A P E X
Verd Estate, Mandalore
Local Time: 09:38
How long had it been?
When last the sons of Urakto stood together upon the desolate world, the Galaxy was a far different place. Darkness dominated the Core. The Light was on the retreat. And, for them, this far flung wasteland was home. Mandalore was a welcome retreat from the ills of the Galaxy, a place to refresh ones soul among the vode. But now, an unease rested in the pit of the elder brother's stomach. An unease born of a matter of blood. Returning to the place of his birth...no longer gave a feeling of coming home.
But for this, he would simply have to deal.
As the blur of hyperspace came to a calculated end, Darth Metus busied himself upon the comms. His vessel, a Confederate Scimitar, announced his presence to the ground below. Their intentions were peaceful. And with diplomatic ties as their way in, the vessel would be allowed to land. The standard warnings of the planet's changes filled the cabin on descent: usage of the Force will not be tolerated and so on. And upon hearing this missive, the Sith turned around in his chair.
"Told you so." he said, with a tone that was half bemused and half disappointed. "We'll have to rough it while we're here."
Ah yes, he told him so. Just like how a certain Echani had told him not to bother with going home. [member="Srina Talon"] was the practical part of Darth Metus, the calm to his brazen. The rational to his explosions. But in this, he simply had to see "home" one last time. While Mandalorian blood yet stained his hands in recent history...while fratricidal guilt yet clouded his dreams, there was just one thing that was worth making the trip. He swore to her, on his life, two things: that he would behave and that he would come back in one piece.
If she rolled her eyes any harder, she would have fallen over.
Over the next several minutes, the Scimitar made its final approach. It was clear that, while the planet had mostly recovered from the Monroe Catalysm, there were some areas that yet struggled to return to normalcy. Some Clans had difficulty restoring their lands - and others simply started anew elsewhere on the planet. Those who shared blood with the two brothers fell into both categories all at once. Some of the once prosperous House Verd attempted to start anew, following a new Alor: [member="Keira Ticon"]. Whilst others left the planet entirely...or camped among the ashes.
It was for that stubborn remnant that sons of Urakto had come. The thud of landing gear pulverizing scorched earth heralded their arrival on the old, Verd estate. What was left of their family home was...practically nothing. Once a manor stood with many rooms, now a hovel had taken its place. Hasty in construction. Minimal in assets. They truly were as stubborn as the Ram sigil which represented them. Darth Metus led the way down the ramp, pausing once his boots crunched upon the ash. The last time he was here, he had died.
Yet here he was. Here they were. Two of Urakto's most troublesome boys had come home. And like any other time before, the din of a hammer striking metal reached their ears. It didn't matter how bad things got, some things would always remain the same.
The elder looked to the younger, a smirk upon his face. "Auntie's working the Forge. Better say hi before she makes us run laps. Again." With a chuckle on his voice, he then headed towards the broken remains of his childhood home.
[member="Darth Rixas"]
Local Time: 09:38
How long had it been?
When last the sons of Urakto stood together upon the desolate world, the Galaxy was a far different place. Darkness dominated the Core. The Light was on the retreat. And, for them, this far flung wasteland was home. Mandalore was a welcome retreat from the ills of the Galaxy, a place to refresh ones soul among the vode. But now, an unease rested in the pit of the elder brother's stomach. An unease born of a matter of blood. Returning to the place of his birth...no longer gave a feeling of coming home.
But for this, he would simply have to deal.
As the blur of hyperspace came to a calculated end, Darth Metus busied himself upon the comms. His vessel, a Confederate Scimitar, announced his presence to the ground below. Their intentions were peaceful. And with diplomatic ties as their way in, the vessel would be allowed to land. The standard warnings of the planet's changes filled the cabin on descent: usage of the Force will not be tolerated and so on. And upon hearing this missive, the Sith turned around in his chair.
"Told you so." he said, with a tone that was half bemused and half disappointed. "We'll have to rough it while we're here."
Ah yes, he told him so. Just like how a certain Echani had told him not to bother with going home. [member="Srina Talon"] was the practical part of Darth Metus, the calm to his brazen. The rational to his explosions. But in this, he simply had to see "home" one last time. While Mandalorian blood yet stained his hands in recent history...while fratricidal guilt yet clouded his dreams, there was just one thing that was worth making the trip. He swore to her, on his life, two things: that he would behave and that he would come back in one piece.
If she rolled her eyes any harder, she would have fallen over.
Over the next several minutes, the Scimitar made its final approach. It was clear that, while the planet had mostly recovered from the Monroe Catalysm, there were some areas that yet struggled to return to normalcy. Some Clans had difficulty restoring their lands - and others simply started anew elsewhere on the planet. Those who shared blood with the two brothers fell into both categories all at once. Some of the once prosperous House Verd attempted to start anew, following a new Alor: [member="Keira Ticon"]. Whilst others left the planet entirely...or camped among the ashes.
It was for that stubborn remnant that sons of Urakto had come. The thud of landing gear pulverizing scorched earth heralded their arrival on the old, Verd estate. What was left of their family home was...practically nothing. Once a manor stood with many rooms, now a hovel had taken its place. Hasty in construction. Minimal in assets. They truly were as stubborn as the Ram sigil which represented them. Darth Metus led the way down the ramp, pausing once his boots crunched upon the ash. The last time he was here, he had died.
Yet here he was. Here they were. Two of Urakto's most troublesome boys had come home. And like any other time before, the din of a hammer striking metal reached their ears. It didn't matter how bad things got, some things would always remain the same.
The elder looked to the younger, a smirk upon his face. "Auntie's working the Forge. Better say hi before she makes us run laps. Again." With a chuckle on his voice, he then headed towards the broken remains of his childhood home.
[member="Darth Rixas"]