Register a free account today to become a member! Once signed in, you'll be able to participate on this site by adding your own topics and posts, as well as connect with other members through your own private inbox!
If there were any who wished him gone, now was their opportunity.
An azure projection erupted into being: a holographic representation of the man who awaited in the square outside. Slashed in beskar'gam, Mand'alor the Reclaimer had come for one reason alone. The Council would hear his claim, once and for all. He had not come as their conqueror, their enemy, or their tyrant. He had not taken the mantle in order to subvert their way of being. In truth, Isley Verd believed that his people were lost. He saw that much with his own eyes, time after time.
It was not their fault. The Primeval was a foe that they did not anticipate – an adversary unlike the Sith they had repelled for so long. What's more, the disappearance of Azrael only served to quicken the spiral. The United Clans did what needed to be done, given the circumstances; thereby leading to the present. A democratic rule of the Alor, a firm hold upon ancestral lands...this was acceptable. But Isley wanted restoration. He wanted to see his people whole, truly, once again.
And thus did his projection utter words long awaited since the birth of his Empire.
"I stood among you as Alor of House Verd, and that I do not wish to fundamentally change. I do not come as usurper to what you have built – but rather a means of restoration. Countless souls have been lost, to war both internal and external. And since having claimed the title, that number has been reduced. Dramatically. Echoy'la, home of our brethren, is no longer ravaged for her beskar. Muunilist has now returned to the Vode."
"There is much that I have done, and still more that I aim to do. It is my goal that what is established be maintained: that the ancestral lands continue to be governed by democratic will of the Alor. It is not my goal to bring chaos, conflict, or any other sordid act to our Home."
"But before another day dawns and sets, I announce my claim to you all. I am Mand'alor the Reclaimer. You may recognize me...Or you may pry the title from my corpse. However, if none among you seek a challenge, then let us speak one to another. Let us build a better tomorrow, together."
There had been days, not too long ago where Draco would have dove over the table and tried to kill whomever tried to where the mantle. There had been days where he would have fought in a tournament of strength, wills, and mettle to wear the mantle himself.
But those days had past. Draco was himself, lost. He knew where he was, he knew what he wanted, but he had no idea where he belonged, how he would get what he wanted, and how he would keep it. The Dragon of Mandalore wanted to sleep, not on a pile of treasure, but by the side of one he loved. He wanted to rest and not have the worry of war hanging over his head, threatening all he had worked for, and all he held dear. But he also wanted to fight, to feel his heart pump faster with the thrill of battle, to have the wind rush past his head as he dove through the sky. To feel the weight of his sword in his hand, and the resistance of armor and flesh and bone as it clove into those that would oppose him.
He was seeking balance. How to balance the two things that made him who he was together. And that had warned him away from seeking what Isley had claimed, what others might want.
"There have been times I would have accepted your challenge and already made my way to the circle to fight." Draco frowned, tapping an armored finger against his helmet as he sat, listening to Isley. "But, I have my own worries, and I am not fit to rule. I am barely fit to keep watch over my own kinsmen." A duty he had delegated off to others greatly as of late, while he worked to find himself, to find his place. The journey to the balance between war and peace was difficult, and he was unsure of where it would lead him to tread, all he knew was that it was a path he must walk.
Draco's mind swam for a moment, trying to balance out what he needed to do, to come up with words for what he actually wanted. "My clan is supporting Alderaan, helping protect it as are some few others. Those are my interests, and though they do aid the clans in some way, they are mostly for my own benefit. My loyalty remains to my Family, my clan, and my home. Mandalore is my home, but it is home to so few of my family." Could one be a Warlord of Mandalore and a Prince of Alderaan, and hold both in high regard. Could a man enjoy the thrill of battle and the taste of steel, as well as the calm of peace, and the love of family, feel the kiss of sun on his cheeks and the wisp of the wind on his face without lusting for battle or become restless for bloodshed.
The Mandalorian closed himself off, breathing deeply, and then storm grey eyes stared at Isley, an old friend, an old ally. "My thinking, Isley, is that you have bred fighting dogs, and in that, they have lost their instincts. Dogs need leashes, but a Wolf roams where he pleases and can tell prey from pack." A few fanatics. He knew what that could breed. Fanatics in his own clan, before it was reformed following his return from the Dark Side, had blindly followed their master as he joined the Sith and took on a Sith name. He was still paying for that mistake, but he was not alone. His fall hadn't been as long or as public as Isley's, but it was the similar. But his journey was not at its end, should it ever truly end. He had many more roads to take and many paths to tread.
"I will say that I don't care who is called Mand'alor and by whom, if they ask me to do something I disagree with I will make my opinions known loudly and often. I am not a dog to anyone. I do not serve anyone. I forge my own paths as do my people, who have entrusted me to guide them, to shield them from tyranny, to protect their freedom of choice, and to defend their honor to the bitter end." The big man, slouched in his chair, and grumbled to himself. Draco didn't know what Isley would take of his words, whether they would fall on deaf ears or whether his old friend cared anymore. All he knew was what he felt was right.
