Private What is home?

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

Through the transparisteel window of the cockpit, Itzhal stared out into the expansive dust-ball that was the outback of Mandalore—long stretches of land once occupied by rolling planes and rugged mountains, now reduced to a desolate landscape peppered with rocky outcrops and tufts of stubborn vegetation. The sun peeked over the horizon, casting a warm, golden hue over the barren terrain, while the winds stirred up tiny whirlwinds of red dust that danced aimlessly before eventually settling back to the ground. In the awakening light, he could almost imagine the sounds of laughter and life echoing across the valleys, foundlings gathered for their first hunts, their ill-trained steps clunking alongside the whisper-quiet stride of their buir's smiling fondly beneath the cover of their buy'ce.

Sensors flickered as an unexpected assortment of beeps echoed around the cockpit. Beneath his visor, the Morellian blinked, his blue eyes awakening from the clouded memories of yesteryear. His fingers wandered over the flight console in his hands, feeling the familiar texture of each button and toggle that still held the strange sensation of newness, a few months after its acquisition. Slowly, he leaned back in his seat, allowing the weight of nostalgia to slough off his shoulders as a slight frown creased his brow, and he turned to the speaker amp that was currently whistling into his ear.

It was quiet—a world once filled with thunderous storms and the site of countless terrible wars, weary in its age. Outside, the sun ascended higher, illuminating patches of landscape that still bore scars from battles long past. So much of it he'd missed, yet the weariness seeped into his bones regardless. People were made for more than just fighting.

With a determined inhale, Itzhal shifted his focus, the weight of memories, a distorted echo that twisted reality. Perhaps he was not quite ready to move on, perhaps he never would be, but regardless, it was time to see if he could. His attention settled on a solitary structure hunkered down in the endless stretch of dust, a lone family homestead that stood defiantly against the pressing desolation. Weathered timber walls bore the marks of a thousand storms, yet the homestead remained steadfast, a chair on the porch swaying with the wind as skeletal wire frames outlined a spinning wind turbine in the distance.

Step by step, the ship began its descent into a slumbering rest. With a deliberate flick of a sequence of switches and a careful twist of the power key, the hum of the engines softened, swirling into an echoing whisper of the wind outside, trailing across its polished frame, which grew speckled with time. Inside, the lights dimmed, casting gentle shadows across the cockpit, while the soft light of the sun above crept through the stretch of the transparisteel windows, revealing the silhouette of Itzhal's movement as he stepped out into the corridor beyond, his steps slow and measured as they reached the boarding ramp and descended onto the rolling sands below.

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia heard the ship long before the old wardroid alerted her to it, his deep tones of complaint resonating through the house from the front porch. Smiling to herself she set the shotgun down on the rough hewn table and pushed herself to her feet. Here, Mia wore no armour. There weren’t many places in the galaxy she felt secure enough to shrug off the familiar weight, but her home had always been one.

The wind tugged at her hair as she stepped out onto the porch, eyes squinting against the dust the ship kicked up as it came to settle on the hardstanding. She moved as she caught sight of Itzhal’s silhouette in the windows, resting her shoulder against the porches pillar, thumbs hooking through the belt loops of her jeans.

In front of the porch metal groaned as the old besulisk rose to its feet, rust colouring the ground beneath it as it flaked front joints. A’den let out a low warning rumble. It had taken Mia months to find her, time had gotten to her long before she could. Still the core of her old war mount was still there.

“Udessi, A’den.” she said softly “Izthal cuyi burc’ya.”

The droid let out what could only be considered a snort but he didn’t settle again, flickering red photoreceptors watched Itzhal approach. Mia pushed off the pillar moving down the steps, a hand running along the droids flank.

“Moti daab.” The command came a little sharper this time and the droid finally relented, settling back down, though she never stopped watching.

A warm smile found her face when Itzhal drew near. “Su’cuy.” she looked around at the homestead then back at him. “You found it okay. It's not much but,” she gave a shrug and looked back at him “Its home.”

She was nervous, more than she had any right to be. Set her on a battlefield against a thousand foes and she wouldn’t even flinch but this? This scared the shit out of her.

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

Itzhal took a deep breath, steeling himself as his fingers tightened around the cool glass neck of the bottle held firmly in his right hand. Blue eyes flickered down to the drink in his grasp, a modest gift, yet in the moment it felt almost paltry as he weighed it between his fingers, its smooth surface reflecting the stark light of the corridor while the liquid within shifted and glimmered with the slightest movement. It hadn't cost much, not that price had been much of a consideration.

