Private Visitors to the Iron Citadel

[Korda Veydran]

The courtyard had drawn eyes.
Other armored figures had slowed along the upper walkways. A pair of younglings had stopped mid-drill. The air carried attention now.
Korda felt it.

He exhaled slowly.
When he spoke again, his voice was steady, no bark, no flare.
"I was quick," he admitted.

Not loudly. Not defensively.
"Too quick."
His helmet turned toward Jett.
"I do not take well to my culture being insulted by someone wearing its armor."

There was no venom in it now. Just truth.
"But you were not mocking it. You were repeating what you were given."
A small pause.
"For that, I should have measured my response better."

His gaze shifted briefly to Omen.
"You're right. This life is not for everyone."
Then back to Jett.
"And not all Mandalorians are warriors."
He gestured outward, toward the distant forge complex.
"Some are armorers. Some are engineers. Healers. Mechanics. Archivists. Shipwrights."
A slight tilt of his helmet.

"Some never draw a blade unless forced."
His tone lowered a fraction.
"The armor does not decide your path. You do."
His attention moved to Aren now.

"I won't be too harsh."
A beat.
"But shielding her from pressure entirely won't help either. I can tell when I am pushing too hard."
Not accusatory. Just measured.
"Stress reveals what you default to. What you cling to. What you forget. Lessons learned under tension tend to stay."
He looked back to Jett.
"You stood correctly. You prepared mentally. You didn't argue."

A faint nod.
"That tells me more than any apology would."
The courtyard seemed to settle.
Then...

His stance shifted slightly.
Not aggressive.
Balanced.
"Jett."
A pause.
"Would you like a friendly spar?"

He lifted one hand slightly, palm open.
"No humiliation. No shouting."
A faint edge of dry humor returned.
"And no exploding fruit."

The faintest murmur of amusement drifted from one of the watching trainees.
"This is not about proving anything," he continued. "It's about seeing where you are. So we know where to build."
His voice softened just enough to matter.
"You choose."
Korda then glanced at omen
"also for the record the detonators was a one time thing"

Aren D'Shade Jett Vox Sergeant Omen

 

[Jett Vox]

<bzzt> "Daylan Vox, SIR" Said Jett in the best soldier voice she could muster, she hesitated, considering she didn't have her rifle with her so, she reached down and drew her blaster pistol. "Father told us nothing of Mandalore, great or otherwise, and didn't teach us anything but Mando'a and how to live off the land. Dad... always said he wanted us to live peacefully, but death came anyway." She hesitated again, deciding between which was left and which was right, but then she turned hard left facing, still staring at the blaster,

"...but he kept this armor and these weapons, and the ship he gave me to escape with, so he must have... known... or at least, he must have wanted to be prepared. He did teach us how to wrestle, how to punch someone's throat or thumb out their eyeballs. He also taught us how to maim someone's genitals--" <bzzt> Jett cut herself off at that point, embarassed. Aren's kind words

Jett only knew attention as a prelude to punishment. When she or her sister snuck out at night or went with a boy he didn't approve of. Typical kid stuff. She knew attention, she guessed 'present arms' and she knew 'hard left' and 'about face' among a few others, but she just reacted automatically to an authoratative voice - especially when it felt like she'd done something wrong, and at this moment she felt like she'd done a lot wrong. <bzzt> "Yes sir, sorry sir!" <bzzt>

When Korda spoke to her again, this time more gently. Offering a spar, she nodded slowly and the tears stopped. Any distraction from her thoughts would be welcome. <bzzt> "Hand to hand? Armor only?" <bzzt> Jett holstered her pistol. She knew she probably couldn't take him in a straight fight, but Omen had only begun training her with blasters, and that training had been partial. Her best chance was toe-to-toe.

<bzzt> "No exploding fruit," <bzzt> she agreed, not aware of the inside joke.

Korda Veydran Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Korda Veydran]

The name hit first.
Daylan Vox.
Korda filed it away without visible reaction.
But he heard the rest.
The soldier tone. The automatic apology. The reflexive "sir."


When she finished and holstered the pistol, he stepped forward once, not closing distance, just centering himself in the ring.
"No weapons," he said evenly.
His voice wasn't sharp anymore. It carried command, but not heat.
"Hand to hand. Or blunt melee if you prefer."
He gestured toward the rack along the wall, practice staves, weighted batons, shock-muted training blades.

"Aim is not to kill. Not to maim. Not to prove dominance."
A small pause.
"To stun. To disarm. To unbalance. To knock down if necessary."
His helmet turned toward Omen.
"You'll referee."
Without flourish, Korda reached up and disengaged the mag-lock on his shoulder.