It came as a surprise that the first to speak was the Dragon of Mandalore. In truth, Isley had anticipated an immediate response from the man who made his feelings known from day one – [member="Gilamar Skirata"]. Nevertheless, of all the members of the A'lore Council, Draco was considered a friend by the Mand'alor. He took it upon himself to facilitate the vengeance Isley so craved against the Techno Union, and in doing so cemented a permanent place within the Mandalorian's heart. From thence, and evermore, would he be regarded fondly by Isley.
And now was no different.
Blinking from behind his buy'ce, the Mandalorian listened to every word of his comrade – culminating with a rather solid response to his challenge. Draco would not rise to pry the title from his grasp, but he would not kneel.
Isley smiled.
Empathy and the management of emotion were skills vital to leadership. The latter checked impulse, whilst the former allowed deeper insight. In this case, hubris was stamped underfoot immediately so that the Mandalorian could see his friend's words for what they were. Isley had been there once. Long ago, he was a blissfully doting husband, a proud father, and a blood-loving mercenary all bundled in a beskar package. Yet, when it came to matters outside of that tiny world, priorities were...different. What mattered was his home, not the ambitions of those several worlds away.
He understood, and nodded.
"As I stated before, I am not here to usurp what you have built. I am not here to demand that you leave behind your Love, your Family and Clan to die in my name. I am not demanding that you change."
He paused, carefully considering his next words.
"Draco, I ask of you what I always have. Nothing more, nothing less. When our hearts align, let us stand together. When our paths diverge, so be it. And of the Council, I ask recognition. Recognition and the opportunity to build a future together. Is that acceptable to you, brother?"
Recognition, at least in Draco's mind came with a very hefty price of loyalty and respect. Respect he had for Isley in mounds, more than any treasure trove. Loyalty though, it was not so easily given. The Mandalorian had been loyal to a number of causes. The Republic, the Techno Union, the One Sith. They had never given him much of what he sought in life and most of them lead him towards the dangerous dark path he had fallen to months ago, heralding himself as Darth Vulkan.
What he had grown to learn, to understand, was that loyalty was given and earned by an ideal, not an individual. Individuals changed and shifted, their moods swayed, their principles adjusted as time went on. No one was an unchanging stone, for every stone wore down over time. But an ideal, such as Family, Honor, Clan, those were above such erosion. One's perception and interpretation of the ideal could change, but never the ideal itself. It remained constant.
And so, Draco in his younger years, having not understood that, had lent his loyalty to many. And in return he had been beaten upon the anvil and shattered into pieces. But, just as a hammer can break, a forge can make anew. That is what happened to him, in the depths of depravity and desperation, his pieces had been gathered and put together, by his Princess, however frail the thing she made. And then the smith had forged them, tempered those pieces in the fire she lent him, and crafted them anew, stronger than before, sharpened the blade and held it between himself and others. Family at his back, others before him, sword held at guard.
Now Isley presented him with a choice, asking him to believe in the same ideals he championed, the things he fought for, to recognize him as Mand'alor the Reclaimer. Isley was presenting it as what the man felt the title to be, but to Draco, it was a little more than that. The man wasn't sure where he wanted to go, what he wanted to do. He was seeking to balance two opposing life styles, but if someone asked him to make a choice, pick one, right now, his sword would be left and beskar'kandar on the table. He would hang it all up for his family if he had to, and that was what troubled him. Why was he clinging to it, why did he feel like he needed it over them.
"I would recognize you as the first among equals here."
It wasn't the same to Draco, but it was likely the same to Isley, and to the others sitting around the table. Some would be displeased, mainly Gilamar, who already distrusted him. He didn't know how the others would consider it, how they would take or think of his loyalty. He knew some would probably challenge the man for the right to rule, and if Draco were sure his path lead to that destiny, he would. If he were sure his path would take him to follow Isley he would. But his paths were clouded and fog hung in his vision, blinding all but the next closest step to take, and there were winding roads that sprung forth from either side.
He was lost, and in this fight he had no lot to titles or mantles, all he had were vod in this room, and an ideal of the word Mand'alor. There was no winning for the Mandalorian right now, he needed to hear from the others, see who stepped up to answer the challenge. Either side he took, and he would injure one friend for another. He had no knowledge of Isley's way as Mand'alor with his Empire. But he knew without question, Gilamar would be wary of Isley, and of this offer.
The title carried weight and glory. It carried a great promise and a great joy to the name, but in recent years it had also become synonymous with corruption, totalitarianism, and incompetence. The last near-decade had seen the Mandalorian people without a Mand'alor, without a Sole Ruler, and they had survived, even flourished in many places. Industry was peaking and their people were happy.
And now the title had come up once more. Another sought the ancient title, the ancient mantle of the Sole Ruler, and Betna could only sigh internally to himself at the claim.
