Mandalore

[Cythera Anora]

Cythera followed Hadrian and his compatriots for many days. Part of her objected the blatant militaristic view that everything was taking, but when her doubt fostered, a fire burned deep within her. She was a Mandalorian, she would rather die by the field of battle than of natural causes. To sit here day after day, even if she was creating magnificent tools for war, was a mundane life to lead for a warrior.

 

In the months that followed, Cythera was tasked with creating more weapons for her brothers and sisters in arms, not that she minded. She even considered doing the work for no charge, but she had to get materials somewhere and couldn't really improvise with what she had around the shop.

 

One day, a month after Hadrian's call to action, Cythera called out to distant planets on secure comm channels with mysterious encrypted messages. When other Mandalorians approached her about this practice, she ignored them and continued to forge her steel in peace. It was a week or two later that these calls finally resulted in something conclusive. Mandalorian fighters came in from different sectors of space, each with their own scars. They were relatively the same size and relatively uniform in color, with only the symbols on their ship's chasis to tell them apart. They sounded off with codes given to them by the former Mandalore and touched down outside the city, making the rest of the trek to Cythera's forge as if they could do it in their sleep.

 

Cythera was hard at work creating the mold for one of her newest pistols, when she was tapped on the shoulder. The red head, covered head to foot in ash and soot, turned around with apprehension beneath her lofty red curls.

 

"Is that any way to greet a guest Cythe?" A charming man said from beneath short blonde curls. He was holding his blue buy'ce under his arms and smiling that goofy smile.

 

Cythera chuckled at his comment and looked him up and down. "I'm just surprised you could find the door Apollo. I seem to recall a certain incident where the door found you."

 

Both of them laughed heartily and embraced, just as another person walked through the door. He had a heavy gait and was walking with a limp. However, despite his grizzly appearance, he wore a knowing grin.

 

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" The big man said, his girth and stride carrying himself into the room like the flow of morning tides.

 

Cythera and Apollo looked at each other with mischievous grins, but immediately detached themselves from their embrace. "No no Nethun, I'm sure there was nothing meant. I think Cythera was just showing me around the forge."

 

Nethun looked between the two and sighed.

 

"Good old Nethun, always exasperated by anything lively." Said a voice that emerged from the back. When Cythera turned to look, a handful of women appeared with beskar from the neck down. One of the women broke from the crowd and tackled Appolo to the forge floor. Cythera tried to stop her from damaging the shop, but was swooped into another embrace. A slightly thicker woman, was hugging her fiercely. "Its good to see you again," she whispered lightly into Cythe's ear. "I heard about Heph."

 

Cythera's back began to stiffen and her mind swam through different emotional responses, trying to find the most appropriate answer. When she almost considered smacking the woman in the face, she pulled away from her and immediately wish she hadn't. It was Juno, one the leaders of their group, one who had lost so much in the battle on Coruscant. She looked earnest in her plea of sympathy and Cythera renewed her embrace with even more ferocity than before. "Thank you"

 

The two of them were a little teary eyed when they finally broke the moment, but the crowd of men and women around them brought warmth to their hearts and soothed the ache that was held there. It wasn't an immediate thing, that hurt would linger for a long time. However, between the antics of Artemis and Apollo, the kind words of Minni and the support of the whole group, there was no question where Cythera would rather be.

 

"Everyone," Cythera said, putting her hands into the air. "I have called you all here for a specific purpose." Cythera walked into the middle of the forge as the others circled around. "I have gathered you here to answer the call of the new Mand'alor."

 

She put her hand up to stifle objection, because she knew there would be widespread objection to working with the spineless Mand'alor they currently had. "No. I am aware that the man that was pronounced Mand'alor on Coruscant has cost us many things. We lost members of our clan to his inaction. There are those of us that fought and died under the raging fury of Mand'alor Ahzinger, but I am talking of a new Mand'alor." Cythera took a breath and looked across the room at her aliit. "I am not going to lie. This will require us to sacrifice our ties to the Mandalorians of today in their stoic support for the shadow king. We will be outcast until the call to order is completely unopposed and we stand as one planet united, but we will have to strive to regain the fear, the honor, the courage and the pride of our Mandalorian heritage throughout the galaxy. We will strike against the shadow king in his reign of appeasement and force him to choose an allegiance, instead of hiding behind his bureaucracy like a coward." Cythera thrust her fist into the air. "We will remember our fallen when we fight on the field of battle. For honor! For GLORY!"

 

Cythera put her hand in the center of the circle they made and was followed by her brethren. When they all clasped as one, they thrust their hands into the air and shouted.

 

Clan Pantheon had assembled, or what was left of it, and was awaiting the call to war.

[Terra]

A comlink transmission, sent through disguised channels arrives for both Hadrian Augustus, and Clan Greyjoy.

 

Within the Feasting Halls of the Iron Islands, the Greyjoys begin to stir in response to the message from their Clan Leader, Blackwraith Greyjoy. Upon his throne of Iron, the aged warrior to whom Blackwraith had bequeathed the title of temporary Alor of the Clans, stood slowly, dusting crumbs from his flowing beard, the colour of a clouded sky, and looked upon his enduring Aliit, made from the best the Kyr'tsad had, brothers and sisters all, all Mando'ad. They were the raiders; they fought for gra'tua, and for haran, to make their people wealthy once more, and to rule the stars as their ancestors once did. With a voice like roaring thunder, Rygaal spoke, sending out a storm of crumbs from his lips, and lighting a fire within the hearts of his people.

 

“Our Aliit has been called to strike the aruetii at their very heart! We shall shake them to the very core, and place our hands around their throats. Tonight, we shall taste the blood of our enemies, and they will fear us. Come forward, Blackwraith has called you by name.”

 

With a smile, revealing a row of pockmarked yellow teeth, Rygaal opened up the com message once more, to review the list. One from each family had been called forth, twenty in total. A small force, but more than capable of taking on an army.

 

“Arianna Blacktyde.”

 

With a large smile, a dashing girl, about nineteen standard years of age jumped from her family’s table, spilling the drinks of her older brothers, whose faces betrayed their sadness for not being chosen. The girl’s face was finely freckled, and her hair was of dark brown and slightly unkempt in a tail down her armoured back. Her Beskar’gam was new of the making, having been made for her by her father, one of the best pilots on Manda’yaim, and was the colour of the leaves of trees in late august, or the colour of Alderannian Peaches, just ripened. Trembling with excitement, the warrior gathered up her weaponry, a set of two matte-black DL-44’s and an E-11, and then rushed to the shuttle-yard. Her family was greatly excited to be chosen, as they were well known to be a bit paranoid of government intervention, and often spread theories of government conspiracy.

 

“Cody Farwynd, of the Lonely Light”

 

A man of medium build, with hair of dirty blonde, and a chiselled jaw stood quickly from his seat by the large firepit, and glanced down at his wife of just four days, Jasmyne. He smiled at her softly, and then donned his buy’ce, before leaning down to her and tapping his forehead lightly against hers, the traditional kiss of the Mando’ade. With silence, he bowed his head to the rest of his house, and followed Arianna out towards the shuttleyard, the firelight reflecting off his Navy-blue beskar’gam, and with a trick of the light, it appeared to wreathe him in flame. The man was a former Journeyman Protector, and thus used a slugthrowing pistol, as well as a plasma shotgun for house to house fighting.

 

“Donnie Botley”

 

The man that stood was neither fare, or ugly, but plain, his hair short-kept, naturally the colour of ripened grain. As he stepped from his table, around which sat the his family, most of them absolutely hated amongst the rest of the Mando'ad, but within the Kyr'tsad, they were kin, he placed his violin beside the fireplace, symbolic of the musician taking his place amongst the warriors. All would miss his nightly music, but war was life amongst the Greyjoys. Stepping outside, only the keen of eye could catch the slightest tremor of fear crawl across his face as he slipped his jade buy’ce over his head, and slung his duel E-11s on his back, where his instrument case typically could be found.

 

“Siebold Codd”

 

With a small smirk, a middle-aged man with silver hair, and a ruddy complexion rose from his seat at the head of his table, before strapping on his CR-24 flame rifle, over his grey beskar’gam. Still carrying the smirk, he pushed his way through the crowded feasting hall, pausing for but a moment to stare down at Cody’s wife, before forcing his way out the door. As a family head, he was most hated, as his pride and arrogance often overcame any good sense the man had.

 

“Madeline Drumm”

 

The entire table, representing house Drumm turned in astonishment towards one of their youngest and greenest members, a girl with waist-length chestnut hair, of age sixteen, and eyes that often portrayed the happiness that could be found within, despite the problems she often found at home. Her large eyes widened with the news, revealing the swirl chocolate at their centre, before narrowing in determination. She was a dancer, and so when she stood, it was graceful, yet powerful, her body still adapting to the feeling of the russet beskar’gam bearing down upon her. Even though she was small in stature, she held her sonic rifle with confidence as she made her way swiftly through the crowd, without so much as even brushing shoulders with another in the room.

 

“Simone Goodbrother”

 

With a whooping yell of joy, a girl of seventeen leapt to her feet, knocking over the small table at which she was sitting, apart from the rest of her house. Her eyes shone bright in the roaring fire, the colour of smoky emeralds, as the rest of her house yelled with her, all but her twin brother, whom looked greatly saddened at the news, but upon meeting the eyes of his twin, the boy nodded solemnly, taking the hand of his partner, an older man of about twenty-three. Simone strode before her house and raised another deafening yell, raising her LJ-50 Concussion Rifle above her golden head, and armour, the colour of the setting sun, before striding to the door, to depart. With a raised fist, she placed her buy’ce upon her head, and threw back a knitted scarf of crimson, which she had knit herself, with only her fingers.

 

“Matthew Harlaw, of Harridan Hill”

 

A nervous chuckle swept across the Harlaw table as the lean young man, of twenty-three years of age, finished his pint of Corellian Brandy and stood slowly. The man was less of a fighter, and more of a strategist, but he had good spirit, albeit a drinking problem. Like Cody, the man had served for a time in the Journeyman Protectors, and thus, his beskar’gam still bore the colours of deep navy. The man grinned fiercely and gulped down another shot, before stepping towards the door, pausing only to kiss one of the many girls that loved him, and to holster his CM Dead-Bolts, before skipping to the door and joining his vod for war.

