Private Talk of Torches || Drego Ruus

[Aether Verd]

OLD HALL OF THE PROTECTORS
"The next generation carries on with pride."​

There were still scars in the stone—blackened patches from old blaster fire, claw marks in the pillars, the faint scent of iron and ash. History had teeth here. It did not sleep.

Aether Verd stood where the Pillars once sat.

The chamber was circular, crowned by a high dome that let in shafts of pale sunlight through narrow slits. The table at its heart remained untouched—round, heavy, carved from Mandalorian ironwood. Each chair had a story. Each mark on the floor, a memory. He stood beside one such memory now.

The seat that once belonged to Drego Ruus.

He did not sit. That honor wasn’t his to take.

Around him stood warriors, half a dozen strong. Silent. Armored. Their plates were varied in make, worn from use, some adorned with trophies or talismans—but all bore the same sigil etched over heart or shoulder. Not the snarling skull of the Heathen Army. Not the banners of the Knights or Wardens. Something else. Something new, or perhaps something forgotten.

The past had brought them here. But the future? That was what they would shape today.

When Drego entered, Aether stepped forward without hesitation. He offered his arm in greeting, voice warm but grounded with purpose.

“Drego Ruus. It does the soul good to see you in this hall again. Tell me—how fares Clan Ruus on Wayland? And is there any aide your kin require? Say the word, and it will be done.”

He paused, just long enough to let the offer hang between them. Then he looked toward the seat beside him.

“I thought it only right we speak here. Where the torch was last held. Where it will be passed on, not buried.”

There was weight in his gaze—but not pressure. Not command.

An invitation. A reaffirmation.

That Mandalore did not forget who built the foundations it now stood upon.

Drego Ruus

 

[Drego Ruus]

Tag: Aether Verd
​

To be back in the halls of the Protectors was nostalgic in a sense. Eyeing the walls, Drego could spot fallen spires, damage done by the Crusaders to spite them. Devalue the old regime. Cracked bits of stone on the floor, shattered statues with the faces of his old friends destroyed as if to kill the past.

You never could. You never can. The past haunts you, no matter where you go. Your only choice is to make peace with it, and learn to let it hang on your back as a series of trophies.

"We've found our place again. Castle Ruus is in need of repair, but my rule as alor requires it to be rebuilt by my clan's hand. By younglings in need to humility, and discipline." Drego said with a calm tone. "What of you Manda'lor? How's the transition of power going? I heard you met with the old regime, and it didn't go exactly well. Bound to happen if you ask me. The Crusaders were chaavla sa shebs be'striili , buncha youngin's who only sought glory, not wisdom or honor."

 

[Aether Verd]

OLD HALL OF THE PROTECTORS
"Do we stand as one?"​

Aether let Drego have his moment.

Let the man see the marks left behind—the defaced statues, the fractured stone, the ghosts still clinging to the corners of the chamber like soot. Some wounds the Neo-Crusaders carved for war. Others, for pride. But all of it… was memory.

He listened, the faintest grin tugging at the edge of his mouth as Drego spoke of younglings, humility, and Castle Ruus.

“A worthy lesson,” Aether said, with the quiet laugh of a man who’d once been a boy too proud to learn anything the easy way. “I hope they aren’t as bull-headed as I was at their age. Though something tells me they’ll need a few bruises before it sinks in.”

He gave a slow nod, then placed a hand atop the back of Drego’s old seat—an open gesture, a silent welcome.

Then Aether moved, lowering into the chair beside it. Ironwood creaked beneath his weight. The very same seat once held by Mia Monroe.

He glanced across the table as he spoke.

“The transition… isn’t without sparks. Our Neo-Crusader cousins are born of fire. It’s in their nature to test the flames around them. To challenge, not out of malice, but conviction.”

He folded his hands loosely in front of him.

“Fortunately, Carduul and I understand each other. Our methods differ—but our goal is the same. Mandalore endures. That’s what matters.”