Isley Verd was a solid man and a good warrior. Betna didn't know him as well as most, but he knew the man was reliable enough and had sought redemption in his return to the clans. Later, he'd then caused a schism between the clans by founding his own empire, the Mandalorian Empire. Whether because Verd was disgruntled at his place in society or to try and spark a new age for the Mandalorian people, Betna didn't know and honestly didn't much care. The issue was that now the same Alor stood before them, or at least his holo did, and claimed the title of Sole Ruler before the entire council. It was either the boldest thing politically that Betna could think of or tantamount to political suicide.
To Betna, the man was simply a warlord. A prominent and powerful warlord with a strong, unified force behind him, but a warlord nonetheless. It would take than bold words to sway half the Mandalorian clans, some of them the most prominent and ancient on Mandalore, to unify the Mandalorian people at this point.
But Betna wasn't ready to speak his mind as of yet. He mulled the thoughts over and over, determining the proper way to speak them and the time to do so. His face unreadable, his mind a steel trap from years and years of dissembling, and his emotions betraying nothing more than discomfort at the wooden chair he sat in, he simply waited for the other Alore in the chamber to speak before speaking himself.
The man thought that he would never find being in this position again. Never again. He thought that fellow Mandalorian would have the pride and courage to step onto that platform, and fight mercilessly for a title that was a part of the way of life for all Mandalorians. The last time he ever fought for the title was when he was a Rally Master and it was days after the second Battle of Empress Teta. It was the time when Gilamar had died and four men battled each other for the throne. He could remember only himself, Azrael, and Nolan Detta. The Field Marshal forgot the results of his duel, but he remembered that Azrael became the new Mandalore and somewhat created a dynasty of the Skirata clan. It was a rough time for the entire vode and it was a time when they were surviving the foreign dangers of the Galaxy. It was a short rule for Lord Mandalore and the Alor'e Council became a temporary government for the sons and daughters of Mandalore until someone had the urge to claim the title.
Someone did, but did it in the wrong process.
Why didn't Vilaz claimed the title so he could avoid combating another warrior for the title and prevent a schism? Maybe if he did, then none of this would be happening. He wasn't a coward, but he would have liked to avoid all of this mess. He had to make a decision now.
"Dad," said Vilaz's adopted son Lok, "you thinking about fighting Isley?" No way that Vilaz was going to lie to his own kid about that question. Anyone could tell that he was in thought about it. His legs were moving, some sweat was trinkiling down his head, and his face was just looking straight at nothing as pressure continued to second guess himself over and over again.
"Yeah, but I don't know, Lok. What do you think?" He needed some ounce of wisdom from someone so that he could finally answer his own question.
"Well, if you think you can take us to a better path, then do it. You think you have a better road than Isley?"
Did he think so? He did. He had his own visions for his brethren that he thought would bring them all to a better tomorrow. And with the help of his son he finally had an answer.
"Isley," the Redneck stood up and faced to the hologram of Mandalore the Reclaimer, "you ain't sitting on any throne without w challenge. So you best be ready cause this ain't gonna be another Wayland." No, this wouldn't be like what happened at Wayland when the Alor of Verd convinced the Munin to get out of the ranks of the Death Watch and return to where he properly belonged. He was grateful for that, but this was different. This involved the entire population of the Mandalorian culture. He respected the visions that Isley had, but Vilaz believed he had a better plan.
He walked to the exit of the Council chambers with his crossbow, his armor and the integrated weaponry on it, a gifted poncho that Ijaat gave him that was produced from AEL, a Fett-Kal knife, two WESTAR 34 pistols, and a ysalamari nutrient frame that was made of beskar. No grenades or any ordnances. Rocket boots were a new modification of his armor after learning from his past experiences that he would have to face powerful Force Users and would need to sacrifice mobility of a jetpack for a nutrient frame to keep the playing field even. But he would obtain his mobility due to the rocket boots.
A deep sigh came from him and he placed his helmet on before exiting the building and face the plaza which would be the rumble pit for Isley and Vilaz.
It was time. They all knew him here. And they all knew the armor. So he stood without preamble and pointed to Vilaz. The gesture was curt, and showed it was less obedience and expectation, and more of a motion that if the redneck had a brain in his skull-pan he'd be present for whatever the last of House Mereel had planned. Taking his helmet off, he sat it to the table slowly, gently, and could even be seen to gaze at it a moment. Rather pointedly, though likely none would know the tradition, the visor faced him when it came to rest. Distrust and solitude, a symbol and sign he considered himself without ally or peer in this gathering. A gesture that set the tone for what would come next.
Reaching within the red folds of his cloak, he drew out a wrapped package and gingerly sat it down on the table. He held it with a sense of reverence and regret at the moment as his fingers trailed the crimson cloth. Slowly he unwrapped the folds of the banner, as it turned out to be. There was no real House or Clan sigil. Nothing to show pretense to some mish-mashed "Council" or fledgling Empire of upstarts. It was a simple mythosaur skull done in beskar threading on a field of crimson, electrum for the grommet rings that would have bound it to a pole or spear. The thing was battered, if finely made. Scored by blade, by blaster, by kiss of flame and by bullets by the looks of it... Better days certainly behind it..
