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A Time to Sow, A Time to Reap: Concord Dawn

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10 replies to this topic

#1
Faeroth Uraan

Faeroth Uraan

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The big man stood on the hard packed ground of the landing pad, with a heavy neacon spike in his big hands. The sun shone down on his old weather beaten armor. The old green and grey plates held dents and gouges from hundreds of battles and spoke a silent testament of the man he had been. He lifted the beacon high above his head, pointed tip toward the cracked dry groud and he drove it down violently.

He stood silently for a moment as he looled at the quivering beacon and he rested a hand on it to steady it as he pondered the message he would send out. He had watched his people fail for too long. Watched them bend their knees to the false leaders that played at war like babes and let themselves be blown by the winds of public opinion like chaff on a winnowing floor. No longer, he could stand it no more.

He turned the toggle on the beacon to broadcast a signal. A signal to his people, his vode, his ad'ika. No, more watching. Ni more hiding.

"To all Mando'ade. I am Ordo be Ordo. The Field Marshal that once led you to conquer the stars and I've come to call you back. To push off the bonds you've shackled yourselves with. I am your Mamd'alor. I will bring you back to glory and honor. I'm on Concord Dawn. Follow my beacon and join me."

He watched as the beacon blinked and he set it on a loop. They would come and he would lead them again. It was time.

#2
Alaric

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The beacon was heard all around their people, and news of it would spread like wildfire. There were names that everyone in his newly adopted culture knew. @Ordo. Ember Rekali. Ijaat Mereel. @Mia Monroe. For good, or for ill, their names rang in the annals of history. And Alaric was nothing if not an eager student of the history, myth, and legends or his new people. And that extended for all times and era. He did not hate the Empire for siding with the Sith, but he distrusted the Sith, so he did not. What he came to resent the Empire for were their behaviors, not their allegiances. History of the Mando'ade told well what happened to those who stood on pomp and circumstance and laurels. It told very well. 

 

Sitting the craft down idly, he walked a long trek to this new Manda'lor. It felt symbolic, and proper, to come armed to the teeth, if he wound up swearing allegiance, what good was a warrior without weapons. Just lucky he had been on planet getting fitted proper for the new weapons and such. His armor was newly fitted and lighter in plate load, portions of it being the treated scales of an Eol Sha fireworm hunt he and Cato Fett had slain. Two rippers sat in pistol holsters on his thigh plates on the front, and crossed in the small of his back were two mythosaur bone hand axes, while two gladius like swords sat thrust in the belt he wore. A bes'bev sat in one hand, and across his back was a bevii'ragir hunting spear.

 

Approaching, he saw a lone man standing. A giant of form and function, and a funny feeling caught in the younger warrior. A tug behind breastbone and determination of will, a hardening of his mind. It wasn't set he would swear to the man yet, but as he approached and the form grew larger still, the durasteel clad lad began to play on the old beskar instrument in his hand, which he had taken to expertly whilst healing from the fireworm hunt. The song he played was older than anyone remembered, and it had a sort of symbolism to it. A rumbly voice began singing as the remove helmet was hooked to belt, showing dark features and hair, but blazing and fiery eyes of blue.

 

"Oya'cye
Kyr'am
Mare'cye
Darasuum
Oya! Oya!"

 

After this, he merely stood and eyed the man, posture at complete relaxation. Death or welcome would come next.

 


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#3
Faeroth Uraan

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Alaric

He took a deep breath and looked around as the ship settled down in the clearing. The had been the top of a mine once. Barely a decade ago He had owned in himself and built ships for the last of the galaxy's Mando'ade. He watched as the ship sat down with the few others. A small group of mostly his own former command had found their way to the dusty landing area. He watched through the t-shape of his visor as gust of dust and small cyclones rose under the pressure of the repulsorlifts.

He kept the beacon going and walked forward as the hip cycled down. His weapons were slung and holstered, few as they were, and a string of lightsabers hung from his belt as trophies of the sith he had killed during the war. He would be hanging scalps there soon, if he had to and they would force his hand, they always did. He walked forward as the Vod’ika came from the ship with a song and a determined set to his shoulders.

“Su Cuy’gar, Ner Vod.” The big man said as the younger man strode into the clearing.

He offered his armored hand and nodded to the man. It was a start. A few determined warriors could take on the galaxy if they needed too, and he was willing to do it alone if they didn’t have the stomach for it. This one look at least like he wanted to fight.

“What’s you name, bub.” Ordo asked his voice smooth and low, a father’s voice today.

More would come, or they would sit back and wait while he waged another war and creep in later, either way, this was happening. He claimed the title and he stood ready to defend the claim with blood. He wasn’t the blood poisoned old man he had been. And they would learn that soon, enough.

#4
Alaric

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There wasn't any large speech to come from the younger. Despite a hard life in the pits fighting as a slave, the hybrid k'paur had an almost infectious grin at times. It lacked snark, or sarcasm, and was just genuine. Life had already shown him hell for years. Whatever these others thought that they could inflict on him. However they tried to break his spirit... They could not come close to the pain in his origins. And so he took the offered hand in a deceptively powerful grip for his frame and shook it.

 

Standing face to face, he found he might almost be taller than the man height wise, but the similarity in size ended there. Ordo was brawn and power. Alaric was lithe muscle and frame. Then he spoke, almost hesitantly. Reading of these men and their deeds, and women, was apparently drastically different than meeting them. But he kept his keel even.

 

"Alaric, sir. I heard a message go out attached to a name, and decided to hear what that name had to say for itself. You didn't call for a bent knee and debasement, so i'm intrigued. Speaking plain? I don't know why I came beyond that. A feeling I should be here, to hear you out. The rest will come in time I suppose"

 

Ordo


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#5
Elam Vos

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He walked out of the old mining building with a young child held close to himself. His eyes focused on the form by the landing bays. He had watched that same form burn and his mind said it was impossible, but his heart wanted it to be real. D'ral came out cautiously, like an animal that was starving but still feared taking bread from a strange hand.

