Faction Solstice of the Mando’ade: Tales of the Enclave

[The Quartermaster]

For long the Mandalorian people lived in darkness, cast into shadow by the Sith and the genocide they orchestrated. Yet despite the long road they have endured, once more the Mandalorians are growing in power.

Under the banner of the Mandalorian Enclave, the Mando’ade have found renewed purpose. They have created a new home for their people, and new legends have risen to lead the Mandalorians towards a brighter future. The Solstice of the Mando’ade is as much a celebration of Mandalorian triumphs as it is sacrifices.

Not every tale and story has enjoyed the spotlight during the tumultuous events of the Enclave. This Solstice, those obscure narratives have been given a chance to be chronicled and explored. Whether it be mystical or mundane, every Mandalorian story deserves its own time in the spotlight.

 

[Shai Maji]

KESTRI | TOR VALUM
1 WEEK AFTER RETURN

I’M SORRY​

Shai looked around her, at the reinforced cell she was housed in. It was made to house the most dangerous people in the galaxy, with no hopes of them escaping without help from the outside. She helped to put Sith Lords, pirates, and all manner of other scum in there herself.

To sit in one now, it felt surreal. But it was to be expected.

The wedding and honeymoon with Xyoz was nothing short of perfect. And to have Runi there as well, after helping to mend the Shistavanen’s mind, was simply the cherry on top. She was whole again, in mind and in body, she had come to terms with what she did under the Maw’s banner. She wanted to make things right, come home and be with her family again. It was a naïve hope to think that she wouldn’t be facing consequences for her actions, even if it technically wasn’t her fault. She did it all willingly. Her mind might have been warped by the Mongrel and his Taskmaster, but she drew her weapons by her own volition.

Soft footsteps drew her attention from her thoughts as she waited to see who it was. She already knew, but to see him again was a mixture of joy and worry as she waited for him to arrive. The figure finally emerged from the hallway, standing behind the ray shield keeping her in, and the Shistavanen couldn’t help but give a gentle smile as she looked up at his imposing stature.

”Hey, Jos.” She greeted him softly, still sitting on the bunk. The Kel Dor’s empty visor gave no expression or emotion as he watched her for a moment, but she knew how to read him.

”Hello Shai. It is a surprise to see you again.”

”A pleasant one, I hope?” She asked, but Jos remained silent. Her smile faltered as she looked down again.

”Runi told us what happened. What she did to mend your mind. She does not lie, but I wished to tell you the council's decision in person.”

Shai blinked at the comment, looking up at him again. ”Decision on what?” She asked softly, already knowing the answer.

”Whether to let you live… and whether you are allowed to still call Kestri your home.”

A spark of anger flickered at his words. Shai stood up and closed the distance between them, staring up at him with a mixture of disgust and desperation. ”I came back to be with my family again. Did any of y’all even bother to read up on Runi’s report on me? What was wrong with me?” She spoke up as a hard glare set in. Jos let out a sigh as he looked away for a moment. She knew he was hurt. He never was good at showing emotions, always keeping a solid stance and a calm tone, for the sake of the clan. Shai was the leader, but he was the one keeping them solid.

She was under no illusion that he didn’t feel betrayed as well.

”They… we… understand what you went through. What they did to you for months. Your mind was broken. While you were conscious of your actions, they were not your own. But that does not change what you did, Shai. You killed and injured dozens of our best warriors on Tython. You mutilated Kranak. You set Empress Teta on fire and waged war against our Allies. The only reason you are here now and not in pieces is because of what you did for the Enclave… and what Runi told us about your condition.”

Shai looked away as he named her sins against her people, against their allies. She made a promise long ago to help her people and fight for them. To get revenge for what the Sith did to them all. The guilt of breaking that promise weighed heavily on her shoulders.

”Okay… so, what? You just gonna keep judging me on that side or are you gonna actually ask something important for once?” She hissed with a scowl as she looked back at Jos.

The Kel Dor lifted his head, and Shai already knew what kind of smile was behind his mask.

”Well… you are still alive, so I already did ask something important at least. The rest of the clan is not very happy, but I do not care.”

He had a smile in his voice, devoid of malice or arrogance. ”You stopped the Enclave from executing me?” She asked him, though there was no response. None was needed. She knew him long enough to know his answers without hearing them.

”The situation now is what to do with you. Some wish to brand you Dar’manda and send you into exile. Others feel that you must be forgiven for your actions. It was a harsh and long argument, but the final decision fell upon my shoulders.”