 

“Ryan Humble”

 

Unlike his house, the man that rose from the table was not from humble origins as thralls, but was borne from a high Hapani bloodline. His hair was a deep shade of ginger, and just as his hair carried with it flames, so did his spirit. On the battlefield few could match his battle-rage, and neither friend or foe could feel safe with him at their backs. Hefting his Z-6 Rotary Blaster Cannon, which he used often to cut down his foes, he slammed his helmet upon his head and howled, which his vod echoed all about the room. His armour was as cerise as his hair, but did not sparkle in the light, as he had been taught to keep it from catching the light.

 

“Natalie Merlyn”

 

A girl of twenty-four stood slowly, smiling nicely at her friends and family, revealing her pearly teeth, and highlighting her freckled face. Her hair was the colour of polished ebony, and for it she was the envy of her family. She kissed the helmet of one of the Clan’s visitors, a Sergeant in the Journeyman Protectors, an Arkanian by the name of Timothious Mikial, whom over the several weeks of his stay on the Iron Island, and Pebbleton Proper, she had fallen in love. He clasped her hand, before handing her, with great reverence, his disrupter rifle, to pair with her duel DC-17 Hand Blasters, antiques of the Clone Wars. With another enchanting smile at him, she placed her buy’ce upon her head, mottled in the style of urban-camo.

 

“Statesman, Jonah Orkwood”

 

As a brilliant orator, the short-statured man rose to his feet with a flair for the sombre dramatic, passing a gloved hand across his grease-combed hair, and laughed loudly. He was an elected official, the senator that represented Clan Greyjoy to the Mandalorian Senate, and was well known for his gesticulations, but even a Senator answered the call of the Clan’s leadership. As a statesman, he wore no buy’ce, instead settling for an armoured, beskar chestplate of bright gold, vambraces, and leg-plating. Over it, he wore the traditional toga of pure black, thrown over his shoulder to reveal his breastplate. With a nod, he stepped to the door, and met with the rest of the raiders.

 

“Catheryne Saltcliffe”

 

The room turned a bit colder as the girl of twenty rose to her feet, her face as unreadable as her buy’ce, and her eyes, icy blue, and as frozen as her heart. She had unquestionable beauty, and for it she was well known, her pale skin and golden locks the subject of many a lovestruck poet’s verse, as well as their eventual suicide note. It was said that her touch could freeze skin, but never got close enough to test the hypothesis, as she rejected all that came her way. She glared at the silent crowd, before shouldering her charric-rifle, nestling it in the crook of her grey and blue armour, before she walked elegantly to the awaiting shuttle.

 

“Michelle Sparr, of the Great Wyk”

 

Going by the nickname, The Fieldgrey Fox, due to her clever and intelligent nature, and due to her light beskar’gam with urban-camouflage, making it appear to be a field of grey, the girl of nineteen stepped from the wall upon which she was leaning, and bowed before the Clan’s temporary Alor, before turning to leave. Finishing her bow, she stepped to the weapon-rack, her hair, the colour of dark stimcaf, streaming behind her, and retrieved her prized possession, a Verpine Shatter-rifle, equipped with a sniper’s scope. She would be overwatch, and she enjoyed it. With a grin, she slipped into her buy’ce and then slipped to join the attack party, stalling by the door to hear the next house’s chosen, hoping that from Stonehouse would be chosen her best friend and spotter

 

“Kayla Stonehouse, of Old Wyk”

 

The normally reserved girl of eighteen burst into an excited squeal, and leapt from her chair, urged on by the backslaps of her aliit. She wore armour similar to Sparr’s, including many of the same tassels, evidence of their lasting friendship and sniping partnership. Her face often wore a kind smile, and her lips frequently imparted kind words to those who needed them, and that led her to become incredibly popular with the boys and men of the Clan, something that at times got her into trouble, as she accidently played them off one another, to her own horror. She skipped to the weapon-rack and retrieved her Accelerated Charged Particle Array Gun, two DL-44s, as well as her spotting scope. She ran to hug Sparr before the two joined their comrades at the prepping shuttlecraft.

 

“Benjamin Stonetree”

 

The sound that greeted the announcement was a loud huzzah from the Stonetrees, and a hearty laugh from the man himself, an accomplished religious scholar, and the son of an economical investor for Argou, as well as a nasty shot with his LS-150 repeater. The man’s armour was dark green, with stripes of black and gold running its length. Standing slowly to his feat, the man took one more bite of his Bantha-steak sandwich, before stepping outside to join the raiders.

 

“Patrick Sunderly”

 

A prominent doctor from Corellia, Sunderly had joined the clan five years before after the Jedi had allowed his hospital to be ravaged by Sith they had then let walk free. He was a medical man, but was also handy with a SG-82 sonic rifle, but his main role in the coming raid would be medical support. Flipping a coin from palm to palm, the man stood, brushing back his short, chestnut hair with a gauntleted hand, before tossing it to his wife, a young woman by the name of Amanda, and placing his buy’ce, which lacked a faceplate, instead contained a holonet-monocle which helped him in surgery. His armour was matte-black, and adorned with the symbol of the medical corps. He retrieved his weaponry, as well as his medical gear, before heading out to join the akaata

 

“Now... Last, but certainly not least, we have Hayley Wynch, of the Iron Holt.”

 

A reserved girl of about fifteen stood rapidly to her feet, looking incredibly nervous at the announcement. She wore the armour of a Senatorial Aid, similar in style to that of Orkwood, only, with a helmet, crested with blackened nerf-hair. The chestplate she wore was the colour of the forests of Skimire, a deep green that absorbed the light as if it were black. The helmet was of a similar colour, crested beautifully down the back, like that ancient helmets of the Taung Spartans, from which the helmet drew inspiration. Brushing her blackened toga to the side, she placed a hand on her vibrosword, keeping her buy’ce beneath one arm, and then bowed to the crowd, who began to chant in response, like a rising tide, to sweep the very galaxy from its foundations.

 

“OYA! OYA! OYA! OYA, TAL'GALAR, OYA!”

 

Raising her voice to join theirs, Hayley stepped back and retrieved her EE-3 Carbine, before joining with those gathered outside. Stepping from the door, she was greeted by yet another cheer, rising from the fifteen raiders before her. Each represented their house, and each would fight to the death. The dropship before them was prepped and ready for action, an Armoured Interface Craft-4, plated with beskar. With a yell, they boarded the craft, and lifted off to deal with the aru'e. Destination: Coruscant.

[Lord Ar-Pharazon]

After discussion with some of the parties involved, it has been decided that the following actions are to be somewhat nullified:

 

The Mandalorian homeworld was firmly under Hadrian's control. Completely unopposed, the Death Watch ideal had taken over Mandalore. Whatever Mandalorians followed the old and deposed Mandalore were now to be shunned and exiled. It was time for the Crusades to begin anew.

 

There have been a number of pre-established norms set in place over the years of this game by other Mandalorians and a specific character who holds the title of Mand'alor, regarding the culture and norms on this world. Making a counter faction is not against the rules. Gaining some traction is not against the rules. Crusades are certainly not against the rules. However, suddenly “proclaiming” that the entire planet and civilization are now under one (relatively new) character’s total control is far too over-reaching. This nullification doesn't undo all that was posted, but it drastically scales back the desired effect, regarding influence over the masses.

 

Limited and somewhat incremental change, laced with PC vs. PC interaction, is one thing, but the process needs to be more accommodating to the pre-established norms, existing Mando characters, and (moderately) realistic procedures.

[Evander]

Iron Islands

 

The cry of gulls passing by his windowsill woke the aging clone. Gerard stirred restlessly as he rolled onto his side, a massive hand falling to his wife’s side, resting upon her contours. His olive eyes cracked open and he saw rays of the early morning light splay through his windowsill. His wife slumbered peacefully next to him. He propped up, resting upon his left elbow as he surveyed the nightstand next to his wife’s side of the bed. He found the holographic clock and read the time. It was a little bit past six in the morning. Time to start my day, he told himself as he nuzzled closer to her before rising from his bed. Two-Two-Four shuffled from his bed to the heavy oaken door on the far side of his room. His bedchambers were designed in a classical style, fitting the customs of Clan Greyjoy to the tee. It always struck him as odd how his clan acted as if they still lived in the middle ages. He stopped at the heavy door and turned. The clone looked to his sleeping wife and smiled softly. He felt a sudden and powerful urge to return to bed and cuddle with her until she rose for the day. His duties would be light. Two-Four had a meeting with the Regent of Clan Greyjoy later that day. It was a gathering of the Houses and probably involved some new directives from Blackwraith or the Kyr’stad.

 

It didn’t matter much to him. It was all for the kote of his House and Clan. Sighing, he took one last look about his chambers, surveying the brick and cobblestone interior and flooring, the heavy and frayed floor-rug that took up the majority of his floor, his wardrobe armoire, his wife’s vanity dresser that was situated near the open windowsill allowing her to feel the kiss of a mid-afternoon breeze and smell the salt of the sea and the various other bits and pieces of furniture that furnished their lavish medieval bedchambers. With another soft smile and sigh, he turned back around and departed his room, making his way down the brick and stone hallway. He passed by the rooms of his children, knowing that his eldests would be up attending to their duties, training or otherwise engaged in some activity or another. Making his way down the stairwell, he landed on the main floor, passing by others from his House and the servants they kept. He was dressed in his customary pajamas: a comfortable cotton tunic colored tan and slacks of the same color. Making his way into the yard the clone surveyed the morning. It was truly beautiful. The sun had recently crested over the horizon and with it the wildlife had risen to sing for the morning. The air was warm and carried upon it a soft breeze that played with the loose fabric of his pajamas. He could smell the sea from his keep.

 

This was Greywater Watch, his home and the people around him were his family. He watched with a measure of satisfaction as his warriors drilled in the yard, led by his second oldest son Roland. He watched his sons Ephraim and Zach spar against the other in traditional Mandalorian fashion. Two-Four was filled with a burgeoning sense of pride at the sight. Behind him he heard the soft footfalls of someone approaching and turned to see his eldest daughter Liana standing beside him.

 

“Good morning, Father,” she said warmly, a soft smile lighting her features.

 

“Good morning, child,” he replied, “How did you sleep?”

 

“Well, father. Dorian wishes to speak with you when you have time. He knows of the Gathering of the Great and Small Houses that is to happen today.”

 

Gerard nodded as his reply and moved to embrace his daughter, kissing her softly on her forehead. She returned the gesture, by leaning on her tiptoes to kiss him on his scraggly cheek. “Father,” she began quietly, “What are your plans for the day?”

