Two Roads Diverged

[Azrael]

Mandal Motors
Hall of Heroes

Burial grounds, cemeteries, edifices to the slain and dead were not found anywhere on Mandalorian soil. You'd be hard pressed to find a marker in the Galaxy that signified the final resting place of a fallen soldier who had taken his last steps on the terrestrial, and marched into the embrace of the Manda. Apart from the respect of the A'lors of the past, there was little physical places of memorials in their culture. Not to say that the dead didn't have their place. Their place was on the tongue of every vod at the time of rest when they remembered their fallen family by name in ceremonial respect. They were never gone, they had simply marched on. The Hall of Heroes - as some aruetiise might see it was not at all a mausoleum - but rather a edifice in honoring the hands that guided the Mando'ade through the thousands of years in their legendary history.

Another subset of the Mandal Motors city block of buildings rested the tribute to their culture - and chronicled most of the paradigm shifting events in that span of history. Dubbed the Hall of Heroes; anyone inducted into this monument was already dead, but their memory and their legacy lived on in the holo records, pieces of their iconic armor, and the stories of their heralding triumphs. Not exclusively selected of just those past Mand'alor, but most notably were those stories. That specifically is what drew the half-blood salvager to such important terrain.

Dusk had fallen on Keldabe, and as the winds swept across the plains turning the day's heat into a tempered mixture of rest and eventide peace, Azrael stood silently gazing at engraved carvings of the Mandalorian heritage. Likenesses sculpted to embody the image and character of each prominent figure, whose own wisdom seemed to cling to even the very stone they were carved from. Such a collection of knowledge between all the displayed heroes was humbling to be around. His buy'ce clipped to his belt, where both hands rested while a grey eyed gazed scanned the glorious stories of war and conquest that were displayed in short descriptions. The library of the historical records were both recorded on actual paper, flimsi, and most were converted into holo records for continuous storage. These placards were simply just a glimpse into the life of those that had gone before him.

Thoughts swam through the mind of the Mand'alor - mostly about how he was measuring up to these epic statues, and tales of their legacy. The First, The Ultimate, The Indominate. All of these names and more given because of what they had done for the culture. Every Mand'alor was given a name, even that of the 'lesser'. What would he be called? What would his name be remembered as - and what would he do to ensure the survival and the expansion of his people? This was a place of reflection and thought that kept Azrael's mind on what was best for Manda'yaim and all her children. He knew war was upon them, and while he had no issue with the concept of battle and conquest, there was always that introspection that came along with action. Did they have the same fears, the same doubts, and the same considerations? Were these helmets keeping hidden the things that swam in his mind as well? He'd likely never know, but the question still remained.

[member="Dagora-Kel"]

 

[Darth Metus]

Chaos.

The complete and utter loss of all sanity seemed to be the trend as of late. In recent history, a Celestial had turned the Galaxy into her plaything; casting literal billions into an abyss of blood and wails. She, Akala, rampaged with power that dwarfed even the strongest "force god"...and that forced the Mandalorian to think. He, when faced with how utterly powerless the Celestial had rendered him, was forced to reflect upon the simple reality of the "Rapture." He was not strong...not nearly enough. He was not powerful...not nearly enough. Never again would he become the plaything of anyone, or anything for that matter.

Yet in order to do that, Isley needed to grow in strength. He needed to put aside all weakness and seek ultimate power.

By his reckoning, the Force was the key to ascending to this level. That entity was the source of Akala's power, and the power of all the Galaxy's greats. Those who had the might to collapse worlds and bend millions to heel were usually blessed with this gift...and so Isley resolved to walk further down this path. To this end, he had begun to accept that which had slowly been transpiring for years now. The Darkness had corrupted him, of this there was no doubt. It marred his soul, stained his mind, yet also gave him incredible strength. Beskar could not twist the minds of others to his will. The Resol'nare could not conjure storms out of nothing.

Yet the Dark Side could.