It had been fluttering under his feet, when he was killed at Concord Dawn in his Citadel by a cruel act of crucifixion by the Death Watch. And his men had wrapped his corpse in the cloth, knowing though he lived nothing they had could stay the call of the Manda for their Alor. Keen of eye, some could likely pick out the stains of darkened blood, and impressions like hand prints and a facial impression in one spot even. As the folds uncurled, the Mask of Mandalore the Ultimate was revealed. It wasn't as it had once been, to be sure, in importance. But the cultural significance of the object could not be lost on any as he gazed at each of them with ancient eyes in a youthful face, a cold fury and rebuke in his stormy orbs of green. Radiating in the Force was disgust, anger, and plain naked shame at seeing his people reduced to such.
With a regretful cast to his features, he raised a hand and then let it drop slowly, as if signaling a halt to an army, the Force swelling in him as he eyed the object and stroked it's mandibled cheek as if bidding a beloved child or dream farewell. As he did, his eyes narrowed, and again the Force boiled in him and around him, twisting, contorting, pouring into the Mask in a torrent. It would glow, shine, and shimmer before the eyes of all, Sensitive or not. Suddenly with a resounding crack, the Mask splintered and shattered. With a touch, the beskarsmith had used all his knowledge and power to undo a cultural icon the likes of which the Clans or Empire could not calculate the value of. It would take someone of his skills of better to remake it... Some pieces scattered and rolled from the concussive power unleashed, one striking the Alor of Clan Betna in the face like a shot, scraping his cheek, mere centimeters from his right eye.
Still he spoke not a word as he reached up and ripped at the clasps of his cloak, the beskar mythosaur skulls held on by electromagnets that screeched as Force-enhanced muscles yanked the cape free and let it flutter to the end of his chair. Twin thuds as ancient beskar gauntlets and bracers slammed to the table, echoing in the damning silence. A rippling of stud-locks as an armor vest was next, gorget and all slamming to the table and then clattering to the floor. The process continued, piece by piece, until every thread of beskar was dropped onto the table, some falling from it or others rolling across the floor.
Eventually Ijaat stood in naught, his gear of war divested. Taking the beskad he had carried for years, he rammed it into the chair where he had sat, a pulsing again going out. The chair cracked right down the middle, the blade ramming into the stone ground from the force of the blow. With a final, disgusted look the now naked former alor of House Mereel merely walked out without a single word, past stunned guards and sentries, not a single word or syllable uttered in his damning display. Pride radiated from him, and pity, but not a trace of the former disgust or rage. The Clans were not ruled by over-inflated egos of tyrants or honeyed words of politicians. They were not ruled at all, in fact. Isley's words showed his inability to grasp that still. And other responses fell on varying sides of the scale. But for his part, he was well and truly done with this mess. Let them devour themselves. He would not be drug down by politics the likes of which even the Republic scarcely engaged in.
Draco watched them quietly, patiently. He had said his piece carefully and methodically, and his vod had made their claims, their promises, their challenges. Brother versus brother was always the way it had to be with the Mandalorians, a proud, rich, noble tradition. Two men enter, one man leaves as king, the other on his knees. Vilaz was a fiery upstart, capable in the field, and possibly a solid ruler. Isley was a twice cursed, twice redeemed warrior who had proven himself many times.
In truth, the only problem Draco had with Isley's people had already been spoken. He had fanatics, which while useful, were hardly of Mandalorian spirit, more trained fighting dogs that needed to be controlled and leashed appropriately. Something no one man could accomplish. But, they were potent warriors plunging into Primeval and old Mandalorian space, claiming it as their own.
Ijaat's quiet, yet powerful resignation resonated with the warrior. His mentor, three of his friends, all currently at odds. Ijaat tore his armor from his body and left it laying in the floor, but he knew the man would be seen again. After all, he was training the Smith in the ways of the Force and they were travelling together. Ijaat had tried to become part of the people again several times, but something never quite fit when the smith tried. He was a loner, a free roamer.
There was no winning for Draco or his today.
Draco stood, pushing back his chair. "Vod, you know where to find me, you know how to reach me." He reached out on the table and took up a piece of the mask, a simple piece. The right orbital plate that protected the right side of the right eye. Important enough to be needed to complete the mask, small enough that one would not recognize it at a glance as what it was. He took up the piece and grimaced. Not a good day for the kingdoms of Mandalore.
Children born of the same culture, the same ideals with two very different interpretations of the code. <I will not kneel.> The memory of the words echoed in his mind. He could not kneel to anyone, or anything. His loyalty was to his family, to his clan, and then to himself and his friends. He had to put the others first and their desires, their needs, their fate. They were more important to a man made to rule.
