Korda the unyielding
Somewhere on mandlaore
The wind smelled wrong.
Rain, soil, new growth, green life where Korda remembered only ash and ruin. He had not set foot on Mandalore since the terraforming. The bones of the world were hidden beneath grass and moss, forests where shattered domes had once scraped the sky. Every rustle of leaves felt alien, every breeze too soft.
He sat on a fallen tree in a quiet clearing, the Ashen Maw across his knees. Field‑stripped. Receiver apart. Barrel removed. Power cell set aside. Each component aligned with ritual precision, a tether to the soldier he still was.
His armor gleamed faintly in sunlight, repaired after Yaga Minor. Fresh welds sealed fractures that had nearly split him open. On the left chestplate, sharp jaig eyes stared, earned amidst fire and smoke, a testament to what he had survived. On his helmet, four tally marks marked the four who had landed with him and never returned. Four lives ended in the same drop, the same mission. Memories of their laughter, their careful preparations, and the silence that followed haunted him still.
The forest around him thrummed with life. Birds called. Leaves rustled. Streams gurgled somewhere distant. It was too alive, too welcoming. Korda had survived ash and war. Mandalore had survived him.
He ran a cloth through the Ashen Maw's barrel slowly, methodically, feeling the tremor in his right arm beneath the armor. Healing was incomplete. The bacta had closed flesh, not memory. He had sent word to Mand'alor the Iron, not a request, but a declaration. He wished to join the Super Commandos. He would be more than survivor. He would be something to be counted among the new warriors of Mandalore.
Just as he began seating the barrel back into place, a sudden movement startled him.
Pop!
Oro, the Fluffnose Hognose, burst from inside the barrel. Black soot streaked across her fur and armor, eyes glittering mischievously. She wriggled, hissing and chirping, tail flicking, fur rubbing against the metal as she twisted free. She flopped onto the moss beside him, head cocked, tiny chest rising and falling, daring him with her playful chaos.
Korda exhaled slowly, letting a corner of his mouth twitch. He seated the barrel back into the receiver. Power cell clicked home. The Ashen Maw hummed faintly, steady and reliable, unlike the world around him.
He traced one tally mark on his helmet, then the jaig eyes on his chestplate. Recognition. Responsibility. Survival.
"Vod," he whispered to the clearing.
He waited.
For Mand'alor's answer.
For a summons.
For Mandalore itself to decide whether warriors forged in ash still had a place in soil and sunlight.
Aether Verd
The wind smelled wrong.
Rain, soil, new growth, green life where Korda remembered only ash and ruin. He had not set foot on Mandalore since the terraforming. The bones of the world were hidden beneath grass and moss, forests where shattered domes had once scraped the sky. Every rustle of leaves felt alien, every breeze too soft.
He sat on a fallen tree in a quiet clearing, the Ashen Maw across his knees. Field‑stripped. Receiver apart. Barrel removed. Power cell set aside. Each component aligned with ritual precision, a tether to the soldier he still was.
His armor gleamed faintly in sunlight, repaired after Yaga Minor. Fresh welds sealed fractures that had nearly split him open. On the left chestplate, sharp jaig eyes stared, earned amidst fire and smoke, a testament to what he had survived. On his helmet, four tally marks marked the four who had landed with him and never returned. Four lives ended in the same drop, the same mission. Memories of their laughter, their careful preparations, and the silence that followed haunted him still.
The forest around him thrummed with life. Birds called. Leaves rustled. Streams gurgled somewhere distant. It was too alive, too welcoming. Korda had survived ash and war. Mandalore had survived him.
He ran a cloth through the Ashen Maw's barrel slowly, methodically, feeling the tremor in his right arm beneath the armor. Healing was incomplete. The bacta had closed flesh, not memory. He had sent word to Mand'alor the Iron, not a request, but a declaration. He wished to join the Super Commandos. He would be more than survivor. He would be something to be counted among the new warriors of Mandalore.
Just as he began seating the barrel back into place, a sudden movement startled him.
Pop!
Oro, the Fluffnose Hognose, burst from inside the barrel. Black soot streaked across her fur and armor, eyes glittering mischievously. She wriggled, hissing and chirping, tail flicking, fur rubbing against the metal as she twisted free. She flopped onto the moss beside him, head cocked, tiny chest rising and falling, daring him with her playful chaos.
Korda exhaled slowly, letting a corner of his mouth twitch. He seated the barrel back into the receiver. Power cell clicked home. The Ashen Maw hummed faintly, steady and reliable, unlike the world around him.
He traced one tally mark on his helmet, then the jaig eyes on his chestplate. Recognition. Responsibility. Survival.
"Vod," he whispered to the clearing.
He waited.
For Mand'alor's answer.
For a summons.
For Mandalore itself to decide whether warriors forged in ash still had a place in soil and sunlight.
Aether Verd