The House of Broken Steel [Mando Open Thread]

[Beskadala]

CHAPTER I​

HOUSE OF BROKEN STEEL​

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Pouring from a spout that jutted out from a semi-domed recess in the room, a frothing steamy stream of bacta bathwater fell into a sunken bath in the floor. Across from the bath, a panoramic monitor that made up the entirety of the wall displayed a live feed of the glimmering scum and villainy of Nar Shaada’s cityscape. Lounging in the bath, sucking down booze and fiddling with a stack of deathsticks, was Dowagha Hutt’s premier gunslinger for hire – Beskadala. But, Dowagha simply called her Murishani. Bounty Hunter – in Huttese.

Beskadala reclined in her bacta bath, nursing blaster bolt scratches and burns from a shoot out with a crime syndicate that got too confident in their defiance of Dowagha’s supremacy over the black trades through the Black Sun. She had her head titled back, her neck tucked against the rim and her eyes closed. She let the toxic mix of the deathsticks do their job and numb her body and mind.

Bacta was all well and good, but, it was the narcotics more than anything these days that helped her relax. She had spent more than a decade in the Black Sun, working for the great dowager hutt herself. She was a Mandalorian, a warrior. But, after the civil war and the fall of Mandalore – honorable battles didn’t pay the bills and Beskadala had many bills.

Next to her bath a small socket opened up and a holo-projector lens rose and vomited a blue haze that wobbled and crackled until it refined its image. The bloated and opulently dressed dowager hutt, Dowagha Hutt appeared before Beskadala. The female gunslinger still had her eyes closed and did not address the hutt when she appeared.

“Achuta Murishani,” said the hutt in her native tongue.

Beskadala opened one eye and rolled it to the side to look down at the small ghostly visage of Dowagha.

“Achuta, Dowagha Boss,” replied Beskadala. “Still trying to catch a look at me nude I see.”

The hutt burped into a howling laugh, “What can I say Murishani,” said the hutt switching to an accented galactic basic, “In terms of your species, you are quite the specimen.”

Beskadala opened her second eye and dropped her to the side to fully glare down the lecherous old dowager hutt.

“Don’t get any ideas now,” Beskadala said,

“Hi chuba du naga?” she continued in huttese – what do you want?

“I have something for you,” said Dowagha, “Something which I think you might like.”

“Consider it a gift.”

The doors to the room hissed open. In came a protocol droid, decorated in polished chrome and gilded accents. It was the dowager hutt’s personal droid. It strode in, carrying a silver tray. On it was a tracking fob and a miniature holo-projector device. Beskadala frowned and looked back to the hutt.

“Another quarry?” Beskadala growled, “Didn’t I just hand you an entire crime cadre?”

Dowagha smiled and hide her fat frog like lips behind her silver steel fan and chuckled.

“Just have a look.”

The protocol droid lowered the tray and presented it to Beskadala. The gunslinger reached for the holo-projector and activated it. The image that bubbled up and bleed into detail was a video feed of a BFF-1 bulk freighter, escorted by a group of warships.

“A freighter?” Beskadala asked confusedly.

“Not any freighter, my dear Murishani, a freighter chartered by Sith-Imperial Armada,” Dowagha coyly replied.

“A Sith-Imperial freighter loaded in full with crates of Beskar. Mined from Mandalore and Concordia.”

Beskadala froze. These were words she hadn’t heard in a long while. She had been on Nar Shaada when Mandalore fell. She didn’t answer its call of defense nor kept in touch with those Mandalorians she once knew. Once her clan was destroyed and the Ordo House they once served was scattered she had vanished from that world, exiled from her own culture. The pain was too much. It hurt to be a Mandalorian.

Beskadala narrowed her look to the dowager hutt, “I’m not a pirate Dowagha, get your Beskar some other way.”

“Oh, it isn’t for me,” continued the hutt, “The bounty was put out by someone else.”

“It was written in Mando’a and spread out across the underworld.”

Beskadala cocked a scarred brow, “Mando’a?”

“Mando’a and coordinates to a rendezvous for those who would take the job,” said Dowagha.

“It’s all in the holo-projector disc.”

Beskadala studied Dowagha for a moment. “Why are you doing this? Do you want a cut of that Beskar?”

Dowagha laughed, “So there is some Mandalorian left in you huh?”

“No. Like I said. This is a gift.”

Beskadala looked back to the miniature holo-projector and leaned forward in the bath.

“The choice is yours,” said Dowagha. “What is it your people would say? This is the Way?”

The hutt chuckled once more and her feed faded.

Beskadala pressed the on the holo-projector's side button and switched the video feed to the projection of an old man in Mandalorian armor. He was very old, he looked past eighty. Decrepit and old, with broken and scratched beskar'gam. He looked weathered and near his end. He spoke in a low, gruff and wheezing drawl.

"This is my last wish," he began, "My clan, the Clan of Ori'Verds has been all but wiped clean. I was once to watch the new generation grow, but they are lost. In a cruel fate it is me, the dying and old that have remained. I can no longer call to arms my family so I ask those of my people. If you still believe in the Way. Our Way. Come to Lujo and visit my home, though the isolated hide-out it is. Come. For in my dying words, I have one last great hunt. A hunt, which if we succeed may bring about or survival and found a new family in exile, a family in diaspora....A Tribe."

The feed ended and left Beskadala with silence and tribulation. Tears swelled and hung from her thick black lashes. Her lips pressed together in a thin line. Did she even dare to dream to be a Mandalorian again? To try and uphold the honor of her adoptive House the Ordo and her adoptive fathers, Frank Ordo and Kal Beskaverd.

Was it time to be a Mandalorian once again?

Was she even worthy of such a chance at redemption?

There was only one way to find out.

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[member="Obran Mereel"] [member="Careena Fett"]​

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Link to The Tribe of the Mandalorians Story Arc​

 

[Atin Alo'ran]

The Ship launched itself through hyperspace, the blue visuals washing over it as the singular Mandalorian sat alone in the cockpit, his feet kicked up onto the dashboard as he had leaned back into a relaxed position, and started to take a rather impromptu nap though it wasn't long until he heard it--the sound of a notification beeped. Being brought out of the deep slumber he was in, his hand lurched forward to answer the call, though as he clicked it nothing happened the beeping continued picking up in an annoying tone deeper within his vessel.