<The reluctant King takes the crown because he believes he can do good with it, but not for power, for glory, of for legacies.>
There were days when Draco would have worn the mask and the mantle proudly and strong, but he would have done so for power. For Glory and influence. He was not to rule today. He could do no good with it that he could see, undeserving for the prize. He did not desire it, but he would not kneel. His was a small clan of True Mandalorians, supported by mercenaries, by hopefuls, by supplicants, all banding together to fight and live side by side. Alderaan offered them a new life, a new future. It was lush, open, good for farming and mining. Good for trade and craftsmen. There they could be more than conquerors, more than warriors. These others had strong houses and great support through out the people, greater claims to glory, longer lines of ancestry and pride. He had only what he and his built with their hands in this life. His people needed what he could provide for now, but others of his clan were arising that could take the mantle from him. They could only go forward, continue on their paths. All of them; him, his people, and the Alor gathered around the table.
The warrior, nodded to Betna and to the hologram of Isley. He thought to the armor, laying in the floor, the red and bronze color. The Beskar'gam sat there and Draco moved a hand to take it by the cloak, and drag it away with him. But then he stopped. It would not do to undo what Ijaat had done, what he had meant by the gesture. There would be some that considered him a traitor. Soulless. Others would care little for it. "Find a museum for it. Someone will come a long who deserves it." He had his own battles to fight, his own wars to win.
And the Mandalorian left the halls, moving for the spaceport. He'd been gone from home too long, and his dog in this fight was gone.
Hadn't been long since Ember Rekali handed the title of aliit'buir to his granddaughter. Hadn't been long since he'd tangled with a terrorist who claimed to be Mandalorian Empire. That put Alec in the hot seat as the newest aliit'buir on the Alor'e Council, though she'd represented her grandfather here more than once. It didn't help that Isley Verd was her mother's brother, and any decision she made with reference to her uncle would be seen in that light. That was inescapable.
But it was only one of the factors she had to consider as clan mother, with respect to this situation. A younger Alec would have spoken now. Instead she waited and watched.
Not out of shock or awe at what had transpired, but because the moment deserved a sort of... respect. The action may have been excessive in some ways, but it was pointed and, above all...
It was accurate.
He stood and took a few steps behind his chair, scanning the floor until he found the shard that had cut him. He picked the piece up between his thumb and forefinger and slowly walked back to the table where the shards of the Mask lay, his eyes never leaving the shattered piece of beskar.
Blue-green eyes scanned the table as armored combat boots brought him to a stop before it. The mask was utterly shattered, pieces laying in a mess around the table. Draco had taken a small piece with him and Betna held another, one now stained with his blood, however small an amount it was. The aging warrior, Alor to his clan and father and husband to his family, rolled the little sliver of metal in his palm for a moment, the light faintly glinting off the now uneven surfaces. Slowly, he closed his hand around the shard, gripping the piece tightly inside his gauntlet.
"The Mask is us," he said finally. "And we are the Mask. We are disorganized and we are squabbling like petty children, all for the glory of a title that is ultimately meaningless without a cause, without a unified people. We fight over a crown like aruetiise for personal reasons and for personal agendas, not for our people. Not for our families. We are broken."
Betna turned to the hologram depicting Isley Verd, Mand'alor of the Mandalorian Empire. He held up one hand, the sliver of Mandalorian Iron held between his thumb and forefinger in the air before gripping it once more in his hand.
"Your claim will go unchallenged by myself and my clan, Alor Verd. I suggest to all here that would rise up in defense of the title to take their seats."
He turned back to the table and began gathering the pieces of the shattered mask, one by one, until they all began piling upon the cloth Ijaat had left on the table.
"We all know of sacrifice, we all know of redemption. We have all fought our enemies abroad and at home. We have all spilled our blood for ourselves, our clans, our people, and those who would pay us to fight their own battles. All here earned the right to lay claim to the title."
All the pieces save the single shard Draco had taken now sat within the cloth. Betna tied the fabric into a makeshift bag and hefted the weight a few times before gently setting the bundle on the table before his chair. A shattered relic it may be, but a relic it was, and one that would need reforging soon enough if the galaxy continued in the way it was.
"None, however, are worthy," he stated, his voice firm as Iron in the hall of the Council. "We bicker and argue as worlds burn around us, demanding each be made Mand'alor in turn. Each has made sacrifices, each has earned more than their fair share of glory, but none of us understands what the Mand'alor is. What he stands for."
With that, the Alor of Clan Betna retook his seat at the council and stared at the hologram of Isley Verd before him.
"With all due respect, Alor Verd, but I must respectfully request you to revoke your claim. Clan Betna will not follow you nor will they acknowledge or respect any title of Mand'alor you hold. You have done many things, some of them great, but none of them worthy to wear the mantle in the eyes of myself, my family, or my clan. I doubt at this point you will face a challenger, but I can guarantee that in such a case your rank would be hollow and empty, devoid of honor or glory in the eyes of the Mandalore itself. I say this not out of spite or anger, but as a comrade in arms. Revoke your claim, be the warlord and warrior you have rightfully earned, and work towards the reunification of our people under one banner. That is the most important thing for our people, for our culture, than to claim an ancient title for the wrong reasons, no matter what they are."