His simple wandering clothes and new tattoos made him look like anything but the child that had run away out of fear and stupidity. But then that was the point. Strategic disappearance was neither strategic nor disappearance if you were obvious about it. He held the baby in one arm. The child happy and health, a little chunky, made small noises from beneath his hooded onesie. Despite what his heart wanted he kept a hand on the grip of his shatter pistol.

“Buir?” He said from a distance as he looked at Ordo, “Is that you?”

Alaric

#6
Connory

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As candidates for Mandalore went, old war heroes and old friends back from the dead ranked pretty high in Rel Connory's mind. Therefore, he responded.

 

As he came down the shuttle's ramp, though, things went all kinds of sideways. He prided himself on seeing options before they happened. The possibility that D'ral Ordo would come out of hiding for this, carrying Connory's infant son, hadn't even registered for once. Maybe he was getting sloppy. Maybe they both were. 

 

Wouldn't be hard, would it, to draw and gun down the younger man, snatch up the kid he'd spent millions to find, and walk away. A month ago he might have, but Sargon Vynea's vision had told Connory that the kid was safe and loved. That was why he'd dropped the bounty on D'ral and called it claimed: to draw the kid's hunters after himself and make the kid that much safer. But if shooting D'ral in cold blood wasn't the order of the day...what was?

 

"Su cuy'gar, Mand'alor. I won't ask how you're back." Connory's faceless red helmet tracked toward the younger man. "D'ral Ordo, I presume. What's my son's name?"


Edited by Connory, 05 February 2018 - 01:03 PM.


#7
Elam Vos

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He looked at the man as he walked off the ship. His mind already planning his escape at the sight of one more stranger behind a faceplate. He tensed, hand tightening in the pistol grip as the beign got closer. This was a bad idea. His buir had told him that most hunters just had to wait for game to come to them rather than stalk the forest but he never thought he would be the game to wander into the open.

"Galeth." He said as his heart began racing and sweat trickled down his cheek. "and he's where his mother wanted him to be."

His body wanted to shake, his mind said shoot and run, and the force was about as useful as a Munin Jedi. He held still. Frozen in place he watched the man, and waited for a flinch.

He almost drew when a loud rumbling came from little Galeth's backside. D'ral pulled the child closer with both hands now and patted the child's back.

"I have to go." He said still not looking away from the man.

Connory

#8
Connory

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Connory offered Elam Vos a slow nod.

 

"Yeah, you do. Anywhere I am isn't a safe place for him, now that they all think I've got him."

 

His hand flicked, but instead of a throwing knife or a grenade, D'ral wound up facing a business card.

 

BARD INDEPENDENT

ESHAN

 

"You need anything for him, and I mean anything, call or drop in. Watch your back out there."



#9
Funky Balor

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Funky Balor had seen many things. Wars. Heroes. Honor. And many were disrupting the current state of affairs. Whispers grew around the Mandalor and now, as was the way of thing, a challenger made his claim. These things were inevitable, but they would not go unwatched. They would not go unnoticed, or unheard.

 

 

 

The Alor of clan Balor rode in and sat down. His ponderous form was clad in purple armor and robes, looking like a rather potent wine merchant. There was no mask or helmet. Simply a stubby head, with eyes to small to notice. The burly Kitonak, the slowest of gorans, held his staff proudly and nodded as the others talked to one another, about sons and daughters. Family was always worthy of speaking first. More would come, but he would stand close. He was an Alor of a clan that honored the arts, that sang of victory, and glory. He was, even among his people, a singer, and tale teller. The gota'la be laar. As such, for posterity, it was his duty to hear this story. 

 

 

After they had spoke, his voice came in. Soft, reserved, yet still somewhat stern. "Gar ganar gaanla ibic akaanir, vod. Tion'jor ganar gar done bic?" A simple question. He had made this decision, but it was his to defend. To challenge for Mandalore was not merely a matter of battle. It was allegiance. It was a path. It was a grave decision. "As Alor of my clan, and keeper of history for my people, I claim a right to know your cause, that it may be added to our history......I cannot....." he said, pausing the relaxed way that he was known to do, "wager my clan's future blindly. Answer in your time....."

 

 

 

Another pause. More silence. Part of Kitonak culture. learning to appreciate the quiet, before storms, before chaos, before dangers. He nodded. "I shall return my answer in mine...." He sat down, fidgeting with his armor. Loosening it, actually. He'd adjust if necessary. He always did. He was no thinking of which planet to stop by on his way back to the mead hall on Kashyyk. He smirked. If this failed, he could pick up some blocks of cedar. Maybe make some pipes for that new youngling, tobias. No, he was a puncher, not a dancer. Drums. Definitely drums.

 

 

 

Ordo


Edited by Funky Balor, 05 February 2018 - 04:09 PM.


#10
Funky Balor

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double post oopsies!


Edited by Funky Balor, 05 February 2018 - 04:09 PM.


#11
Maeve Ar'klim

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To all Mando'ade. I am Ordo be Ordo. The Field Marshal that once led you to conquer the stars and I've come to call you back. To push off the bonds you've shackled yourselves with. I am your Mamd'alor. I will bring you back to glory and honor. I'm on Concord Dawn. Follow my beacon and join me."
 

She could not be the only receiving this. But it wasn't possible she had seen the body burn!

 

She quickly thought about her mother, sisters and brothers. They too would see this. What to do?

 

She missed her father terribly his big pawlike hands, his ruddy face and his laugh that infected everyone around him. She couldn't help but to hope.

 

She would go to Concord Dawn see for herself.


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