"Huh.." simply stated Atin, withdrawing his Blaster Pistol as he might suspect a stow-away leaving through the doors following the beeping noise towards his bunk room. Pressing up against the wall he quickly opened the door blaster raised as he scans around the room hearing the noise that continued to beep. Stepping over he opened the lock it was contained in, he remains silent grabbing the small metal box it contained with.

Long ago it was gifted by his Father, even being the mean son-of-a-queen he was cared for Atin in his own ways, his Father told him not to open it until the time came. Never explaining what this time was, but he assumed it was this. Popping open the box, he withdrew the holodisk which displayed a set of coordinates giving a slow nod, he knew nothing of what these contained but this could be his chance to renew his status as a Alo'ran, to do what his Father asked of him those many years ago.

Rushing to the cockpit, he dropped out of Hyperspace only to quickly recalculate it placing the new coordinates in, waiting the few seconds as his hand grabbed the lever pulling it down.

 

[Startorn]

Startorn sat in a booth at the back of a casino when his comm rang, he let it play and what he heard interested him, a shipment of Beskar being shipped to by the Sith? *Probably to some off-site station or something* he assumed, w*anything to mess up the Sith, and get our Beskar out of there hands? Sounds like a plan* he got up tossing some credits on the table and walked to the hanger where he hopped in his fang fighter and put in the coordinates, then shot off into space

 

[Ghrom the Molten]

Location: Open Space
Situation: Not great...

The Directorate shuttle Styr had procured had failed mid jump and exited hyperspace in the void between systems. He had been able escape the dying star destroyer and managed to keep his shields up long enough to jump away from the attacking Directorate Tie fighters. But his shuttle had been crippled in the ensuing action and he had a choice to make. He could repair his hyper-drive but it would mean taking parts from his life support systems. When he made the repairs he would only have six hours left of air...

Or he could take the long way, five months at sub-light with only 3 weeks of rations...

The nearest system was over seven hours and it did hold one more secret, while radioing his few connections for help that would not be coming they had told him of the assignment. Another off the books mission, but a holy mission for him. He had secured new armor after his had been damaged in the fight aboard the collector. But Beskar, it must be returned to its' people. So before he made the final repairs he walked over to the air lock, even though this would cost him precious air he had made a promise, one the code demanded he honor.

"A proper burial, it is the least I can do."

As he pressed the button the to release the body of the dead directorate super commando, wrapped in an emergency blanket from the airlock and out into space. He stared for a moment and wondered when that would be him under the blanket. Not today, well not for the next six hours anyway...

The battered shuttle set course for his next target, the Sith freighter, and the holy metal.

[member="Beskadala Ordo"]

 

[Careena Fett]

C a r e e n a _ F e t t

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| Location | Some Sith Outpost
| Objective | Disruption

Careena held her breath as she held her rifle up, taking aim as the inside of her helmet's HUD zoomed in to focus in on her target, a pair of Legion soldiers chatting with one another outside an outpost. She and the few members of her clan that had been travelling together had been tracking Sith communications and traced one back to one of the planets on the outer edges of their territory. Ever since Mandalore had fallen under the tyrannical rule of the Sith Empire and a majority of the clans scattered, Careena had assembled remnants of her clan with the intent to strike back. They were not a large force, but they still were Mandalorians who had the will to fight on. Any chance they could take to strike at a Sith Imperial target, they took. This time, a shipment was slated to arrive to resupply the outpost, and Careena had every intent to take it. Not too long a shuttle would arrive and land at one of the launchpads, preparing to offload its cargo.

Her rifle was aimed at her target as she heard the whistle of a bird in the trees; to anyone else it might have been just a simple bird call, but to her, the pitch and tone of it was a signal that everyone was ready and in position. Without any hesitation she pulled the trigger, a silent projectile flying out from the verpine shattergun component to her rifle that struck one of the sentries in the chest, dropping him immediately. His companion would suddenly be on alert as he scanned the surrounding trees for where the shot came from. Careena would chamber another round with her rifle's lever as she quickly sent another round silently out from the trees, taking down the second guard. A moment later an explosion would ring out from the other end of the outpost. Several Fett warriors would suddenly emerge from the treeline as they jetpacked over the walls, blasters blazing to take Legion soldiers off guard. Several of them moved to secure the supply ship whilst the others fended off incoming Legion troops.

Amidst the smoke and chaos a blast door would open up as a squad of Legion soldiers scrambled out, moving to overwhelm the Fett warriors. As they were ready to descend upon the Mandalorians the air seemed to quiver and shift behind them, likely a ghostly mirage as Careena seemed to appear from thin air, her Westar-35's raised in each hand. A pair of blaster bolts would fire as two Legion soldiers fell, prompting several of the squad to turn around. One was immediately met with a whipcord being shot at him, the tip embedding itself into his helmet as a powerful electric current ran through its length to electrocute the man. In a single fluid motion, she'd yank on the cord, sending the limp body flying at her to double as a meatshield while the Legion squad emptied into their unconscious compatriot, killing him. She'd toss the smoking corpse off to the side as she raised her other arm up to fire a wrist rocket, sending another pair of soldiers flying backwards and a third forward at her. Her knee would come up as she sent it into the stumbling soldier's chest with a repulsor powered knee kick, firing the darts hidden in the kneeplate dart launcher into his chest to kill him. She'd push the body back as she stepped forward, summarily executing the two remaining soldiers who were trying to recover from the wrist rockets with blaster bolts. She'd arrive at the secured supply ship as the rest of her warriors quickly boarded, taking off as additional Legion reinforcements were coming, though they were too late.

