Private To Dare Upon The Heavens

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | MIV Ironsides, Hyperspace

In a time long past, when Itzhal was younger than he is now—though not so young as to truly count himself among the ranks of the innocent—he had stumbled across something that had seemed magical at the time. Concealed beneath ancient trophies and the faded memories of his clan's storied past, he'd stood before a single glowing red eye, the optic tracing across his reforged beskar'gam. He remembered it all. The hum in the air that set his nerves alight, the harsh gaze that pinned him to the floor with the weight of aeons, the mountains of relics and scrap shifting as it drew closer—judging the new arrival, a foundling still fresh to their ways.

Buried beneath the tales of legends, an artefact had stared upon him, and though he had felt the weight, he had not understood the significance then.

Later, only days after the discovery, he'd finally learned of the tales that accompanied such a machine. The stories of ancient warriors riding upon steeds of Mandalorian Iron—powerful and reckless, descending upon worlds in a wave of fire and ash. Horror had struck him then, though, he'd only understood a piece of his new culture's many sins; the crusaders' marches and the war songs that embraced them in tow, not just a memory, but a celebration of the terror that had torn the Galaxy apart.

Still, he'd not been immune to the allure of it, the sheer recklessness of an orbital drop with only a fireshield to protect oneself from disintegration. At the time, it had seemed to be another measure of insanity; even now, he couldn't be sure it wasn't.

Now, as he stood before his own Basilisk droid—a towering colossus brimming with untamed fury—he felt the weight of that reckless ambition course through his veins, a taste of the insanity that had filled those who'd dared to stare upon the heavens and declare their place amongst the burning atmosphere. His hand reached up, hovering over the sleek plates of beskar that covered its face, bound like a muzzle over the barrel of the mounted cannon.

Had those mad men ever felt so conflicted?

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia moved through the ranks of, pausing where she saw weight sit too heavily on shoulders, offering soft words of encouragement and lending a listening ear. The quiet before a battle had a way of unravelling even the most steadfast of warriors. The quiet was never for her, she never folded into the need for reflection, or gave herself time to ponder where her blade was swinging or the cost it would bear. It was a luxury she had not been able to afford and even though the mantle did not rest on her head, there were some lessons and habits that you did not forget.

So she gave the calm before the storm to those who needed it, remaining steadfast and sure in her commitment to the fight so they could lean on her. Her time for reflection would come after the storm, when the dust settled and the casualty counts began to come in, then she would allow the questions to come. Then she would decide if the outcome was worth the price they paid.

That Aether had held his hand this long was a testament to his patience. Had the shoe been on the other foot, she might have struck sooner. He had weighed this heavily, of that much she could be certain, that made it easier to follow him without question.

The soft footfall of her boots brought her to where Itzhal stood before his basilisk, hand hovering over its muzzle, like uncertainty rested in the gap. She sat her back against the nearby bulkhead giving him the space to process before she spoke. "I'd ask a credit for your thoughts, but I didn't think to bring any." her words were soft, carried with the curve of a small smile.

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | MIV Ironsides, Hyperspace

Soft blue light filtered over Itzhal's face. The readouts on his HuD overlaid the frame of his Basilisk Droid; Armour integrity within acceptable levels, excluding plates exposed in the rear awaiting retraction; power lines operational, providing necessary power to critical subsystems, including primary weapon systems, repulsorlifts, and the shield generator. Additional defensive systems were primed and ready to activate, with flares and chaff already stocked. He might not have been ready, but his mount was. It was only missing one crucial matter—a name.

Tilting his head to the side, acknowledging the footsteps that approached, Itzhal's hand wavered in the air for a moment; then, silently, he peeled away, leaving only the red glare of its optic to judge him as he turned away.

With an almost painful gentleness, he reached for his buy'ce, the seals on both sides disengaging at the utterance of a whispered word. In a moment that lingered for mere seconds but felt like minutes, the Morellian lifted his helmet high above his head, revealing a weathered visage etched with the marks of time and a more recent woe. His black hair, interspersed with streaks of silver-grey, tumbled down, framing a face that bore the stories of countless skirmishes and experiences that defied his obscurity.

"Funny, I feel like I've heard that one before," He drawled, forcing amusement into the syllables before they could be dragged down by the concern that lingered beneath his smile.

Quietly, he stepped away from the war machine that loomed over him, its presence lingering in the background, reflected in the gleam of his visor lowered to his hip—the spectre of war, unescapable.