 

Gerard pondered his response for a moment; he hadn’t given it much thought. Of course he would have to attend to the affairs of his House and counsel those under his care for a time, but that was minutiae. He felt a day of training and drilling in the yard with his men was in order as well, but that was only if time allowed. Otherwise, he would just pull his sons aside and train with them in the evening. He smiled at that notion.

 

After a time he finally made his reply, “My dear, I will counsel the smallfolk whose care I am charged with, I will attend to the affairs of my House and perhaps I will drill with my sons in the evening if there is time.” He paused, lost in the thought. “Why do you ask, sweetling?”

 

“Well, I was wondering if you wanted to go fishing with me and my family later on in the day. Your grandchildren have been dying to go and the weather has finally turned in our favor.”

 

Gerard nodded and made note of it. Fishing did sound good. Perhaps he would invite his entire family with. It would be a good evening, indeed, if they all came. “I will see what I can do, sweetling.”

 

With that he separated from her and departed. He made his rounds around his keep, surveying men as they went about their various tasks. Later on, he returned to his chambers. When he arrived his found his wife awake and at her vanity putting on her face for the day. Two-Four smiled at her when she noticed him.

 

“My love,” she cooed softly at his approach.

 

He bent down, draping his massive arms about her slender shoulders and buried his face in her neck, breathing in deeply the scent of her hair. “Good morning, my love,” he responded, kissing her neck lightly.

 

“I’ve just gotten word that breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. I’ve had Serwë round up our children. The boys are showering as we speak.”

 

“Ah, good,” Gerard responded with a soft smile.

 

He pulled away then and moved to his wardrobe, where he pulled apart the wooden doors and began taking out his clothing for the day. As always, it was the customary medieval fashions of his Clan. Once his clothes were arrayed in his hands, he returned to the door, said some words to his wife and departed for the lavatory right outside his bedchambers. He quickly turned left and pushed open the heavy oaken doors and was immediately assailed by steam from the refreshers. Moving to a separate section, he disrobed and stepped inside. As he turned on the water, he sighed deeply. The heat from the water helped to hasten his awakening and also alleviate the ache and tension of his joints and old wounds. A coughing fit took hold midway through his shower, but he did not seem to mind. Once finished, he stepped out, dried off and began putting on deodorant before dressing. Finished, he moved to the sink and shaved as he brushed his teeth.

 

In the dining hall, he found his children seated at the main table, all enjoying each other’s company. His boys seemed to be discussing their performances for that morning’s drills with Roland offering advice and guidance where it was needed. His son, Dorian, seemed to be buried into his datapad, scouring over some data or another and his daughters chatted with their mother. Gerard took his place at the head of the long table just as the servants began serving the two course meal. Scrambled eggs, poached eggs, fried eggs, bacon, ham, toast and bread, fruit and salad were the main course, followed by more fruit and coffee cake. They ate off trenchers as Gerard coifed black coffee from his mug. With the meal complete, Gerard made his way to his garage where his landspeeder waited for him. As he walked, his sons Roland and Dorian fell in step behind him. They boarded the craft and left the compound in silence, driving across the Iron Islands to seat of Power at Pyke. Once they arrived, the trio disembarked and headed for the castle, where the gate guards saw them through, escorting them to the audience hall for the Gathering that was to take place that day.

 

Upon their arrival a herald announced their presence, “Gerard Allard and his sons Roland and Dorian of House Allard.”

[Hadrian Augustus]

He who was named Mandalore, Hadrian of the House Augustus, lord and master over realms valiant. Defender of: the Iron Islands, of fallen Castamere and Harrenhal, and the cities and houses sworn loyal to the House of Augustus. Their rightful leader, Mandalore, the one sworn to lead his bannermen to victory in the great expanse of space. To lay low the stubborn Galactic Alliance, and once again cause the galaxy to fear the might of the Deathwatch.

 

Hadrian stood, and walking to the door, bid forth his knights and bannersmen, for the lords of Pyke had called for his attendance. They were an elder clan, much feared in the far western lands for their barbaric practices, but theirs were the customs of the ancient mandalorians, that once crusaded into the starry veil. There was much in Pyke that Hadrian would learn from.

 

He walked the length of the hall and gazed to the helmets of his sworn men. Their black visors giving no expression of doubt in his new leadership. The men and women of house Karstark in their deep black armour, adorned in pearl and white trim. From them he selected a strong fierce knight, Ser Rayn, called ‘The Dark’ for his dour expression and sour mood. Neither which were matched with his skill with a rifle or his skill with the great axe that was slung across his black armour.

 

From house Sirben he chose Lord Gregory’s Son, Nathan, whom was large in stature and fair skinned, he carried with him two pistols and a two handed sword. These two Rayn and Nathan, he kept in his personal guard, But took with him also bannersmen and soldiers from every house that had sworn its loyalty.

 

They departed for dreaded Pyke in a large convoy. The bannersmen, and Hadrian himself in the van of his forces.

 

When they entered the hall of the Greyjoys, the silence was instant and dank. Their halls were old and the air itself tasted of the sea.

 

The Herald shouted, “Lord high Mandalore Hadrian of the house of Augustus, and his honoured men!”

[Rodrik Greyjoy]

Crying amongst the howling of the wolves, the sounds of the ghosts of Pyke could barely be heard, within the confines of the Bloody Hall. Their cries still carried the pain and anguish that the dead had carried with them since their demise nearly a thousand years ago, at the hands of the ancient members of House Greyjoy, during the rule of the Grey King. The dead had once been Fetts, and had come to the Iron Islands, to the hall of the King, to demand his fealty. Their arrogance and pride had earned them a coward’s death, stuck down by the swords of bannersmen, and their leader tied to Coward’s Pillar, beside the docks, to drown in the oncoming tide.

 

A crescent moon of blackened stone, flecked with the white stain of centuries of salt, lapping from the sea, formidable like the spines of a dragon rising from the rocky beaches. With a cliff to its back, the Walls of Pyke were dark, but for the three towers of steel and stone that adorned it, alight with the flames of fires that also served as a triple lighthouse to mark the hidden, rocky shoals that surrounded the coastline of the Isle of Pyke. The gatehouse, gothic in construction, grand portcullis engraved with the symbol of The Kraken, the old god of the sea, still worshiped upon the Iron Islands with sacrifices of enemies, celebrated with various festivals, and the execution of prisoners.

 

Footsteps arose upon the darkened stone, as torchlight began to light the hallways with flickering orange, darkening and contrasting the shadows. Within the Throneroom’s hearth, a great fire was burning, made from dried seaweed and long-cut logs from the Thsyliria Trees, which gave off a deep grey smoke, carrying with it the sweet smell of incense, and cooking meat, as upon the fire, turned a spitted calf, dripping and browned. The grand hall, with its marbled table, long enough to fit several Houses of the Liege-Lords, was adorned in the royal colours of ebon and glittering gold, set for the awaiting feast.

 

Upon the Seastone Throne, carved from blackened coral, sat the master of the Greyjoys, Rodrik, King of the Iron Islands, liege only to his sworn daughter, Blackwraith, and the Iron Throne of the Stormlands, where his friend Hadrian of the Augustions, now ruled. He sat, slouched and bent, from the scars and pains of countless wars, upon the Seastone Throne, watching the preparation of the feast. The cry of a herald drew his attention to the grand doorway, as the leader of House Allard made his way into the Throneroom, along with his two sons. With a crooked smile, Rodrik stood slowly, throwing his grey, threadbare cape over his armoured shoulder, before walking slowly to meet Gerald and his sons. With voice like the crashing sea, he spoke, a spark of a strange fire within his shining eyes, the colour of The Wasting Sea.

 

“Gerald... Welcome to Pyke!”

 

Moving his piercing eyes from his old friend, he smiled at the younger men, whom he had not seen in quite some time. Within his weather-beaten face, the tales of the wars of long ago would be easy to read. Turning to Roland, the fire in his eyes sparked and shone as pride filled them with memory.

 

“Roland my boy... Still bearing the scars of The Summertime War? How’s that girl from House Manford?”

 

His smile deepened as he turned to Dorian, for he was his favourite. Not all respect was earned from combat. Intelligence and a masterworking of the criminal mind, was something of great respect among the Ironborn.

 

“Dorian... Goodness, you haven’t changed, have you? How’s that girl you stole from House Hunter of the Mansmeet? Or was it that you won her in a cardgame? Talia, if my memory serves me right. You started a war with that one, my lad, one that profited me greatly!”

 

His continued talking, was interrupted by the arrival of an unexpected guest, and the announcement of the heralds froze all conversation and movement within the great hall. Rodrik slowly turned, facing Augustus, with a small smile upon his face. His voice held reverence and respect as he spoke.

 

“Welcome, Mand’alor, to Pyke... You have come whilst I am meeting with House Allard. You remember Gerald... You knighted him during the War of the Enlaced... Charged that Golden Battalion of Swervis bastards and slew most of them himself... What brings the Stormlands to the Iron Islands?”

[Calvin Druitt]

Calvin followed his Mandalore, but stayed with the rest of his followers. He was muscle, not brains, and he knew it, so he wouldn't try talking or interrupting the High and Mighties. He was there to make sure nothing happened to Hadrian. He didn't trust these Greyjoys at all. Ever since Hadrian's rather bold proclamation, things had not really been too much fun. Now it was all about running around from place to place trying to get support. Sometimes, they were warmly welcomed, other times they received a cold shoulder. The worst part about it all was that he hadn't even been able to kill anyone. Nobody seemed interested in trying to kill them, but there was treachery everywhere and he hated it. He preferred a straight up fight with good, clean killing, not a bunch of fancy words and veiled threats.

 

He didn't like this place, not one bit. It may have been the age of this place, the salty air, or maybe even just his lunch not settling well, but the entire place gave him the shivers. He kept his senses and scanners alert and his weapons loose and at the ready. They weren't in his hands, but they weren't far from it.

[Evander]

“My sons,” the aging clone began as the herald announced their arrival, “when this meeting is over I wish to speak with you. About matters that concerns our family.” His expression was serious and dour and, yet, he knew that what he wished to impart was actually not that bad. Two-Four just needed to imbue them with a sense of gravity. It seemed to have the desired effect as his sons exchanged glances amongst themselves before nodding their replies.

 

“Good.”

 

“Ori’vod,” came the deep baritone of a familiar voice. A smile crept across the features of the aging clone’s weathered visage. He turned and spied his dear brother, Donnel Allard and beside him walked Blythe, both spitting representations of the same, long-dead being: Jango Fett. His smile took on roguish aspects as he clasped forearms with them and broke into fluent Mando’a.