The supply ship would take off with the Mandalorians and their cargo as they soon found themselves entering hyperspace. There was scattered conversations amongst her warriors, but the general atmosphere was a positive one. Each victory, no matter how small was still a victory in the end. They continued to keep their battle sense sharp and tactics even sharper. The breaking of the Mandalorians would not dull Careena or her followers. One of her younger members would soon approach her, holding his hand out as he handed her a holoprojector. " We've received a message from Ori'verd...Seems like he has one final request..." Careena would take the holoprojector as she glanced at the young Fett before looking at it. Ori'verd...The last of the old guard it seemed - a Mandalorian who had lived a long life. Careena often regarded the eldest of Mandalorians with great respect. For a culture that prided itself in combat and war, it would seem that many would die before becoming old and decrepit, though she often interpreted it in the case of the eldest being skilled enough in battle to see many battles. Careena would hear what he had to say as she activated the holoprojector. The ghostly hologram would reflect a blue tint across her helmet as the Fett warriors fell silent and turned to listen. The man in the projection certainly seemed to be at death's door - after hearing his story about his clan's fall and his one final wish Careena would nod. After switching the holoprojector off she would speak in a prompt manner, " Set a course for Lujo... "

 

[Tyran Numeck]

It was quiet on the Tal'galaar, a rare thing indeed. Tyran's usual companion was away tending to her Jedi duties and she'd taken her galek hound, Vasos, with her. That left Tyran all alone with his own hound who was busy snoozing in the cargo hold of his ship. He was thankful for the quiet, it gave him a moment to think about all the things that had just been dropped on him.

He'd spent the better part of a year captive in a slaver base it the Outer Rim and in that time the Mandalorian Empire had splintered and the Sith now controlled Mandalore. On top of that already heavy news it had been revealed to him that his sister, the Mand'alor and head of Clan Cadera was believed to be dead and the Clans scattered across the stars. There was no way for him to know if he could have helped to change the way things had played out but he felt guilty for not being there. As a Supercommando there was no doubt his combat skills would have been beneficial

He'd found a small group of other Mando'ade who'd banded together on Malastare and were trying to rebuild but their numbers were a little more than a handful. It was enough for now but it was huge downgrade from the Empire he'd been apart of. He sat in his pilot's chair just staring out at the blackness of space as he hung out in orbit over Malastare, his temporary new home, and wondered who had died and who had made it and where were they now.

A light on his main console began to blip red and he let out a low grumble as he flipped on the small holopad. An image of a tiny human male popped up into life before him and Tyran let out an even more disgusted groan. "The hell do you want Lork?"

"Tyran I've got a job for you!" The man said.

"The last time I took a job from you I spent almost a year locked in a cell in a slaver base because you set me up, tell me why I'd want to take a job from you again?" He said giving the man a dirty look.

"This one came through from the underground and it's in Mando'a." Lork said wincing a bit at Tyran's tone. "Figured I'd make things right."

Tyran was skeptical but he nodded his head and Lork's head vanished to be replaced by an image of a bulk freighter. Tyran listened to the message intently and replayed it a few times. "How many people got this message Lork?"

"Anyone who did would have to be able to understand Mando'a, I understand that's not a very common dialect outside of Mandalorians and a very small circle of others."

"That much beskar would turn quite a few Mando's heads. What's your cut of this deal?"

"This isn't my job, I'm just passing it on in hopes you might wipe the slate clean and not threaten to feed me to your galek hound again?"

Tyran considered this. "As long as you don't cross me again, you've got a deal." He shut down the holopad and put in the coordinates to the nav computer. It was time to shake off the cobwebs and get back to work.

 

[Karsan Munin]

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NAL HUTTA​

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The bar was quiet when Karsan walked in. Because they knew what he was here for.

Everyone ran, scattered, more like it. Scattered after that big flag came down. Flags always came down, one way or another. Sith Empire, whichever version this was, at least. The disgustingly incompetent and weak-willed so called "United Clans of Mandalore". They only sought to unite the weak ones. After the Red Coronation, as far as he was concerned, they were no better than the Sith that ended up turning on them.

They deserved all their folly, all their deaths, all their so-called Empire crumbling. The only shame that came with it was the loss of Mandalore. But that's what you get when you play pretend, you pretend to be a Mandalorian society, while outcasting any of those that had any level of dissent. It spread the Mandalorians across the Stars like embers of a burnt out fire. The Mandalorians had no purpose, no leader, no guide, no hope. Everything they did was simply to spite the Sith. Every Sith officer they killed, was a reminder that they weren't totally defeated, just broken.

Yasha Mantis, Cadera, whatever you wanted to call her, would be marked as the Mandalore that broke her people, and lost the planet. No wonder Preliat killed himself. Karsan probably would've too if he had to face that he was the sole reason that his entire people were subjected to the horrors of the galaxy with no real hope of escaping it. But that was all common knowledge. Anyone who followed Yasha could no longer claim her strength. She more or less abandoned them to the wolves, anyway. Now, they were all lost like he'd been for years. The wayward sons and daughters of Mandalore, caught in the machinations of a Sith Lord and a girl playing Mandalore. How his heart ached for them all. Lost, confused, hopeless.

But there were times of somewhat happiness.

Like when Karsan came into an Imperial Spy meeting place and started killing anyone and everyone inside.

Now sure, they were Imperial Agents and all, but they weren't warriors or fighters, they were spies and intelligence agents. Karsan had no desire to find out what they found out, or what they knew. He just wanted them dead, dead and gone. The reach of the Empire was far. But their reach could always be pulled back. And as Karsan found himself repeatedly smashing someone's face into the bar, while lighting another one up with his flamethrower, he found a semblance of happiness in the brutality of his revenge, of his wrath.

He made short work of the bar's goers, apparently catching them at a good time. Apparently they were celebrating one of the spies birthdays.

He sat down in a chair, shoving a crispy corpse out of the way, and helped himself to a piece of cake. Since everyone was dead, he took off his helmet, sighing contently, a bit sweaty from the entire ordeal.

Then, he got a little blip on his communicator.


"Oh that's nice."

Whether referring to the cake or the message, remained to be seen.

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[Connory Monroe]

MONTELLIAN SERAT
DEVARON


“Cory!”

The kids voice echoed across the dockyard as she ducked between engineers and pilots, calling out her name with unmistakable excitement, a holodisk clutched in her hands and a frantic protocol droid trying desperately to keep up with her. (“Miss Jane- oh dear, pardon me. Miss Jane, I really must protest!”)