"It so often seems to be the way of things; one conflict after another, ceasefires but never peace," he shook his head. "I grow tired of it, yet I am not blind to the necessity. I have seen what happens when ilk of the Diarchies type are allowed to continue unresisted, pretty words cheered by the blind, splayed over the corpses beneath their feet. Justification after justification. No, I see the necessity."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia's own helm tilted watching him as he stepped back from the basilisk, his hand never settling on the droid. She wondered what made him hesitate, what was it that sat so heavily on him he did not quite want to connect with his mount in the way that many others did. She didn't move immediately when he turned to face her, lifting his buy'ce from his head, revealing a weathered face with a square jawline and framed with silver streaked hair. The significance of the moment was not lost on her. She pushed off the bulk head, removing her own buy'ce as his forced reply reached her ears.

She stepped forward to the basilisk as he stepped away, running a hand briefly along its flank before moving to join Itzhal as he stepped away.

"I stopped believing in the truth of peace the second time someone hauled me out of the netherworld. If I can't find peace in death, I'm certainly not going to find it in life." She was only half joking. Moving to a nearby crate she set her helmet upon it before turning to lean on it as she faced him, sharp blue eyes studying him. "There is a weight we carry, in seeing as many cycles as we have. There is always another shabuir waiting in the shadows to test our resolve."

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | MIV Ironsides, Hyperspace

Magnetic locks hummed to life with a soft pulse, radiating outward from their placement on Itzhal's belt, seeking a connection that solidified with the dull clang of beskar plates as Itzhal clasped his buy'ce to his waist. Stepping away from the Basilisk, he walked backwards, still facing Mia as he made his way towards a set of nearby crates, stocked with ammunition and spare materials for the assorted War Droids.

Pistons hissed across the Basilisk's neck, valuable mechanics sheltered beneath a layer of beskar that glinted under the lights above, deepening the shadows that covered its towering stature. It turned to watch the new arrival, red eye tracing the stretch of Mia's arm sculpted beneath the clinging fabric of her bodysuit, and the sleek angle of her golden pauldron, tilted upwards to reach out and skim the war droid's plates—there was a weight to its glare, a test of will that bored through skin and bone to that which lied beneath; the soul, whether it be cowardly or valiant.

Shaded in the crimson glare, Mia's cheekbones stood out with striking definition, accentuating the sharpness of a woman moulded by the crucible of war. Seconds later, it turned its head back towards Itzhal.

Standing beside the crates, Itzhal dropped his left hand, skimming over the smooth metal of a crate lid, until his fingers stopped at the edge of the box, where his thumb traced the sealed seam. With a press of his hand against the lid for support, he hopped up, twisting around to land seated on the crate as he looked towards Mia with a frown.

Rumours had travelled the length of the ship, the tales of Mand'alor the Liberator; twice-named, for even death itself was a temporary matter, at least, if one believed the tales. He'd heard other stories, of course: a coward escaping death and hiding in absence, another said they were reduced to a critical condition and forced to scrabble for years in medical care, and even one that said she was sealed away, stored in carbonite or a stasis chamber, never intended to escape. It seemed rude to ask, even worse to dismiss her claims.

"I'm sure someone more optimistic would be willing to argue," Itzhal said, reaching up to rub a hand over the curve of his jawline and the fuzz of his beard. "This netherworld, do you remember your time there?"

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia watched Itzhal, the lines on his brows deepening in thought, reflective but no longer of the battle that waited for them, something else drawing his mind away. He lifted himself with ease onto the crates top, a hand rubbing along the silver that lined his jaw.

Someone more optimistic…

A rare smile tugged at the corner of her lips and she looked away, trying to remember if she’d ever been optimistic. Maybe once…before the mantle, before Velok, before war had become the only thing she knew. She wondered what her younger self would have said if she knew all she would become.

His question made her go still, not because it was something she was unwilling to talk about, but because no one ever asked. Whether they were too afraid to, or simply didn't care she didn’t know. After a breath, she shifted, turning her back to the crate and lifting herself one the heels of her palms to settle on the crate beside him, arm brushing his as she did.

“More than I’d like to.” she replied softly, her hands resting in her lap, eyes fixed on the basilisk whose crimson glare watched them both. “Though it’s difficult sometimes to separate the truth of what I remember from the nightmares.” Mia was not often granted an opportunity to be vulnerable, the few people left in the galaxy that could allow her such grace were no longer within her reach.