Shai stepped back as a hopeful smile took hold. There was a chance for her to be clean, to be welcomed back and get a chance to make things right. With the clan, with her family, and with her people…

”You know our words, Shai. We do not forgive, and we do not forget. You were not in your right mind in your time under the Maw’s banners. But… repercussions must be faced.”

Shai’s smile faltered as she sat down again, worrying over where this was going.

”You are allowed to remain on Kestri. But you are stripped of your honour and titles. As Alor of clan Krayt, it is with a heavy heart that I brand you as excommunicated-”

”What?” She stood up again with wide eyes, wanting to reach out and grab hold of his collar. ”What do you mean?!” She demanded, staring into his lifeless visor. Another heavy sigh came from him as his shoulders slumped.

”Your personal effects will all be ferried back to Tor Valum, under your supervision. But you are no longer Shai of clan Krayt. Your title of Rallymaster is stripped. Your achievements as a Si’kahya, struck.”

Shai’s eyes teared up as she stumbled back to the bed, her gaze glued to his as he flinched for a moment, wanting to catch her.

”You… you are no longer… part of the military. You… are but a citizen.”

”I’m nothing. I’m… Jos… don’t do this. Please. I-I’m here to make things right! Don’t… I made the clan! I rebuilt it from nothing!” She pleaded as tears rolled down her cheeks.

”You will have that chance, Shai. You are allowed to move freely through Tor Valum, but I can not guarantee your safety. I shall bring this up again when we feel that enough time has passed for you. We can call a vote then, to restore all of your achievements and honours. But for now… I am sorry, Shai. It is the best compromise I could get everyone to agree on.”

Shai felt like a blade had been driven through her, like her heart was ripped from her chest. She sat unmoving, with a defeat all over her features. ”I… I’m nothing… I just wanted to come home. I wanted to make things right…”

The ray shield powered off and the Kel Dor stepped in, sitting down to wrap an arm around in an attempt to comfort her.

”I am sorry, Shai. I wanted to clear your name… but that is sadly not possible… I missed you, old friend.”

His words were gentle and his touch was sincere. But the shock of his words paralyzed the woman. Jos gently helped her to her feet and led her out of the prison towards the exit. Once she had her personal effects and stood outside, she looked around the massive underground city.

She wanted to argue, she wanted to fight Jos and the rest of the council, she wanted to march up to the Quartermaster and smack her around as well… but he was right. She had to face the consequences of her actions.

With a defeated sigh, she got into his speeder and drove off with him. But there was one silver lining. Faint, almost too small to even think about. She was rock bottom… that meant only one last way of approach. She left with Runi to make things right…

She was going to see it through.

 

[Volo Dragr]

R - N - R
OBJECTIVE : Rest 'n' Recuperate | Take a Load Off
GEAR : Beskar'gam | Amulet of Many | I'dadr | ENCL-21 Ra'ntisr Heavy Blaster Pistol
TAGS : OPEN

Volo could hardly call himself a founding member of the Enclave, let alone a veteran. As far as the calendar could tell, there were foundlings who'd been around longer than him. Still, he had risen from the commonest caste to one of the most influential and elite brackets possible... and he'd done it in record time. Since he first pledged himself to serving the Enclave, he'd seen no shortage of action.

His first, true mission saw him spill rivers of blood on Panatha; his beskad responsible for more bodies than he had fingers to count them on. The very same battle took its toll on him; in mind, body and soul. He pursued the sith Carnifex throughout the foul guts of the Netherrealm. Though immediate, the chase for the Dark Lord had been but a sliver of his time spent there.

The chase had been a luxury compared to how he had fought with tooth and claw to survive, fought against abominations incomprehensible to even the darkest of minds. Twisted creatures that neither knew, nor cared, for the natural cycle. It had been in the Netherrealm that he met a demon; a foul, twisted, soulless creature that took his arm through guile and cunning. At the time, it had been a worthwhile bargain. He lost an arm, the demon gained a host.

While he hadn't known it in the moment, he would lose far more than just his arm.

The pact he struck with the demon was doubtlessly the cause of his survival, though it broke parts of him that could never be repaired. Volo's body had been healed, and what could not be healed had been replaced. His once-shattered mind was pieced back together. Still, he was not whole. He would never be whole again. The pact which saved his life would cost him his soul, his chance of joining the Manda. He feinted from Death's cold embrace, only to lose all surety of his fate.

