| Location | Manda'yaim. At the edge of Sundari.
| Objective | Welcome the Clans. Head within Sundari.
So many faces, so many names, so many Clans. Kryze, Vizsla, Saxon, Rook, Dragr - every last one of them issued from glorious and infamous Clans alike, standing together at the edge of a ruined city, their shadows cast over the dead earth. Jenn's face remained bare, and she cared not to hide the fact she had wept at the sight by hiding behind the Y visor.
The sight of Celt Saxon, Alor'ad of her Clan, brought a certain measure of comfort to her. Although the two stood in complete opposition to one another, the respect they shared for one another played a significant part in convincing her that this venture would not be a waste of her time.
"I only wish you could have seen it before the end came." Her voice was firm, and accompanied by similar form of salute, resting a closed fist over her heart before opening it and extending it in Celt's direction - a meaningful, if simple gesture.
Peace be with you.
Alora's curt greeting was answered in kind as well: naught but a cant of her head given in her direction. A sign of acknowledgement, if nothing more. Resisting the need to be a little more
inquisitive with her Force Sense was a difficult proposition, to be sure, but the Mandokarla taught restraint in the use of one's gifts, and so she very much intended to follow their lessons. No matter how deeply entwined she seemed to be with some decidedly Jedi ways at times, a Mandalorian she remained. How the woman of Clan Vizsla chose to grieve was her choice.
Jenn, for her part, wore that sorrow openly. There was no shame to be had in shedding tears over the loss she had suffered.
Then, came a...
confusing pair, if only for her. The Quartermaster of the Enclave, a man she treated with a cautious respect, accompanied by someone she
decidedly though less respectfully of. If Celt Saxon presented a voice within the Crusade she could
speak with, then Yael Kandar was every bit the fanatic she had little interest in communicating with. But, no matter how harshly she regarded the crippled warrior, she remained
Mando'ad, and so the Alor saw no reason to exclude her from this polite invitation to reflect and reconcile.
As Vren walked to stand before her, she met his gaze calmly, her grey eyes betraying little of all that raged within her. The advantage of being the first to head down to the rendezvous point lie in the privacy she had been afforded, the chance to grieve so very openly, with naught but a handful of her warriors nearby, all but stupefied by the sight of the dead lands before them. His words were met with a firm nod. Leadership was a difficult burden to bear, even more so when so many looked to her for guidance... or
weakness. How did a man like him manage to hold such a position for so long?
"A dark memory for some, a sombre tale for others", spoke the Ersansyr, her features slowly betraying the emotional burden looming over her.
"A reminder. Of what may yet happen to Kestri if we do not learn from the past." Vren looked tired. Jenn supposed she was, too.
"Manda'yaim was home to our people for untold centuries. And yet, our ancestral home is now lost to us. There is a lesson in that. A lesson we cannot learn if we do not confront the past."
The arrival of Veshok and the representatives of Clan Dragr claimed her attention once more, turning away from Vren to acknowledge them with the same warrior's salute she had returned to the Alor'ad of Clan Saxon. The so-called "Golden Falcon" had failed to make much of an impression with his short appearance at the beginning of the Council, and so she felt little need for idle chitchat with the man. Veshok, for his part, would perhaps get his chance to speak with her - to share words in the wake of the negotiations with the Alliance over the fate of their prize. Ever a steady hand, she looked upon him as a shining example of honor and virtue. His actions would slowly, but surely wash off the stain attached to his name.
"I believe that's everyo-"
Ah, kark, now what?
The rest of the group was all but eclipsed by the peculiar being who accompanied them - but Jenn's surprise was quick to fade. If he was here, then he was Mando'a, or sought to walk the path. Who was she to turn anyone away?
"Ahem. I believe that's everyone. Like me, some among you were raised on Manda'yaim - others only ever heard of it as the homeworld. But make no mistake: this planet was our home. A place steeped in history, myths, and legend. A place of great victory, bitter defeat, petty wars, and great unity. But it is lost to us now, the sack of our world aided by those among us who chose the path of vile treachery for the sake of power. Should any of you find the experience to be too overwhelming, know that there is no shame, and you can head back without fear of being judged for it. But now is the time for us all to walk the dead earth of our forefathers. Sear the sight within your very mind. Let it ignite a fire in your heart."
And with that, she turned towards the sobering sight of the ruined city, clenching her jaw as she took one step forward, then another, accompanied by the warriors of her Clan, young and weary alike. There was silence at first, giving the chance for all others to look upon the harrowing sight of their surroundings. To remember how
bustling a city centre it once was, now devoid of life, of
sound. Even
they were strangers here, it seemed: their footsteps unwelcome, their presence disturbing the dead.
Sundari was dead, and so was Mandalore. All of the noble defiance of the Mandalorians, forgotten by time. They walked amidst a
tomb.
"Ni su'cuyi, gar kyr'adyc, no partayli, gar darasuum. Matheld. Kalden. Arika."
Ancient words of remembrance, uttered by Jenn as she walked through the desolate remains of a place her people had once called home. That
she had once called home.
I'm still alive, but you are dead. I remember you so you are eternal. Words of remembrance followed by the names of her mother, her brother, and her sister. They who had been taken from her so unjustly.
Perhaps others would speak in remembrance of those they had lost. Perhaps they would do so in silence, merely thinking the words. Perhaps her sentimentality was seen as weakness, or something contemptible and pointless.
The deeper they went, the more
raw the devastation became. The more disquieting the
silence.