She took a breath, turning to look at him, her tone lighter. “Its not a place I would recommend as a holiday destination.”

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | MIV Ironsides, Hyperspace

With his question posed, Itzhal watched the instant when his curiosity collided with her bewilderment, the high-arched curve of her eyebrows and the faint flutter of her eyelids, that followed the unearthing of a delicate topic, seldom-discussed amongst those who knew her, and those who believed they did. It was easy to assume the faint tension that traced her silhouette was born of anger, containing a rage that boiled beneath the skin, but he'd seen warriors like her before; stillness was so rarely a sign of anger when the source of their ire stood before them. Genuine surprise was always so much harder to deal with, no matter how experienced one grew; it was in the name—surprise, an unexpected or astonishing event.

Seconds later, her steps continued, soft taps against the metal floor, nearing closer as Itzhal settled his hand on the nearest crate, providing just that little bit extra support, before she hopped onto the lid beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He tilted his head towards her, a willing ear as her tale began.

It was not a happy tale.

An afterlife filled with violent dread and horrors that haunted every waking moment, a dead realm, where those unfortunate souls buried in the shadows struggled to tell the difference between nightmares and memory. It seemed a cruel fate for one spent struggling through a life of toil and hardship—was judgment blind, or had there never been a judgment in the first place? Perhaps it was hopeful thoughts, pretending that the system made mistakes, rather than intentionally prolonging the suffering that seemed to be interwined with the very nature of this Galaxy. He knew not.

How easy it would be to despair at the truth peeled back, unlike the refuge of the Manda, a collective oversoul, built upon the great deeds of the whole, their memories and knowledge shared freely. What did it say that even a Mand'alor remembered nothing of that harmony, only terrible darkness.

"Ni cuyir ni ceta par gar aarayi," He offered, the words slowly spoken and all the more solemn as he turned to look towards her. "Al, Ni cuyir iupe gar cuyir olar."

With a soft shake of his head, he turned away to look towards the Basilisk War Droid and its gleaming red eye.

"I cannot claim to know what you have suffered, but if you ever need an ear to listen, I will be there," he huffed, his shoulders shaking with the movement. "Only a fool suffers in silence."

He was never alone—the spectres of his memories wouldn't let him be.

Tapping his finger against the side of his belt, he continued, "You know, I've always found it's easier to fight when there's something to fight for; nowadays, I cling to the fact that I'm not done with making the Galaxy a brighter place, endless as that task may be, there's always a problem to solve and a light to reach, until the next stretch of darkness. It is not peace, perhaps, but it is something obtainable; for a time."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

When his piercing blue eyes shifted to meet hers, something shifted in her chest, warm but unfamiliar. Mia was the pillar people leaned on, it was rare that she ever allowed herself to lean on others. She was torn momentarily between retreating back behind an instinctive wall of defence and simply sitting in the moment, it showed in the tension of her shoulders, a flicker of uncertainty in her sapphire gaze.

When he looked away she swallowed, following his gaze back to the basilisk.

“Ogir cuyir naas Ni ganar tecara, ibac Ni narir va sartamura, Itzhal.” A sad smile ghosted her lips. “I am…not good at talking…about any of it, but I appreciate the offer all the same.”

Mia took a breath, looking down at gloved hands fingers, lost for a moment in her thoughts before he spoke again, drawing her attention back to him.

“That is a good reason to fight,” she said with an incline of her head. “For me…it is and always has been for them.” She nodded to the mandalorians around them that prepared in their own ways for the fight ahead. “I have given everything and will continue to give everything in service to Manda’yaim and our people. In whatever way they need.” She paused before continuing.

“That is the vow I made, the first time the mantle was given to me. You never truly set it down. You just step to one side.”

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | MIV Ironsides, Hyperspace

In the stillness of the moment, when words had all but faded away, there was only the soothing warmth of his shoulder—a steadfast presence as bold as beksar, offering quiet shelter, unbendable in the moment of vulnerability. He waited, patient, unhurried by the ticking clock of their journey through hyperspace, hurtling towards their final destination. She would speak, or she would not. It mattered only that there was a choice. In time, she did, hushed words unravelled the layers of duty and determination that she wore like armour, a piece of the puzzle that defined Mia Monroe, the woman who would call herself 'Liberator'.