 

Behind him, his children discussed their own plans for the day. Dorian complained about an unlucky hand he had last night in a game of cards, but was quick to lace in a grand tale of how he won it all back in a game of dice and knives. Roland smiled and shook his head, slapping his elder brother on the shoulder lovingly. The smallest of glints shone in his eye, signifying his disapproval at his less-than-honorable brother. As Dorian’s sweeping tale ended, Roland took up the pen and parchment and told a rather less sordid tale of his raiding exploits on the mainland. Dorian was not as polite as his younger brother and openly showed his boredom at his brother’s tale. While the younger spoke of reverence and tradition, Dorian took out a small knife he kept on his belt and began cleaning his nails. To outsiders it would appear as if the two only begrudgingly got along, perhaps, only for the sake of their dying father. In reality they were two peas from the same pod. Both pricked and prodded the other, enjoying the rises they got out of one another.

 

After a time, Gerard and the remains of Zeta slowed their sweeping and grandiose tale, slowly coming to realize that they were not in the Great Hall of Greywater Watch and were not deep in their cups. As one their jubilant expressions dropped as they took on much more graver and serious ones. As if on cue, the Steward and Zeta’s dear friend, Rodrik Greyjoy took notice of their arrival and began walking towards them. Gerard exchange subtle words to his vode before taking small steps forward to meet the fearsome and respected Rodrik. The aged clone stopped at a respectable distance and took on a similar stance that one might’ve seen from soldiers of the GAR, yet modified slightly by time, friendship and custom and saluted his dear friend in an almost mocking fashion.

 

“Vor entye, ner vod,” Two-Four responded with a toothy grin. He opened his maw again to speak, but found that Rodrik in customary fashion had shifted his attention to his children. With another smile and a jab of his elbow in Blythe’s side, he nodded at his sons, exuding pride.

 

Roland beamed proudly and slapped his abdomen and left thigh as he remembered that fateful battle. It had been his first real taste of war, his first real glimpse at the utter chaos and carnage that war was. It had always been marvelous stories told by his father and uncles. T'was a boy’s romantic fantasy, nothing more. Before that battle war had been pure abstract thought and wishes. After that battle, after that war, Roland had understood. He’d become similar to his father in manner and execution. Training and drilling with his soldiers had become his life. His smile grew wider still as he thought about his wife and children. His thoughts flitted from her beautiful face, to her taut breasts and ass and he became filled with a powerful sense of lust. Primal emotions filled his eyes before he channeled them into thoughts of his sons and how he would personally see that they would become the finest warriors the Iron Islands had ever seen.

 

With a massive smile and hunger in his eyes, he responded, “Ner riduur, Celice is well, milord. She has had visions of child and takes that as a sign that I shall fill her belly with more of my progeny. ‘Tis a good time to be a Greyjoy, milord!”

 

Satisfied with Roland’s reply, Rodrik turned and wholly faced Gerard’s eldest son Dorian. Two-Four, Two-Five, Blythe and Roland watched with a small measure of unacknowledged rejection as Rodrik’s features genuine lit up as he spoke to him. It was plain knowledge that Dorian was his favorite. He was well loved among the Greyjoys for his mindset and talents off the field of battle. His cunning and tenacity were legendary according to some of the smallfolk as was his wit and charm. He had many lovers and many bastards, but his blood was what he loved the most. Dorian’s eyes held a mischievous twinkle as he listened to Rodrik speak. He smirked, nodded and slapped the Steward upon his shoulder warmly.

 

“There’s nothing in this galaxy that could ever hope to change me, Rodrik,” he began with a wink. “Who? Talia? She’s good. Of course she’s not the only girl to keep me warm, but she is my favorite.”

 

He laughed aloud for a moment, sighing contentedly as he thought upon his conquests and victories over the years. It was the mention of his wife’s betrothal to him that broke his reverie and brought him back to the present. He sneered and smiled sinfully as he chose his words carefully. He was rather animated with his facial expressions, using them to weave some unspoken tale and further the suspense of his answer.

 

“And, aye, it was something like that.” Dorian answered, satisfaction dripping from every word. “Although… It’s been so long tho’, I don’t think I can accurately recall. I don’t think we’ll ever know the truth.” He finished with a shrug, beaming from ear to ear, his eyes dancing in the light of the torches.

 

Dorian had elbowed his brother in that moment and the two of them had begun laughing wholeheartedly. Gerard had turned to face his pod vode and was quietly discussing the state of affairs at Greywater Watch when all was cut short by the unexpected arrival of Mand’alor. At once and in unison, Gerard, his family and his vode fell to the floor, taking a knee, their heads cast down, their eyes upon the stone. They moved with a refined and practiced flourish. At Rodrik’s reminding of his deeds, Two-Four nodded his head in reverence, but dared not to speak.

[Vihk]

A hooded figure pushed through the wilderness with little effort and brazenly approached the capital city. He was a large man and the speed of his gait suggested that he had mass to compensate. His robe smelled of the elements and was heavily beaten by rock, tooth, and claw. The guards standing beside the gate looked at the man and asked him to stand down, but he said nothing. He continued moving. The guards made to intercept the man before he could get further, but no matter how hard they tried to pull him back, the hooded figure proceeded onward. One of the guards heaved his bulk back and got ready to smash the usurper in the face, but just as his hand passed behind his shoulder, the hooded figure's cowl broke upon the wind and the guard caught a glimpse of who the hooded figure was. The guard's expression cooled beneath his buy'ce and he sank to the ground in a soft kneel. The other guard saw it too and sank to the ground in a similar motion, allowing the hooded man to pass.

 

The large figure lifted the guards from the ground. I'm no King...

 

The guards seemed perplexed, but they stood regardless, and looked at the hooded figure for some time with great interest lingering in their eyes.

 

The large man, noticing their glances, looked at both of the men in turn. He cleared his throat with a loud crack and paused, taking the city in with a single glance. "Where is the man who calls himself Mandalore? Where is Hadrian Augustus?" His throat was bare and his voice resonated with a low crackle, but it wasn't demanding.

 

The guards looked at each other, a little confused by the request, but after a moment or two, the guards pointed west. "He went to the Pyke lands. He left about a day ago. You won't be able to catch him on foot, but you may see him there if you leave now..." The guard drifted off, because the cloaked figure had moved on. He started to the west and didn't seem intent on stopping.

______________________________________________________

 

Forsaken

 

• Cast out

• • Welcomed

• • • Celebrated

Shamed...

The avian creatures that swarmed about him seemed like a fleeting dream. Their pattern was organized, but chaotic; they were wild, but serene. It was an interesting dichotomy that pervaded in the man's nature and appearance as he walked. The hooded figure had sweat pouring all down the surface of his forehead and pouring through the thick fabric of his coat. But his feet pushed on, through increasing levels of pain. The cloth of his pants could almost be seen through the folds of his robe, but they were indiscriminate. His eyes gleamed underneath his large hood, illuminating parts of a cold bearded face, but shrouding the rest of it in darkness.

 

If only they knew…

 

The hooded figure crested mountain and hillock alike with little to no effort. He never stopped for food and only occasionally stopped for water. He was determined to push.

 

If only I knew…

 

 

________________________________________________________

 

After two days of travel, the hooded figure finally emerged on the border of the Pyke lands. He sought no introduction and didn’t seek confrontation. Instead, he looked for whomever he was allowed to see at the gates or further in the city.

 

“Take me to Hadrian…”

[Hadrian Augustus]

“Of course I remember the wrath of the house Allard, you are welcome at my side, with me you shall bring glory to your house. Land and realms shall belong to you, faithful friends and allies. Rise friends, and feast. For there is much that we need to discuss.”

 

Hadrian and his faithful friends took seat at the table as his knights ushered an old face into the room. VIHK entered the halls, as he was bid and allowed.

 

One of the bannermen was dispatched to find truth to the rumours of other clanless mandalorians returning to Mandalore.

 

Hadrian stood as Vihk entered the hall of the house of Greyjoy.

 

“Welcome friend, are you here to partake in our war?”

 

(Sorry for the shortness of this post, traveling sucks)

[Vihk]

((Sorry this was a little rushed. I wanted to get something up ))

 

The large man had to search for a while to find someone who would let him in. It was a large place and although the large man had been to the land before, it was when he was a small child. His guide kept moving to the center of the village, then he pointed with a large armored finger to a great house. "You will find Hadrian in that hut."

 

The large cloaked figure looked in the direction indicated by the small Mandalorian. It was a big house about ten feet away made of strong wood, and metal. The large man silently thanked his guide, bowing as he had for several Mandalorians. Then he lumbered his way into the building.

 

He was greeted at once; and in such a way that suggested a gathering of boastful warriors, not wanton savages or militant ranks of people. Hadrian personally greeted him at the door, but instead of immediately answering his question. The large man grabbed at the hood of his cloak. In one large motion, the cowl to his cloak was wrenched back. Gasps filled the room. The man before them was none other than their former leader, Vihk.

 

"I Vihk Ahzinger of Clan Ordo, pledge myself to your service Hadrian." The large man bellowed so that the entire room could hear. He paused for a second to let his message sink in, then he appropriately bent to one knee. He hung his head deep to show respect to his fellow Mandalorian and to show that he accepted Hadrian's given rank.

[Guest]

Hallas wasn't fully sure what exactly happened. He was on Coruscant carrying out his orders, and then found himself in his old home on Mandalore. The small duel on Coruscant against his prey had not gone his way, nor was he even sure about the condition of his own kin. Now, leaving behind the bacta tank, Hallas made his way towards the Holonet to see the reports on what happened.

 

((Short post, but just to let people know this character is back up.))

[Darth Furion]

Time. Such an abstract, cyclical thing. As much as individuals strive to make their own, unique way in the verse time has a way of turning them about to repeat moments of greatness, or striking times of terror. However the wheel seems to keep on spinning, people go on repeating history until the lessons are learned all over again. A renown scholar since he first started walking his dark path, Julio understood history and the patterns it exhibited. Here, now was his chance to use these patterns to his advantage. To make this time his time.

 

As the shuttle touched down, the Dark Lord held himself at bay, the eagerness riding strong in his forward focus. The blood lust was beginning to make his teeth swim, his heart raced inside his chest. It had been so long since he felt like this, since he felt so free. For years now he felt like he had been restrained by his own calculating mind, unable to truly feel for his own fear of the unnecessary. Since tasting the sloth's special brand of madness that self imposed fear hasn't touched him.