“Cooooryyyyyyyyy!”

The person in question was laid underneath a speeder, a sonic servodriver in one hand and a wrench in the other. She cocked a head at the sound of little Jane’s voice but nothing more. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Jane’s mother ran the docks, and so Jane wandered them frequently. A keen learner and far too curious for her own good. Cory had taken a liking to her and spent what little time she could spare teaching her.

She smiled to herself as she heard the clatter of another creeper hitting the ground near her head. A moment later Jane appeared, wearing Cory’s black helmet. “Sewcoyegaar”. Cory snorted at her terrible Mando’a. “Su’cuy Jan’ika.” She gave her a sideways glance. “That’s not a toy.”

“I have something for you.” Jane responded, ignoring the mild annoyance in Cory’s face at the helmet wearing. She watched the woman’s hands try to reach something a little deeper in the engine. Without asking, Jane slid her smaller hands in to retrieve it, holding it steady while Cory repaired it. “If it’s another pet-”


“It’s not! And it’s not my fault that you don’t like Princess! She’s such a good tooka! She caught all the mice in your cargo hold-”

“And ate a month’s worth of rations.”

Jane giggled. Repairs complete, Cory kicked her own creeper out from under the speeder, removing her helmet from Jane’s head as the child did the same. Scowling at her now messy hair, Jane pulled the holdisk from her pocket and activated it. Cory’s smile vanished instantly, as she watched the images of the freighter and then the message from the old man.

“It’s mando’a, isn’t it?” Jane interrupted. Cory simply nodded, taking the information in. “What is he saying?”

Cory shook her head and deactivated it, taking it gently from Jane’s palm and rolling it between her own fingers. “It’s a call to arms.” she said softly, adrift, momentarily, in her own mind. “Jane,” she said sharply. “Where did you get this?”

“That shabuir, Zak brought it round with father’s medication.” Trust the child to recall the insults perfectly and not the simple greeting. She cold her fist around the disk and pulled Jane into a hug. “Thank you. Jan’ika.”

“Miss Jane! Where have you gone?” The protocol droid was catching up.

“Go. Go! Before he finds you here.”

“Wait! Are you going to answer the call?”

Cory brushed a strand of hair from Jane’s face. “Of course.”

“Will you be back?”

“Yes, Jan’ika. No go, before you get into trouble.” She watched the girl run, ducking underneath a transport ship and out of sight. Cory tapped the controls on her forearm, linking with her ship. “Run preflight checks and plot a course for Lujo.”

 

[Cero Pax]

Breep. Breep. Breep. Breep. Breep.

The soft, monotonous alert given off by the holo-terminal had been going on for several minutes now, a long enough time that Cero was sure whoever was on the other side of the line, wouldn't simply give up trying to contact him, and hang up. Reluctantly, he rolled out the side of his bunk, letting go a tired yawn and rubbing his eyes, before making his way to the terminal, and clicking 'accept'. The figure that appeared was one he hadn't seen in quite some time, almost a year by his last count.

"Father." Cero greeted him. Norris Pax, the current Alor of Clan Pax, and father to him and his twin sister, Oryn. He hadn't seen the man, in person or through hologram, for a while, though they did keep a form of correspondence through messages.

"Cero, good to see you've been taking care of yourself." The elder Pax said. "I just tried to contact your sister, with no luck"

"Yeah, well, Oryn will be Oryn. Wouldn't be surprised if she just ignored it until you stopped calling."

"Hmm, yes, well, your sister is certainly a stubborn one. Though in this situation, I wish she wasn't." The man's face seemed to darken a bit, perking Cero's curiosity.

"What's the problem? Something wrong with the Clan?"

"No, no, nothing like that. It's more of.... a debt we owe."

"A debt? To who? For what?" It was rare for a Pax to owe a debt of any kind. They didn't like loose ends, and so sought to either tie them up or pay them off as quickly as they were earned.

"Well, to be more precise, a debt of your grandfather's. Its quite the tale, but the short of it is his life was saved by a Mando'ad by the name of Ori'verd. He swore he'd repay the debt when they next met, but as fate had it, they never did. Now, Ori' is on his death bed, and is asking for help in one final request. Your grandfather wanted to go, but the man's too old. Probably die in transit. I can't leave Bal'demnic, so the duty falls to you. I wanted your sister to go as well, but...." He shrugged, "You don't have to accept, Cero. But times are changing. The Mando'a is changing. Something like this would be a good way to influence it, for the clan."

Cero silenlty contemplated the request. A call like this, it was certain to attract a number of other Mando'ad. It wasn't like he hadn't interacted with any before, it was just that they occurred to varying degrees of hostility. Mostly in rivaled bounties or jobs, never out of direct combat or confrontation. He even knew of one or two who used the Force. His family had been on the fringe for centuries, but never turned their backs fully on the Mando'a. He didn't see a reason to be the first.

"I understand, father. I'll pay the debt. Send me the message and the details."

"That's my son." Norris smiled, before blinking out of view. Cero, upon receiving the coordinates, went to the cockpit, preparing for a hyperspace jump.

 

[Laandur Solus]

Laandur. Weak. That's what the pilot's chosen nickname and call sign meant. He wasn't physically strong by any means, but now he felt like the name was too close to reality. Donavin Solus sat at the bar of some backwater, drinking Ale. He had been keeping his head low and his ear to the ground ever since the Sith attack. Since his unit, his friends.... He took another drink. He looked down at the comm unit on his wrist as it beeped, and he piped it into his helmet. Wait. Beskar? Survivors? ....A family. This sounded interesting. He needed to let [member="Stardust Solus Skirae"] know about this. This could be a good think. Before he could walk out though, a Mon Calamari seemed intent on stopping him. Not the time. Laandur just waked by, heading out to his ship, the Nightwitch. She was the last of her kind, and right now the only real connection the spy had to his past. Now though.... It was time to act.

Once he was ready, he messaged Star and darted off to the coordinates.