My people will be free—ironic that she was also the one so willing to burden herself with obligations and recriminations.

Slowly, he stalled the beat of his finger against the beskar plates, letting it drop with a single muted thud. His bodysuit provided only a faint sense of the cool metal pressed against his skin.

"Typical, here I find another person in this Galaxy willing to shove another responsibility upon their shoulders," He smiled, the expression stuck between genuine and mocking as if he himself couldn't decide. "Over a year ago, I made a vow of similar regard, not to Manda'yaim and our people, but to the Galaxy as a whole. To shield the innocent, to fight evil, and to be better than what has come before, paraphrased, at least a little. I wonder sometimes if I was a fool to make it, knowing the risks we face and the failures we make along the way. A lot of people are going to die soon, and not all those who deserve to live will survive, nor will all those who have earned their death find their final passage."

He stared out across the storage bay, where figures in a wide array of colours and styles of beskar'gam continued to make their preparations over ammunition stashes and the few rare Basilisk War Droids allocated for the assault on Yaga Minor.

"You know, people are vague when they mention your reign," He whispered, a statement shared between just the two of them, as he considered his thoughts, then asked his question. "You were young when you made your oath, weren't you?"

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia

Surrounded by the steady hum of war preparations the quiet conversation they held seemed to be caught in a bubble of peace, not oblivious to where they were headed but instead holding fast in spite of it.

“I don’t think you are a fool.” she said, her words soft but firm. “To make a vow that stretches beyond our own borders means you are wise enough to understand that we are just a small part in a bigger picture. It also means you have patience that will far outlast mine.” The corner of her mouth curved briefly in a smile.

Her eyes swept the men and women around them once more before settling back on him watching him weigh all it and let it settle on his shoulders. Watching the young die in war always weighed heavily, but it was not something she would allow to seize her now. They were mandalorians, each one was worthy of ten men the Diarchy would throw at them. Tomorrow, when the festivities died she would mourn them, but not before.

She huffed a laugh at his whisper, her eyes settled back on the glaring red eye that watched them. “That’s because most of them weren’t alive.” She said with a small incline of her head, her voice low. She nodded slowly. “Young and dumb.” she confirmed softly “I was in my twenties, challenged the Mand’alor at the time because I believed he was a fool, that his choices were doing nothing but allowing the sith to roll over us.”

Her eyes darkened with the memory before she blinked it away. “Things were simpler. My only concern was driving the sith back and advancing our borders.”

It had all changed when they took Yaga Minor, when Velok had died at their hand. Mia’s world had been turned on its head that day. You are a boulder rolling down a hill, Mia Monroe. She drew in a deep breath exhaling slowly, drawing back from memories she did not want to visit and clearing her throat.

“The second time was different. I had more Mandalorian blood on my hands than half our enemies. The people had a choice, stand with a woman who murdered millions because a sith had twisted her mind, or with a man who wanted to genocide every force wielding Mandalorian because of her.”

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | MIV Ironsides, Hyperspace

Cold blue eyes raked over those on the outskirts of their conversation, his lips twisted into a frown, a silent warning for those who wished to linger in the quiet thoughts of a woman who'd given everything in life to the cause. She deserved better than that. He only wished he'd asked his question somewhere a little more private, but such was the benefit of hindsight; he had asked, it was only fair that he was willing to listen, even if it felt like he was peeling back layers of a life filled with woe.

In the corner of his vision, he noticed the red gleam of his Basilisk War Droid, centred on the chestplate of a Vod with plenty of other places to be; his own glare seemed to be the last nail in the rather firm reminder.

Amusement gleamed in the corner of his eyes, a memory of younger days, when everything had seemed so much simpler than the murky film of time and wisdom. He remembered the warmth of satisfaction, the confidence that had made it so easy to pull the trigger, and the sound of their lifeless body slumping into their chair. It had been so easy to justify the blood spilt. Death for those who placed their hands upon the scales, governors bound by the power in their grip, rather than the laws they should have served.

Oh, he remembered being young. His eyes darkened with the memory of a more foolish time.

Without the intervention of Clan Volkihar, he would be nothing more than a wisp of a memory—just another orphan of Gargon, howling into the tempest, his heart heavy with anguish and screaming for the blood of his father's killer. It would have been an easier end, back when the only thing left to lose was already gone. In hindsight, Alliir had seen the truth plastered across his face, a silent cry for help, sheltered in rage and vengeance. Back then, he hadn't cared about the Resol'nare or even the warmth that Manda'Yaim and its people could bring, only the opportunity to leave the pain behind, buried on a world he had no intention of returning to.