Aether shifted slightly, the light from above casting faint shadows across his armor.

“All things considered, we’re in a good place. Introductions with the Royal Naboo Republic have been promising.”

A small pause.

“The Confederation is murkier. Marlon Sularen 's visit showed the Imperial intent to forge a relationship. Yet, there are still questions unanswered. I’ll be visiting their capital soon enough. One way or another, I’ll know where they stand.”

He let that settle. Let the air breathe between them.

Then, softly, he turned.

“But that’s the galaxy, Drego. I asked you here for something closer.”

Aether’s gaze was steady now, the weight of command behind it—but not dominance. Just truth.

“You’ve seen the difference. Between this reign, and the one that came before. You’ve seen what I value. Unity. The strength of the Clans. Keeping our ancestral worlds open, not just to the warriors of Mandalore—but to the families who shaped them.”

His voice lowered slightly.

“You’ve seen how Wayland was treated. You’ve seen how it’s treated now.”

Another pause. Not a demand. Just the moment arriving.

“So I ask plainly, Drego Ruus—where do you stand? And where does Clan Ruus stand with you?”

Drego Ruus

 

[Drego Ruus]

Tag: Aether Verd
​

Drego looked to the Manda'lor, unmoving. Unflinching.

"I stand with my clan, and with the culture. The culture that took me in when my eyes were caked with blood. A culture that has gone through hell, and been dragged through the mud, by chittalking sith, by jetii who see us as a threat, by clans who only seek to cake us in more blood needlessly. I've seen three different empires rise and fall, not from glory, but from fracture. I wish for this one to last, but I am not loyal to a single empire. Ruus, my clan, is loyal to the armor. To the creed. Not to any Enclave, or Crusade, or Empire. I honor our culture, your position, but the Empire is fleeting. The culture will last, and we are loyal to that."

To Drego, it was that simple. "I swear loyalty to you, not to the Empire. To the title of Manda'lor, not to something I don't know will be around in 6 months."

 

[Aether Verd]

OLD HALL OF THE PROTECTORS
"The Mand'alor has called. Will you rally?"​

Aether didn’t speak right away.

He let the silence settle between them, not out of hesitation, but reverence. Drego’s words deserved that. Words not spoken in defiance—but in truth. The kind of truth only earned through fire, through failure, through enduring long enough to see history repeat itself and still choose to stand.

Then, slowly, Aether reached out and placed a hand on the man's shoulder.

“You swear loyalty to Mand’alor,” he said quietly. “That’s all I ask. The Empire is only the armor we wear now to shield what matters.”

His grip lingered for a breath, firm and respectful, before he pulled away.

“I’ve no doubt, then,” he continued, voice steady, “that you’re the right man for what comes next.”

At his signal, the six warriors who had stood in quiet vigil stepped forward. Each bore the same sigil—etched in silver, painted in blood-red—over heart or pauldron. They stood at attention, not as enforcers, but as a vanguard of something older. Something reborn.

Aether turned slightly, gesturing to them.

“These are the Mandalorian Protectors,” he said. “Named in honor of the blood spilled by those who came before—by your kin, your comrades, your friends.”

He let that settle, his tone not celebratory, but solemn.

“Their role is peace. To bring order where there is chaos. To uphold the common law. To safeguard our people—Mandalorians and those under our banner alike.”

He looked back to Drego, and there was no ambiguity in his gaze.

“I would have you lead them.”

Aether stepped aside, allowing Drego full view of the gathered warriors.

“Not as a subordinate. Not as a symbol. But as the Lawkeeper of the Mandalorian Protectors. You would answer only to me. You would guide them as you once did beside Mia Monroe. And above all—”

Aether’s voice dropped, not in volume, but in weight.

“You would keep me honest.”

He looked Drego dead in the eye now, no pretense, no armor behind the words.

“If I falter… if I stray… it must be your voice that reminds me of the path. Not for glory. Not for pride. But for our people. For Mandalore.”

