Private War Stories beneath Sundari

[Aloy Vizsla]

Tag: Carduul Akahl

Aloy's mechanical fingers dragged along the worn stone wall.

Artificial sensory lines contained within afforded an approximation of feeling.

Of nerves.

Of touch.

Of something so distantly familiar, so nostalgic. But it was all wrong now, neither warm nor cold, like trying to feel through another's skin— Ha'rangir she hated it. But it wasn't the stone's fault. Though worn by a lifetime of abandonment the old Nite Owl bunker was surprisingly intact and incredibly dry. Maybe a little too dry, actually, but relatively speaking her secret fortifications held up well. The supporting struts which doubled as cover in a firefight that never came continued to hold up the duracrete sky despite bombings and construction in the city above. Some of the tunnels leading in had filled with rubble but the important ones, the most secret ones, remained.

And though she could spot it's black surface beneath where the corners had worn, the scan-proof reflec backing survived.

Nite Owls built their coverts to last, and the Grandmaster should have been pleased with her owlet's work.

But all she could think about were the people who used to work with her in these very halls. She passed an old server room, the piled data disks beside it still melted to useless slag which had long since cooled, bearing the mark of her very own plasma-caster.

A desk where they once processed vital intelligence now lay empty, save for a dusty old helm. She wiped away the gray-brown substance, creating dark blue streaks where old paint showed.

She remembered watching the woman leave her buy'ce behind when the owls disbanded.

What was her name again...?​

...Kast. Riin Kast, that sounded right.

What really struck her though were a pair of familiar doors, welded shut.

High above these doors was a blue banner, frayed and pocked with moth holes, the emblem of her owls now off-white.

Aloy clenched her cybernetic fist.

Why the frak am did I come back? she thought.

Logically, it was because Carduul Akahl had requested to meet with her of all people. To discuss history. It made sense, she supposed. All the old guard were dead or demented, and she'd seen more than most. Emotionally however her reasons—even for speaking with him—were more complicated.

<"Gar oyacir, jor'bic ni partaylir."> she murmered.

Then she leveled her gauntlet at the pole from which the banner hung, quickly melting through either end with her plasma-caster.

It descended and she caught it in her metallic grasp before a single thread could touch the ground.

Then she began to respectfully fold with military precision it while she waited.

 

[Carduul Akahl]

A gauntlet touched upon aged architecture on the way inside. Cracked and marred with stories never told in words.

Why had he come, when so many other matters would ever demand his attention?

It was the people that mattered. Every one of them. Each story precious. Each chronicle a piece of history. Different ideals, thoughts, subtle shades of the same color that made the word ‘Mando’ade’.

And Carduul had ever remained a Scholar at heart. There would always come a time to reflect upon one’s actions. Perhaps his time was simply thus. To settle, reconsolidate, take a step back to look upon it all. Whether he was judged Mand’alor, or not, he was ever learning. To proclaim his knowledge boundless, and his judgement flawless, would be folly. He still had a people to safeguard, and only one of sound mind could do so.

Clan Vizsla held a vast history. Home Clan to The Wrathful, whom the Crusaders had sought so ardently to model after his prime. The Black Fleet, who fought across the stars against a threat that diminished with each passing day. And now, it had all fallen to Aloy Vizsla. A jaded woman, this he knew; who had survived the ages battered and scarred, but alive. Seen countless who held his title, who backed their claim, rise and fall. He had been surprised to see her properly at last, upon Mandalore. The fact she had fought at all on behalf of her kin upon her own terms, unmarred by the Sith, the Jedi, or any other wretched faction, was solace enough. All had their own Crusades.

He was here to learn of hers.

The tell-tale taps of his poleaxe were first to announce his presence. “Alor Vizsla.” The words came as steady as the footsteps that followed through the hall leading here. Not loud, but with familiar weight—like the slow toll of a war bell. His visor had tilted with his entrance, wandering to soak in the locale. Those small details of dust that gathered where once operations must have taken place. Old emblems, of a holdout for a battle he had never seen. Aged stone and iron memories all around them. Then it had all come to a halt, to rest upon her, the haft of his weapon resting against the floor with a slight release.

“I am honored you offered such a place to speak. I welcome more stories to know, and it alone tells more.” A measure of grace, in his voice. Grateful, in earnest, that after so long he would still be able to be beholden to such locations he hadn’t yet seen. “I am gladdened you and your kin yet live. I had hoped your ilk were among the stars, somewhere.”

Aloy Vizsla​

 

[Aloy Vizsla]

Tag: Carduul Akahl

The old gunslinger already had a hand on her holster when the crusader made himself known.

She didn't plan to draw on him, just old habits kept fresh by the life she continued to lead. It wasn't until she spotted that mask rounding the corner, confirmed his identity, that she released the death grip on her old pistol.

Instead her arm rested casually atop the head of her armorer's hammer.

"Anointed." she dipped her helmed chin in greeting.

Nevertheless, her voice carried some regret.

"No one's called me Alor since the shadow crusade."

She folded the last corner of the banner while he spoke, carefully setting it aside on the remains of a holo-table. Though difficult to tell behind the owl's Y-visor, she kept an eye on him at all times, soaking in every detail surely as the scholar himself. Despite being a head taller than herself, he did not carry himself like a brute. His voice however surprised her most. He sounded too young for one who spoke in such cordial tones and antiquated words.

Qualities that Mand'alors thrice his age often lacked.

"I... am likewise honored. Few willingly subject themselves to my stories and... colorful opinions." she chuckled dryly.