The Ashen Maw came free with a heavy mechanical click.
The massive slug-thrower looked even larger off his armor.
He stepped toward Omen and placed it in his hands.
Then removed his sidearm as well.
"No blasters. No explosives. No kill shots."
Clear. Final.

He stepped back into the center of the courtyard.
Balanced. Relaxed.
Waiting.
Not rushing her. Not crowding her.
"You set the pace," he said to Jett.
"If you need a moment, take it."

A faint tilt of his helmet.
"This isn't punishment."
A subtle beat of dry humor crept back in.
"I need to see how you move firsthand. The arena was… obstructed."

He glanced briefly at Omen.
"Hard to assess footwork when someone's bare forehead is flashing sunlight into your visor."
A couple of the watching trainees snorted.
Then his attention returned fully to Jett.
"When you're ready," he said simply.
And he waited.

Jett Vox Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Jett Vox]

Jett had thought of her whipcord, vibroblade and flamethrower as part of her armor, but after a look at Korda moving into a fighting stance, Jett decided to keep it a "fair" fight. She crouched low, her leg sweeping behind. Her right (back foot) stayed only slightly behind her left (front foot) as she pulled her arms down close to her knees. All at once, she thrust her shoulder forward, attempting to grapple his legs - either one or both - wrap her arms around it, lock her fingers together, and either try to use her weight to take him down, or if unable, lift and throw. These were the fundamentals of any wrestling. The double-leg or single-leg takedown.

Once in position, Jett had a series of options, including suplexes, throws, a hip toss, but mainly it was for the takedown. She just had to force her knee between his legs and pull on his thighs or calves, in order to take his legs out from under him. If he stiffened up, she could reverse the move, grab his waist, and suplex him over her shoulder, which was what she would attempt to do here.

Jett felt him stiffen immediately when he felt her weight bearing down on his larger form, so Jett reversed the momentum and drove her spine up, letting her arms slide up around his waist, gripping him and attempting with all her strength to hurl him back over her shoulder. Of course, in grappling, the opponent had many options too, including striking their opponent, attempting a standing breakaway, or trying for a lock (mainly a headlock, though that could work against you, and turn a suplex into a half-press drop) but Jett seemed determined to make the suplex a body throw, leveraging to keep her arms around his waist.

Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren did not step into the ring.

She stayed just outside it, her attention fixed on Jett rather than the mechanics of the fight itself. The movement happened quickly—Jett dropping low, committing forward, trying to take Korda off balance—and Aren didn't try to analyze the technique behind it. That wasn't where her focus lived.

She watched the intent.

The way Jett didn't hesitate once she moved. The way she adjusted when something didn't work. The effort, the instinct, the refusal to freeze.

That was what mattered.

Aren's voice came, calm and steady, cutting through the noise without raising above it.

"Keep going."

Not a correction. Not instruction.

Just grounding.

Her gaze stayed on Jett, unwavering, giving her something stable to orient around in the middle of the motion.

"You're not doing it wrong," she added quietly. "You're figuring it out."

There was no pressure in her tone. No expectation of perfection.

Only reassurance.

"Don't stop just because it isn't working the first way you expected."


She fell silent again after that, letting Jett move, letting her try, letting the moment belong to her without turning it into something to be judged or performed.

Jett Vox Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

Omen wondered if he should put his helmet on to hide the smile on his face as his student and Vod faced off. Korda would be a formidable opponent, especially if they went all out but having something to prove was a force that was hard to quantify. Jett could not easily be written off. Who knows, maybe the young lady would even surprise her instructor. He was about to offer some encouragement when he heard Korda's last bard thrown his way. All comfort got thrown out at window after that as he patted his student's back to help with her nerves and leaned into whisper. "Kid, force him to the ground and beat his ass. I'll make all the ori'skraans you can stomach during this trip if you do." If Jett couldn't, he just might enter the ring himself just to the comments to stop.

The Clone stepped into outside of the ring, making sure both fighters were ready. Raising his hand up, he gave two last second glances to both fighters before counting out. "Cuir! Ehn! T'ad! Akaanir!" With that, he let the two opponents go at it. Jett quickly jumped out of her box and to Omen's amazement, actually tried to lift the big man, something that even the ARC didn't think was possible. And yet, here she was actively taking down a full Mandalorian Commando. Omen didn't think this day could get much better

He quickly flashed a smile Aren's way as thanks for keeping Jett's sprits up. Aren's words would hopefully help some as Jett battled for a place in this new society. He half wanted to say some encouraging words himself but then Korda would probably scold him for being an impartial judge. Not like he needed an excuse. If Jett did look his way though, she would see him holding up his holopad up with its message saying "Not matter what, we will always be proud of you."