In order to be strong, Isley had to choose. He could remain tied by chains of Beskar...or accept the Darkness wholly and the power it offered. Thus far he was a glorified dabbler: an alchemist who had excelled in the least volatile of crafts. However, the power he sought demanded that he become what the Sons and Daughters of Manda'yaim swore to despise forevermore: a true Sith to the very core. Thus, with a mind and heart wrestling with this choice, Isley found himself at the Hall of Heroes. Here, the legends of Mandalore were immortalised by stone and by holorecording. Here, the very essence of what it meant to be Mandalorian could be fully felt.

There was no better place to make a choice.

Slow, methodical footsteps bore Isley down the Hall until he came across one of the few he considered a friend. [member="Azrael"] had ascended the ranks of their people, starting out as a co-pilot alongside Isley and ultimately reigning as the most recent Mandalore. A low sigh escaped his lips as the man came into view, before a respectful nod was rendered.

"Greetings brother." he said, addressing him in their native tongue. "Have you come for the same purpose as I; to contemplate many things?"

[member="Azrael"]

 

[Azrael]

One truly notable thing when standing on Mandalorian soil; in the very heart of the planet's commerce, trade, and business sector was that you were always in good company. The vode surrounded you, even if you didn't know them by name or by clan - they were family and they were as loyal and trusted as your closest kin. These things couldn't be said about most places in the Galaxy. Even those that were part of an order, they may have had the same beliefs, but they weren't your family, not truly. Ord Mantell certainly did not fit that bill, as your back had to be watched, your shoulders looked over and your senses always attuned for the danger of getting into the perilous place of sentients of ill-repute. While fights were not uncommon among the vode, respect was high in a rugged sense of honor that bound each to the Mando'ade. It was a comfort that credits just could not buy, and Azrael enjoyed the times when he could relish in that one fact alone.

However, there were times when all the vode in the Galaxy wouldn't put at ease the questions that he could carry. None of which he really could ask for answers, for to these quandaries, answers were seldom ever found until it was in the heat of the very moment. Offering assurances and platitudes were one thing, but knowing fate itself, even the Jedi and their visions didn't pretend to fully grasp. The salvager didn't put his trust in the Force, and never had really given it much thought. He wasn't blessed with the ability to commune with that construct, and yet he'd felt it's power. Protected himself from it at times as well. Despite his lack of connection to the Force, he understood what it could do to a person, at least to some level. Even to the point of loving a woman who was bound to a code and relied on the Force - glimpsing how it affected her. Azrael was not ignorant, but he also held no allegiance to it. He was Mandalorian, he did not need the Force, he relied only on himself and the spirit of the vode, and that was sufficient for anything.

Echoing footsteps drew the contemplative half-blood's attention as the clipping gait of a favored brother stepped into the hallowed ground of the Hall of Heroes. Remaining steadfast in his stance, and merely turning his head to gaze upon Isley as the man stepped into his proximity and begged the question about what might of brought him to this place. A curt but respectful nod was offered before shifting his eyes back onto the stone statue of one long passed Mand'alor. The armor was far more rustic that was depicted, as well as the long and flowing garments that he'd not yet adopted in his own armor. Azrael was a fighter, he didn't preach ceremony or stand on formality. There was very little about his own beskar'gam that was regal or honored. He didn't need to be showy, he needed to be functional, and he was certainly that and more. Isley's presence wasn't something uncommon for him either, as he had long befriended the man, even keeping that friendship through the trials that he had been through. They were already family and probably would be blood at some point in the future. Verd had his respect, as did the clan it stood for.

"It's a good place to think. Not the greatest at giving answers, but that's not really why I come here either." Azrael's use of Mando'a was rarely constant, and he preferred Basic unless he was trying to hammer home a point. Especially when it was not his native tongue. Though fluent, he often mixed the two together interchangeably, often without even realizing it. "Su cuy'gar ner'vod." The greeting came after the answer, more to the point as he'd not seen Isley in a while, being as literal as was intended with that comment.

[member="Dagora-Kel"]