A smile curved across her lips, eyes sparkling with laughter and a familiar drink in her hand.

It was only now, though, with the measure of hindsight, that he found himself questioning whether her preference had stemmed from an appreciation for its flavour or simply from its availability in that distant place. He could have asked her, had even toyed with the idea during quiet moments, yet ultimately, he had chosen to cling to the mundane excitement of presenting her with a surprise.

It was a silly thing to find himself stuck upon.

His other hand rested gently on the controls of the boarding ramp, feeling the subtle hum of the machine as a pulse of energy flowed from the buttons to the frame of the doorway. Moments later, vibrations travelled through his boots as the metal plating began to retract with a soft, mechanical whir, the sound mingling with the hiss of escaping gases, only to be replaced by a muted yet resonant thud as the ramp made contact with the ground below.

For a brief moment, his figure was enveloped in a cloud of released gases, creating a hazy veil that obscured the silhouette of his armoured form as he descended. Beyond the swirling mist, the relentless sun beat down upon him, illuminating sleek stretches of obsidian and the accent of crimson bleeding into his silhouette as he came to a slow stop at the edge of the porch. His visor sparkled like the clearest of diamonds, capturing the reflection of Mia Monroe, her smile warmer than the sun above, vivid and radiant—he barely noticed the glare that lay upon his shoulders.

"Su'cuy," he began with a warmth that seeped into his expression, a curve of his lips that felt strangely natural as his eyes followed the stretch of her gaze. "You trivialise the efforts you've made; it is no small thing to make a house a home," he chided, gently with a shake of his head that scanned over the weathered timber treated with care, and the hulking titan ready to tear him to pieces for any sign of disrespect. "It suits you well, Mia."

Itzhal extended his left hand, his fingers lightly brushing the smooth base of the gift resting at his side. "I wanted to bring something," he said, taking a moment to gather himself, before offering it to Mia, his arms outstretched, the glass shimmering softly in the light, cradled between his hands. "I wasn't sure what would be appropriate, but it didn't seem right to show up empty-handed."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia let out a soft chuckle and shook her head. “Thanks. Truth be told, my brother had more of a hand in putting it together than I did. Something about sleeping in a command centre not being healthy.” She shrugged. Back then it had been a nuisance, now? Now it was her lifeline. To have somewhere quiet to come, to step away from it for long enough to remember she was more than the warrior and leader that her people needed.

Her gaze moved from her own reflection in his visor to the bottle in his hand and she smiled, accepting it with gentle fingers. “Thank you, although, you being here is enough.” She winced, wishing she had not said it out loud.

“Come on, before I embarrass myself even more.” She turned with a gentle incline of her head indicating for him to follow, leading him past the old droid that let out a low hum that resembled a warning growl.

Mia’s home was simple, a large open living space with a granite countertop and rough sawn cabinets stretched across one corner, a large wooden table settled in its centre whose surface was occupied by gun cleaning kit and two shotguns, the scent of gun oil strong enough that it left no doubts about what she had been doing while waiting for him. Two large couches sat opposite, and a corridor towards sleeping quarters led deeper into the house.

There was a quiet tone of wealth throughout, not in anything gaudy or bold, but in the quality of materials used. Decorations ranged from old artefacts that wouldn't be out of place in a museum to weapons resting on purpose built stands and the occasional holoimage floating between them, people from another life. An old astromech droid rested in a corner that had long been deactivated.

Mia set the bottle on the counter. “Before I crack this open, how well can you shoot when you’ve been drinking?”


Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

"Wise words," he mused, a heavy sense of finality settling in his chest. Mia Monroe was not a woman with much family left—the thought gnawed at him, an ache he didn't even know existed, until it was suddenly and painfully stabbing him through the ribs with a blade shaped like knowledge. He would never have the opportunity to meet the man who had been Mia's brother. Selfish. To mourn the ideal of a concept that had barely existed in his mind, when the woman before him had lost so much more.

His lips parted, a whisper of a word on the edge of his tongue. 'My condolences.' Too trite, too simplistic, like something out of a gift card from an acquaintance you saw once every couple of years. The other options weren't much better. 'You've done well to take care of it, he would be proud'. As if Itzhal had any clue of the familiar absence, and what they would have wanted. No. He was no mouthpiece for the dead, nor did he dare warp their memory for the sake of some agenda—even if it was to make her smile.

Let them rest; it was the very least he could offer them.

Itzhal's lips twitched with amusement, the corners upturned in a fond smile as he gazed at the new recipient of his gift. Two gifts, apparently.