In time, he had come to dominate the will of the demon. Rewarding as the feat was, dominating such a wicked nature, it only further sealed his fate. He knew he would not join with the Manda when he finally faltered, when Death finally got the upperhand. Wish as he might to share his pains with another, he knew it was best that he alone knew his fate... lest he be robbed of the chance to live his life as ordinarily as he could.

The best he could do was live his life to the fullest, strive to maintain the same virtues as his vod, and honour his newfound clan. He was a Dragr. He was the Guildmaster of the Karjr. He was a Mandalorian. His life would not be defined by his death, rather, he would define his death with his life.

- - -

Rising from his desk, the Guildmaster set out to explore the streets of Tor Valum. He was all too conscious of how much time he had spent in his office, or all too commonly somebody else's office, following the Kamino Incursion. If suspicion was blood, then Kamino was a beating heart- a beating heart which Volo had the unfortunate task of dissecting... or, as his brother Siv Dragr would have called it, the boring part of being the boss.

It wasn't as if reports from Scarif, Vlemoth Port, and Mand'alor knew how many more cities, starports, and planets did much to reassure him. It only made sense that work would be piled on him from the moment he was first called Guildmaster, especially considering he was the first to hold the office.

As he roamed the streets, he could not help but notice how absurdly normal the city was. The decision to limit the dissemination of information about the Kamino Incursion and swiftly-spreading plague would hardly be without consequences; soon enough, he'd have to begin feeding information through his channels. He couldn't control the plague, but he could control what people knew of it. He could buy time. Still, it was a mild comfort to see his efforts to suppress bearing fruit.

Carrying his helmet under his arm, he displayed the visor proudly. It was accented with the reds of the Mandalorian Protectors, yet another responsibility he would soon have to face. It's leader had seemingly vanished, an embarrassing fact to say the least given Volo's extensive information network. It was not a pressing concern, however.

The older of the Dragr brothers was more than content to take a few hours out of his day to simply... relax. Getting out of the office, of the Karjr Headquarters, of any building in general was... a breath of fresh air, to put it mildly. In truth, he ached to be amongst those who were gathering first-hand experience of the plague. Not only would it be potentially enlightening, but it would also allow him the chance to test out the powers of the demon.

That was but a distant possibility, however. For the moment, he simply let his cybernetic legs carry him. Roaming the streets he protected, listening to the sounds of Tor Valum, smelling the smells and seeing the sights. Letting himself blend.​

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[Vren Rook]

MOS EISLEY | TATOOINE
A FEW MONTHS AGO
TAG: Tawnita Wren
GEAR: In Bio

DEVIL ON MY BACK​

It was bloody hot.

There was no two ways about it. Not even suit-functions worked nicely today. A heatwave on a desert planet weren't funny. At all.

Why the bloody heatwave had to move past when Tawnita decided to drop in? Sweating was so her favourite pastime, after all.
Vren sighed. "She's goin't yell at me again, isn't she, girl?" he asked Nag as they stood waiting at the spaceport.
:: Chances of her yelling are 9 to 1, yes. :: she said, her head turning to look down at him.
"Great. Just great." He was nervous. He was bloody fucking nervous. She never came to Tatooine. It was as if the snow was slightly more bearable than the sand and heat. Not by much, but it was something.

He dragged his fingers through his matted hair for umpteenth time.
:: You should stop stressing. ::
"You don't say." he said, dropping his arm to his side when she caught him stressing. He rested his hands on his hips above his holsters, annoyed with himself for being on his nerves with someone he had known most of his life.

Then his eyes darted to the entrance of the spaceport where the thundercloud-covered woman stepped out of...

 

[Vulcan Krayt]

Kestri, Vulcan's Bakery
Weather: Overcast | Cold
Tags: Free for all.

There was something he needed to do, something big. Which needed a large cookery book. Sponge Cake - too boring, an upside-down cake - nope even more boring. Vulcan poured over every book he had looking for something outlandish. Flour dusted his helmet. Then there it was 7 layered cake, well it was 10 but 7 sounded saner. No, Vulcan was not sane, everyone here knew it. So he'll make it 10 just because he can.

He carefully swapped the open sign to closed and began gathering ingredients. Dropping a bag of flour and sending the white stuff into his face, covering him fully with flour. No baker worth his yeast got anywhere without a little bit of mess.