The Alor of Clan Ordo entered, her son Avram following unsure of what this room was. It just happen she had come this way to seek out assistance when she saw the form is Isley Verd and heard his words.
She slipped into a seat, took off her buyce setting it on the table. There were words to be said. Listened to. Her brother in law Arrbi. Vilaz. Draco. Ijaat. She listened while she held Avram in her lap. He seemed fascinated by the shimmer of Isleys holo.
She had seen too many if these already. Verz. Gilamar. Azreal. And here was another. They were divided as a people this she could agree with.
She watched as Arrbi gathered the shattered mask. A symbol. Perhaps.
She would listen a but more before deciding what to say if anything she wanted to be certain that the clan voice would speak for all Not just a few.
Alor of Clan Skirata sat with his arms crossed before his chest, watching the events unfold. A much younger face than he remembered emerged from the iconic armor of who he had assumed was Ijaat Mereel, the most surprising thing that had occurred. He had held the title of Mand'alor once, and he had lost that right at the hands of the Dark Lord when he had nearly lost his life in battle. Soon after his return Azrael vanished without a trace. The clans had acted quickly and surprisingly calmly regarding the circumstances. It was agreed that none of them had what it took to take on the mantle of the Sole Ruler.
Without a unified cause the clans would never have followed one man or woman. Even when Death Watch resurfaced and cut them off from most of their worlds a single leader did not rise. Instead many leaders had retreated back into their own clans with some cooperation. Isley did speak truth, and so did Mereel. The Mandalorians were fractured, and in Gil's eyes the traitor had done nothing to aid in that endevour.
"I agree with Alor Betna for the most part," he began, "Not once while I was Mand'alor did I ever crave the position. While it was a great honor I was chosen by my vode and fellow alore to do something I never thought I could. I did not grab the title for power or personal reasons. And while I lost that title and any rights to it in battle, I can say that all I see when you stand here before us claiming the title is a man hungry for power."
"The great hunger of the Sith still has not left you, and I cannot and will not yield to you who would turn your back on the oath you took as Ori'ramikad in order to follow the ways of the coward Vizla. I urge you to revoke your claim Isley. It is not one that holds weight with Clan Skirata." He stood and looked at all the faces around him, "And this would go to all of you as well. Clan Skirata will not fall behind any man or woman today."
Ten thousand questions raced through the Mand'alor's mind, yet all bore the same answer. The reason why Vilaz Munin, of all people, had risen to challenge his claim. The true justification for the current mindset of the A'lore.
Pride was the cause of Isley's boiling blood in the sight of a relic destroyed.
Yet who could blame them? The Mandalorian people had been burned, severely, by the mantle of Sole Ruler once before. A man Isley once called "friend" disappeared without a trace: and the Hell that followed marred the Clans forever. Yet in the midst of this turmoil, the A'lore stood fast. They did what they had to do. Without a Head, they became one - and thus did the Clans govern despite the Old Ways. They did what they had to do. Who then could be worthy in their eyes? What glorious acts could meet the standards of those who survived without a Mand'alor? Pride, plain and simple, was the virus which clung to the soul of the Clans.
Isley drew a breath. He set aside the fury that had begun to bubble within the pit of his stomach. He shelved resentment, disappointment, and all other fuel...for the time being.
"We are lost, that truth we see plain." he began. "But what you fail to understand is that my claim is devoid of glory. I did not do this for myself, nor to glorify those who share my blood. I did this for them - for those worlds burning each and every day. Our kin are scattered, lost to the ravages of our enemies. And I took this mantle, not for myself, but to restore them. You may not acknowledge me as worthy for this task or this mantle, but the results are evident enough. What was once a hovel, raped and exploited by our enemies, is now the beating heart of an Empire."
Fire. Emerald Fire sparked at his feet.
"And for them, not my own glorification..."
They consumed him, erupting as if fresh fuel were drenched upon their writhing midst.
"Do I refuse."
And then, just as swiftly as they had come were the fires extinguished - and the Mand'alor gone along with them. Finally, the feelings of the United Clans and the Mandalorian Empire were laid bare - the former would not recognize his claim. The latter would continue to reclaim and restore their lost worlds. And that was fine with Isley, for there was more to be done than pander to those blinded by their own Pride. Perhaps, as the Old Worlds continued to enter to the fold, the truth of his words would break through.
He did not hold the power of the Force like his brother and daughter. He did not pretend to understand the complexity of it. But there was and always would be one rule when it comes to power. Power corrupted absolutely and if there was one thing that Gil understood about the Force was that the Dark Side was absolute power and the scars of its presence never left and were often left to fester. Isley was a prideful man and a powerful one. With an empire at his feet and the absolute corruption of the Dark Side that marred his soul he would always struggle for more.