 

Give me your strongest. The message hit every frequency a thousand kilometers around the castle, calling out to every Mandalorian on the planet.

[Terra]

Blackwraith and her guard marched the three flights of stairs up to the platform, biding their time as the shuttlecraft came in for a landing. The girl was clad in her beskar’gam, black as the farthest reaches of space, stained burgundy with flecks of dried tal and agol, the only remnants of several aruetii spies whom the Ironborn had rooted from the ranks of the Eledian. Her pale face was heavily freckled, and bore no sign of the makeup, which so many common girls wore. She was an alor of a tribe, and one of the Mando’ade. War and death was all she knew. Even without any makeup or pigment, her skin gave highlight to her sharp greysteel eyes, and her dirty-blonde hair, which was kept in a long braid, which snaked its way down her armoured back, beside her jetpack. More importantly though, against her ashen skin, the aliik of her clan, etched in gold upon her cheek, stood paramount.

 

From her pallid lips, a lit deathstick hung, trailing wisps of white smoke within the darkened stairwell. Her lips themselves were twisted into a leering grin, revealing sharpened, crimson-stained teeth. With each footstep, the air about them grew less stale, and around them, the smell of sea began to settle, erasing the herbal stench of the cigarette. Several heavy laser cannons traced the shuttle’s vectors, and locked onto its signal. Behind their control panels, the gunners braced for any treachery. Across their comlinks, a dark voice emanated.

 

...Send me your strongest...

 

Blackwraith snorted in disgust. Every visitor that came to Manda’yaim came not to trade or talk, but to fight. Always to fight. Reaching the doorway, the squad assembled, weapons raised in anticipation. She could smell the anxiety and pride wafting from her comrades as she touched the handle. Smiling at her vod, she stepped back, and placed a boot into the centre of wooden door, with all her strength. The doorway splintered outward to reveal the lone warrior, and for but a moment she gazed at the shuttlecraft before her, her eyes glowing with hatred.

 

With a gloved hand, she flicked away the cigarette and slapped her buy’ce upon her head, letting the HUD toggle on, before she spoke. In the 360-degree view, she could see Fieldgrey toss her Concussion Rifle underhand, the five meters towards her. Reaching back, she caught the weapon and flipped the stock against her shoulder. Her voice was gravelly, and filled with a dark void.

 

“You came here to fight... Little hut'tuun di'kut... Let’s have all you can muster, man-on-man, if you can manage it.”

[Darth Furion]

He stood at the edge of the ramp, hands open and at his sides as his soft sandal stride brought him to the landing platform. Many who presented a challenge would expect a stout warrior, tall and an obvious choice for the matter. But when the young face of a girl busted through the door and stood tall to meet his call the Dark Lord thought only of his own daughter. The blond hair, the short stature. But this one was all too different. It was in the eyes. Rose hadn't known so much death just yet.

 

I ask for your strongest and you send me a child with a gun. Most interesting.

 

Holding to his passive, easy walk the Dark Lord continued to head toward the mass of warriors. Is this what is considered strength these days? I was really looking for something much more...well.

 

Julio seemed to look let down as his golden eyes searched around the castle grounds, over the crowd of onlooking Mandalorians, and finally into the sky above. He sighed heavily after a moment and brought his gaze back to the now helmeted Mandalore. I suppose if I had impenetrable armor and enough guns to field a militia I would feel pretty bad ass too. But it all seems so hollow when just anyone can pick up a gun. Where I come from a warrior is tested through their raw physical skill, and heart.

 

He smiled his wry, wolfish smile at the last note knowing all too well this fight was only going to go how this little girl wanted it to go. He could point out all day the lack of prowess required to shoot a gun, but it was these people's pride in what they do and how they did it that would determine this game.

 

So, what is it going to be little one? Shoot me down where I stand, or stand toe to toe?

[Terra]

“You would be willing to go toe-to-toe with me? Chakaar, you described me as but a little adiik...”

 

A roar of laughter filtered from the crowd of Mandalorians that began to trickle onto the landing platform. The men and women were all well armed, carrying a great variety of weapons, ranging from simple knives, to portable missile-platforms, but three in particular were of interest. They held nutrient-weave cages, that any fighter worth his salts would recognize as ysalarimi cages. Blackwraith slipped the helmet from her head and her penetrating grey eyes bored into his golden ones. Her gaze passed from his eyes and passed from his raggedy hair, to his sandaled feet. If they could shoot slugs, the mysterious man would be full of holes. Silence fell, but for the sound of waves crashing upon the reefs below.

 

“What tricks do you have up your sleeve, the ability to heal the sick and walk on water? Is it not hardly sporting of you to take on a little girl like myself without my... technology?”

 

She rolled her head, and the stillness was shattered by several loud crackles. The whirring of servomotors joined it, and Blackwraith’s armour began to form and split, withdrawing from her body, folding into the jetpack. As she stepped forward, one of her men took the jetpack from her back as the rest of her armour disengaged. With one more step, her armoured boots themselves were left upon the corrugated durasteel platform. Instead of armour, she now wore a long-sleeved shirt made of a black flexible material, and shorts that came to just above her kneecaps. Her feet were bare, and the cold sea-breeze caused her skin to become bumpy. Tattoos of burgundy stood visible, running along with scars down her legs, as they covered her body in its entirety. In the language of the Sith, they told of her exploits in battle, the deaths of Kitt Fitt, Darth Lucifer, Scorp Ession, and many others.

 

She tossed the Concussion Rifle to Simone Goodbrother, and turned to her people. Raising her hand, she spoke once more, the masses of the Mando’ade hanging on her every word. The loud crashing of the sea below accented her voice as it turned to a yell.

 

“Agni Kai!”

 

As one, the Ironborn formed a circle about the two fighters. Those that held Ysalamiri, now numbering four, took opposite corners. The bubbles that negated The Force overlapped and expanded, covering the whole ring in their power. Blackwraith pointed her hands towards her opponent and spread her fingers, showing off the burgundy swirls that covered them, an ominous warning of how many had lost their lives to her hands. Every weapon in the arena trained themselves upon the mysterious opponent, a harsh suggestion that he follow up on his desire. A smile on her lips, she beckoned to him, her stance showing great discipline.

 

“Come and face me, child or not, we shall dance in fire.”

 

((The first post is yours))

[Darth Furion]

As the circle formed around the pair of them Julio never broke his gaze or sly smile on his opponent. He could feel the Force pull away from him, evenly and in a wide circle as the crowd spread forth. Ysalimir he cursed inwardly though never once betraying his dismay. They didn't know he was a practitioner, and they didn't have to. For all they knew he was just some warrior trying to prove something. So what, this wasn't a trial of the Force. This was to be Julio's trial. And that suited him just fine.

 

Alright little one. He said beaming as he began to take off his father's jacket. The lightsabers were already slid into the jacket pockets, the pistol and various blades, bracer. All of it folded into a nice little pile and cast to the side. For a moment he considered keeping the crushgaunt on, as he had always been able to pass it off as a mechanical limb, but of course these of all peoples would see the weapon for what it is. So it too he removed for the first time in a long time. Again in front of the Mandalore, Julio stood with only his black flowing hakama pants, with even his sandals set aside. He too was sporting a tattoo of twin suns capping his shoulders with a krayt dragon wrapping around them and down his back and chest. He couldn't help but smile at the girl's proud marks of victory. Names he recognized, some he didn't. Either way, they were opponents he wouldn't expect a girl of her size to handle.

 

The Dark Lord walked toward the center of the battle circle to stand just out of arms reach from the girl. My name is Julio Furion. He said softly as he bowed, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he did so and rose. And I greatly look forward to this little heart to heart.

 

In a flash his folded hands broke free in a swipe toward the left side of the girl's head as he stepped in toward her. Certainly the girl would be ferocious in her attack, death and violence openly accepted in her years of struggle, however he had the advantage. Even without the Dark Side on his side, he never utilized it in his martial training. The countless arts, new forms, and unending years of training, let alone the physical advantage in size and reach. If this little one thought she knew pain, she was about to be rudely awakened.

[Terra]

...I greatly look forward to this little heart-to-heart...

 

...To know one fully, you must engage in combat. Combat is ever a form of our language, even more potent than the simple tongue...

 

The man that stood before her was none other than Julio Furion, a name her old master Ason had mentioned more than once. He was dar'jetii, and represented everything about her old master she had hated. A ruler of dar'yaim. The Sith thought far too much of themselves, and this Julio was proving of the same arrogant mettle. Brittle as ice, unyielding as steel, so easy to shatter, Pride, the eternal vice of the Sith, and ever their undoing.

 

One step...

 

Blackwraith pivoted on her right heel as the Sith stepped up to engage her, closing the distance. Bobbing down, she took another step, ducking beneath his club-like strike to the head, dashing past him, to his left side. Turning at the last second, she passed beneath his reach and struck an often-practiced punch towards the free-floating rib, which covered his left kidney, as she passed by.

 

Two steps...

 

Following through on her punch, she flipped backwards, letting her momentum carry her past him a few meters. She was an Echani, and through the dance of combat, she would strike down yet another Sith, and teach him humility. She was faster, more agile, while he was bigger and stronger. It would be a challenge worthy of both a Mandalorian, and an Echani.

 

((1))

[Darth Furion]

At the mention of his own name, Julio could see something resembling recognition in the child's eyes. She knew him or knew of him somehow, and in that knowing found a hatred she had not visited in some time. He didn't need the Force to see it in the young warrior. It was in the window to the soul, in her very eyes moments before the struggle began. Oh if only those damn slugs weren't around so he could properly feel her expression in every spiteful display of violence. But as it were he would simply have to take this the traditional way and observe his dance partner with a keen eye. As he stepped in and made his crass swing, the young girl made a deft display of her art by not simply blocking or backing away, but instead stepping in and ducking low to evade the swing all together. The step in was followed through with a punch and Julio's left elbow dropped down and back reflexively to protect the only target worth striking at such a low angle to his hard left; the soft spot of the lower back. The Mandalorian's blow found Julio's elbow before her follow through flipped her a few meters away.

 

And with the fluidity of two forms in simultaneously pushing and pulling on one another Julio followed through his brutish swing hard and fast to spin his body about in a spinning kick toward the direction the girl fled toward. The kick would fall short of course, but would still pull him closer toward his adversary. She wasn't getting away that easy. As he landed, now just a meter between them, the Dark Lord spurred on without respite. He would not allow this little one to get away, never allow her a moment to catch her breath or even think. There was no time to thought in this matter. Pure, unhindered feeling took no effort to express.