 

[Obran]

Getting back to the fold

It was what the venerable blacksmith he had been working for had called it the first time he offered the younger man a datapad with information on a mission. Though often smiths didn't have to work extra to make a living, in times like these where beskar was so rare, one had to do outside the norm. And besides, it wouldn't hurt Obran to make a bit of a name for himself in the times between forge jobs. So that was how the time between went. Working in the forge, pursuing marks or other contracts. And slowly working to build his own armor. Not beskar, that had become too rare these days. But something more modern than the crudely assembled durasteel he had fashioned immediately after being found.

One such job had just ended. A simple kill contract. A well known lesser variety of scum had stuck his hand in the cookie jar. But the wrong jar, this time. A handsome sum had gone out to pay for someone to avenge the honor of a maiden daughter of a Corellian tycoon. And Obran had a thing for morals. So the Rodian had died. Painfully. His body, charred as it were, was left inside the entry way to the hovel he frequented. An after being beheaded, Obran had nailed the head to the door with the things own knives stuck through eye-stalks.

The message had been received. The daughter returned. Obran now had a tidy sum of credits, a very nice new ship and a fine case of whiskey in the hold to sell or drink as he willed. And what was more, he had a contact, and reputation. But as the chime on his comm went off, he wasn't working. He was actually seated, armored on the rack, sharpening the heavy short-swords he favored and looking over his new armor. It still echoed the crude plates before in aesthetic, but had much more of the famed tool and weaponry of the Orirami'kad that Toren (his employer) said he must have been before the accident.

"Obran... Sorry to interrupt your vacation. But... There is something of import. None of my sons are close enough. But the call is one too dear. An old name, a legend really, has put out a plea. I am forwarding the message."

The message from Ori'verd played, and Obran sat in the cabin of his ship a scant few heartbeats before surging to the controls of the craft. Coordinates were punched in, and off he went from high orbit of some forgotten Outer Rim post-world. There were some things, he was learning, that were just too precious to his people to let take a backseat. This was one such thing.

Lujo it is then

[member="Beskadala Ordo"]

 

[Stardust Solus Skirae]

[member="Laandur Solus"]

Across the galaxy the message bounced, arriving to stardust, who opened it and raised a brow as she sat back, rubbing her chin with a frown in her face. Ignoring the bar owner who had been talking to her about a few issues she turned away and started out of the bar as she opened her communicator seeing a message for her clan mate laandur

I will be there, wait for me, your alor is on the way

She sent back and walked with purpose towards her modified swing, the thunder star, hopping inside she settled and flicked a few switches turning the fight on as she lifted slowly then took off into the blackness of space that soon elongated into streaks

Beskar was mandalorian property, less stat thought anyways, tapping a few buttons she played the message again light reflecting off her visor as the message ended again

Any chance to strike the Sith, however she had a uneasy feeling...she knew there would be those there that likely would cause tension...but that time was over for now

 

[Galaar Fett]

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Location: Orbit around Malastare, on route to Lujo
Equipment: Beskar’gram, (stowed away) DT-12 Blasters (2), Modified EE-3 Blaster
Post: #1
Tags: [member="Calixte Diantha"] | [member="Tyran Numeck"]

​

The business on Malastare had been much more successful than Galaar could’ve thought it would have been. Not only did they meet some new verd whom seemed keen on joining up with the clan at some point, but they had been able to secure enough fuel to get, well, wherever they might end up next. A few of the verd had taken to moving over to Galaar’s personal ship once they were landed to give those on the Free Light more room to move around, since it was looking increasingly like they might not find a permanent home for a while. He’d make time for them to stop, camp for a few days every so often, but for now getting everyone as settled in and as comfortable as possible was a priority.

That was of course, until, the holocommunication came in. The Ori’verd. One of the last of the old culture, and one of the last that his grandfather had respected. So much so, the man had been invited to the monastery once or twice, and was one of the few outsiders to the clan that had been privileged enough to know it’s location. Of course, that was before the clan had to leave, but it was still an honor. Seeing that the man was the sender of the message caused a small smile to peak at his lips, before he pressed play and listened to the Ori’verd speak that flawless Mando’a.

The semblance of a smile that might’ve been on his lips quickly turned to a tight grimace at the thought of this man dying. Any of the old guard, the vanguard, dying was not an easy one to stomach. Even if the man wasn’t explicitly part of the clan, there was still an extreme respect that any reslo’nare respecting verd would have toward the Ori’verd. That, and the message itself, had Galaar’s full attention from the very beginning.

Any amount of beskar would help the clan immensely. The ability to have a storage of it, to be able to repair and create armor for those that earned it, would mean more of the verds would be able to go off and earn for the clan as well. And, it was right that the metal find it’s way into the hands of mandalorians, not imperial ones. Those…dogs, did not deserve to even look upon the metal. The last part of the message gave a location, one that Galaar was quick to plug into the holocomputer to see the distance. It certainly wasn’t close, but if they rode up the Hydian way, they might make it there in time.

Galaar slowly leaned back in his chair, still considering the positives and negatives of the situation. It wasn’t until he heard a rustle behind him, coming from of the co-pilot seats, that he was snapped from his thoughts. He turned, slowly, giving a little smile the curly redhead in the seat, tiling his head questioningly as he let his thoughts slip into the silent air around them. “I believe this is worth it…not only because of the honor to the Ori’guard it would bring, but for the positives of the clan. However…leaving now, while we are migrating, might make things harder to find a permanent home.” A gloved hand reached up to his chin, stroking the pepper grey goatee lightly in thought, before looking up to Cali with a raised brow. “What are your thoughts?”

​

 

[Seris Vant]

Some Spaceport on Ryloth

Some rock and roll blared out of a mechanics boom box over at the back end of her ship. Seris was stripped out of her armor down to just a pair of shorts and a top. The sun of Ryloth shone down to only accentuate her blissful ignorance as a relaxed sensation took hold. It had been too long since she was just able to do nothing but relax. The return to the galaxy had been a trying one. Little room for error when making jumps at the edge. If you knew the way it was possible though to explore the great expanse that so few others could. Enough time out there for her though. Seris wanted to go back home to Devaron and see her mother. The old man was probably still freight hauling who knows where and it could be a long time yet before she saw him. Then it would be on to Mandalor to see her friends. If only she knew how much things had changed in twelve years.