"I don't know, I quite liked the honesty," he drawled, a step behind her as she led him into her home. "It's my pleasure to be here."

The old treads of his boots creaked softly beneath his feet as he stepped onto the weathered wooden porch, each movement as nimble and light as a dancer's. His stride gradually slowed to a deliberate pause, momentarily capturing the stark crimson glare of the veteran basilisk droid stationed nearby, and the disapproval that irradiated from it. Good. It was keeping overwatch. With a respectful nod to the machine, he continued on his path, undeterred.

As Itzhal entered the open living space, the seals in his Buy'ce hissed softly, releasing pressurised gases with a quiet sigh. It was a small but significant moment—the first time he beheld the interior of the room. It was only appropriate that he witnessed it through his natural eyes, unfiltered by the enhanced display of his visor.

Minuscule marks marred the surface of the countertop, faded lines carved into the surface from years of use in a household that balanced quality and endurance; the cut of a knife, barely visible from where it had chipped against the edge. Signs of a place well lived—the slight wear on the right-most couch, where the cushion folded slightly inwards along the central seam. An old table stood nearby, the nearest leg painted in a slightly different hue from the rest of the set. Various display cases lined the walls, filled with more weapons than any single person ever really needed, yet they still called to a part of his soul that longed to wrap his grubby little hands around them.

His eyes flickered over the holoimages and displays for just a moment before returning to the countertop, where Mia had placed the bottle.

"I used to live on Gargon," Itzhal responded, as if that was an answer in itself. It was in a way.

With a couple of steps that covered the distance between them, he slid up against the counter, where he laid his Buy'ce down to rest. "It would take an awful lot more than my gift to provide a handicap, if that's what you're suggesting."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

His answer drew a chuckle from her, tuning her back to him as she reached into the cabinets to withdraw two glasses, closing it as Itzhal settled against the counter up beside her, setting his buy'ce down. Sharp blue eyes lifted to his face, pausing for a moment to take it in. The close cropped silver beard that covered a strong angled jaw of his weathered face, silver hair swept back from his face and piercing blue eyes that rivalled her own were set beneath a heavy brow.

They spent so much of their time hidden behind reflective t-visors that they became little more than the armour they wore, but here and now? There was no weight of responsibility, no demand for them to be more or give more of themselves than they wanted. Her hand reached without thought, settling against his jaw as her thumb brushed a timeworn cheek.

The flutter in her stomach jumped and her smile softened before she withdrew her hand, her focus returning to the bottle. She felt colour rise in her cheeks as she peeled the wax seal away, clearing her throat before she pulled the cork free with a soft pop. "I wouldn't dream of suggesting such a thing." She replied pouring them each a healthy measure before lifting on to offer him.

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

As Mia absorbed the sight of him, her gaze swept across every crease and shadow upon his weathered face, each telling a tale of battles fought and survived; he, in turn, found himself captivated by the way the light gleamed in her eyes, with a frightening intelligence that had brought armies low. He could feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins, an intoxicating blend of excitement and anticipation that should have left him dizzy, yet settled instead as a steady thrum of exhilaration deep within him, ignited by her piercing eyes.

With a quiet intensity, she extended her hand, her long fingers adorned with the marks of a life lived—calluses and scars that whispered secrets of challenges faced and overcome. He longed to discover the stories behind each imperfection, the journeys they encapsulated, all in the forging of the woman that stood before him. Warmth radiated from her touch; fingers brushed against his cheek, the heat seeping gently into his skin like the flame of a bonfire promising rest to the weary traveller.

Then it was gone, the palm of her hand peeling away as the ghost of her touch, an errant spark of heat and warmth, lingered against his skin.

For a moment, he simply stood there, quietly longing for the touch that was slowly fading into the depths of his memories, replaced by the natural heat of his body—alone. With a determined step, he closed the distance once more, extending his hand toward the offered drink. His fingers brushed against her skin before wrapping around the glass.

"I'll banish the thought, then," he replied with a pronounced tilt of his head before his eyes landed on the swirling liquid in his hand. "I feel that I should ask if this is actually a drink you prefer, or just the best of what that bar had on offer."

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

As Itzhal stepped forward, Mia inhaled, instinctive tension jumping into her shoulders, a reaction built over years of keeping people at arms length. The soft brush of his fingers over her own settled the tension, the warmth lingering, reminding her that she was safe. Her feet shifted slightly, her body adjusting to fully face him as his gaze dropped to the drink in his hand.