 

Stop hiding, little one. Show me your fate.

 

Her fluid movements narrowed down the list of arts she could be utilizing, but not enough to give a clear picture. Yet knowing that much helped his mind form a more cohesive idea of who this girl really was. He had studied countless arts over the years and to this day worked a great many forms into his own art, but did not commit himself to any one form or set of forms. All of the arts, all of the time spent creating and amalgamating his own opened himself to the unrestrained. The formless form.

 

Following up with his spin kick Furion pressed on with his momentum with another kick, this time low aimed for the knees. The forward force would be enough to bring him spun about to face her again whether the kick landed or not. As acrobatic as she was, he doubted it would land, but the pressing attack would force her to commit to a path. Stand her ground or persist in evading. And what exactly would the warriors onlooking the fight think of their leader being constantly pushed on the defensive by a Sith neutralized of his most potent skill and religion? Would they see their Mandalore being pushed by one they think so little of? Did they think his pride came without basis? They would see that he was not like any other Sith they had ever come across. He was a true believer in his path. They would see him for what he truly was soon enough.

[Terra]

Pain...

 

About the two duellists, certain members of the Mandalorian horde began to move. Those carrying the ysalamiri cages placed them against the duracrete and duraplast platform, and slipped them into small hatches, which were usually meant to secure landing struts of larger ships. There, they would be safe and secure, during the next stages of battle. The rest of the spectators took a few steps back, to clear some more room for the battle.

 

Blackwraith winced in pain as she felt her knuckle pop against Julio’s elbow. It was not the feeling of the shattering of bone, but the sharp sting of realization; she would have to be more careful. With the gentle elegance of an Echani, she continued her flip, landing evenly on her bare feet. The rhythmic crashing of the waves below gave a reassuring timing to her movements.

 

Her greysteel eyes narrowed as the Sith made his maddening assault, her mind formulating patterns of attack, listening to her instincts. As the Sith extended his leg to make a second kick, she did the unthinkable, breaking her pattern entirely. Instead of retreating, she went... Up. Up and forward. As she leapt, she wound her muscles for yet another leap, utilizing her agility and dexterity. With her first leap, she landed upon the man’s still extending leg, and the instant her bare feet found the flesh of his leg, another jump had begun.

 

Like the rotting wood of a pier, or the crumbling stone of cliff, she sprung from her wobbling perch towards the head of the beast, and passed above it, throwing out a hand to snag the hair upon the scalp of the dar'jetii, to find a handhold amongst the beaded braids. If her hand held, her opponent would find himself with a girl upon his back, mere seconds away from choking the life from his body. Strength was nothing compared to agility and courage.

[Evander]

Commotion. Dorian’s quiet day of gambling, scheming, wheeling and dealing were interrupted by a sudden commotion. It was inexplicable, yet familiar. He watched as throngs of Greyjoys hustled toward some unseen location, his mind working through the angles and possibilities. What could these warriors, his brethren, be rushing toward? He did not hear a call for battle, did not see the sentries raising the alarm. As he ripped his gaze from the masses, he turned and stared at the game of dice before him. He watched the players eye each other, seeing if they could trust one another. He saw in their eyes they all wanted to leave, pause the game and return at a later time. He withheld the smirk he felt as he watched them. He kept an even guise as their eyes fell upon him. In those eyes they asked the unspoken question. Could they trust him? He nodded with his most amicable and diplomatic smile and utter some small words of false reassurance.

 

With their concerns assuaged they got up as one and ran toward the throngs of the masses. He could hear their excited questions joining the din of others. Few, it seemed had answered. As more armored and unarmored warriors bustled past him, he overheard the title of dar’jetii be mentioned and his placid expression slid towards recognition and cynicism. He wondered what a Sith would have come to Manda’yaim for. His mind raced with the possibilities as he slowly rose from his hunched position, reclaiming is rigged set of die and stuffing them into a compartment of his beskar’gam. His smile curdled deeper and became wider as realization dawned upon him. This dar’jetii must want something from his people. Why else would they send one of their flock? He could not contain the laughter that rumbled from his gut and spilled from his mouth. It echoed across the emptying courtyard.

 

He turned and watched the last of the warriors depart toward the unseen location and grinned mischievously. His eyes immediately cast down, he returned to the winnings and monies of his compatriots and family. Deftly, he scooped them up and placed them along with his own money in a separate compartment. Whistling to himself, the eldest son of Gerard Allard strolled off after the warriors. He was donned in full battle-rattle, as was his begrudging duty that day. His beloved father had assigned him to go with a raiding party and raid along the coast of the mainland and he had carried out that duty to the letter. He had even helped himself upon a woman or two during his brethren’s conquests. Talia, of course, was not overjoyed when he returned sporting a new mistress and with tales of his daring, but then again, she had not been idle as well.

 

As his thoughts lingered on that foggy morning with all its spoils and danger, he grinned as his whistled tune took up a greater tempo. It swept across the courtyard, reverberating off buildings as it bounded back to him. His hands confidently stuffed into the pockets of his armor, he walked like a man who was king. His armor was stifling, but necessary. His father had not given him leave to undress. His arms he pawned off to his younger brother for cleaning, all save his charric sidearm and a set of concussion grenades he let dangle and rattle off his cuirass. He walked and was happy as he followed the trail left by the warriors. He wondered what sort of greeting this Sith expected. He wondered how he and his family could best benefit from this Sith’s arrival. He wondered at the portent of it all. And his smile grew wider.

 

He crossed through buildings and passageways; he passed warriors disinterested with the commotion and those whose duties demanded they stay and attend to them. He passed his younger brothers drilling in a second courtyard that was nearest to the landing port and spied their brows full of sweat. He smiled at them and with a wink and a flash of his pearly whites, continued on, whistling with renewed vigor. He overheard them ask Roland for leave to join the commotion, but his brother was ever the soldier and forbade them. He pitied them, but not enough to intervene. With an arm cradling his buy’ce he arrived at the landing pad and saw the masses encircling something. Perplexed and a little more than intrigued he approached them and fought his way through the crowds. The closer he got, the more frenzied the crowd became. From his distance from the center he could make out two figures, one a short blonde girl of nondescript features and another a man garbed in black. He wondered if the man was the Sith. For the girl she held familiar qualities that haunted him. He scratched his head trying to recall her figure, but could not place it and so cast his gaze skyward.

 

The breeze that rolled off the sea was comforting as was the smell of the salt in the air. Dorian sighed as he heard the crash of the waves, the grunts from one of the fighters in the ring and knew his purpose. He pushed his way to the center and saw an agni kai taking place and grinned massively. The young blonde girl whom he did not recognize was now instantly recognizable as Terra “Blackwraith” Greyjoy, leader of the Death Watch and Liegelady to them all. He stood there still as rock for a moment as he soaked up the scene. Terra had just flipped over the taller, broader man and seemed to be trying to wrap herself across his back. A daring move, he thought, but no less expected from our Blackwraith. He allowed the crowd to jostle him like the rolling of the sea and began to feel the currents of the crowd shift to and fro. With each blow exchanged, he saw the excitement light up in their eyes, saw their bloodlust grow.

 

“300 creds on Blackwraith!” He exclaimed from the side of his mouth. A murmuring followed as those nearest to him began debating internally and externally. He saw his vode reach within the folds of their armor, in their pockets for their coin and he smiled. The man nearest to him looked down at him from above. He was much taller than Dorian and built like a house, yet Dorian held his gaze and grinned. With a roll of his shoulders, the larger Mandalorian chuckled and reached within his armor for his own coin.

 

Dorian waited half a heartbeat longer before he heard his first reply. The man opposite him and on the other side of the mob upped the wager by nearly 600 credits! It was a bet he placed on the Sith. That polarized the crowd as shouts from all sides began to roar over the combatants. Most of the mob threw their money towards Blackwraith, but a few like the man opposite Dorian betted on the Sith. Of course, no sane Mandalorian would seriously bet against their Liegelady, no, Dorian suspected they did so to egg her on and spurn her to trounce this fool.

 

Dorian began rallying those who placed their best, sifting his way through the crowd with practiced grace and ease as he collected and mentally tallied the wagers on both combatants. He’d made three full circles around the mob before he’d stopped and the bounty had risen to well over twenty-four thousand credits. By the time he returned to his original location he was grinning widely as he counted and recounted the monies. His attention was affixed briefly on Terra, whom he winked at before returning his gaze to the pot he now held in his helm. Moments later a hand was placed on his shoulder, with a grip stronger than a Kryat dragon’s and Dorian casually turned his head. He spotted his younger brother Roland standing there dour and taciturn, staring hard into Dorian.

 

“What?” the older brother asked.

 

“Still up to your old tricks, brother?” answered Roland.

 

“A man’s work is never done,” Dorian wittily replied with a sardonic grin.

 

Roland held his piercing gaze as he searched his brother’s soul. A tense moment passed between the two before Roland relaxed and smiled broadly. “I’ll put a thousand on Blackwraith. This should be a good fight.”

 

Dorian laughed allowed as he greedily took his brother’s money and placed it into the pot. Both brothers then returned their eyes to the fight before them and watched it with bated breath.

 

“Too bad we don’t have mead, brother,” Roland remarked with a grin. “I imagine that is the only thing missing in all of this.”

[Darth Furion]

Nimble little minx. The Master thought to himself with a smile as the snap of his kick crossed bellow this little girl's rising legs, quickly gliding her up and up ever closer to him in a fantastic leap of aggression. Now this... THIS was the little girl he was looking for. The method, the movements were all from the same school of thought but now she wasn't just evading, wasn't just protecting herself and observing her opponent's actions. Now she felt that hunger, that passion burning in her screaming to unleash. Yes, yes this is what he came all the way to see.

 

Show me your passion, little Mandalore.

 

The force of his kick kept his form spinning counter clockwise, and as such begun to expose his right side and soon his back toward the opponent. As small as the girl was, it wouldn't be too out of the question to extend his right arm out and strike her mid air. The quick lash wouldn't have the proper power of a punch, but it would be enough to unbalance the bird of flight. But no... she wasn't striking, she wasn't even kicking. Mandalore was grabbing at his hair! With her fingers out stretched ready to clench at whatever she could get a hold of Julio's only option was to keep his right arm tucked in, protecting against an upper or mid strike or kick.