Seris stretched out in a folding chair. Arms pulling back under her head to rest. "Hey Korkek my ship fixed yet I got stuff I wanna do."

"Not much more than when you asked me a few minutes ago. If you left the talent in peace I might get this done faster though." Korkek wasn't all to amused with the bossy Devaronian. She came barging in waving around a bunch of iridium ingots in front of his bosses face and all of a sudden it was do whatever she asked. Most folks usually payed in Confederate currency, this wasn't some backwater world anymore.

"So you say but wouldn't such a mechanical genius have this baby done forever ago?"

"If this flying bucket wasn't held together with meshtape, subpar welding and a prayer I might have had it done. You had to neglect maintenance for over half as long as I've been alive though. You had so many burnt out injectors I've no idea how you could even light the engines. You have no regard for machines that need some love and care every once in a while so they don't strand you in literal nowhere." Korkek picked up his socket wrench and smacked a panel kind of hoping the whole ship would collapse in a heap like an old cartoon. No luck of course.

"That was the prayer part at work there I guess. Just make sure she'll go for a while longer and I'll retire the old war bird."

"Eh Seris come 'ere. I've something to show ya." The distinctive voice of Heran if Seris' ears were right. If chain smoking, grease and old age came together to make a person. The rough Twi'lek was standing in the door to his hanger with a chimney pouring another puff out from a fat cigar.

Seris sighed at having to deal with him. A few worse descriptions would be said for his personality too. Best humor whatever it was so she could get back to sunbathing. Seris followed Heran to his office but stopped at the door for want of breathing. "Alright what is it you wanted me to see?"

"A transmission in Mandoa. It's bounty work and I bet on them, good credits if you beat the bookies. I happen to have a Mandalorian at my shop. You translate it for me eh?

"Fine whatever, play it then." Seris watched the whole message and told Heran most of it. More importantly telling him he'd have no bets on this one. It wasn't regular bounty work. To a Mandalorian though she was interested. Seris shook off the old man's questioning and left him to choke. Something big was up she suspected. Being in the dark on the state of the Mandalorians she was confused in more ways than one. Best hurry Korkek with the repairs and get to Lujo pronto.

 

[Beskadala]

LUJO

The Scabbard, an old cobbled together junker YT-2400 light freighter turned war-bird ripped itself from hyper-space as it ruptured into real space over the verdant and blue world of Lujo. In the command capsule of the ship, Beskadala was seated at the pilot seat with clad in her adoptive father’s armor. From behind the dark transparasteel of her black visor her eyes were fixed on the small holo-projected radar map of Lujo and the red blinking dot that was old Ori’Verd’s hideout.

A shiver ran down her spine and her shoulders tensed up. She drew in a strained breath and passed it out a moment later in a heaving sigh. Beskadala let her ship drift in low orbit for a moment, letting momentum creep her ship closer to the red dot. She was afraid.

“What am I even doing here?” Beskadala chastised herself under her breath.

“A Hutt’s killer on some gallant quest for the mother world?”

Her lips cracked into a sly smirk that died the minute it was born.

“What do you think you’ll find down there Beska?” she demanded of herself.

“Redemption? Forgiveness?...Some sign.”

“Agh!” Beskadala frustratingly snapped and cursed, “Haar'chak!” – damn it all.

Reluctantly she pushed on the controls and dove the Scabbard deep into Lujo’s atmosphere. After a period of turbulence and whipping clouds the temperate world of Lujo came into view. The freighter dove down below the crests of woods covered mountains and into deep ravine valleys. She followed the valley until she reached a massive empty plain. Nothing but, mud, grass and jagged jutting rocks for miles. In the distance, sat on a hill was the hideout. It was a longhouse, built from scrap and salvaged metals from ships. It was surrounded by a hedge of moisture vaporators and a rotting Firespray-31 far off.

Beskadala landed the Scabbard nearby and disembarked. Stepping into the mud and grass she only took a few steps from her ship’s gangway. A light rain blended with the mist to create a grey gloom over the hide-out. It all looked more like a tomb than a home. There was no movement, no noise, no signs of life. Silent as a grave. Resting her hands on her RSKF-44’s, she took cautious steps and approached the entrance of the hideout. Standing in the archway, Beskadala looked to see the blast door was on open lock mode. She pressed the entry key and the doors snapped back in a loud crack.

Cold air from the crisp Lujo winds blew in and the stench inside blew back out. It was a putrid and foul smell, one that lingered and clung to everything. Beskadala had to turn her head back and engage emergency filtration on her helmets breather apparatus. She took a slow step over the threshold and entered the longhouse’s singular main long space. The walls were decorated with weapons, the chrome head of a mythosaur and pauldrons with various signits of the other Mandalorian clans. But, what Beskadala saw at the end made her freeze in her tracks.

It was Ori’Verd. The venerable old Mandalorian was spread out on a plinth of crates with his armor’s cape acting as the blanket to cover his body. He reeked of death and decay. He had been dead for days. His arms were crossed on his chest and he was clutching a heavy blaster in one hand and a holodisk in the other. Beskadala stood in place for a moment. A heavy breath echoed in her helmet. She walked closer and stopped just before the dead veteran warrior.

She removed her helmet, grimacing at being quickly submerged again in the stench. She lowered her helmet and bent down to kneel on one knee. She placed her helmet beside her and bowed her head. Reaching out she placed her hand on the blaster holding hand of Ori’Verd. Not sure if it was the smell burning her eyes and nose, or her own trapped emotions playing with her – but, Beskadala stiffened some tears and whimpers with awkward hacking coughs.

“I…” Beskadala began, “I’m not very good at these kind of things…old friend.”

“But, you were there. There when I was delivered to Mandalore. There to vouch for my adoption and acceptance.”

Beskadala’s coughs began to fail and the tears swelled, and her lips began to bend behind gritted teeth. She spat out a troubled sigh.

“But…” another sigh, “I wasn’t there for you.”

She patted Ori’Verd’s hand.

