Private You Can Never Go Home Again...

[Ijaat Mereel]

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There were a number of Mandalorian factions and groups, all with disparate and varied goals these days. And, to Ijaat, this was good, finally. All slowly learning to work together, to be one out of many. If not peaceably, then out of necessity. But one group he had not visited yet was the Enclave, and in particular it's The Quartermaster who he had pegged as the defacto ring leader. They seemed similar to the goals of the Death Watch Crusaders, if different in execution and methods. So he had charted the battered old firespray remake he had drydocked ages ago towards Kestri, where he had heard they won a great victory and began to put down roots.

A challnege came over the radio as he piloted the craft into local space.

"This is Firespray 313, requesting permission to dock for supplies and repair."

"Copy 313. Proceed to Bay 502 and dock."

He pinged an acknowledgment to the local control authority and docked as instructed, waiting as a team of what he thought were karjr inspected his craft and had him fill out supply requests. Standard things, but he heard scattered chatter from those inspecting his ship.

"Did you see the armory?"

"His armor... The colors... You don't think..."

"Did you see that thing following him!?"

"50 credits says it's him..."

Sometimes, reputation caused recognition, but thankfully the welcoming party was consummate professionals. Not that Mandalorians would be anything else. But he had reason to cause a stir with his name, he supposed.

"Welcome to Kestri, Gar'buir... Enjoy your stay.."

He nodded, taking his helmet and putting it on with a hiss. The olive drab, white, red and yellow of his Commander-ranked Protector colors showed much of the wear from fighting Darth Carnifex on Mandalore, as it was his wont to leave the best scars. He still walked with a slight limp, and likely would for a while. Healing on your own, when you could without deficit, was always the older Mandalorians preference. Stopping for a moment to adjust the hammer at his hip, he obtained directions to the forges and confirmation the Quartermaster was in.

It was a short walk, and he tried to think of reasoning why he was here, gripping the bes'manda made beskad with tightened knuckles as he wondered. The Force had been guiding him lately, making contact with the various factions of the Mandalorian people and their ranks. But here? He felt a kinship with this Quartermaster, and the rag-tag almost nature of the Enclave. And they had uncovered relics and rarities of his people in the reclamation of Kestri. Things whispered in the circles he traveled of advanced forge techniques, Artificial Intelligence, and other such things that had him quite eager and curious to see just what this fledgling group had accomplished and gained, and even more so was what he could do for them as a favor. Tech? Material? Knowledge? Before he had tried to control and direct. But in this life he held no allegiance but to the Mandalorian people, and to the forgotten Protectors of them, beholden only to the 6 Tenets and his own honor, which demanded he right his prior wrongs by the gift of knowledge and ability he possessed.

Trailing behind him, as always, was the guard dog like te'r rekr who now stood only a few inches shorter than Ijaat himself, a towering 1.8 meters, shaggy mane and cold lupine eyes regarding all who came near it's master.

 

[The Quartermaster]

H O M E W A R D
B O U ND

Tag: Ijaat Mereel

Tor Valum.

The brisk winter of Kestri was cold, a stark contrast to Roon as that planet neared its warmest months of its solar cycle. In all of her years, the Quartermaster had never been on a planet so cold. She'd only traveled to Kestri once before; when the planet had been first discovered, to help decipher and interpret the secrets of the mysterious buried temple that Enclave scouts had descended into.

But now they had reclaimed their world from an ancient foe. The Yuuzhan Vong had been defeated, and now Kestri was the Enclave's to do with what they pleased. And Kestri was a world surprisingly filled with bounty; lost technology and assets of Clan Kyron, preserved through centuries of time, alongside with their most prized creation: the Mind Forge. Interaction with the ancient artificial intelligence had been limited; Enclave artificers had only been able to recover some databases, enough information to reverse-engineer into a couple of new weapon designs, sure, but that was only scratching the surface of the potential that the Mind Forge had to offer.

One day they'd be able to journey to the Artificial Intelligence's central server complex, but for now they would have to wait. The Enclave was growing, and Roon was becoming too crowded. Kestri's civilization rebuilt would be a place where the Mandalorian people could be reborn. And so the warriors and workers of the Enclave labored away in the ruins of Clan Kyron's capital city, cleaning up from the aftermath of the massive battle that had taken place there and beginning reconstruction of the city.

A facility overlooking one of the larger mountainside hangar bays had been established as a temporary base-of-operations, complete with a working Forge for the Quartermaster and other Smiths to continue their work while she oversaw construction. Fortunately, things were going smoothly, at least for now.

As for the infamous Ijaat Mereel paying a sudden visit? The Quartermaster had actually been caught surprised, a rare occurrence.

The Kestran Hangarmaster had informed the Quartermaster immediately when the Firespray had arrived in orbit. There were few Mandalorians who had made a name for themselves the way that Ijaat had. . . at least, few that were still alive. The Quartermaster had been on-world during the cataclysm of Mandalore, the massive near-extinction event that had been caused by Mereel and like-minded warriors, led so far astray by dogma and fanatic beliefs that they had killed millions of their own people.

Had this been a different time, under different circumstances, the Quartermaster would've ordered the kinslayer be shot out of the sky. But the blood of the Mandalorians ran lean, and if reports she'd heard from the infighting between the resurrected Death Watch and remnant Mandalorian Union over the carcass of Mandalore were right, Ijaat had been there, fighting the Dark Lord of the Sith. Perhaps it would be wise to hear what he had to say.

The Forge was empty but for the Quartermaster herself, hammering away at a dented breastplate recovered from the body of a fallen warrior in the battle. But she set down the plate when she heard footsteps behind her, alongside the padding of a quadruped. Rumors had it that Mereel had brought his rare Te'r Rekr alongside him, a beast now almost fully grown. Slowly she turned to see the man himself, wearing the worn colors of the Mandalorian Protectors. "Ijaat Mereel," she stated flatly, crossing her arms over her chest, her tools still in hand. "Your presence is. . . unexpected." The Quartermaster tilted her head intently, peering at the aging man through her traditional t-shaped vizor. "What brings you to Kestri, of all places?"
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[Ijaat Mereel]

He wasn't one to mince words. Not in this life, and not often before his death at the hands of Cato Fett in atonement for his sins. Before Ashin Cardé Varanin spun him out again for another mission. He reached within the folds of his cloak and brought out the crystal from Darth Carnifex 's armor, several softly glowing bars of bes'manda, beskar and even a hunk of mythosaur bone. Those he sat to one side before he slid a pair of camtono's to The Quartermaster with a bowed head.

"Even my skill can handle only so much. I seek to return to the fold, and would forge a beskad of new material discovered and a trophy from the Dark Lord's own armor. And donate gifts to the Enclave, including helping teach its' young smiths and makers, and supplying the locations of a few beskar caches I have secreted about the galaxy. Not as a bribe, they will be given to you freely even if you say I deserve death. So that they can help the Mando'ade... No matter my fate..."

With that, the goran simply waited, head bowed, on the decision of the other he spoke to.