He still has enough, baking is a messy thing and the sheer amount of mess beginning to form was a testament to that. Everything had to be followed to the letter and the first attempt deflated with the literal sound of a deflating balloon. Vulcan chucked his spoon on the baking table with frustration and snarled some very vulgar Ubese words mashed with Mando'a creating obscenities unheard of in Kestri. Jos would reprimand him if the Kel-dor heard him.

Surrender was not the teen's way so he started again, the batter was too thick and he had to use a sharp knife to disengage the wooden spoon. Making a 10-layered cake was proving to be a lot harder than he thought and Vulcan took a minute to devour the braided bread that didn't sell. Fluffy and light to the tastebuds.

Vulcan's patience is tested for the third time when the yeast reacted to the mix and made a big ball of cake mix in the corner. Well, technically bread as there is now yeast. He's going to have to shift it as it is taking up a fifth of his bakery as it is. The chocolate melted all over the desk and none of it was able to be placed in the cake, no matter he can put it on afterwards.

Finally, the layers are in the ovens, baking nicely. Vulcan took several hours to complete his feat, grateful for double doors as he'll need to get the huge feat of baking out onto the square. He wants everyone to see this, to marvel at it and then eat it. That was the way.

The cake is carefully assembled and covered in chocolate. The top needed to be done and he was steady enough to jetpack to the very top to place a candied Mythosaur skull on top. Worryingly the bread dough was growing at a steady pace. As soon as it stops, he'll have a shop's worth of bread for tomorrow.

As soon as he took care of the doughzilla, he was able to wheel the cake out so everyone can see it, after much googling, the first of his Vod, cut the first slice. Cakes, no matter how big or decorative they are, cakes are made for eating.

That is why he baked it.

Cakes have a right to be eaten.

 

[Siv Dragr]

I N S T R U C T I O N​

Location: Tor Valum, Kestri
Tag: Gwyneira Vizsla | Raskzen Ferossk
| Hilal Vizsla | OPEN

Siv’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edges of the ancient wooden pulpit that stood at the front of the lecture hall deep in the bowels of Karjr Headquarters, though underneath his gloves and armored gauntlets no one could see it. Volo Dragr had assigned him to teaching duty while his injuries from Tython heated; the occupation hated the most by every Karjr, and normally reserved as punishment for unruly or underperforming hunters. Veterans and competent warriors were needed in the field, not teaching shinies back at home.

“Alright, class is in session,” Siv called out, trying to keep frustration from showing in his tone. The quicker they were through with the course material, the quicker Siv would be out of here. Even the boredom of a bacta tank was preferable to the monotony of the classroom. “Go to page 54 on your datapad course manual. We’ll be reviewing neurotoxins before we start on explosives. Before we begin, are there any questions?”

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Tags: Open

Omen glanced up at the night sky as he sat on a bench outside the back of Hilal Vizsla 's Junkyard in the empty warehouse district. It was turning out to be a lovely night and it was about to get even lovelier with some fireworks. His crew had told him the young woman was out for tonight. Hopefully, it would be long enough that he could torch her life's work to the ground.

The Clone was wearing a black body glove and an Electronic mask that showed off two mean neon green eyes. Well, it's time to get the show started. Let the action begin.

Quickly and quietly he moved across the street, trying to stay out of view of any security cameras. There might be over 10 cameras looking over the chainlink fence surrounding the lot full of junk equipment or there could be nothing. Better to be safe rather than sorry. Scurrying over to the side of the building, he inched up to the fence and pulled a set of pliers out. The chainlink fence was easy enough to snip a big enough hole which he slipped through. He spent a good bit looking for what he needed to complete this mission as he stepped over speeder parts and other rusted-out machinery that was so misshapen its original purpose was foreign to him. Ah, that would do. The Clone quickly ran towards a massive fuel tank and planted a gel charge against its metal hull, setting it for 30 minutes. Hopefully, the blast would be enough to send this place sky-high. His work wasn't done though... Far from it...

Grabbing a Molotov off his belt, he threw it in one of the shop's glass windows, watching it hit the stone floor and the flames contained within the bottle spread out, eating everything in their path. At least something would happen in the one-in-a-million chance that the main explosive didn't go off. However, as much as he wanted to stay and watch the terrorist hole go up in flames, the minutes that he had before that bomb exploded were ticking away in his head. Still, he needed to do one last thing. Taking a can of green spray paint off of his belt, he quickly painted a sprawling giant Aruetii yaim! across the fence, before slipping out of the hole he cut out to enter the yard and started to walk away as far from the scene as he could. In five minutes the explosives would detonate and the whole shop would go up in a fiery crater. Maybe if he was fast enough. the Clone could find another vantage point where he could see his revenge unfold.