Her own glass still rested on the counter, fingers of one hand resting loosely against it. “I’ll never spurn tihaar,” she replied softly, an amused smile pulling at her mouth “would be very un-mandalorian of me.”

Mia’s gaze dropped briefly as she finally raised her own glass from the counter. “Is it my favourite? No, but it’s a close second.” Her gaze settled on him again and her lips parted slightly as she paused, heart thudding in her chest. She almost leaned forward, almost closed the gap but courage failed her and her eyes dropped again, a soft breath escaping her.

She lifted the glass, her smile hidden behind it as she raised it in cheers to him. “Oya.” she murmured, clinking her glass against his before taking a sip.

Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Mandalore, Outer Rim Territories

"Listen," he drawled, his voice so smooth it could have been made of velvet, laced with a teasing tone that coloured the words that followed, "I won't breathe a word if you're ready to confess that the Tihaar singed your taste buds beyond recognition."

A leisurely, amused smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, framed by a meticulously groomed beard, lined with strands of silver intertwined with the faintest remnants of deep black, outlining the clean, sharp line of his jaw. With a nonchalant grace, he lifted his glass high, the fiery liquid inside swirling around the rim, creating mesmerising amber waves that twisted and curled upon themselves, sloshing from side to side, building momentum in the moment of his inattention.

It could have never existed for all he cared; it was only a drink.

Blue eyes gleamed, vibrant and striking in the soft glow of the warm lights hanging above them; Itzhal stared down at the minuscule gap separating them before darting towards Mia. In that instant, their gazes intertwined, two bright blue skies colliding in an electric connection, a bolt of lightning that seemed responsible for the thundering in his chest. For a heartbeat, time seemed to suspend, the world around him fading to the edges of his perception—for there was only one person he wished to see—but then the connection broke, like an enchantment shattered, her gaze averted, and the world around them flooded back in, the drink in his hand swirling around the edges of the rim, brought to a sudden halt.

He licked his lips, the drink in his hand suddenly enticing in a way he hadn't quite grasped before.

Clink, "Oya."

The chilled rim of the glass, frosted with a cool sheen, pressed against his lips, a stark contrast to the blazing sensation that sparked on the tip of his tongue. As he took a sip, a searing torrent surged down his throat, unleashing a wildfire of warmth that curled around the familiar shape of nostalgia and burned with the piercing pang of regret. Veins in his neck throbbed, twitching against the scorching heat; his eyes shuddered shut for a fleeting moment.

In that brief instant, he found himself once more crouched on a rough cantina bench, aboard a ship that lingered in the recesses of his mind—a place he could never quite shake off. Wild laughter reverberated through the air, mingling with the vibrant sounds of drums and intelligible cheers that offset the murmured prayers for the deceased, their presence a sharp and sudden departure, hidden in quiet corners and where celebrations had failed to reach. His hands were sticky, a horrific blend of blood and liquor seeping into his bodysuit, where the Tihaar had sloshed over his trembling knuckles, staining the slender cylinder clenched between his fingers in a death grip.

Then he blinked, and he was back with her with a half-filled amber liquid in hand—a Mandalorian drink through and through; the very essence of bad habits and late nights.

It tasted better the second time down; after all, it was only a drink.

With a light sigh of contentment, he asked, "Oh, what's the first then?"

Tags: Mia Monroe​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Fire burned along her tongue, heating her throat as the tihaar slid down it. It was meant to burn the tastebuds, to tear away the taste of blood and ash left behind after a battle, and remind the drinker that they were still alive where others were not. It was a drink to remember.

Mia’s gaze moved to the glass, swirling the liquid within it as the warmth travelled down her chest spreading into her stomach, something quiet and reflective settling over her for a moment, it passed when Itzhal gave a small sigh and asked her about her favourite drink and her gaze lifted back to him.

“Whiskey.” she answered with a small smile. “Corellian, specifically. Burns just as much but is at least a little smoother on the way down.” She reached to pluck the bottle off the counter, gently inclining her head for Itzhal to follow her.

“It was also where I was born.” she told him, crossing the opening living space to large glass doors that slid open as she approached. Mia stepped through and onto another large porch, moving for a small table and chairs, setting the bottle down on it before moving to lean against the railings.

Beyond the porch was much of the same; a barren grassland desperately trying to cling to what life it could. Offset there was a greenhouse but cracked window panes and a thick layer of dust on the panes that weren’t missing said it had not been used in an age. Mia was skilled at taking life, not giving. Plants always died under her care.

“What about you?”

Itzhal Volkihar