Jett Vox , Aren D'Shade , Korda Veydran

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda feels her shift for the suplex and widens his base immediately, weight dropping just enough to make the lift difficult.
He rotates at the hips, attempting to peel her grip loose with a twist rather than brute force, one gauntleted hand catching the front of her chestplate to control distance.


"Good transition," he remarks, voice steady.
He draws a knee upward toward her midsection, controlled, measured, testing whether she protects her core or stays committed to the throw.
Whether it lands is up to her.

He uses the motion to attempt separation, stepping off-line rather than shoving straight back, creating space between them if she allows it.

A low chuckle hums through his helmet.
"Commitment's good," he says, beginning to circle. "But your lift loads early."


He steps back in.
A right hook arcs toward her rib plating, not full power, but fast enough to test her guard.
He follows it with a forward snap of his helmet , a headbutt aimed to disrupt, not crush.
Both strikes are cleanly telegraphed to a trained eye.
Opportunities.


He shifts his weight back again, balanced, watching her response rather than pressing recklessly.
"You've got openings," he says calmly. "I'll help you close them."
He feints with his left shoulder this time, smaller movement, gauging whether she bites on it.
"I'm not training you like my heavy infantry," he continues. "They get broken down first."

A slight tilt of his head.
"With you? We build."
He advances again, controlled pressure, not overwhelming, forcing her to decide.
"Adapt," he says.
"Show me you can think while moving."

Sergeant Omen Aren D'Shade Jett Vox

 

[Jett Vox]

Jett released her grip when he broke away, straightening up and driving both hands down to block his knee, forcing his leg back down. He separated and aimed a slow punch at her chest plate. Not impressed, she knocked away his punch with her wrist, but the headbutt caught her right in the helmet, sending stars across her vision, sending her reeling backwards. She steadied herself, then squared her body to a fighting stance.

<bzzt> "Okay," she responded quietly <bzzt>

His feint drew her in, because she expected a left handed strike, so she straight punched at his helmet. Dancing back when she struck to avoid being struck back. Then (regardless of whether she hit or not) Jett crouched down again, and this time redoubled her attempt to grab him. Omen and Aren's encouragement rang through her head. All she had to do was ... Jett grabbed at his thigh and bore her shoulder into him. The single leg takedown was harder, but still possible. If he lost his balance on his other leg, he would be hers, and one of the harder things to do would be to keep balance in all that armor.

Jett shoved hard with her shoulder, putting her whole body into it. <bzzt> "Break me down, then! Don't treat me any different!" she said, as she tried to force him down to the ground. Once he was on the ground, Jett betted she was the better grappler.

Aren D'Shade Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen

 

[Korda Veydran]

She bites on the feint.
The straight punch fires clean and direct.
This time it lands.

Her knuckles crack against his helmet with a sharp metallic snap, turning his head just enough to shift his footing. His upper body rocks slightly off-center, the weight of his armor pulling him a fraction too far to one side.

For half a heartbeat.
He is off-balance.
And she sees it.
Good instinct.

But thirty-one years inside armor like this has taught him something most young fighters never learn:
Balance in beskar isn't about staying upright.
It's about falling correctly.
As his weight tips, he rolls with it instead of resisting. His planted foot pivots, knee bending deep, redistributing his mass downward instead of backward.

And as she drops for the single leg
He drives his knee upward.
Not wild.
Timed.

Using the rebound from the punch's impact, channeling the shift in momentum into the rising strike aimed to disrupt her forward drive before she can secure the leg.

"Better," he growls, not angry, approving.
She hits him again with that shoulder, grabbing for his thigh.
He absorbs it.
But this time his stance widens instantly, reflex honed by decades of drilling in full kit.

"In armor," he says sharply, even as he fights her grip, "you don't fight the weight..."
His hand drops toward her belt line, attempting to hook and control her center of gravity.
"...you become the weight."

He attempts to twist his hips and torque sideways, trying to peel her off balance instead of brute-forcing her upward.
"It's been a while," he adds with a short laugh, breath steady despite the impact, "since a foundling actually rang my helmet."
He surges forward if she gives ground, shoulder lining up toward her center mass, but not fully committing his weight in case she slips aside.
"You hit well," he says bluntly.
"Now finish better."