 

[Saul Vizsla]

It was an absolutely delightful evening in Tor Valum for the young Vizsla as he wandered through the streets. The Industrial District held all manner of entertainment for the thrill seeker, from a drinking hole overflowing with Tihaar and Netra'gal, to a good brawl that almost had him seeing his shebs without a mirror. Perhaps calling his vode 'yellow' wasn't the best idea, but it was all in good sports. Drinking was good, fighting was better, but spending the last remnants of the evening with a bonny lass of his own, that was the absolute best.

The last bit still needed to become reality. A truly heart-breaking prospect.

But as he wandered through the streets back to his home, something caught his eye. A man cutting into his clan mate's junkyard. "... Bit odd, innit?" He muttered to himself as he slid on his helmet. He quietly pursued the unknown intruder, unable to stop himself in wondering why a fellow vod would do this.

Things became heated in a very literal sense as he watched the man set fire to Hilal's office area. His eyes went wide as he stepped out from the shadows to corner the man, pistols at the ready. "Oi, oi, wha's goin' on 'ere, then? Wha' do ye think yer doin'?!" He spoke up as he watched the man, making sure to cut off his escape. The graffiti on the wall wasn't helping the situation.

He stared long and hard at the man, trying to figure out who it was. He bore no armour and markings, only a mask that hid his features. :: This is Saul, we have an intruder in the Industrial Secter, fire too! :: He radioed to his fellow Si'kahya as he kept his weapons on the man.

Sergeant Omen Hilal Vizsla

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen found himself face to face with a very angry armored man. And to think that his spotters had said the warehouse district was a ghost town. Apparently, they had been wrong. Oh well, you couldn't predict everything. All he could do now is try to deal with this threat before it multiplied. As for the man's questions, he only gave a reply in a voice of an insane killer clown. "Well, Revenge is best served hot isn't it?" With that, he began to raise his hands as if he was surrendering only to shoot electricity from his gauntlets at the annoyance. It was only meant to stun the warrior and knock his blaster pistols and communications out. He didn't need anyone to be killed just because of his stupid self.

Like a cat, he pounced on the nearest ladder he could find and started to climb. The Clone knew he couldn't escape a whole task force easily so he needed to use all the smoke and confusion to his advantage in order to get away. He also needed a ride and so "I'm done but I got caught. I need a ride between Abesh Street and Cabur Drive within the next five minutes." The commlink under his mask came back with an affirmative. If only this would be the end of it.

Saul Vizsla, Hilal Vizsla

 

[Saul Vizsla]

Saul didn't take his eyes or guns off the man in front of him. Even the way he spoke wasn't right at all. He knew this would happen. First they let normal people onto Kestri. Then Jedi were allowed onto the planet... now they were dealing with vagabonds that would make any Mandalorian worth their salt grimace.

As the man raised his hands, Saul's brow raised as well until a jolt of electricity shot at him. The man winced, though his armour helped to mitigate the charge at least. At the same time, he pulled his trigger and shot a heavy blaster bolt at the man's gut. Flicking to stun mode, he fired a little more to knock the man out entirely in hopes of subduing him before he could get into any more crazy antics. "Bloody hell, man. Cannae ge' anythin' nice on this bloomin' rock." He grumbled as he rolled his shoulders and grabbed a nearby line of wire to tie the man up before attempting to drag him away like a sack of potatoes. His curiosity got the better of him and he pulled the man's mask off, blinking with surprise at the sight. "Omen? Wha' the bloody hell're ye doin' man?!" He asked with confusion and shock in his voice. His visor studied the man for a long moment as he tried to drag him away.

Only, the damage was far from prevented.

There was a flash, and the next moment the young Vizsla was sent flying through the air as an enormous blast enveloped the area. With a loud thud he crashed into a wall across the street, shrapnel littering his armour as he slumped over. "Ugh... I'm feelin' tha' tomorrow..." He grunted as he laid flat on the floor.

Hilal Vizsla Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

As Saul pulled his trigger, time seemed to slow for Omen as he drew a short-barreled pistol out from his belt and pulled the trigger. The bolt managed to strike the incoming round and make a mini fireworks display between the two men. Too bad that the stun shots found a way through and hit him square in the chest. Falling to the ground as he cried out in pain was all he could do. The Clone was out cold... for now...