Aether extended his arm, not as a ruler—but as a brother in arms.

“Are you up for this charge?” he asked. “For the clans. For the Resol'nare. For all of us?”

Drego Ruus

 

[Drego Ruus]

Tag: Aether Verd
​

The manda'lor, once more, was asking him to step up. For a moment, he heard not Aether's voice, but Ijaat's. The previous Manda'lor, asking him to step up.

It was deja vu, but the Pillar of War wasn't going to fight it.

"I'd happily, Manda'lor. The Protectors were my home, and I will stand as their leader once more. As for keeping you honest..."

Drego paused, turning his head to look back at the statues before him. The faces of his past, wiped to declare the past dead.

"Don't trust the Imps. I've seen that man, Sularen, cut in line at every opportunity. He's a two faced bastard who will lie to keep you docile until he's ready to stab you in the gut. Don't let him manipulate our culture again."

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

HALL OF THE PROTECTORS

Aether gave no delay in answering.

With a low chuckle and the glint of something proud in his eyes, he stepped forward and delivered a solid thump to Drego’s shoulder — not just an affirmation, but a welcome. Around them, the assembled Protectors mirrored the gesture, each slamming a closed fist to their chestplate with synchronized weight. Not ceremony. Kinship.

“Mandalore thanks you.” Aether said.

There was warmth in his voice now, but beneath it ran the current of steel. He took in Drego’s words without flinch, and when he spoke again, it was not with the politicking of some distant ruler — but with the clear judgment of a man who’d walked through fire more than once.

“I don’t trust any beyond our borders.” he said quietly. “Especially not those who claim kinship in one breath while adorning their fleets with the spoils of Mandalore in the next.”

His brow furrowed faintly, gaze drifting to the dark horizon beyond the Shrine’s threshold.

“Trust is earned. And if these Imperials want ours, they’ll earn it with more than words and feigned courtesy. I gave my word that I would meet with them. So I will. But what comes after depends entirely on them.”

He looked back to Drego, tone sharpening.

“In the meantime—keep your blade sharp. And your ear to the ground.”

Aether stepped aside, walking slowly past the gathered warriors, his voice now carrying beyond just the two of them.

“If there are still Protectors out there… still warriors who hesitate, who wonder if Mandalore remembers them—tell them this.”

He turned back toward Drego, his voice lowering again. Steady. Resolute.

“They don’t have to serve the Empire. Mandalore is their home. And they don’t have to tarry any longer. Let them come. Let them see what we’ve built.”

And with that, he gave a final nod—not as a sovereign, but as a brother who understood the weight of returning home.

“No more waiting. No more wandering. We’re here.”​

Drego Ruus

 

[Drego Ruus]

Tag: Aether Verd
​

"I can't promise others will come home. The vode of my time, of my Protectors, are scattered to the stars. Some lost, some choosing to stay that way. I certainly did. But I can promise to inspire them to come home. Show them our home is theirs."

Drego let out a sigh as he considered what he had just signed up for.

He was loyal to the Creed. To the Manda'lor.

But he was also understanding what was on the horizon. The Imperials were going to declare war on everyone eventually.

 

[Aether Verd]

Assets: Beskar'gam | Basilisk
Darksaber | Resolute Dawn​

MANDALORE

Aether’s gaze lingered a moment longer on Drego—searching, steady—then he gave a slight nod.

“Then let that be enough,” he said, voice low. “Inspire them.”

Now, Aether motioned towards the Protectors. It was not a dismissal, but a gesture of trust—of space given, earned by word and deed alike.

“If you… or the Protectors… or Wayland itself has need,” Aether added as he turned, voice quieter now, “send word. Mand’alor will answer.”

No fanfare. No further orders.

Just the weight of truth between warriors.

In parting, Aether's fist thumped against his chest once. From there, his strides bore him from the bosom of the Protectors, leaving Drego to his men, to his purpose, and to the long road ahead.​

Drego Ruus