The Iron Breaker (Mandalore)

[Cyneric]

He was unimpressed. For all their history and all their glory, the room was lackluster. Not barren, no, but it lacked that spark. The feeling of decorum that demanded respect. A throne on a dais, a few steps up. That was it. That was the most it seemed to be. No great riches to be shown. No warriors and only a few guards. For Cyneric it was almost disappointing.

No, he corrected himself. It was disappointing.

He stepped atop the dais and glanced around, his eyes resting on a little side table. No tankards. No goblets. It looked like a card table compared to what most expected. Rickety and fancy rather than sturdy and strong. But that was what he had expected. Or, rather, what he'd assumed with the hope he was wrong.

The room was less a chamber for the Mand'alor to embody their power or to hear messages from clan and foreigners alike. The place felt like a cheap ambassador's office. A bureaucratic facade to placate outsiders. The Alor picked up what felt like a cheap metal cup from the side table and hefted it once, the light metal feeling flimsy in his hand. Durasteel or alusteel. He could tell from the sheen and polish. Well made and ornately decorated, but no ruler's cup.

"Tacky," he muttered before returning the cup to the table. His gaze lingered on the rest of the room. "To say the least."

 

[Jorga the Hutt]

"There once was a Mando hirsute, who nothing and no-one would suit. He sneered in disdain, bestowed judgment in vain, revealed himself thus as a brute." A lean, ageing man in helmetless beskar'gam sat with his back against a window, tooting notes on a bes'bev. "I feel like I'm butchering the flow for the sake of the rhythm scheme. And rhyming 'suit' and 'hirsute' feels cheap. Any help?"

[member="Cyneric"]

 

[Jorga the Hutt]

"Beware the Australis tihaar! They'll make you imbibe the whole jar. And soon your own slang will acquire a twang, with the wit of a rusty crowbar."

Connory tootled on his bes'bev.

[member="Kaine Australis"] [member="Cyneric"]

 

[Karsan Munin]

"It's got it's qualities."

Karsan looked up from his seat at the table in which the man had picked the cup up from.

"Can we say the same for you?"

[member="Cyneric"]

 

[Cyneric]

Cyneric didn't bother to look at the speaker seated at the table. Instead, he let his gaze wander the room and its contents, his ears ever open.

"That depends, pup," he stated plainly. "It depends entirely on what's being valued."

He'd heard the little limerick tootled in the room and his gaze flicked towards the source. Another man with a bes'bev and a sense of humor in hand. Some lashed out in anger over being mocked. Others ignored it or sought to correct it. He'd known many who sought to downplay such things to preserve an image or a perceived appearance. Cyneric had some practice here and there. Someone astute enough to mock another accurately was astute enough to spin a story to one end or another. The Galactic News Network made a living doing exactly that, though on a planet such as Mandalore it was the small fish that information tended to pass through. Small fish like someone clever enough to tootle a flute and toss barbed humor about.

"Might stick with the beard," he suggested as he stepped down a bit off the dais, one hand snagging the offered bottle for a quick swig. He nodded his thanks to the third person in the room and handed the bottle back. "Or the clothes. I had a lover once swear to anyone who would listen that I wore leather briefs with fur left on the hide. Could use that."

[member="Karsan Calnov"] [member="Connory"] [member="Kaine Australis"]