Jett Vox Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen

 

[Jett Vox]

He landed many more punches and strikes on her than she did, but that was to be expected. Jett wasn't fighting for victory here, but demonstrating her ability, and putting up the best fight she could in a spar. This wasn't a fight for her life, but all in all, she was pleased with how she defended herself. The biggest punch had glanced off her back.

She thought she saw an opportunity as they locked up, him twisting to try and hip-toss her, and instead of fighting the momentum, she tightened her grasp, and tried to take him with her. Then he surged forward, and Jett shifted her momentum again, taking Omen, Korda, and Aren's advice. This time, she fell backwards, shifted her grasp to his arms, and planted her foot squarely into his midsection.

Her leg shook, trembling, but then extended upward. Then faltered. She was trying a simple toss but the weight of Korda's armor and physique was beyond what she could carry - even with all the heavy farmwork she'd done in her lifetime, without droids, without special tools, with just her hands and primitive means - and it was still not enough. Korda's weight collapsed on top of her, and Jett let out an "Oof" that didn't translate through her voice amplifier.

Instead, she struggled underneath him for a while, kicking and trying to roll out from his bulky suit. Jett's eyes were rolling around under her helmet, the crushing weight still managing to be felt through her own chestplate. Beskar wasn't super heavy, at a third the weight of most comparable metals, but that weight was still a lot for a girl her age, size and newness to combat.

Her arm shot out and she slapped her hand against the floor indicating her surrender. Tapping out.

<bzzt> "Get..." she groaned, "...offa... me... you... big... LUG!" <bzzt> at that last moment, Jett used all her strength to try and launch Korda off of her. Hands, knees, and the adrenaline of the moment hitting all at once.

<bzzt> "Okay, okay, I see what you're talking about. Weight is a tool, I just don't weigh much and I need a better tool." Then she stopped for a second, "Or I just need to get a lot fatter." <bzzt>

Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen Aren D'Shade

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren had remained just outside the ring, still and attentive, her focus fixed on Jett from the moment the spar shifted from casual testing into something that required real effort. She didn't track the precision of each strike or counter; she watched the way Jett responded to the pressure, the choices she made when things stopped going her way, the stubbornness that kept her moving even when the outcome was already tilting against her.

And then she saw the moment Jett tapped.

Aren stepped forward the instant the spar ended, not rushing but moving with quiet certainty, closing the distance as Korda eased his weight off the girl. She crouched beside Jett as she caught her breath, one hand settling lightly at the edge of her shoulder plate—steadying, not fussing.

"You stayed in it," Aren said, her voice low but sure. It wasn't praise for skill or outcome. It was the part she understood.

"You didn't shut down. You didn't retreat just because it stopped going the way you wanted. You kept trying to find your footing." There was warmth in her tone now, something personal threaded through the evenness.

"That's harder than it looks." Her gaze moved briefly over Jett's posture, checking for anything that suggested real injury, then returned to her faceplate. "And you stopped when you needed to," she added. "That matters just as much."

A small pause followed, the kind that let the moment settle rather than push it forward.

Then, softer: "You're not supposed to beat him yet." There was the faintest curl of dry humor at the edge of her mouth, but no sting in it.

"He's been doing this longer than you've been alive. The fact that he had to take you seriously at all…" Her eyes flicked toward Korda for a heartbeat before returning to Jett. "That's already more than most manage."

Her hand gave a light, grounding squeeze to Jett's shoulder before she straightened, giving her space again instead of hovering.

"And for the record," Aren added, a subtle smile touching her lips, "getting 'a lot fatter' is not the solution." A brief glance toward Omen. "We can find better tools than that."Then her attention settled fully back on Jett, steady and certain. "You did well."

Jett Vox Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen

 

[Korda Veydran]

For a second after the tap, Korda doesn't move.
He feels it through the armor.
Clear. Deliberate.
He shifts immediately, rolling his weight off her instead of just pushing up. No lingering dominance, no theatrics. He plants a knee, rises, and then turns back.

A hand extends toward her.
"Up," he says simply.
When she takes it, he hauls her to her feet with controlled strength, not yanking, not proving anything.
"You fought better than I expected," he adds, voice steady. "You made me think. That's rarer than you'd assume."

His helmet tilts slightly at her comment.
"I am not fat."

A beat.
"I am extremely well-built under this armor."
There's the faintest hint of smugness in it.
He steps back, studying her stance again, already evaluating.