 

The young girl fought as young girls do and fingers found purchase in a twist of braided hair. The dark Sith wouldn't be surprised if scratching and clawing was next. But he did not fight the warrior's hold on his head, instead he was worried about what that other arm would do. As the pair swung about, the bird found her perch on the Dark Lord's back, bringing her other arm around his neck to choke the life out of him. Yet his right arm was poised, tucked away for the counter. Her wing couldn't tighten with his hand squeezing fervently against her forearm just above the elbow, but worse yet she couldn't pull away.

 

The pair continued to spin, but with the Mandalorian on his back Julio had no need of his footing anymore. He had his prize, an opponent riled for a fight and in close proximity. His left hand reached back to take hold of her hair and found her left ear along with it as he pulled himself down and forward driving his right shoulder in the spin. Now midair the pair flipped about, with their backs toward the ground. Holding her head in place directly behind his with the grasp of his left hand while holding her body close to his with his right hand on her forearm Julio threw all his weight into the crash down, and drove the back of his head as hard as he could into her face, cushioned only by the unforgiving stone floor of their dueling circle. Broken nose, cheek and brow bones, possibly a cracked skull and concussion against the stone, let alone whatever damage the ribs, shoulders and spine might take from the fall. The damage couldn't be ascertained until the warrior made an attempt to talk, and with it how much pain sang on her voice. But that consideration hadn't figured in a Mandalorian way of life. Certainly Mandalore could take a beating, but how much?

 

Do you yield, little one? He whispered over his shoulder, still holding on with both hands. Or do you want to make it a little more interesting? Say for stakes? Seems your crowd has taken to gamble, why not we?

[Hadrian Augustus]

Hadrian sighed long and deep, running his fingers through his graying hair. His thoughts were grim as he strode through the halls, Vihk and the clan leaders at his sides. There was a brawl in this house, and he would not let it scatter to the winds of anger. This dark presence had come here to do battle, but why?

 

Hadrian came within sight of the Dark Lord and sat upon a weather beaten chair, beaten and stained by the salt from the roaring sea. Hadrian's brown robes whisking about his shins in the ocean's stiff breeze. He adjusted his armour and pulled off his helm. He gestured to one of the guards who brought him an old model bolt action rifle. He smiled and leveled it at the duel.

 

His words were bitter sweet.

 

"If he kills her we strike. If not, then we speak in earnest. There are many things we must arrange, and a death of my clan sister is not one of them!"

[Calvin Druitt]

Calvin crossed his arms behind Hadrian and nodded, but he wasn't happy. He didn't know the other girl, but she appeared to be one of theirs and he had no love of outsiders beating up Mandalorians. Instead of standing around like this, he would have gone in with blasters blazing and gauntleted fists swinging, but he wasn't in charge here. As much as he loved to fight, he would follow the lead of his sworn Mandalore.

[Vihk]

Vihk's buy'ce rest firmly within the crux of his right armpit as he walked behind Hadrian. He held some pride to be reunited with his kinsman once more, but something of this Mandalorian organization seemed stagnant. He had pledged his loyalty only a few days before and now it seemed clear that nothing was to become of it. The feeling he felt with his fellow Mandalorians however, was enough to drive away the majority of his disappointment.

 

He stood beside Hadrian and joined the others in the spectacle, but he wasn't as concerned as the others were. He still clung to old ways, despite his many failures. To die in battle was the paramount honor for any Mandalorian especially to a worthy foe. And, although most Mandalorians were loth to admit it, Sith were worthy foes to fight, as were Jedi. Vihk fought one before and nearly plummeted to his death. The Sith he fought was only a young girl and despite the infamy of the organization with which he worked and his clear size advantage, Vihk didn't truly understand or appreciate the amount of raw power she possessed. It took a great many months, including the ending of his life upon the cruel judgment of the emperor's royal guard to fully cement just what he had witnessed.

 

He knelt gently to the ground and watched with much anticipation. He could see the ferocity in the man's golden stare and the fire behind the young mandalorian's eyes. To fight, to endure and to push past the limits of one's own potential was the truth of existence. It was the only form of communication that really mattered and he respected it.

 

"If she dies in this match, she will have died a noble death Mandalore." Vihk said quietly enough that only Hadrian and those in his company could hear. "Let her spill her blood here so that she may elevate herself within the eyes of our clan. The Sith fights with the ferocity of a viscous beast despite his loss and is clearly worthy of our respect. If he achieves victory this day I will not lay a hand on him unless it be to further my own path to a noble death."

 

Vihk sat still, watching the fight ever more. The rhythm of their movements was intoxicating and the steel sang each move with the sweetness of brutal realization. Death was not a factor, fear wasn't relevant. Blind passion was all that held them and that was the way of their dance.

[Darth Furion]

((I know you're busy bud, but I gotta move on. We'll call it a draw for now and revisit later.))

 

Nothing but garbled syllables escaped the young mandalorian between stone and spite, on the cusp of blacking out from the concussion. The fall had been too much, too unexpected and far too fast. Her own furious swiftness had been turned about and added to with just a shift of his weight. Flowing without direction, feeling freely without prejudice or hesitation, the Dark Lord's unspoken words cried out in that undeniable moment when head hit unforgiving ground. Every Mandalorian watching heard it loud and clear. The entire exchange lasted only a few short seconds, just one or two strikes from one another. It said 'You are nothing. I am stronger than your champion.'

 

With a soft chuckle that classic smile of his came back to him in a satiating wave of victory and joy. And again he felt alive, felt right with his world and the next. Like his path was yet steadfast, and none could stand in his way. Julio rolled over and got to his feet in a slow and calm measure, watchful of all her kin still looking on, not sure as to the condition of the broken girl. As his gilded eyes surveyed the crowd he stepped into his casual stance, hands clasped unnervingly still in front of him.

 

One month. He barked at the crowd, still searching for the right 'one', the true leader of these peoples. Surely they were watching, that's what this whole display was about. In that time I am going to war with the Galactic Alliance.

 

That one. When he spotted the grey haired main on an upper balcony of the castle, surrounded by some of the better equipped Mandalorians around he noticed, his looking around stopped and rested wholly on him. If you want another chance to prove to me and the rest of the galaxy you are who you claim to be, if you want to restore your Empire to the glory it once held, join me in one month in deep orbit outside of Kuat. I plan to take their drive yards and hold the planet hostage until we've completed a few new war machines. I need someone to take and occupy the planet while I operate their yards. You keep yours, I keep mine. If this deal works out there will be many more just like it in the year to come.

 

He offered the grey Mandalorian a kind smile before turning to grab his jacket and gear. Piece by piece he began to rebuild himself, shouting over his shoulder. And do not think I'd be foolish enough to tell you the entire plan. I have many contingencies in place for your possible venues of betraying my trust, and I am not a forgiving man.

 

He straightened his jacket and reflexively pulled out a spice stick, already lit and took a deep breath. A cigarette just sounded delicious for some reason. Fight or stay here, conquer an empire or sit here playing with yourselves. Grow or stagnate. Now at the bottom of the ramp to his ship, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small comlink and tossed it to the nearest Mandalorian. This is how you can get ahold of me, and only a call from that specific comlink will get to me. Any others you try to share the number with will get rerouted to a moisture farmer on Tatooine. At that last part he laughed at himself. That man has been pissed for months for all the calls from Alliance Intelligence keeps making. His bill has to be outrageous.

 

He didn't really wait for an answer. He didn't really expect an answer right now. Some strange person walked into their home, whooped on one of their child prodigies, then offered them a chance for war and glory. As odd as all that seemed it would understandably take time to talk it over. Plus, it wasn't like they could justifiably stop him. For all intents and purposes, the pair of them fought on the terms of a sparring match. As much as the girl's wounds may seem, in truth they weren't anything greater she'd receive in everyday training. Indeed a day or so in a tank of bacta, maybe a week of bacta shots instead, and every bone would be set back in place like nothing had ever happened.

 

The ship took off not long after, and made it out of orbit, into hyperspace in just a few short flicked switches.

[Moon Knight]

A flicker of pseudomotion marked the return of the Justice to Mandalore. It's pilot, ShadowFett, hadn't considered the planet yaim in many years, but the rustic low-tech world dotted with pragmatic settlements that more closely resembled military complexes than small towns always seemed welcoming to him. It was a place where Mando sensibilities and cultural identity permeated every aspect of society, a world and a people that could survive any hardship. Autonomous and self-reliant, they needed no leader except when they went collectively to war, and so the loss of no individual could harm them.

 

It was why Fett, even holding the title of Mand'alor, had not found need to come here except once since inheriting those responsibilities. But in that time, he had received multiple tips that things were transpiring here in his absence, from terrorist attacks to rumors of a splinter group forming in opposition to the Supercommando Codex. It was time for him to stop in and make sure this movement gained no further ground; to remind the Mando'ade, if he must, of the values that had enabled them to survive the war.

 

Landing in Keldabe, Moon Knight made his way out of his ship and directly to the Oyu'baat. By all appearances nothing but a pub, the building was in truth essentially the center for government on Manda'yaim. The people of this world cared little for government, but everyone had eyes and ears on this place, waiting for just such an event as Fett was intending to stir up now.

 

"Mand'alor," one of the beskar'gam-clad occupants greeted him on sight. "What brings you to the shebse of the galaxy on such a day as this?"

 

That man hadn't been the only one to notice Fett's entrace. The scarred black beskar he wore was recognizable in many places in the galaxy, and on this world, as little as the people needed a Mand'alor, the power that he potentially held when combined with the infrequency of his visits meant he was going to get particular attention. Last time he had been here, Fett had made it clear that he held the position only to keep it out of the wrong hands. This visit was going to be an extension of that, but one that might require him to own up to the title.

 

"I hear the Kyr'tsad have started to stir the pot again," he said without preamble. "Bring me up to speed." It was not lost on him that the last time the Death Watch had been violently put down, it had been at the hands of a certain ori'ramikad named Jango Fett. In the tradition of that bloodline, he would do the same again.

 

((Most or all of the PCs that aligned themselves with Hadrian Augustus have become inactive. Fett is going to clean up the mess they made. If anyone has any objections, let me know and we can either arrange something or fight it out.))

[Moon Knight]

Several of the individuals that spent the most time in the Oyubaat were extremely well-informed, either because they made an effort to keep up with events and then came here to share about them, or simply because they remained there and thus picked up on the conversations that took place within the bar's walls. In particular, there were a few Mando'ade who had specialized in intelligence and information trade; when they were off fighting for the aruetiise, they could put those skills to work in a warfare setting, but when they were on Manda'yaim they had to make due with local events. Beneath the rustic, low-tech appearance of the bar, some of the most brilliant minds in the galaxy were idling, compiling information and effectively running a planet.

