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