches of the Force spread out from him, influences of the Jukre teachings from Ashin Cardé Varanin 's holocron. Peace and determination would fill the air around him, encouraging the same calm resolve in his vode as he spoke to them both.

"Su'cuy gar, ner vode! Welcome to the keep of Vametaye, my personal stronghold and now the stronghold of the Protectors. You both stand one of a scant few to know how to access it. Soon we shall turn to business, but a moment..."

With a slow turn of his head, he met Volo's gaze knowingly, and concern spiked in his own look.

"You carry burdens, vod. Will you let me help you put your mind at ease, and let you join the fight in truth once again? I have walked that same road, and would not see you do so alone as I did..."

Said without preamble or presumption, Ijaat stated facts bluntly and in a characteristic way that Mandalorians had with each other. His gaze stayed leveled at Volo, and he waited.

 

[Volo Dragr]

L E G A C Y
Ijaat Mereel | Aisha Garon
Hodge-Podge'gam | Mandalorian Heavy Pistol

He held the man's gaze, posture not wavering save to return a curt bow. Though he had many thoughts of varying relevance and importance, circling around his head like a flock of vultures, the weathered Mandalorian forced his head to turn and look upon the wookiee; he was not familiar with him and, truthfully, was not sure how the droid knew him. Surely he had not grown so infamous in his absence? How far did his Vod's influence reach? How did they know his face? Something he had taken such care to keep hidden for his entire life...

No, it was far more likely it was just an estimated guess. Had to be, he reasoned. Whatever history Volo had, whatever notoriety he might have gained, he wanted none of it. He would not be remembered as the haunted and degraded man who walked on metal and wore scrap for protection. Volo was a Mandalorian, a Phoenix. He would not simply return, no, he had seen the fires of Hell and been reborn in them. His Vod would witness his triumphant return to the flock, their lost brother remade by the challenges he had faced. Of that, he was sure.

As he returned his gaze to their host, their Alor to-be, Volo took fleeting stock of the display cases; nothing in depth, but enough to spike his interest. He found his tired, golden eyes met by the calm, amber eyes of his senior. Truthfully, he barely heard the question over his own thoughts, the endless ramblings of his scrambled mind. Every second of consciousness was strain on him; feeling life around him... just as he had ever since those damn ge'tal werda, blood-red demon...

Without realising it he had allowed his breath to build up, opening his mouth with an inaudible sigh as he made the conscious effort to breath, focusing on the gentle calm radiating from Ijaat. Within a moment, he made to speak, "Gar serim, I... I'd welcome the help of a brother." For a short moment, an eternity for Volo, he considered the question, what it meant, what his mental condition really was. Was he broken? "There are many fights I must face, many are mine alone. I'd welcome a Vod to help me rise to meet them."

He must fight. He would grow old teaching the next generations all that he knew, having conquered all his challenges and vanquishing all his foes, or he would not grow old. He would fight alone. That did not mean he had to treat life the same, did it? Though his answer came on a raspy and hollow voice, though his answer told not of how he came to bear the burdens he did, though his mind was not fully behind it, the answer came from deep within his kar'ta. His Soul.

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[Runi Kuryida]

Runi sat in the hover carriage destined for the fortress of Vametaye with a pad in her hand. The avian-like helm was not worn as the Speaker of the Mandokarla did not come as an enemy; certainly not one to fellow Mandalorians. Nonetheless, she did carefully review the report that had been assembled regarding this upcoming visit. Rather, the report was on the Protectors from which Ijaat hailed and had taken steps... potentially to rekindle them?

Some questioned the wisdom of allowing other orders to secure artifacts of their heritage. Runi listened to their verbal and written arguments with an open mind. Personally, she was not as concerned, but many put great value in relics -- symbols of the past and where they came from. Ignoring that quality in followers or vod would bode poorly for future cooperation. That did not mean the Speaker would be constrained in her ultimate decision, however; much of which would result from this invitation.

Once the vehicle came to a stop, Runi rose from her seat to head for the ramp. The pad had been wiped and left behind. No nee for anyone here to get their hands on it and make poor choices resulting from open conversation among peers.