The large explosion shook the renegade awake as the shrapnel flew over him, hitting him and hitting his opponent. A minute after the fiery explosion, he came fully to his senses, finding himself bound together by wire and his mask removed. So his attacker had seen his face... Now that just wouldn't do. Quickly, his robotic legs tore the wire apart with a snap and helped him stumble to his feet. The heat behind him radiated against his body, enough to burn a whole Rancor alive. Now to deal with what was in front of him.

With the Vizsla sprawled out on the ground groaning in pain, all Omen had to do was raise his arm and shoot a paralyzing bolt at his neck. "No, you won't..."

Saul Vizsla

 

[Khael Vhijaric]

Planet: Unknown
Location: The Gutter

Haran.

If it was anywhere in the vast galactic spiral, then it was here, now. It wasn't meant to be this way, not like this, bleeding out on the ground from a myriad cuts, bruises, broken bones and definitely some internal bleeding. Khael knew his own body as well as any sentient being could hope to know their own physical limitations, or so he had once thought. The injuries plaguing him were fatal unless he happened to stumble into a med centre in the next five minutes. In this lightless hole of a back alley that was a statistical impossibility.

A clatter of metal, a dull thud, and Khael found his nose inches from the cracked flagstones, slowly pooling with his blood like a chakaar flaunting their ill-gotten goods in your face. Staring his own mortality in the face was something Khael would have once boasted he had done a thousand times, but never quite so literally. His vision - normally so sharp and perceptive - was beginning to blur, and he constantly blinked heavy streams of blood away.

Khael pawed blood from the front of his buy'ce, only to realise, like the drunk remembering where he set his glass, that his helmet was by his boots. The distinctive T-visor, once a perennial source of pride for him ever since he had earned the right to don his beskar'gam, was cracked open, its hollow innards fixing him with an accusatory glare.

This is your fault, roared the helmet.

Khael shook his head weakly, a groan escaping his lips. He had only done what he thought was right, for the honour of his clan and murdered ha'yr'vode, to fulfil his gra'tua'aka. Then again, since Scarif his life's path had become an ever-tightening cordon of agonies both physical and mental. But Khael was not to blame.

Aruetii, you do not deserve to wear that beskar'gam! the helmet taunted. Khael would have laughed had he the strength to do so. Khael had quickly risen to become one of the most formidable warriors in his clan, outclassing experienced veterans with ease. If any Mandalorian deserved their second skin it would be him, who had followed the Resol'nare since he was old enough to think.

The helmet laughed, a sadistic, bellowing sound that pounded in Khael's ears and forced him to screw his eyes shut. When he opened them, he saw...himself, helmetless, his beskar'gam entirely black like the two void pits that replaced his normally blood-red eyes. Not-Khael gripped his beskad in a vice grip, a heavy frown on his brow.

"Defend oneself," Not-Khael said, the voice - his voice - a bass statement, a challenge.

Lying there, Khael could hardly argue that he had failed to abide by this tenet. He had thrown everything in his arsenal at that cursed Jedi, but despite the initial trade-offs, Khael's opponent had proceeded to dominate him. Had there been moments where he could have escaped, as he did against Mig, and lived to fight another day? No, he refused to give in to fear again, that lowest, pathetic emotion only hut'uune gave into. So what if he were to die here - he had refused to submit and paid the price. Or...had he really been too prideful to back down, regroup and think of a smarter, better way to take down his target, too afraid of the thoughts in his own head which now branded him a soulless coward?

"Educate the foundlings, raise them to be Mandalorian."

Khael had never adopted, or been tempted to any time soon, if he was being honest. He had, however, always taken his turn to instruct the younger generation of foundlings of Clan Vhijaric, and even if he had done so with a little frustration and boredom, he had never shirked bajur duty. It was true, yes, he had occasionally ensured he was selected for in-field missions away from the clan compound to avoid having to teach jair'kal, but his prodigious talents were surely put to better use against foes of the clan than teaching basic sword stances. He was pinned underneath the weight of accusation from Not-Khael when another thought appeared from the fog of his thought-cage. Khael had been raised by those warriors directly accused of the heinous acts against Mandalore two decades ago, who had hidden the truth of their actions from Khael and the rest of his foundling generation. Khael had participated in furthering that lie with his own teachings, unknowingly or not was irrelevant.