Unconsciously, his eyes wandered to his palms, his fingers kneading the muscles around his knees, sinking beneath the beskar plates and around the clasps that held them in place. Millions murdered. His brow furrowed, the traces of silver around his eyes raised high in thought.

"Our people have never been ones for easy choices," he said, voice hollowed with the uncomfortable truth that lingered between his words—the mandose where rarely inclined towards the easy choice, whether it be filled with controversy or simply because there was no right answer, they were a people of terrible deeds and horrific atrocities as much as they where awe-inspiring heroes and honourable warriors.

"Meg cuyir narir at gar cuyir a katralkahyr be gar runi," fingernails scratched against the inside of his knee, then pulled away, clasping his fingers together in the frame of his lap. Itzhal breathed slowly, inhaling through his mouth, then releasing with a soft exhale that rattled his lungs and allowed him to focus. Winter seeped into the sharpened edge of his tongue, "Narir val su oyacyir?"

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia shifted, leaning forward slightly she settled her hands either side of her knees fingers curling over the edge of the crate. A violation of her soul. The warmth returned to her chest, stirring a longing that made her heart ache. She blinked hard, her eyes fixed on the floor as she swallowed the feeling down. It wasn't that simple. She had had ample opportunity to remove Velok form her head, but the power his memories had given her access to had been invaluable. Rel had begged...she shook her head and took a steadying breath.

She didn't tell Itzhal, not because she didn't want to, but because she wasn't sure she could maintain her composure with so many eyes drifting their way. So she did what she did best, she compartmentalized locked it down in another iron box straightening only when she was sure that the shadow of what he had stirred was gone from her face.

When ice crept into his voice she looked at him, sapphire gaze searching before she replied. "Nayc, ba'hak kaysh gi'e kyr'am cuyir va at ner gaan." There was a hint of regret in her tone, that Velok's death had not been hers to claim. Her eyes shifted back to his basilisk. "Vor entye, par dasa'na... bal par sushir. Bic tid'ica ori'shya gar kar'taylir."

Mia tilted her head, thought deepening the lines between her brows. "You should name it." she said quietly "It's easier to bond with if you give it a name."

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | MIV Ironsides, Hyperspace

Itzhal twisted, shifting backwards with calloused fingers laid flat against the durasteel lid for support, his palm pressed deep into the metal, the heel of his right boot laid against the flat of the side. His blue eyes, cold and tired, but filled with determination and a lack of judgment, locked onto her piercing sapphire gaze, where a tempest of sorrow mingled with flickers of satisfaction beneath the surface.

"Jate. demagolka cuyir kuryida; bic cuyir asas bic hwa cuyir. Bic kapr va ganar cuyir gra'tua gar copad, a val malyasa'yr narir nayc chaashya kateyita,"Itzhal intoned, his voice held level with a steadiness that became proclamation; he did not celebrate their death, he acknowledged it, allowed the harsh truth to linger in the air with the cold inevibility of justice. Then, as all things must, he allowed it to fade, their existence reduced to the background of another's story.

With deliberate care, he shifted his shoulder again, leaning forward with a patience that bordered on reverence. Every motion meticulously telegraphed as he neared closer, a slow dance of intention and control. He counted the muted beats of his heart, light against the warmth of his chest, the weight against his shoulders, and the dull clang of beskar that resonated down his armour as their pauldrons met.

Perhaps that should have been enough, but he would rather chew glass than leave their conversation on the note of those who were best forgotten.

"Ni shi vercopa ibac liser tid'ica haastal malyasa'yr jatha, su sarnr cuyir draar a nahye goyust, bal Ni malyasa'yr va srayahlya at kar'taylir vaii ibac jupayr busa'ga."He said, a smile brewing against the corners of his mouth. "Ni shi haa'taylir wicar ibac motir a'yaou ni,"

Old laugh lines at the corners of his eyes softened with her gentle appreciation, muddled with the pain and regret that slipped through regardless, he shook his head, "Nayc da'ha cuyir ne'waadas, bic cuyir ner staja ta' nadarna. Gar k'olar at narir tase, sulye saryr an."