Beskar covered a leather suit with large, black bird feathers rested about the Shaman's neck and atop her shoulders as a cowl. The only weapon on her person were the two wooden sticks secured to Runi's back. 'Real' weapons were rarely ever in her possession. Many adversaries made the poor life decision to underestimate her prowess as a result. Regardless, she did not foresee combat here; though should any ritual duels result Runi was prepared.

With a calm gait, Runi strode into the long chamber where artifacts and people dwelt. Her hazel eyes turned up toward either side to regard what Ijaat had put on display for those that had come. Some of which did not seem Mandalorian in origin, but may have been possessed by one. Many thought the beskar-wearing warriors to be made of the same mold; in a fashion, perhaps, but there were as many individuals among them as any other culture.

"There are always trials," Runi spoke aloud as she drew near to the on-going conversation, "and some must be faced alone in body, but not in spirit." She was a chief proponent of all Mandalorians being both One and Distinct. In the end, they all returned to the Manda, and were spun out again in time. A unifying existence with a keen purpose. "Ka'ne hbina gar, bal kot be mies ibac olaror a'yaou ret' adol birov cayatr." <The Manda guide you, and the strength of those that came before see you through many battles.>

She gave a nod to Chewurra in greeting. Whether the droid was there as an interpreter, it was only polite to address the person and not the interpreter. Only then did Runi gave a brief and small smile toward the droid. Unlike many, she did not think of all droids as mere tools; some, certainly, but respect should be given to life in all its forms.

"It has been too long." The Shaman said as she turned her gaze to Ijaat in particular.

Tag: Aisha Garon | Ijaat Mereel | Volo Dragr

 

[Koda Fett]

KUAR

Of all the Mandalorians, Fett often humoured that he was the worst of them all. He failed to adhere to whatever creed or code the lot of them crafted for themselves, either beforehand or in the future, and instead took on one that suited his own interests. It related to that of a hunter more so than a Mandalorian, all the rituals and traditions were lost ona man so detatched from his own kind andculture. But even then, if to be a Mandalorian revolved around a series of life choices that resembled their strict tenants, then one was able to assume Fett was no Mandalorian at all. Just a man in their armour because it suited his career. He recalled all those that decried him a false Mandalorian, labelled him Dar'manda, but as the number of Mandalorians left alive started to dwindle so too had those that harboured such hatred for him. Bodies reduced to ash and blood, smeared across the surface of Mandalore at the hands of the Sith; the same Sith Fett still recieved contracts and credits from, rewarded with their bloodied beskar melted into the raw material once more. From all his acts, that rest the heaviest on his cold, blackened heart.

No Sith; the Enclave often shouted their mantra and as a return to Mereel, Fett made his bid to see his 'roots' rekindled on Kestri. He failed to follow their most basic demand in no time at all, as he re-entered a contract with not some mere Sith but the Dark Lord that butchered Mandalore. It was no secret he served whomever bid the most for his services, the Sith was far from an exclusive deal. He was a man characterised of his fierce adherence to his own independence, little to no details of the man beneath the armour could be mentioned, and even the old man he owed his attendance to had been able to attest to that. Mereel had known of all the ice in his veins, however; one could not be known as the deadliest, most infamous Bounty Hunter in the Galaxy without it, nor an impressive resume.

It was with his blaster over his shoulder that Fett entered the chamber, a coldness to the air about him in his slow saunter forwards. His T-visor fell onto the few that assembled themselves around the room, as well as the scattered artifacts. His helmeted head nodded towards the Iron Father as he moved closer, wordless, shielded beneath the battered and beaten armour the Mereel had reworked the interior of in recent times. Fett wondered if the smith had an ear to whatever news concerned him, if he was aware of his recent contracts and the credits it stacked onto his head - hundred thousand was no small amount, he knew.

He could be of little aid to these Protectors, Fett reminded himself, but that code he crafted for himself demanded he return the favour to Mereel in some manner.

