Private We Who Remain

[Aloy Vizsla]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Jenn Kryze

Archangel station was abuzz once more.

Automated defenses tracked the arriving ship, then were quickly rendered inert. Retrofit cruisers, most former imperial vessels now emblazoned with the mythosaur and black hand, parted for the newcomer, while codes and protocol were exchanged over the comms in native Mando'a.

The master of House Kryze was given access to the most enigmatic shadow port of their time, a mobile star-fortress that never stayed in one place for long, crewed by the remnants of a shadow organization that once struck fear into the hearts of imperialists from Manda'yaim to Jutrand.

As the transport touched down, the castle's denizens formed neat rows on either side of the boarding ramp. Among the columns were men and women marked in dark gray armor accented in the proud sky blue of former Nite Owls, each marked with jagged claws and prints, denoting their honored occupation as Marines of the Black Hand. To any other they would have been a deterrent, but for Jenn Kryze they stood at attention. Most who crewed the Black Fleet were veterans who recognized her armor from Taris, from Odecer Faustin and so many fronts of the Caldera crisis.

Equally important, they knew to behave for their Matriarch.

She stood at the end of the columns, fang-flanked visor watching the arriving transport, mechanical hands resting on her hips.

Aloy had lost another arm since they last spoke.

Still she stood proudly, chin up, donning a loose kimono of red adesote over her armor, and a matching scarf which jingled with the sound of plundered sith coins tied into the tassels.

Behind her hung the banners of both House Vizsla and the Black Hand, suspended from the ceiling of a large opening in which sat monorail-train, prepared to take them deeper into the star fortress where they might discuss matters in private.

"Jenn Kryze." she hummed as though savoring a nostalgic taste "Su cuy'gar. It's been too long."

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Archangel Station
| Objective | A meeting long overdue

Mandalorians always endure.​

​

Their legacy had stood for ten thousand years, and now, more than ever, Jenn felt comforted in that truth, gazing as the ramp of her dropship lowered to reveal rows of Marines marked the way for her. Her contact with the Black Fleet had been minimal, and seeing its might now, exemplified by Archangel station in all of its glory... oh, stars, but it was wondrous. Away from the embers of the Crusade, from the round table of the New Mandalorians, stood its own culture, free from such strife, and all the stronger for it. Arrayed under the command of the legendary Aloy Vizsla.​

​

No other Mandalorian held Jenn's consideration in quite the same way - except, perhaps for Carduul Akahl , begrudging as her respect for that man was. Theirs was a fractious culture, tearing itself apart with frightening frequency... but who among them yet lived, and exemplified the strength and endurance of their proud heritage better than the admiral? Brutalized, maimed, tested time and time again, and still she stood, with a fleet at her back, and the loyalty of her warriors. ​

​

Jenn would have called Aloy a hero, if such a notion existed within their culture. There was no heroism for them. Only the measure of a warrior, and how closely they walked to the definition of Mandalorian virtues. Instead, she looked upon her, and saw Mandokar. The right stuff, the epitome of Mandalorian virtue.​

​

"Aloy Vizsla," answered the Duchess at last, each of her steps careful and elegant, the hues of her beskar seeming to shimmer under the light, as if she brought the ocean with her wherever she went, always swimming on the surface of this second skin of hers. "Su cuy'gar. That it has - how fares, honored vod? I have missed the surety of your presence since we last crossed paths. It is a dark time for my people, and a darker time for me, but seeing you once more is a balm to the heart. To know that you still draw breath, and still keep our way of life alive through you... is a great relief."​

​

Extending her arm, she offered a warrior's salute, although waiting for the woman before her to grasp it. It was only right, after all, to show such courtesy to a gracious host like herself.​

​

Aloy Vizsla ​

 

[Aloy Vizsla]

Wearing: Armor
Tag: Jenn Kryze

Kryze moved with a regal grace Aloy thought long lost to their people.

The old Vizsla instinctually held her mechanical hands at the small of her back, an old habit the former "Hand of the Mand'alor" had developed in her Nite Owl days, a subtle sign of how she subconsciously viewed the Alor.

"We're... surviving," she said, putting the focus on the collective rather than individual self.

"Lothal has welcomed us, repayment for an old favor. We'll see how long, out here in the east, the borders are always shifting."

When the duchess extended her hand, Aloy likewise removed a prosthesis from her back, internal mechanisms going silent as she deactivated the weaponized components inside.

Nevertheless her grasp was firm as any Mando'ad.

"It's... good to see you again, vod."

When all was said and done, she turned towards the train. The marines did not follow their matriarch, instead wandering back to whatever duties they had in the hangar, which appeared to include preparing fuel for Lady Kryze to make up for the trip. Aloy's steps were purpose driven, but out of sync. One could always hear disharmony between flesh and servos, and the difference of weight in her boots as her last surviving limb worked to keep up with it's prosthetic counterpart.

"I must admit I was not expecting to see your buy'ce again."

"Not that I thought you dead, just we're spread so far these days. Or maybe we've always been..."

Aloy shrugged her pauldrons.

Pushing past the automatic doors, she grabbed an overhead bar and waited for Lady Kryze to board. The seating were more like cots, doubling as stretchers for the wounded, and aside from the markings painted into the doors, few if any decorations called it home. Out the viewports however there was some reprieve from the utilitarian tendencies of the black fleet deeper inside the station.

They past forges and barracks yes, but also potted plants native to Manda'yaim and Concordia especially, past a small school where the fleet's few foundlings practiced calligraphy and Mando'a. There was even a mural painted on a wall, depicting history old and recent, like an ancient tapestry.

It ended in Kranak Vizsla brandishing the Darksaber, standing over the body of Apollyon The Betrayer .

Aloy turned away from the window soon as it came into view.

"So..." she anxiously drummed her fingers against the rail.

"To what do we owe the honor of your visit?"