Private Supercommando

[Azen Kast]

SUNDARI, MANDALORE

Sundari unfolded beneath the descending craft in disciplined layers of durasteel and light, a capital that wore its history plainly while never apologizing for the force that had shaped it. Azen Kast guided his Kom'rk-type Fighter/Transport through the final approach with practiced calm, gaze lingering on the skyline as memory and expectation braided together beneath the canopy.

Jaster’s Rest emerged from the city’s spine like a bastion drawn from older wars, its landing pad broad and unyielding against the surrounding towers. The headquarters bore the name of Jaster Mereel, ancient Mand'alor and author of the Supercommando Codex, a reminder that doctrine here had been written in survival rather than theory.

The craft settled with controlled finality, engines easing into silence as the ramp lowered to meet the stone. Azen disembarked already sealed within his beskar'gam, posture composed, presence measured as the muted air of Sundari carried the distant hum of industry around him.

His attention drifted, unbidden, to the wider state of the galaxy. The Diarchy had pressed its aggression too openly to ignore. The Mand'alor’s answer had been deliberate and brutal, crucifixion offered not as cruelty but as warning. Azen trusted his liege with the certainty earned through long service, yet trust did not banish consequence. Decisions of that magnitude echoed forward, and the horizon felt crowded with answers yet to be demanded.

Jaster’s Rest received him without ceremony, doors parting into corridors shaped by discipline and expectation. Azen moved through them with unhurried precision, helm angled forward as the familiar geometry guided him toward the heart of the compound.

The muster hall opened wide beneath stark lighting, rows of new recruits standing rigid as a Rally Master delivered a charged welcome that framed the Supercommandos as obligation rather than privilege. Conviction filled the space, heavy with promise and warning in equal measure.

Azen halted at the hall’s edge until the address reached its end, then stepped forward with quiet authority. His voice carried cleanly across the assembled warriors.

“You were not called here to stand out.” Azen said, measured and precise. “You were called because Mandalore needs people who endure when certainty fails. Learn how we do things here, and you may earn the right to remain.”

Hilal Vizsla , Dral Kar'taal​

 

[Dral Kar'taal]

Azen Kast Hilal Vizsla​

Dral Kar'taal stood in the muster line like a blade left out on purpose, young, broad-shouldered, beskar'gam fitted close to a body built for impact. At twenty-seven he carried the kind of strength that didn't announce itself with swagger, only with stillness. His visor tracked Azen as the man spoke, absorbing every word with a quiet, predatory focus.

You were not called here to stand out.

Good.

Dral didn't come to be seen. He came because Clan Verd was in the path of what was coming, and Mandalore needed bodies that didn't break when the galaxy tried to make them kneel. Loyalty sat in him like bone, unquestioned, immovable. Verd first, always Their blood was his blood, their enemies his to ruin.

He watched the recruits around him for weakness: the ones eager for glory, the ones hungry for approval, the ones who thought armor made them invincible. Dral's mouth tightened behind his helm. Glory was noise. Survival was law. They didn't need performers, it needed calculating killers who could follow a plan and finish a fight.

When Azen's gaze swept the line, Dral held it without flinching.

He didn't need promises. He needed orders.

Because if the Diarchy wanted a message, Dral would help deliver it, up close, with beskar and brutality, until no one in the stars forgot what it meant to threaten Mandalore, or touch Clan Verd.