“I am sorry. If I can even say such things to you.”

“I will not forget you. None will.”

“Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum” - I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you, so you are eternal.

Beskadala returned her helmet and arose to look over the warrior who had brought her into the fold. Shame. Shame was the only thing she felt these days. The sounds of rocket engines and ship exhaust however interrupted her lamenting.

“Ships? Here?” Beskadala said spinning around to stare at the entrance.

“The Sith? Do they know?”

Beskdala drew her twin RSKF-44’s and marched towards the door. Peaking through a slit in the side windows she watched for whoever was about to land.

[member="Atin Alo'ran"] [member="Seris Vant"] [member="Galaar Fett"] [member="Stardust Solus Skirae"] [member="Obran Mereel"] [member="Laandur Solus"] [member="Cero Pax"] [member="Connory Monroe"] [member="Careena Fett"] [member="Karsan Munin"] [member="Tyran Numeck"] [member="Startorn"] [member="Styr Armod"]​

 

[Ghed Saya]

"After a period of turbulence and whipping clouds the temperate world of Lujo came into view. The freighter dove down below the crests of woods covered mountains and into deep ravine valleys. She followed the valley until she reached a massive empty plain. Nothing but, mud, grass and jagged jutting rocks for miles. In the distance, sat on a hill was the hideout. It was a longhouse, built from scrap and salvaged metals from ships. It was surrounded by a hedge of moisture vaporators and a rotting Firespray-31 far off...A light rain blended with the mist to create a grey gloom over the hide-out. It all looked more like a tomb than a home. There was no movement, no noise, no signs of life. Silent as a grave....Cold air from the crisp Lujo winds blew in and the stench inside blew back out. It was a putrid and foul smell, one that lingered and clung to everything. Beskadala had to turn her head back and engage emergency filtration on her helmets breather apparatus. She took a slow step over the threshold and entered the longhouse’s singular main long space. The walls were decorated with weapons, the chrome head of a mythosaur and pauldrons with various signits of the other Mandalorian clans."


The message terminated in a scrapmetal longhouse on a hill. Two junker ships were here, a Corellian freighter and a classic Firespray. Even with the sensors in his ship, his helmet, and his cybernetic eyes, Ghed couldn't have told you whether those two boats were anything like operational, if not for the leftover heat around the YT's drives. The longhouse had only one lifesign. Maybe the newcomer had killed the old man. Maybe the old man was already dead.

As Ghed came up to the door, he smelled old death and knew the latter was the case. He whistled through the doorway and tapped a two-second dadita sequence on the doorframe: I'm a Mando, not looking for a fight, I'm coming in.

He went inside. The lifesign turned out to be a woman with a couple of blasters. The old man of Clan Ori'verd lay dead and molding in his armor.

"Just got here?" said Ghed. "I'll help bury him. Or burn."

[member="Beskadala Ordo"]

 

[Obran]

Time had not been wasted since his reawakening in the hospital. In between his tutelage at the forge and running jobs for the adoptive family that had taken him in, Obran had begun a bit of a personal obsession his rescuers were all too happy to fuel. He had begun to research all the old legends and myths of the people he was a part of. Stories of Boba, Jango, Jaster, Montross, the Viszla clan. The Deathwatch and True Mandalorians. The Crusaders and the mythical Taung. Even stories more recent, of Ordo the Dark Lord and Ra the Undying.

With a ferocity rarely seen, he devoured the stories of the Mando'ade, even unto the customs and ways of the various clans and societies within the tribal people. There was, as he was learning, so many different avenues to being a Mandalorian. All of the same way, roughly... But perception and life colored the vision. Beauty came in how their differences were utterly subsumed and forgotten in interest of the people over all else. Or, at least, it was how it once had been. The Sith had rooted decay in, and now they stood in danger of fracturing beyond recall.

And so thus was his attention taken as the ship sat down on Lujo. Armored, he heard the navcom chime as the craft shuddered a landing. It was a fine craft, much more than he felt the job it had been reward for deserved. But rich clients had more credits than sense. And his last ride had barely wanted to start after the dogfight for that job. Walking down the sleek runway that opened with hardly a hiss, he clipped the helmet for his armor onto his head just before, breathing in deeply as it sealed with a hiss and scrubbers and filters kicked in.

Unlikely, but it could be a trap. So as he walked towards the cobbled together dwelling, he drew a wickely curved knife and his pistol, walking forward with weapons raised jointly, scanning with vision and armor. The door snapped open as he pressed the button. And the filters in his HUD alarmed the odd mixture in the air. Levels showed a corpse, or something noxious smelling but vitally harmless. So he stepped in and continued.

Until he stopped dead, seeing Beskadala by the rough shod funeral pyre. She could be friend or foe. Mourner, or murderer. But the stench and gas readout from his helmet showed that the corpse had been there for days. And she was freshly arrived. Instincts mattered in such a life and profession as his. More than any toy or Force power, the ability of a Mandalorian to read combat and danger was legend. So he trusted it, stepping forward and removing his own helmet, letting it rest clipped to his hip.

"Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, ni partayli, gar darasuum..."

With nothing more to say, he stepped forward and reverently touched the hand holding the blaster with his knife-hand, leaving behind the beautifully carved bone blade stamped with the kyr'bes just above the hilt on the blade. Supposedly mythosaur bone, it was an old custom to leave a warrior with something made of it. An affectation few would probably know. But that was all Obran could think to do as he stood in silence looking at the husk of a once great man, now silent and taken by a straw-death.

It would be on he and Beskadala, and others, to give the close of Ori'verds life meaning now.

[member="Atin Alo'ran"] [member="Seris Vant"] [member="Galaar Fett"] [member="Stardust Solus Skirae"] [member="Beskadala Ordo"] [member="Laandur Solus"] [member="Cero Pax"] [member="Connory Monroe"] [member="Careena Fett"] [member="Karsan Munin"] [member="Tyran Numeck"] [member="Startorn"] [member="Styr Armod"]​

 

[Cero Pax]

The Ne'tra Tracinya's hull shuddered as it reentered real space. Telling Cero before the sensors did that he was on approach to Lujo. That was something he'd have keep in mind after what ever this little quest was going to be: check on the inertial dampners. He entered the cockpit of the ship, switching off the auto-pilot and taking manual command as it dropped in from orbit to reentry.