As the emerald sparks at his feet danced through the hologram and sparked into flame for a moment he could see where the young Mandalorian's mind was at. His display meant to awe and maybe cause fear was one that only strengthened the old man's resolve. Maybe Andres was right.
Betna stared at the place where the hologram had been. It was over, yet he felt it had only just begun. The end of the beginning, perhaps, or perhaps not. Isley had given a display of his control of the Force. Perhaps to awe, perhaps to intimidate. Perhaps he hadn't even known he'd done such a display consciously. In the end, it didn't matter. For Betna, all he felt was... sadness. Not for himself, but for the Mandalorian people. For what they, possibly, may face in the days to come. Something he dearly hoped wouldn't happen.
But the Mandalorians were ever a practical people. They followed their hopes and dreams, but planned for the possibilities they could see.
"Alore of the Council," Betna said after a moment, his voice neutral and steady. "Fractured we may be, but we must come together in the coming days."
He stood and leaned forward, his hands braced on the table before him. His heart was heavy, but his mind was clear.
"I am activating and mobilizing the Protectors," he continued, his tone unwavering. "I hope beyond hope that nothing shall come to pass, that an attempt at reunification shall not come in the form of bloodshed, but we must at least plan for such an occurrance. Ret'lini. Just in case."
He turned to his wife, Anija. She'd stood by him for years, watching over him as he watched over her. They had their flaws, to be sure, but their bond was strong and their lives, and destinies, intertwined from the start.
"An'ika, I need you to send word to all Protector units throughout the Territories. They will need to mobilize immediately. Tell those in the northern territories to increase patrols and set themselves at high alert for the next few weeks and months. All Protector bases and garrisons are to be fully staffed. Inform Vilaz that he is to organize those units that are designated as mobile in the southern territories to be ready to ship out to the north. We may need them. Have him use Mandalore itself as a transit hub for ease of transport."
Betna then turned to the rest of the council, his face grim, but determined.
"Alore, I ask each of you to mobilize what warriors and forces you have. I dearly hope that nothing comes of this in the way of violence, but we cannot leave ourselves unprepared should the worst happen. If you desire, coordinate with the Protectors to fill weak points in defenses and make our borders and worlds stronger. We are few in number, but our sole task has been to fortify our territories as well as we can. These units are, for the most part, local Mandalorian clans of the worlds they inhabit. They can aid you immeasurably. At the very least, non-local units can support regular Clan forces in the field."
He straightened and crossed his arms, the weight of age slowly weighing down on his shoulders as he fully realized what could possibly come to pass. In his mind, he knew that if war came between the clans, it would only weaken them further than they already had been. Something that could very well destroy them as a people in many ways in the process.
"I will be in the field at the northern borders, coordinating our forces there. Should you need me after this meeting, you only need call for me."
Leaning against the door frame at the rear of the room, certainly there without permission and most definitely not a member of the council, the former Mand'alor clicked her tongue in distaste. She had warned Isley, alas he didn't listen, and his actions, his creation of a new Empire had only served to widen an already great divide. Soon the people on one side or another would begin questioning things. Were those under the Alor council true mandalorians? Or did such a title belong to those under a sole ruler.
"Isley might have a flare for the dramatic, but I do not believe he will attack." She stepped forward out, speaking out of turn. "Mobilising your forces the way you intend may just alienate those who have chosen to follow him more. You risk stirring them into wanting to fight for what they believe is theirs. While he might not attack, he will obey the call of his people and if they call for war...." She trailed off with a shrug. "Extend feelers to keep an eye if you must, but don't inspire a civil war. Your people are divided enough as it is."
Vilaz knew that Isley was many things, but he didn't know that Isley was deaf. Was he really going to dismiss this challenge and just take the mantle like he did a few months ago? Was he afraid of the Field Marshal? If he was, then he had every right to be afraid of going head-to-head with something important of the Mandalorian Culture. Perhaps the Clan Father of Verd expected to just come here and officially become Mandalore the Reclaimer with no shape or size if competition. Unfortunately, for him, that plan failed. Now what was Vilaz going to do? Was he going to chase after Isley and challenge him? No, why would he waste his time on fighting a false Mandalore that didn't want to abide by the traditions of the Mandalorians. Not only did this scene of the Verd proved that he was a false Sole Ruler, but also a coward and man greedy of power.
If Mandalore the Reclaimer thought that his emerald fire was going to strike fear into the spirit of the Munin, then he was wrong. The Bounty Hunter wasn't afraid of the man that appeared before him, and he wasn't afraid of what was stored in the future.
"Coward," was all he could say about Isley.
He then gave his attention to an old Mandalore that once governed the Sons and Daughters of Mandalore. "We ain't trying to provoke a civil war, Mia, but I ain't gonna go on a limb that those wannabe Mandos aren't gonna invade us." With the way how things are, the Warrior wasn't going to relax until time told him so.
