Itzhal Volkihar
Character
| Location | Neo Sakoran, Metalorn, Mid Rim Territories
Hundreds of years ago, the corporations of Metalorn tore their planet apart, a feast of resources and wealth hidden beneath a veneer of natural beauty that had done little to discourage the vultures that hungered for profits. It never did. What was the value of a single planet compared to a galaxy of choice?
When Itzhal was a young man, the planet was a jungle world, wild and free, though even then, civilisation was nipping at the corners of the vast wilderness. Back then, the early foundations of what would come arrived in prefabricated towns and cities, delivered in mass and planted like aberrant trees from another ecosystem, another piece of the factory that would become of the once picturesque world.
Not that the Morellian had spent much attention on the woes of a single planet, so far from his own troubles, Metalorn had been nothing more than a passing interest during his restless days on Gargon. In those days, he'd still believed in the Republic, though the ever-encroaching power plays visible even to civilians like himself had slowly degraded those views. After his father's murder, he hadn't possessed the time or desire for such far-off matters. Not when every second had mattered, and every moment away from the hunt had felt like a betrayal of every memory that lingered in his heart. Some days, he was still surprised he'd survived. Some days, he wasn't sure if he'd intended to. More than anything else, sheer luck had pulled him through the worst of those days.
Now, he was lost again—a Galaxy filled with opportunity, yet so little to bind him.
His people, those who had stood beside him again and again through the worst of it, were gone. Their stories were lost to time, and their valour was forgotten, erased in a final act of vengeance by those who would call themselves adversaries. Rare were the clans that had survived the Mandalorian Excision intact; rarer still were those who would acknowledge what was lost in those dark days, millions of lives, purged within hours, their culture and history turned to glass.
Sometimes, in his darker moments, Itzhal hated those who had survived—not because they'd survived. He could not blame them for their fortune; turbo lasers cared little for allegiances, races, cultures, or even age. No, he hated them for what they'd become. The stories they told themselves. The blame they placed upon themselves and their forefathers for not joining the Republic, for failing to surrender when they turned their attention upon their people, for fighting when destroyers filled the skies and left ruin in their wake. As if they would have been spared by rolling over and accepting their due.
In some ways, he was fortunate that he'd been awoken now rather than when the Republic still stood. Rage filled his veins, a cold mist seeped into his skin and turned his thoughts to ice, yet his foes were dead—assigned to the history he now guarded, a living repository of knowledge and memories they had once attempted to stamp out. Victorious as long as he remained. Let the Galactic Alliance claim their place, built on beliefs and goals that the Republic had failed to uphold; their success was in spite of what had come before, never because of it. Nor were his people chained by those who had survived the Excision, blinded by a promise of peace that could only be upheld with the lie of total pacifism. The New Mandalorians desired peace just as their predecessors had, but they were not what had come before. Not so blind.
Over the uncertainty of their place within the Galaxy and the ever-present proximity of the Galactic Alliance, different from the Republic, yet not so distinct that Itzhal could not acknowledge their potential for the worst of sins, it had only been a matter of time before the New Mandalorians would leave the binds that chained them in place. So, when the time came and Duchess Kryze announced their departure from Onderon, Itzhal was prepared, ready to forge a path ahead for those who would follow in their wake.
Then the stars changed, shifted and warped, new paths formed in ways without reason or rhyme. And out of the chaos, pathfinders were needed more than ever.
It was why Itzhal had found himself here, only a few jumps away from the planet of Onderon, accompanied by a few other Mandalorians who had decided to set up a base camp around the form of his recently acquired IR-3f-Class Light Frigate. A ship that even he had to admit was too large for a single mercenary, even if he was in the process of attempting to acquire additional help, for the moment, a few other Mandalorians willing to come on a mission like this made it workable. In the future, a couple of droids and those interested in helping him would probably be for the best. For now, he left them to the ship and the creation of their base as he wandered the city of Neo Sakoran, his eyes hidden beneath the darkened glaze of transparisteel, the recognisable design of Mandalorian armour discouraging most civilians.
Under the haze of smoke from nearby factories, Itzhal Volkihar travelled through the streets, his hand near his holsters, until finally, his steps led him to the one place on a planet like this that would always hold answers, as long as he asked the right questions.
The Toxic Brew.
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