"You don't need more weight on your body," he continues. "You need more weight in your training."
He taps a knuckle lightly against her chestplate.
"We make a durasteel copy of your armor. Same fit. Heavier. You drill in that."
He gestures to his own suit.

"When you master movement under excess load, your real armor feels light. Second skin. Reaction speed increases. Balance improves."
A short, rough chuckle.
"Some days I have to check if I'm wearing mine… or just walking around in my natural glory."
He reaches up and unseals his helmet. The faint hiss of pressure release escapes before he lifts it free and clips it to his belt.
Oro, who had coiled herself along a nearby ledge during the spar, immediately slithers down and winds around his forearm, settling there like she owns the place.

"She does," he mutters dryly, glancing at the serpent. "Don't let it go to your head."
From a pouch at his belt, he pulls a cigar and bites the end cleanly before lighting it. The ember glows as he draws in slowly, then exhales through his nose in a thin stream.

He starts to angle it toward Jett.
Stops.
His eyes narrow slightly.
"You're still growing," he says flatly, lowering it. "You don't need this."

He turns instead toward Omen.
"Want one?"
Then his gaze shifts back to Jett, more serious now.
"You did well," he says, and this time there's no edge to it.

"You didn't panic under weight. You tried to solve the problem. That's what matters."
His eyes flick briefly toward Aren.
"She's right. You're not supposed to beat me yet."
Then back to Jett.

"But the day you do…"
A slow exhale of smoke.
"…I expect it to be clean."

Sergeant Omen Aren D'Shade Jett Vox

 

[Jett Vox]

Jett reached up and pulled off her helmet after he helped her up, her hair spilling around her like an orange halo. "Durast--" she said in shock, but cut herself off and just nodded, and then her expression changed to shock again, "Natural glo-- you mean naked? I'm.. I'm not doing that." Jett's eyes changed course, and saw the creature slithering up around Korda's arm. "What is that anyway? A pet? A friend? Does it talk? Can it talk?" She reached up and put her hand on Aren's which was still on her shoulder, squeezing it gently. Then she saw the cigar and narrowed her eyes.

"Is that one of those death stick things?" She muttered afterwords, "I kinda want one now," she then realized, as Korda complimented her, that her legs were shaking, her arms felt like rubber and all she wanted to do was sit down. Instead she reached up and pulled her chest plate free letting it hang loose while she took a strong breath. After her breathing calmed, she slapped the armor piece back into place and looked over where Omen was, casually smoking with Korda.

"So this is all they do here?" she said to Aren, a little worry in her eyes, "Just train constantly? Is that what it means to be a Mandalorian?" Doubts spun around in her head, thinking of what her father said, about the Mandalorian being a bitter, tough fruit. Was that a compliment or an insult? Korda seemed to think it was the latter. Jett wasn't sure.

Then she grinned and looked at Korda, "So what's next then?" and suddenly her legs wobbled out from under her and she found herself leaning on Aren for a moment. Realizing her weight with all the armor on, she mouthed an apology and struggled back to standing. Jett was resolved to figure out this whole Mandalorian thing out.

"Let's get this show on the road."

Aren D'Shade Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda watches her helmet come off, orange hair spilling free, and for a second his expression softens before he schools it back into something more neutral.

"Durasteel," he repeats calmly.
At her alarm over "natural glory," one brow lifts.
"Yes. Naked," he says flatly. "You suggested it, not me."
A slow drag from the cigar.
"And no, that is not part of the training curriculum."

Her attention shifts to Oro.
Korda glances down at the serpent coiled comfortably around his forearm.
"She's a fluffnose hognose," he says, tone quieter now. "Name's Oro."
Oro flicks her tongue once, unimpressed by the attention.


"She's a pet. Companion. No, she doesn't talk." A faint pause. "And I'm not certain there are any like her.. well anywhere"
There's something almost protective in the way his hand adjusts slightly beneath her coils.
Then Jett narrows her eyes at the cigar.
"It's a cigar," he corrects. "Not a death stick."
A glance at her.

"You don't need one of those either."
He notices the tremor in her legs before she does. The way she tightens her armor again, forcing steadiness.
When she asks Aren about constant training, something in his posture shifts.
He exhales slowly, smoke drifting upward.

"Mandalorian doesn't mean constant sparring," he says. "Training matters. Discipline matters. But that's not the core."
He steps a little closer, voice less sharp now.
"It's family. It's honor. It's choosing who stands beside you."
His gaze flicks briefly to Aren. Then Omen.
"Family isn't just blood."