Itzhal tracked her gaze, following the trail of her thoughts to the source, and its judgmental eye; he stilled, opening his mouth to speak, before it closed shut with a soft click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, his brow arched in thought, seconds passing without further words, only the steady presence of their companionship before eventually the words came, whispered in basic, "I'm bad with names, it might not like what I have to offer, or even worse, it might actually have the same lack of taste."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

The dull clang of pauldrons was loud in her ear as she leaned briefly into the contact, the moment stretching no longer than a breath. His words were kind, and her first instinct as with everything soft that came her way was to dismiss it, not because she was ungrateful, but because she did not feel like she deserved any of it. Every time she reached for it, something always ripped it away.

She wasn’t afraid, she was just…tired.

Mia had stopped to talk with him for the same reason she had stopped for everyone else who had seemed like they needed it, her offer to share his thoughts was out of duty, his, was out of the kindness of his heart. He neither demanded nor expected anything from her, and that made her stay where she was, content to sit with him until the alarms chimed to warn them of real space reversion.

A smile curved the corner of her mouth at his whispered confession and she let out a thoughtful hum, head tilting in consideration of the metal beast that stood quietly in front of them, watching everything with its glaring red eye. She straightened hand brushing Itzhal’s knee as she did.

“Bes'uliik,” The droid shifted, head shifting so its red glare settled on her, “Gar ganar sheber sagia'ge bal jurdase, malyasa'yr gar aran kaysh tase tion'tuur akaanir busa'ga?”

Its red glare shifted back to Itzhal, metallic feet shifting as if setting its stance ready for the fight. Something shifted behind Mia’s eyes, she was no longer looking at another basilisk, but a creature who had chosen its loyalty and would fight with every fibre of its being for it.

“Biaye Cabur.” She offered, “Cab, for short.” Her gaze moved back to Itzhal.

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | MIV Ironsides, Hyperspace

Side by side, Itzhal's thoughts drifted to the last time he truly prepared for war; not the bloody skirmishes of the past, blows exchanged between small forces and the bravado of greater threats held in reserve, but rather the true extent of an army determined to crush resistance without further regard for those stomped underfoot. It was strange to find himself on the other end—faced with the reality that they were invaders, carried upon burning mounts that scorched the sky in a wave of impending death.
Hours had passed since he first arrived here, searching not for comfort, but the quiet lash of his own tumbling thoughts.

Crimson light streamed over his features, sharpened by the shadows, his lips twisted into a weary smile, fraught with memories of a heart blackened by ruinous hate and veins burning with a call for vengeance. His silhouette burned under a red glare, the shape of a figure hollowed out by what they were and what they are—were they still the same thing; could you tell a person had really changed, when their past sins were no longer a measuring stick, and rather a buried past, impossible to return to by no effort of their own.

He couldn't say.

Did it really matter?

The Diarchy was many things, but it was not his nightmares.

His explanation to Mia wasn't wrong either, an entire year later, and he hadn't even named his own ship, nevermind a freshly produced war droid. Yet, still, it seemed a poor decision to name his mount when his thoughts remained so close to such bleak avenues. Oath and Honour had been the last thing he named; if he wasn't careful, the unfortunate droid might end up with a name like Dedication.

Fortunately, for both their sakes, Mia was far better at suggesting names than Itzhal—far better at many things. Only a fool...

"It sounds a worthy name to me," He said, his gaze steady, focused upon the single eye of his war mount.

Pushing off the crate, he landed with both feet on the ground. Itzhal strode forward, unhindered by the sudden shift, rapidly closing the distance between himself and the watching Basilisk.

"Ni cuyir Itzhal be Allit Volkihar," Itzhal bowed low, his hand thumped against his chestplate with the hollow resonance of beskar around his heart. Then, slowly and carefully, he leaned back to stand upright once again. "Meh gar malyasa'yr duumir bic, Ni urmankalar mhi liser cuyir riduur. Meg sirbur gar, Biaye Cabur?"

Tilting their head down, both arms lowered close to the ground, the red glare shrouded Itzhal's form in a haze of harsh shadows and bloody gloom that lingered in the moment of judgment. Then, with a blink of its one sole optic, pistons hissed and hydraulics shifted as the Basilisk rose, its neck cables twisting towards the sky. An almost-silent shriek thrummed through the air, a glorious sound.