 

[Aisha Garon]

Ijaat Mereel | Volo Dragr | Runi Kuryida | Koda Fett

The Wookiee stood solemnly yet respectfully as the two others spoke amongst themselves. He knew only stories of Volo, and was honestly surprised to see legend in flesh. Yet, he would not say anything too much further on the subject, as the man's body language suggested an unease. The beastly Mandalorian turned his gaze as yet another arrived. A woman that he did not know, but he likewise bowed his in turn, giving a couple grunts of Shyriiwook.

"Chewurra returns your words in respectful kindess, Miss." The droid translated, giving his own bow.

Yet, it was not the wise speaking woman that caught Chewurra's attention. It was who next came to join them in the hall. Red and green beskar'gam, weathered from a life of hunting. Koda Fett. The Wookiee could feel contempt rise in his chest. He knew of this man as well, and knew that he seemed only Mandalorian in name rather than spirit. The beast's lip curled, bearing his teeth and letting out a perturbed snarl.

"I will not repeat the language my counterpart out of integrity to my protocol drives." Enfive interpreted, "But he begrudgingly recognizes the presence of Koda Fett. Though Chewurra questions the fidelity of one so distant to his heritage."

And so the Wookiee stood there, his posture showing agitation. He would not do anything physical unless someone else did first. He knew better than to bring violence into a house where he was a guest.

 

[Koda Fett]

KUAR
Ijaat Mereel | Volo Dragr | Runi Kuryida | Aisha Garon

It seemed as if a series of mixed reactions resurfaced no matter the scene that Fett entered. Exiled from Mandalore albeit welcomed on Kestri, and now shunned on Kuar; from Chewurra, that is, and whether there were more that harboured the same idea was not of his concern and neither was this. He was all he ever needed to be, he never needed to remind himself of that, whether that was a failure of a Mandalorian or not. His own creed was adhered to, and so no matter all the loss he suffered with his so-called 'ilk', his slumber was sound.

But his slow movements ceased before Chewurra and a stare thick with irreverence was all that was on offer to the beast so much taller than himself. His armour, now closer and still, was able to be seen and evidence of all the battle scars free to be seen in the worn and weathered state. Fett stood there unbothered as an answer to the flash of canines and the sound of a snarl. His two flavour attachments on either side remained, the idle side-cloak in the absence of the breeze, and three braids from Chewurra's own kind encircled his shoulder.

"You're not the first to think that." His tone rife with ice, "Best be careful."

He said his threat as if it were a caution.

 

[Ijaat Mereel]

Theme | Location: Vametaye Temple-Keep | Objective: Revival of the Mandalorian Protectors - Healing a Brother-in-arms |
Tags: ( Volo Dragr | Aisha Garon | Runi Kuryida | Koda Fett )​

"If you two utter hostility more in my hall, I will show you to respect the peace of your Elders and pay your blood-price. Put aside your differences this moment, a brother needs our help..."

With that, Ijaat strode forward, nodding to Runi as the Force seemed to swell around him in gentle pulses, filling him and flowing to Volo as he walked to just a step within the man. As if a sea tossing a boat, Volo would hear the voice of Ijaat calming him, speaking in a language that was similar to mando'a but not quite the same. The old Concordian dialect, in fact. Ijaat's first tongue.

As the posture of the man began to relax, Ijaat waited minutes that felt like hours until the man seemed about to fall over, then reached out, pressing together the three fingers of his right hand and touching the temple of the warrior who had seen too much. Flashes of memory came to him then, horrors and hells. Behind walls of the Force, Ijaat sectioned away these horrors, and some he removed entirely, by taking them unto himself. Jukre tuning. Knowledge Drain and rub. Techniques learned in the far off reaches of the Galaxy came together in that moment, blended into something new.

The Force was infinite, was what he was taught on Tython, and as his hand drew away his own eyes were rimmed in anticipation and curiosity.

"Su'cuy gar, ner vod... Welcome back, I hope."

 

[Volo Dragr]

L E G A C Y
Ijaat Mereel | Aisha Garon | Runi Kuryida | Koda Fett
Hodge-Podge'gam | Heavy Pistol

The metallic tang of the interpreter droid's voice stung Volo's ear. Droids were not new to him, of course, but this... it felt unnatural. The weathered man was slowly becoming very aware of his heightened senses, that fragment of the demon dug into his soul, clinging to every scrap of the Force it could- It reached out like a child, then pulled away, hands burnt by curiosity.