"Obey the word of Mand'alor."

Khael hung his head as Not-Khael spat the words at him, his extensive injuries paling in comparison to the dagger this statement drove into his heart. He had always known of the existence of Mand'alor, told that Clan Vhijaric were tasked with patrolling the remote regions of the galaxy and so were never honoured with the presence of the leader. The reality was...unthinkable, inconceivable, but it was the truth. Two decades ago, members of Clan Vhijaric had assisted the Sith in their invasion and subsequent glassing of Mandalore, betraying everything they had once stood for as a respected Mandalorian clan and contributing to one of the most disastrous calamities to be inflicted upon the Mando'ade. Then Clan Vhijaric had fled, whether in shame, cowardice or after being betrayed by their twisted, newfound masters in the Sith. Khael would never know. They had, to the last man, woman and foundling old enough to wield a blade, been cut down, leading Khael to pledge a gra'tua'aka to avenge a clan that deserved no Mandalorian justice. Khael had slain many in his pursuit, each tally only adding to the blood on his clan's hands.

Not-Khael gripped his beskad in two hands in front of him, raised it up vertically, hands above his head and sword-point down. Khael's vision began to dim as a wave of fatigue whelmed him, threatening to take him now before judgement had been delivered.

"DAR'MANDA!"

He heard the brand by Not-Khael in that same echoing, booming voice of a demon of judgement, unaware of his own lips forming the word. As he slipped slowly into unconsciousness, a feminine voice, seeming to reach him as over a vast body of water where sound plays tricks on the fisherman, called out.

"He's over here! Quick, get th-."

/////

Haran - hell
Chakaar - thief, corpse robber
Ha'yr'vode - clanmates
Gra'tua'aka - Quest of Vengeance
Hut'uune - cowards
Bajur - education, the raising and nurturing of children
Jair'kal - The Screaming Blade (Way of the Raptor)​

 

[Tawnita Wren]

She was tired. ​

Tired of travel. Tired of jumping about the sector like some gnat in search of fresh blood. She was tired of shooting people and smuggling people and firing at people and running away from people and chasing people.

People. Years on the run with Vren Rook and then the expanse of time without him had made her a great fan of her company. She didn't dislike Vren. Far from it. She could dare to say he was possibly the only man she'd ever really love...

Perhaps...there was...

She cleared the relevant security detail with little problem, which made a stark change. Her clearances within the military wing of the Enclave meant that little got in her way as far as local enforcement was concerned but it still meant she grew increasingly frustrated when it did happen.

It made her feel...constricted.

She saw the oaf standing there, dwarfed by his droid companion. Companion? It was the size of a small hut.

"If I didn't recognise you from so far, Nag would sure as Hoth give you away."

She held her arms out and took Vren into them, whether he wanted to or not. They were in public and he probably liked to keep conspicuousness about his professional appearance; she did not.

"Has anybody ever told you that this plane is hot?"

She laughed, taking her helmet off to allow her black hair to fall about her shoulders. She held it in her right hand, her left one returning to the strap that hooked her shoulder pack to her armour.

"Where are we going first? I have things to buy."

She looked up at the towering form of Nag.

"You're enormous" she muttered sotto voce.


Vren Rook

 

[Vren Rook]

MOS EISLEY | TATOOINE
A FEW MONTHS AGO
TAG: Tawnita Wren
GEAR: In Bio

DEVIL ON MY BACK​

There she was.

He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly as she approached.

"If I didn't recognise you from so far, Nag would sure as Hoth give you away."

A sideways smirk spread on his face at her words just before she drew him into a hug. At first he wanted to pull away - he was still Karjr of Tatooine, after all. But it was one of those rare instances where she showed affection instead of yelling at him.

So he wrapped his arms around her as well.

They drew apart and she took off her helmet while telling him how it was. Her dark hair fell around her shoulder as if they hadn't been stuck under a helmet. Years of seeing it, and her hair still...

"Where are we going first? I have things to buy."

She dragged him back to the present with those words - with a pained expression on his face.
"How much Spice would like with whatever you are buying?" he laughed as he turned to walk with her into town. "I've been struggling getting rid of it all."

He didn't exactly hear what Tee said to Nag, but he heard Nag's reply.
:: At least I kill Sith better than the Mando'ade this way. ::
Vren chuckled as he turned back to face both his girls.

"You calling my girl fat, Tee?"