 

Thusly, it didn't take long for ShadowFett to get the facts. A man named Hadrian Augustus had declared himself Mand'alor in Fett's absence and had gathered a band of sympathizers. They were scum; mercenaries, dar'manda and demagole who longed for the wars of the past and were blind to the fact that the galaxy had been made new since those times. The Mandalorians were strong, but they were no war machine. Augustus and his supporters could try to build capital ships, he supposed, and wage war of the galaxy, but they wouldn't last more than a few weeks. The GA would be on the scene and slam down on any attempt to mobilize a star fleet so fast that any such war would end before it had begun. There was a part of Fett that was quite tempted to just let that happen and have the problem take care of itself. The problem was that he couldn't expect aruetiise to appreciate the difference between Mando'ade and Kyr'tsad, and so any attempt made by House Greyjoy could jeopardize Manda'yaim itself.

 

The Kyr'tsad had grown bold, and they had made no move to hide their base of operations, hoping instead to recruit openly into their ranks. Once Fett had gotten the full briefing, he leaned casually against the counter top. "This has been allowed to go on for too long," he said at last, having been silent for much of the information gathering.

 

"What do you plan to do, Mand'alor?" one of the Mando'ade asked him.

 

"Cleanse House Greyjoy from Manda'yaim," he answered grimly. "I need you to gather some volunteers. I am not going to invoke the resol'nare and command you to follow me, but I think we all know what needs to be done."

 

The verd he was speaking to nodded and turned to face the rest of those gathered in the bar. Each of them had already stood up. "Oya," was all he said. The ramikade immediately started to disperse to spread the word. The truth was, Fett hadn't needed the resol'nare because he knew the people of this world. The vast majority of them hated the Kyr'tsad as much as he did. Now that the legitimate Mand'alor was here, they finally had the movement they needed to end this threat... hopefully once and for all.

[Moon Knight]

ShadowFett had to admit that he found the efficiency of the Mando'ade refreshing. He had grown accustomed in many ways to the bureaucracy, hesitation, and slow caution of lesser soldiers and CoreSec cops. In CoreSec, the term "shots fired" raised alarms, such incidents made the news, and casualties were met with increased regulation. But here on Manda'yaim they grew professional soldiers. The men and women of these clans put on their armor to go to the grocery store (it was no coincidence that beskar'gam translated to "iron skin") and were ready to fight at a moment's notice for honor, glory, or Mand'alor.

 

It was almost comforting to Fett to know that there was a planet full of people that shared his ideals, that stood a cut above the rabble that filled the galaxy to the brim. The part that made this dangerous was that the opponent they were mobilizing against also wore the beskar, had the training, and fought as they fought.

 

Not that the peril mattered. This battle needed to be fought and it needed to be won. The Kyr'tsad would never rise up and take over this world. Their lust for war and personal glory was something intrinsic to many Mandalorians, and indeed Fett had fought in the Galactic Civil War harder than any of them. But they had subverted the resol'nare by rejecting their Mand'alor and the welfare of their aliite in favor of this battle lust, and they had discarded the Supercommando Codex in favor of their grand talks of conquest.

 

Now a small army of True Mandalorians were gathered in the Keldabe city square, and Fett didn't even need to say a single word to rally them. Every one of them knew what his or her duty was. ShadowFett was not the leader of this army, only the instigator of what had been in the works long before he had set foot on Manda'yaim.

 

And so they set out in speeder trucks and old-style war machines, Mando-style juggernauts that had been in use for centuries, pragmatic designs that were just as functional now as they had been when they were originally designed.

 

------------------------------

 

The Kyr'tsad had definitely gotten wind of the force mobilizing against them, and they had a response prepared. They had entrenched themselves in well-designed defensive patterns and rapidly-fabricated redoubts. When the True Mandalorians arrived, however, there was not a shot fired. Both forces lined up and began to stare each other down, and finally ShadowFett and a small group of some of the strongest verde that had gathered proceeded into the neutral zone. There they were met by some of the leaders of the Death Watch force, including their false Mandalore.

 

"This grievance is between my clan and Clan Greyjoy, particularly with Hadrian Augustus," Fett addressed them. "Our armies can fight, or we can settle this through personal combat."

 

One of the Kyr'tsad officers scoffed. "You have no aliit. How can you stand against Greyjoy?"

 

"Alone," ShadowFett answered, drawing his beskad. "Until enough Greyjoys are dead that there is no doubt who is Mand'alor."

[Moon Knight]

ShadowFett shouldn't have been surprised by the low amount of respect that the Greyjoys had for him. It was what had lead this whole situation, from the resurrection of the Kyr'tsad to this conflict here on Manda'yaim to begin. When it came right down to it, he was here to prove that he was worthy of respect. In many ways, it was something he had needed to do anyway. There were lots of places in the galaxy where his name had weight. His beroya days had made his name frequent in crime circles. Black Sun knew him as someone who had nearly reformed them, so poor a fit was he among their ranks. The Empire had placed an enormous bounty on his head when he had turned up working for New Republic special forces. And more recently he had been making waves as a big name in CoreSec.

 

But that wasn't enough for the Mando'ade, and some of those exploits were old. He had inherited the title of Mand'alor from Vihk Ahzinger but had never come here to establish that he was worthy of that venerable name. For a time, he hadn't even wanted it, only wanted to keep it safe from such men as Hadrian. But carrying it out amongst the aruetiise simply hadn't been enough. House Greyjoy had spread the seeds of doubt because they had a foolish notion of conquest stuck in their minds. Fett's absence from Manda'yaim and his lack of involvement in the recent incidents here had been enough for some Mando'ade to wonder if he was really fit for the title. When Hadrian had claimed it for himself, some had thought as he did.

 

Now Fett was here, challenging the Greyjoys in combat, and that lack of respect had him earning the right to challenge Hadrian himself. That, or Hadrian was secretly a hu'tuun and was hoping to wear Fett down by throwing some of his aliit at him first. That seemed wasteful, but there was pretty good honor in such a fight, depending on how well they did. And if one of them were to vanquish Fett, the tale would be told for generations in their house.

 

But if that was their goal, they were going to be disappointed. They were all Mando'ade, yes. They had been brought up in the ways of the warrior culture, and had learned what it meant to be a soldier from a young age. They had trained and fought in the long traditions of Mando technique. But Fett... he was much more. He had spent his entire career fighting for his life. He had tested himself against Arach'tar, Imperial Royal Guardsmen, Sith and Jedi. Then there were his memories inherited from past Moon Knights. He had spent hundreds of years as a Ral'tath Blademaster, learning the finer points of blade combat. He had been Echani, he had been a Teras Kasi master, he had been a Outer Rim-famous gunslinger. Some of the memories were old, but each past life layered onto his present reality, added to and perfected his combat form.

 

These young men that pit themselves against him were strong, much better combatants than most soldiers. But the advantages Fett had, the dedication he had given perfecting himself, was nearly insurmountable. One at a time, starting with just a few blows and working into more extended bouts, he defeated each member of House Greyjoy that stood to challenge him. At first it was the younger ones, the less experienced eager to get a few blows in at Mand'alor. But then it was the older ones, the ones with more honor, the ones who had lost to few or had never lost. Although Fett did eventually begin to tire, he continued to defeat these. Among them were Rodrik and Terra Greyjoy.

 

Finally, his beskar'gam a bit battered but his body uninjured, Fett stood before Hadrian Augustus. He hadn't said anything since laying down his challenge, and only now he spoke. "Draw your blade, usurper." The Kyr'tsad did so, bound by the honor to prove that he was worthy of the title that he had claimed.

 

The fight started out with a few simple sword blows, testing the waters. ShadowFett immediately noticed that Augustus' guard was solid, his motions more deliberate than those that he had challenged before. He was a canny, experienced combatant. The fight quickly escalated as each man attempted to outmaneuver the other. Fett had fought almost a dozen men today in single combat, and his muscles were starting to ache, but he persevered. He had spent entire days training to the point where he was so exhausted he could hardly pull the trigger on a blaster. He knew what it would take to keep him from fighting, and this wasn't it.

 

Now the fight escalated another level, as the Mando'ad and the dar'manda started to bring other weapons into the mix. Grenades started to go off and the wide ring of spectators took a few steps back to give space. Blaster fire sprayed through the air, and everything from pistols to darts to fists were brought into the battle.

 

Fett had to admit that Hadrian Augustus was powerful. In another lifetime, back when conquest had driven the Mando'ade to challenge the entire galaxy, Augustus may even have been a suitable candidate for the title he had wrongfully claimed here. But ShadowFett would not be overcome. Finally, the opportunity came. Fett triggered his grappling cord which lanced around Augustus' leg. He then triggered his repulsor pack and rocketed past the man. Augustus leveraged his weight to pull Fett off-course, but Fett reversed his repulsor pack, rolled in the air, and brought Augustus off his feet, entangling the man's sword arm in the process. Rolling across the short distance between them, Fett brought his bes'kad deftly around and jammed the tip right through Hadrian's throat and into the ground under him.

 

Just like that, it was over. The True Mandalorians cheered. The Kyr'tsad paid attention.

 

ShadowFett addressed them. He let go of his blade and it remained in place as Hadrian's blood soaked the ground. "I am Mand'alor, and hopefully I have earned your respect. The Mando'ade are to be as we have been. Follow the resol'nare and observe Mereel's Supercommando Codex. Fight in the wars of the aruetiise to provide for your aliite. Or remain here on Manda'yaim and protect the clans. There may come a time when the glory of our race is restored and we can again take this galaxy from the hands of the aruetiise, the jetiise, and the dar'jetiise. But it is not this day."

 

There was really no room to question a man who had accomplished what Fett had just accomplished. The Mando'ade followed the strongest among them. It was the way they had always been, even back in the days Hadrian had tried to bring about again.

 

"If you are still unwilling to follow me, surrender your beskar, leave Manda'yaim and live as the aruetiise do. That has always been your right."

 

He then turned and walked back into the crowd of True Mandalorians. The ones who had rallied the others came to him. He was greeted by exclamations of kandosii and wayii, but he did not respond to them. "Don't worry about this rabble, Mand'alor," one of them said. "We'll see to things from here."

 

Fett knew they would. The Mando'ade were bound to their honor, their culture. He expected that Augustus' followers would disband within the day. If any lingered, they would be dealt with. Proclaimed dar'manda. Maybe a few would lurk in the shadows, but that had always been the case with the Kyr'tsad. Fett had won back his planet today, his people.