What if this is just some ploy or trap to lure in Mandolorians? He wondered. The people were scattered, their world gone. He'd seen more than one bounty put out for the heads of those who followed the Resol'nar. And he'd more than once fell into some elaborate scheme created by some disgruntled client or rival, in an attempt to get a form of petty revenge. It wouldn't be the first time. Won't be the last, either. As the ship dropped into the ravine valleys, Cero began activating his ship's anti-detection systems. Sensor masking coupled with a cloaking system would make him appear to be a blip on most radars, while at a distance the cloaking would make it seem like some kind of play on the eyes or a mirage.

On the holo-terminal, the red beacon that blipped steady was growing closer, indicating that he was approaching the target coordinates. As the location came into view, he saw both the shelter, and several, one of which looked like it would barely even rise off the ground. Ori'veld looked like he was barely able to stand, let alone pilot a starship. So the scrapped one makes sense. But the others... It seemed like Cero wasn't the first one here. He guided his ship to landing near the Firespray-31, taking a final glance at the shelter before putting on his helmet and heading out.

He glanced around the area as he slowly made his way to the shelter, the locale being eerily quiet save for the wind and rain that blew through it. Several meters before he approached the entrance, Cero looked towards the ground. Tracks. A few of them too. He allowed his hand to rest on his RSKF-44 as he entered the shelter, only to find others gathered around the the body of Ori'veld. "So the old man was closer to the end than we thought." He noticed some of the others had chosen to take off their helmets, likely in some form of respect, but he declined to do so himself. The stench of death wasn't a pleasant one. "Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la." With his goodbyes spoken, Cero found a seat amongst the Ori's residence.

 

[Connory Monroe]

The Liberator dropped out of hyperspace, a blink on a radar before it recloaked. Authentic as the message appeared, Cory was not so naive to put it past the Sith to draw out scattered Mandalorian’s in the hope of finishing what they started. Princess was curled in her lap purring happily, much to Cory’s annoyance.

Clouds swirled as she punched through them bringing the ship closer to the coordinates. She banked away, circling the area wide, scanning the perimeter for anything out of the ordinary, circling closer and closer to the longhouse. The plains were both a blessing and a curse, enemies would see it, but the enemies could be seen on their approach. Three ships rested, two still warm, the other old and decaying.

Confident that she was not going to get shot out of the sky, Cory decloaked and brought the Liberator in to land, settling next to the light freighter and powering down. Rising to her feet, she deposited the annoyed tooka to the floor, its huge eyes gave her a reproachful look. “Hey, if it was my choice you wouldn’t even be on this ship, so you can take your attitude and shove it.”

Sliding her helmet into place as she walked, she stepped carefully down the landing ramp, hands resting on the batons at her hips. Princess padded behind her letting out a soft cry when Cory reached the foot of the landing ramp. “Quiet.” Another cry, and the tooka leapt to her shoulders, purring happily.

“I really hate you.” she muttered, walking towards the house. Four bodies waited, one no longer breathing, hell he was way past breathing if the smell was anything to go by. She kept her distance, just outside the open doors, unsure of the reception to be had.

“A funeral pyre would be traditional.”

 

[Tyran Numeck]

The Nemesis-Class corvette exited hyperspace around Lujo and Tyran found himself wondering what he was going to find down there. An Old Mandalorian with a dying quest for him? More comrades to rally with now that Mandalore was fractured and its people flung across the galaxy? Was this a trap laid out by the Sith to gather troublesome Mandalorians for a quick extermination? Would any of the other Mandalorians who answered the call be hostile towards him for his allegiance to Yasha? Tyran wasn't going to apologize for that, Yasha had been his sister and he regretted not being there for her in the end, but that had been beyond his control.

The readout on the console in front of him gave him a good idea of what Lujo's surface was like and he picked out a good landing zone that appeared to be solid enough to hold the weight of the ship. After paying as much as he had for this new ship he wasn't about to have it sucked into the swamp. He climbed down to the bottom deck of the ship and lowered the landing ramp and was immediately hit by the strong scent of rotting moss and stagnant water. He proceeded cautiously down into the ankle deep muck, drawing one of his MT-14 blasters just as a precautionary measure. Hostile Mandalorians or Sith agents weren't the only things that could lurking in this swamp, who knew what kind of nasty creatures lived on this planet.

Tyran could make out the shape of a structure in the distance and made his way for it, the thick mud clinging to his leg bracers like slowly drying permacrete. He was approaching from the rear of the structure it seemed once he got closer to it. The structure was an old style long house, not too dissimilar to the Numeck homestead. Tyran found himself wondering if it even still existed now that Mandalore was in the hands of the Sith. He began to slowly circle the structure and scanned it with his helmet sensors and switched through a few helmet filters and for a moment there was a heat source detected inside the house but then it vanished.

"Probably a swamp rat." He grunted miserably as he worked his way around to the front of the structure. "With my luck it's probably five meters long and weighs about as much as a baby Barabel." He made his way up to the front door and paused, it had been clearly disturbed recently. Tyran knelt down and examined some fresh boot prints that were clear as day in the mud. "Okay, maybe it's not a swamp rat." He said standing back up and gripping his blaster a bit tighter.

The moment he crossed the threshold and stepped into the long house he was hit by a familiar stench. The smell of a dead body was not something that could be confused for anything else and it always hit you like a sack of beskar bricks right in the face. His helmet filters kicked in automatically and spared him from having to endure the stench for far too long. That was when he noticed a couple others, two men and woman, standing around the body of a dead Mandalorian. It had to be the old man from the recording. Tyran walked up to them slowly and nodded when the man offered to help build a pyre. Tyran stood by quietly as one of the other men said some brief words and stepped forward to place a finely made blade on the dead Mandalorian's chest.

"Did anyone know him?" He asked as they all stood there around the body.

[member="Obran Mereel"], [member="Ghed Saya"], [member="Beskadala Ordo"]