Without warning, he hooks an arm around Omen's neck and yanks him into a rough headlock, cigar still clenched between his teeth.
"I consider this fuck head family," he says around the smoke, laughing as Omen inevitably protests.
He releases him after a second with a firm clap to the shoulder.

"That's Mandalorian."
His eyes settle back on Jett.
"If you want a taste of it, I'll give you one."
He looks to Aren and Omen properly now, respectful.

"I can provide a room for you both. Stay a night or two."
Then back to Jett.
"I'd like one month with her. Let her see what it actually means. Work. Eat. Train. Build. Not just fight."
He studies her, measuring.

"If you're willing. And if they agree."
A small nod.
"One month. Then you decide what this life is worth."

He taps ash from the cigar.
"And if you stay…"
A faint smirk touches his mouth.
"…then we get you that heavier armor."

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen Jett Vox

 

[Sergeant Omen]

They all would hear a snort as Omen couldn't help himself. He had to hand it to the girl, she was funny. As the two fighters finally broke apart and got to their feet, Omen gave them both a standing ovation as did the other spectators. "It's more about how you use your core and try to redirect the attack. It's probably why Korda can generate more power than you can. Then most of us can." It's why Korda could probably beat a Huk in a weightlifting challenge; the guy was that much of a monster.

All of Aren's points were like his own on the fight. Jett was meant to get humbled; it was the only way to be truly trained. Hopefully this experience would push her to be better than Korda himself. Flashing a grin back to Aren, he echoed them. "Like Aren said, it's a step forward and now you got new skills to use if you find your needing them. Especially if your opponent is fat." Unfortunately for Korda, all is fair in love and war.

Despite his dismissive snort, Omen had to admit the armor was a good training method. It was like one of those weight vests, only all over your body. He bet Jett's body would only last accouple of laps of the track they had here with all that weight on, but they had to break her down somehow. Might as well start by giving her body aches for the rest of her days.

When Korda offered a cigar, he just waved it away. "Thanks, but I don't have the fire belly you do. Never seen the need for those things unless they are for pain relief. Aren isn't a smoker either." When Korda reinforced the misunderstanding of what "natural glow" meant, Omen just sighed and rubbed his temples. "I don't know if I should be concerned, that's what you think 'natural glow' means, or you actually want a Death Stick... Those things can kill you know. Just like Aren does when she has her natural glow on." Not that anyone would have denied that face, but maybe Aren, but still, he had to pour on the compliments or else the scary tech woman might think he didn't love her anymore.

Korda wasn't exactly wrong, but he wasn't exactly right. "My definition is a little bit more involved than that. Sure, being Mandalorian is about having a family unit or a clan, however you want to put it, but it's also about sharpening yourself against your peers. Making both you and them better in both a physical sense and supporting them in an emotional one. You live and die by each other, so you'd better choose the right friends." It's one of the reasons he didn't have many friends. And he wished he had one less, as Korda put him into the dreaded headlock. "Arennnn! Can you please shock this fool for me!?" And if she didn't, some well-placed punches to the ribs would.

When Korda actually did let him go and gave his offer, Omen mockingly sighed as he had just been given free credits he thought had been cursed. "I guess I'll be able to put up with you and your cruelties a while longer. I don't know about Aren, though. Our brotherly love is probably making her sick to her stomach." The look he gave Jett told her that it was her choice if she accepted or not. It was her life and her decisions, and Omen wouldn't have it any other way. Till she chose the wrong one, of course.

Aren D'Shade Korda Veydran Jett Vox

 

[Aren D'Shade]

Aren didn't shift much when Jett leaned into her, just enough to take the weight without drawing attention to the fact that she was doing it. Her hand slid from Jett's shoulder to her upper arm in a quiet, grounding gesture, steadying her without taking over the work of standing.

Her gaze flicked briefly toward Korda as he spoke, then returned to Jett with that calm, certain focus she carried so easily.

"No," she said softly. "That's not all they do."

The words settled for a moment before she added, almost reflective, "It's just the loudest part."

Her eyes moved across the courtyard, the watchers, the training lines, the rhythm of the place, taking in the structure of it all before settling back on the girl beside her.

"Training is visible. It's measurable. It's something you can point to." Her voice gentled, the edge of analysis giving way to something more personal. "But what he said matters more than that."

Family. Choice. Who stands beside you.

She didn't repeat the words; she didn't need to. The meaning hung between them anyway.

Jett's question lingered longer, though, and Aren felt the weight of it. Her hand gave a light, reassuring squeeze before easing away as Jett found her balance again.