It was not from the droid that the thing shied away, no, it was from the man approaching Volo now. In deciphering the newfound feeling for the life that flowed through the very air, he failed to notice the elder warrior approaching him- as the demon first drank in the pulsing Force, he still did not notice. It was not till the man began to speak in an old dialect that he snapped back to reality.

His eyes brightened, ever-so slightly, gold meeting amber as he held the wise man's gaze... growing ever more aware of the numbness filling his body, his knees weakening... his arms heavying. The room- no, the world- rocked back and forth around him. The fragment of the demon hidden deep within his soul twisting with him, overfed on the all-encompassing essence of the world, the Force.

Without warning, nor summoning, thoughts flooded to his mind, glimpses of all the torture and torment he had endured in the months since he was lost on Panatha pushing to the fore; all good memories seeming so distant. Not a single one persisted long, but even a glimmer of one was enough to instil a horrifying dread of death within those of a weaker will.

As they faded, so too did the overbearing tsunami of sense. The memories grew distant to him, organised, no longer flooding his mind. Tools now out of reach of that twisted shadow. Though, as Ijaat shuffled through his memories, he'd stumble upon something... unnatural. Recurring images of a horrifying, twisted man with skin the colour of moons and eyes a bloody red; if you could call it a man. It's proportions were crooked, unnatural... it's demeanour ghastly. As he moved to release his grip on Volo, the man would feel a brief, cold chill push through. The same demon appearing now, flashing its form only briefly, a mass of shadow, claws and revolting power- then it was gone, the presence sheltering deep within.

Volo Skaigh, or Dragr, or Mereel, or whatever clan claimed him now, seemed unaware; straightening his posture and stretching certain limbs, looking around the room now, thoughts clear and marvelling at the treasure trove of relics, he uttered a reply, "Su'cuy, vod. Ner baar bal kar'ta, tome mar'e. Vor entye."[1]. His voice characteristically rough and raspy, perpetually in need of a glass of water.

He cast a long glance around the room, eying the new arrivals. One wore familiar armour, but was unknown to the man. The other wore a more... tribal style of gam; a shaman of the Mandokarla, no doubt. He breathed in, and looked back to the man, a simple nod of his head to confirm the man's wishes.

[1] "Hello, brother. My body and soul, together at last. I owe you."

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[Runi Kuryida]

:: Vametaye Temple-Keep​

Runi glanced back at Chewurra and Koda Fett as the pair stopped short of physical violence at being forced to stand in the same room together. Ijaat took the lead in demanding they remain cordial in the place where they stood. Yes, that was appropriate. Despite the aura about Koda, it was not anyone's place to state whether someone was or was not Mandalorian. They either were or they were not. Talking about it made no difference; only how one behaved and the choices they made mattered. Chewurra's droid could be considered a Mandalorian if it had the spark or programming to embody their way of life.

Her hazel gaze returned to Ijaat as the man stepped forward. She watched and listened attentively as he reached out toward Volo. Runi's face remain placid, but her eyebrows rose ever so slightly at the sight of the man applying the Force -- gift of the Manda -- in such a manner. She was familiar with his talent, but the skills on display were no parlor tricks. Most could fling solid objects about. Precious few could touch the mind without leaving a greater disaster than they'd first found.

Swiftly, Runi's gaze fell on Volo as well as she sensed the entity within the man. The woman's lips thinned as they pressed together. Perhaps she would speak of it with Ijaat later. Runi was hesitant on discussing a sort of possession in the presence of two others. If they sought to remove it and failed, or if it lashed out thinking they would even try the others might be drawn in or spread the word that would disgrace Volo. For now, it seemed the 'demon' had withdrawn. There was time to contemplate what had transpired.

"It is well that things have become clearer once more. There are always brothers and sisters there to help shine a light in dark places, when the need arises." A smile graced her lips.

:: Ijaat Mereel | Aisha Garon | Koda Fett | Volo Dragr ​