Manda'lor the Rekindler
... And they're never glad you came...
It hadn't been hard. When he needed bes'manda, he knew where to go for it. Mandalore. To his old workshop, Beskar'yaim. The place was virtually abandoned and considered accursed by most sane Mandalorians. So he had taken an old, beat-up cruiser with a crusty Mon Cal captain who probably was charging double the rate, but Ijaat paid it and watched his eyes bulge. He had been busy, working with
Ashin Cardé Varanin
. Old accounts and bolt holes were raided. He had a tidy sum of credits, and gear that wasn't beskar'gam but would more than do in a fight. Daymon had tried the Mandalorian life and found it not to his liking, so he had happily given the gear back to a father back from the dead. They had agreed later to sit and talk about "things" later after his plan.
So he had made planetfall on Mandalore itself for the first time in years. He had worn the same face as now the last time he was here. The Mad Strill was gone, but he had found a drink. Visited the memorial in Sundaari to those countless he had slain, and drank not a drop. Many left alone the aging warrior as he stood silently, tears coursing down his face while covered in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat of murder tooth hide from Myrkr, banded and reinforced with a mesh-weave of a (to most) unknown metal that glowed faintly. A longsword at his hip that anyone trained in the Force would be very uneasy around, reeking of the Netherworld. A heavily modified DE-10 on his hip. And a simple beskad strapped horizontally in the small of his back. A pup of an albino te'r rekr trotted at his heels, very obviously his by how it adopted a guardian posture to him even at such a young age.
After time spent mourning the victims of his madness, the reborn smith had gone to his former abode and silently mined a hefty sack full of the bes'manda that Ashin would require. It had been sent via courier to his long time on-and-off employer, with detailed notes on what he was doing, why, and how he planned the device in case someone found him out and he didn't survive. Someone like Ashin would likely understand what he did now, though others dismissed it as insanity.
Striding into perhaps the most famous tavern on his people's homeworld, the dar'manda ordered three shots of tihaar and sat with them in front of him, awaiting what, no one would know until they approached and asked. His bounties were clear, given he was supposed to be dead. His friends were all dead, gone, or missing and presumed dead due to the length of being missing. None here would likely remember his face, though recognition software from law enforcement might still have his face embedded, but there were stares. Ijaat had trained hard since rebirth and moved with the same rolling gait of a trained warrior. A constrained lethality that spoke of danger even without the armor and gadgets. And a warrior people took notice, if out of nothing more than professional curiosity.
Now? Now he waited as the gonk-droid-turned-jukebox began playing his selection of music.
Toss the dice and see where the let lie... Fate will decide...
It hadn't been hard. When he needed bes'manda, he knew where to go for it. Mandalore. To his old workshop, Beskar'yaim. The place was virtually abandoned and considered accursed by most sane Mandalorians. So he had taken an old, beat-up cruiser with a crusty Mon Cal captain who probably was charging double the rate, but Ijaat paid it and watched his eyes bulge. He had been busy, working with
Ashin Cardé Varanin
. Old accounts and bolt holes were raided. He had a tidy sum of credits, and gear that wasn't beskar'gam but would more than do in a fight. Daymon had tried the Mandalorian life and found it not to his liking, so he had happily given the gear back to a father back from the dead. They had agreed later to sit and talk about "things" later after his plan.So he had made planetfall on Mandalore itself for the first time in years. He had worn the same face as now the last time he was here. The Mad Strill was gone, but he had found a drink. Visited the memorial in Sundaari to those countless he had slain, and drank not a drop. Many left alone the aging warrior as he stood silently, tears coursing down his face while covered in a long coat and wide-brimmed hat of murder tooth hide from Myrkr, banded and reinforced with a mesh-weave of a (to most) unknown metal that glowed faintly. A longsword at his hip that anyone trained in the Force would be very uneasy around, reeking of the Netherworld. A heavily modified DE-10 on his hip. And a simple beskad strapped horizontally in the small of his back. A pup of an albino te'r rekr trotted at his heels, very obviously his by how it adopted a guardian posture to him even at such a young age.
After time spent mourning the victims of his madness, the reborn smith had gone to his former abode and silently mined a hefty sack full of the bes'manda that Ashin would require. It had been sent via courier to his long time on-and-off employer, with detailed notes on what he was doing, why, and how he planned the device in case someone found him out and he didn't survive. Someone like Ashin would likely understand what he did now, though others dismissed it as insanity.
Striding into perhaps the most famous tavern on his people's homeworld, the dar'manda ordered three shots of tihaar and sat with them in front of him, awaiting what, no one would know until they approached and asked. His bounties were clear, given he was supposed to be dead. His friends were all dead, gone, or missing and presumed dead due to the length of being missing. None here would likely remember his face, though recognition software from law enforcement might still have his face embedded, but there were stares. Ijaat had trained hard since rebirth and moved with the same rolling gait of a trained warrior. A constrained lethality that spoke of danger even without the armor and gadgets. And a warrior people took notice, if out of nothing more than professional curiosity.
Now? Now he waited as the gonk-droid-turned-jukebox began playing his selection of music.
Toss the dice and see where the let lie... Fate will decide...
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