"You don't have to decide what it means today," she said. "Or this week."

Her attention drifted briefly to Korda at the mention of a month, then to Omen, reading both of them with that quiet, thoughtful precision she never announced but always used.

Then she looked back to Jett.

"A month isn't a contract," she said. "It's just time. Time to see what fits… and what doesn't."

Her expression softened, something protective threading through the steadiness of it.

"And if any part of it feels wrong," she added, voice still gentle but carrying a firmer undercurrent, "you walk away. No one here gets to decide that for you."

A beat passed, enough to let the seriousness settle, before a faint thread of dry humor slipped back into her tone.

"But if you stay," she said, glancing toward Korda, "we're absolutely negotiating the 'heavier armor' part."

Her eyes returned to Jett, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

"Preferably without you collapsing on me every time you take a step."

Not quite a tease. Just enough to make the world feel steady again.

Sergeant Omen Korda Veydran Jett Vox

 

[Korda Veydran]

Omen runs his mouth. As expected. It's honestly impressive how consistent he is.
When the word fat lands again, Korda doesn't even look irritated.
He just steps forward.

One hand clamps onto the seam where Omen's chest plate meets his midsection armor.
And lifts.
Clean.
Controlled.

Omen's boots leave the ground by a few inches, just enough to make the point. Korda doesn't strain. Doesn't posture. He simply holds him there, cigar still balanced at the corner of his mouth.

"Core," Korda says calmly, glancing at Jett. "Is not the same thing as fat."
He gives Omen a light shake for emphasis, not violent, just humiliating.
"This is structure."
Then he sets him back down like returning equipment to a rack.

As if nothing happened.
His eyes move to Aren when she mentions negotiating the heavier armor.
"No," he says simply.
There's no aggression in it. Just certainty.

"Heavier armor is the best training I know."
He taps his own chest plate.
"It teaches reflex under burden. Teaches your body to respond before your mind finishes thinking."
A glance at Jett.

"If you can move fast in full durasteel, you move faster in beskar. Every recruit I've trained learned that way. It's what built me."
No brag. Just fact.
He shifts his weight slightly, the earlier humor settling into something more grounded.
"With enough training," he continues, looking at Jett directly now, "any clan would take you."
That hangs there a moment.

Korda rolls his shoulders once, settling the weight of the moment as naturally as he settles armor.
"I'm rebuilding Clan Veydran," he repeats, tone steady. "Stone by stone."
His gaze stays on Jett.
"I won't beg for members. And I won't pad numbers for pride."

A faint curl at the corner of his mouth.
"If you ever chose to join it, it would be because you earned it. Not because I offered it in a courtyard after a spar."
That lands first.
Then he adjusts the line slightly.

"But."
He takes the cigar from his mouth, taps ash aside.
"If you accept the month… while you're here, you train under my banner."
Not possessive.

Structured.
"You represent Clan Veydran in this yard. You answer to me. You wear the weight of my instruction."
His eyes sharpen just slightly.

"That means discipline. That means standard. That means if you embarrass yourself, you embarrass my name."
A beat.
"And if you excel…" he adds evenly, "you honor it."
No pressure. Just clarity.

"This isn't joining," he says plainly. "It's standing beneath a sigil long enough to understand what it demands."
His gaze flicks to Aren and Omen, respectful.
"She remains her own person. Her own choice. That doesn't change."
Then back to Jett.

"But for that month… you are under my banner."
A slow inhale.
"If at the end of it you decide this life fits you…"
A faint, almost imperceptible softness enters his tone.
"…then we can speak about what it means to carry Veydran as more than a teacher's mark."

He slips the cigar back between his teeth.
"No rush."
Then, blunt again:
"So. Are you visiting."
"Or are you training?"

Aren D'Shade Sergeant Omen Jett Vox

 

[Jett Vox]

"Any clan? I don't want any clan. I want this clan," she said, drawing her hair back behind her head. "If I can't qualify for this clan--" she looked at Aren, then back at Korda "--then I'll walk away. I don't know anyone else. I want to fight for my friends, and take care of the people who took care of me. If I can't do that, then I don't deserve to be here. I may as well go back home and hand myself over to the Chistori." She said, giving the first clue to who had chased her off her homeworld. Chistori were cold-blooded reptilians known for ultra-violence and xenophobia, but they did potentially live near or in the Unknown Regions, and that would be enough to make easy targets out of a settler group seeking to stay off the grid from Mandalorian colonies.