"I believe he likes it."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Itzhal slid off the crate, his boots landing with with a dull thud, leaving the space beside her empty. Mia stayed where she was, knuckles paling as her fingers tightened their grip on the crates edge. The distance gave her a moment she needed, allowing her to fully collect herself, compartmentalise all of it. The memories, the way he had made her heart warm, all of it was filed neatly back to where it belonged, leaving only the Warmaster behind.

When Biaye Cabur let out his quiet shriek in agreement with Itzhal, she moved, sliding down from the crate and landing lightly before stepping up beside him once more. "I believe he does." she echoed with a smile before turning once more to look at Itzhal, taking in the detail of his face. Twice now, they had found each other on the eve of battle, yet each time, she was left wanting more. More conversation and company that didn't judge nor expect anything from her.

For a moment, she hesitated, torn between protecting herself from her own fear, and taking a chance. Her feet shifted once before she spoke softly. "Ni mar'eyir nii copaanir sto be gar ol'averde, Itzhal" Her eyes dropped briefly before rising again to meet his blue gaze. "Tion'tuur cayatr cuyir parjir, bal kyr'yc parjai laar cuyir laararir, olaror mar'eyir ni."

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | MIV Ironsides, Hyperspace

Emerged from the chronicles of ancient lore, Biaye Cabur stood tall, raised rampant above the wandering silhouettes of figures layered in beskar'gam. The harsh beams of the loading bay lights clashed against their metallic skin, a distorted halo crafted from the highlights of the stark white and crimson light that splattered over the ceiling as its head rose high in a quiet shriek of agreement with the small figure that settled in the refuge of its shadow. Itzhal Volkihar smiled, the expression soft and gentle, traced with the awe-filled wonder of a younger man, standing in the presence of titans. It was so easy to forget sometimes; for all the woes and hardships of this era, devoid of the simplicity of the past, there were great deeds of technology and skill in ample measure.

Tales of the past raised, once again, greater than even the myths that inspired them could ever imagine. It was glorious, and yet, it was that glory that worried Itzhal. He did not fear the Diarchy; the Diarchy were cowards hidden beneath a veneer of softness, a force of 'good' that whispered of temptation. How could the Diarchy be monsters, when it was others who accepted the devil's advocate, their mere suggestions followed so frequently that they became orders? No, it was not the Diarchy that Itzhal feared. He feared something much simpler. Power.

Faint footsteps traced the Morellian's path, creeping closer to settle beside him in the shadow of the titanic basilisk; sapphire eyes, sharp and glinting with thought, gazed upon the profile of his face, the sharp contours of his once-broken nose, and the furrow of weary lines that marked his face with the lessons of experience. Callous fingers, covered in the armour-woven layers of his bodysuit, reached up to scrub over the silver and grey stubble that lined his jaw. Hydraulics shifted with a wheeze of air, the titan's frame lowered to the ground, durasteel quivered under the pressure, a slow-rumbling tide that Itzhal braced against, his feet spread shoulder-width apart, hands dropped to his sides. He pivoted, a slow, gradual turn towards the figure at his side.

As she stared at him, he in turn stared at her, tracing the shape of her face and the details of a life well-lived; a warrior's burden, tales of glorious purpose, woven from both woe and weal. Her soft smile, curving around the corner of her lips in amusement, before it morphed into a deeper expression, thoughts drifting before her gaze, the same tiredness that lingered in his bones, faintly flickering in the gleam of her cerulean eyes—tired, not finished.

Itzhal waited, an oasis of stillness in the hustle and bustle of their surroundings, awaiting her thoughts to settle, whether or not she shared them.

In time, she spoke, delivering an offer that left the blood thrumming through his veins in a heady rush, not all that unalike what he expected of an orbital deployment, his stomach swooping with long-forgotten nerves, banished with a glance at the way her gaze dropped, only to reassert itself, twice as determined as before.

"Cuyir gar warye?" A faint trace of a smile softened the question as he leaned forward, continuing to speak with an amused drawl. "Ni ganar cuyir rejorhaa'ir mhi Mando liser laararir par a ori ru'dayasku."

With a shake of his head, his smile sharpened to a faint line of firm lips, not a frown, but solemn as he stared into her eyes. "Tion'tuur kyr'yc parjai laar cuyir laararir, bal gtadr be Manda'yaim shonar dos ca'tra. Ni malyasa'yr mar'eyir gar, biu apd gar kapr cuyir. Bic malyasa'yr cuyir ner staja at kar'taylir gar sto, Mia."

Tags: Mia Monroe​