"We mobilize too hard for defense and we'll provoke the invasion we're trying to prevent." Alec rose from her chair. "Folks, this has been educational, but I'm not in a position to make decisions about any of this stuff without consulting my clan's senior people. Gorax in the room: you all know Isley Verd's my uncle. I'm not the only Rekali who's got family in the Mandalorian Empire, and strong incentives to want peace. Like, say, the other big enemies we've got already.
"No, I've got no interest in playing us-versus-them or getting sucked into the stupid old game of 'you're not a true Mando.' Clan Rekali's spread out across the Gordian Reach, the Indrexu Spiral, and the Kathol Outback, and that's just for starters. I've gotta call in reps from colonies and space stations, ship captains, witch elders, Vahla priests, all kinds of cousins, and talk all this through. Today changed a bunch of things, you know it did, and I'm not going to make a call in the heat of the moment. We've got decisions to make, questions to answer -- when push comes to shove, what are our actual criteria for recognizing someone as mand'alor? Or do we just all know it when we see it, and trust that we're not just biased about our friends and the power we've got? And that's just for starters. Yeah, my clan wants to talk all that through."
She tapped the hilt of the supernatural sword belted to her hip - Ember's sword. "Maybe that's not how my grandpa would have done it, but I ain't him. See you folks later."
Betna gave a polite nod at Mia's comments before waiting for the others to speak. The honorific wasn't exactly Mandalorian, but for he figured it was a suitable middle ground for a former Mand'alor.
"We're mobilizing, not moving. Slight difference, but you do have a point. The Protectors as a whole are hardly a threat to a faction as large as the Empire to the Galactic North. I could move every warrior under my command to our northern borders and the best we could do is slow an invasion or assault down long enough for the cavalry to arrive. Maybe in small pockets we could hold our own, but that's a best case scenario," he said, his tone offhand, but not disrespectfully so. His mind was occupied, thinking a few steps ahead and already planning for a worst case scenario. "They'll see primarily the Protectors moving. Even if they expect an attack, the worst threat we would pose is a large-scale raid, and Isley knows that the Protectors are almost entirely a defensive force. A border-guard, if you will."
"As for the clans, if they want to move, that's up to them. As Alor Rekali said, decisions need to be made and representatives need to be conferred with. In my haste to make sure we were all on the same page to take action I forgot that some of the larger clans have more than just one voice as a conduit. It'll take a short time for those clans to determine a course of action. As for our misguided kin to the north... Isley isn't stupid. Egotistical, sure, but there's some brain cells rubbing together up there. Attacking us after being told 'no' will only make him look all the worse. It'd be political suicide at best, even if his followers are eager to sharpen blades and stack ammo crates. Short term, it'd net him nothing. Long term, it'd be more detrimental than anything else he could do short of maybe streaking through the Republic's Senate building."
Betna shrugged and picked up the makeshift bag of metal shards, shaking it slightly so as to make the metal shards within rattle quietly.
"Alor Rekali does have a very, very good point. And an accurate one, too," he said as his mind dwelled on what had transpired in such a very short time. "What makes a Mand'alor? What should he or she embody? Do we seek a conqueror who can bring the galaxy under a single banner? An architect who can ensure the longevity of our people for millennia to come? Someone who can lead us into prosperity through war? Peace? Tradition states it must be the strongest of us all, but what is strength? The galaxy is constantly changing and yet we haven't. We're a practical people in the end. We adapt and survive, but I think we've kept to tradition for so long that we've forgotten that even traditions must sometime be replaced."
Mia stepped aside, nodding to [member="Alec Rekali"] left. Ember had made a good choice selecting her for Alor. She had her head on straight, and unlike most people here, she was intent on doing what the true tradition of mandalorians dictated - listening to her people. "That," she responded to Arrbi, "is not for you or this council to decide. Tradition is what the mandalorians are, it is what keeps us alive. " She moved a little further into the room, taking this oppurtunity to speak while she could.
"Isley is a good man, he has a dark past, but I think if we all take a moment to look at ourselves we will find there is darkness in all of us. His mistake is believing that he is what the mandalorians as a whole need. His intents and hopes are good ones, he wants to bring glory and honour back to a society that has recently seen itself shattered. I commend you on what you have done to try and put things back together, but right now, you are on the brink of letting things fall apart"
She clasped her hands on the back of an empty chair. "The people are divided, some call for a leader, a face to follow, others are content to ignore everyone and get on with their lives, coming together with the rest of us when it is needed. Do not risk widening the bridge, find a way to close the gap. Those in the Empire are mandalorians as much as you are. Let Isley claim the title, let him have his little empire, you do not have to follow him. He will not attack, nor will he sanction any attack, you have my word on that. If he does, I will kill him myself."
She let her words hang in the air for a moment. "My advice to you, is to send an envoy, someone you trust to represent this council and the people you live to serve. Reach an agreement where these two bodies can live in harmony, or risk a civil war all over again."