Then she gestured at the ruins all around them.

"There are hundreds of these coverts all around the system. Caches, safe houses, and listening posts now inert."

"The Nite Owls never had an official home, you see. As Mand'alor the Reclaimer's secret police and intelligence network, it was better for everyone that neither friend nor foe knew where to find us."

"...it took a lot of trust to make this work."

Then again, maybe that was exactly why it didn't in the end.

Aloy idly scratched the surface of her hammer before deciding to move on.

"When my owls disbanded, we took those lessons with us."

"Our ilk survives among the stars because we do not allow ourselves to be pinpointed either."

"The Black Fleet never stays in one place for long. We learned quickly not to get attached to walls and roofs."

 

[Carduul Akahl]

His grip did not tense when he saw hers stray near the firearm. Faith to be placed unto those of his kin. The armorer’s hammer was seen with a pointed look, once she over to touch upon it. Carduul wouldn’t have known otherwise, that she was skilled in such a trade. He hadn’t spoken to one individually in quite some time—bothering them for stories, as well, if he recalled.

“None see fit to call me ‘Anointed’ barring those who yet choose me to serve them. Yet here we are.” Was the lilted reply, keen to uplift from the trace of regret he detected. Titles, merely words in that moment, as she had said. “We may dispense with formalities now, if it would be of comfort. T’would set the stage more fitting, to speak upon tales of old. I am Carduul Akahl.”

A quiet laugh left him thereafter, to echo against the walls in tandem with hers. Stories were lifeblood to a culture like this. From the terrible, to the great. Failures and triumphs. “Every Mandalorian has colorful opinions of some ilk. I, a crusader by heart, oft’ hold the most contentious.”

The armor, so wonderfully crafted by Clan Prahl, reflected the Y-visor in its own. Vantablack, a nearly indiscernible abyss, yet still found expression seeping through from tone alone. Younger than the ones who preceded him by far—stories and lessons had shaped him nonetheless, and they continued to do so to this day. Further experience to be had would ever temper the rest.

“Home is where we make it. It does not need to be official to find comfort in.” Was the simple reply, unseen face following her gesture with a flicker of eyes. Coverts, how he never sat with the ideal despite their necessity. Longing to for the Mandalorian people stand proud, unashamed. Unattached, on their lonesome. “Even the small camps, the roaming bands. I lived in one such myself, before this. It would seem the Black Fleet yet holds an inspiration to others.”

T’was heartening to see, that sense of community yet remained in faint glimmers as she stressed upon the word our. Even after all this time. “Such a lesson that it seems I shall yet share in.” He acknowledged, in quiet reverence. Mandalore was no longer under his jurisdiction. But still, it was Neo-Crusader doctrine to be attached to infrastructure. His warriors had done plenty, in brief absence. “The perseverance of our kin despite that, never ceases to be one of its greatest attributes. It is why we stand, now.”

She had mentioned the Reclaimer. Secret police and intelligence, to detail a trust that may or may not have been truthful. Steps had led towards the table, with the poleaxe to be slung across his back. His hands left bereft, as he gently placed them upon the table. “I know of what came before. Of Mand’alor the Wrathful’s righteous fury, the wretched Redeemer and sickened Undying locked in Civil War. The Red Coronation, drawing outrage amidst all. But the time of the Reconciliator, and the Reclaimer who halted such vile collusion, remains shrouded in shadow to me. I suppose that warrants, with the moniker I come to ask you of.”

Aloy Vizsla​

 

[Aloy Vizsla]

Tag: Carduul Akahl

Aloy chuckled at the decided casualty of their tone.

It wasn't that she disliked her old title, it just wasn't hers to be called. Not since Kranak Vizsla took it in her stead.

The rest of his words tore her perception of their purpose between genuine interest or to comfort. She doubted anyone saw the Black Fleet as an inspiration, for it had always been a thing of great controversy and enigmatic to the point of being forgotten. Why else would miserable fools speak to her in such a way as the Gen'dai, if not because her conquests were already forgotten?

Who among the Mando'ade still sang of the "Akaan'werda" ?

The old Vizsla just crossed her arms, leaning back against the wall.

“I know of what came before. Of Mand’alor the Wrathful’s righteous fury, the wretched Redeemer and sickened Undying locked in Civil War. The Red Coronation, drawing outrage amidst all. But the time of the Reconciliator, and the Reclaimer who halted such vile collusion, remains shrouded in shadow to me. I suppose that warrants, with the moniker I come to ask you of.”

"It speaks volumes that you do not know." she sighed.

"But that fault is not yours. It is mine, but not alone..."

Though she supposed it would be better to tell him the whole story, let him decide on his own.

"We'll start from the beginning, with a man they called Mand'alor the Conciliator."

"He rose to power on Sith credits after the purge. Some say he was naïve to the suffering oh his people, others that he willingly sold us out. All that can really be said is that he allowed our people to die in camps and laboratories under his watch, kidnapped and stripped of their beskar by Death Watch."

Death Watch. she practically growled their name.

"When I was but a young soldier, Mand'alor the Reclaimer split our forces, invaded Mandalore while the Sith were distracted with our headquarters on Myrkr, facing a skeleton crew."

"I watched them crucify The Conciliator in the square on my way to the victory feast."

"Seeing first hand what he'd done to our people I..." she paused.

"...I don't blame them."

"Seen too many Graug eat our kin alive, or Death Watch turn them into Tal'beskar, to believe in mercy anymore."