"I'll do whatever it takes. Anything. I'll chew dried bantha leather, or bathe in nerf-sweat if I have to. I'll run every day, a hundred miles wearing dura-steel armor. I'll do whatever it takes. I won't stop until I'm finished, or I'm dead." Her determination belied her previous reluctance. Jett added, "If I embarass you, you can kill me yourself. I mean... I probably will embarass you... at least for the first few weeks..." She reached up and scratched the back of her head, "but once I get my bearings, then you can kill me... or not... or whatever... Your call, I guess." Her bravado was gone in an instant, replaced by teenage indecisiveness.

Then she shrugged and placed her helmet down at her feet, undoing straps and harnesses, until she could strip out of her Mandalorian armor. It had been weeks, maybe a month since she'd been out of her armor, so with it came pale skin, rough with sand and grime, and a smell that could wake the dead. A smell that being near her had hinted at very slightly. Jett cringed and retched when she smelled herself, and thankfully the air carried the bulk of it away right away. Jett stood in a grimy black tanktop and her underwear, kicking to try to dislodge the armor from her pruned calf.

"Sorry! Sorry... sorry... sorry," she apologized and then piled her helmet atop her armor, before heaping it into her arms. Even with the chill it was a relief to have her armor off, but it was still rank with human smell and Jett was hardly a field of flowers herself. "I just couldn't handle it anymore. That was just gross. Do you have a shower around here?"

Aren D'Shade Korda Veydran Sergeant Omen

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda's eyes softened just slightly at Jett's fire.
At the way she made it clear she wanted this clan above any other.
He nodded once, slow and deliberate, as if weighing her words.

"You've got that fire," he said quietly, almost to himself.
Then louder, to her:
"As acting leader of Clan Veydran, since you are a foundling with no clan… I'll gladly accept you into it."

There was no hesitation in his tone, but it carried weight. Expectation.

"Under my instruction, under my banner… you will fight, you will train, and you will learn.
And yes," he added, glancing at her shoulders, "I will expect that fire in every session. Even the ones that are… history, or study. Not every day will be fighting."

He chuckled, looking down at the pile of her armor, then away, giving her a moment of respect.
"Bold," he said.
"To undress in the main yard like that… one hell of a way to get attention."

He moved to a small hatch in the floor, pulled out a towel, and tossed it lightly toward her.
"Community shower," he said.
Then, almost casually, "Or… the one in my personal quarters. Only I have the code for that. Privacy if you prefer. I don't blame you. Some days, even I change out of armor because… well, it tends to smell."

He stepped back, letting the offer hang in the air.
His eyes flicked to Aren and Omen, measuring their reactions, then back to Jett.

"Choice is yours. You decide which."

A faint grin touched his lips.
"Either way… fire and determination like yours? You'll fit right in."

Aren D'Shade Jett Vox Sergeant Omen

 

[Sergeant Omen]

As Korda held him up, a lot of thoughts were going through Omen's mind. It was mostly cursing a storm up at Korda that wouldn't be polite in front of the onlookers. Instead, he went with a dry "It's so fun being bullied in front of my family..." Starting to swing back and forth, his feet ran up Korda's chest and kicked off the giant, with Omen hoping it would be enough to get out of the giant's grip. Either way, there would be hell to pay before this visit was over.

When Korda looked over at the Clone, he could tell he was not happy. He managed to put up a smile as he turned to Jett. "You can wait if you need time. When you don't have a good think in the shower, we will be right here when you get out." Omen was trying to push the blunt proposal away that Korda was pushing on her for Jett's shake. She didn't need to make a deal with the devil now. The girl could hold off signing that contract for a little while yet.

When Jett had left hearing range, Omen's miffed-off face told the big man everything he was thinking. "You know, for someone who understands tactical situations, you have the Tact of Star Destroyer. I brought her here to be trained, not to be pressured into some group she hardly knows about yet. And before you call me some kinda helicopter parent, if she wants to join your clan, I will respect it because that's her choice. It's also known that if I don't, you might strong-arm her into something she might regret, if she is alive to do that in the first place. Clenching his fists for only a moment, Korda would half think the Clone wanted to let the crowd have another show. But after a couple of seconds, he took a breath and slowly uncoiled. "I pity the woman who has to knock you upside the head every day to teach you some sense..." Omen's exasperated face turned to Aren, looking done with this situation. "I'm... gonna try to find the Inn... Give myself a little time to cool down... I'll see you later, Hun." And with a kiss on Aren's cheek, off he went down the cobble sidewalk, trying his best not to punch something.

Korda Veydran , Jett Vox , Aren D'Shade