As Tradition Demands

[Corrin Tal'verda]

Months of searching produced little more than a haphazard adventure and a crew. That was good and dandy, but Corrin's goal had not been met.

His buir was out there somewhere. Alone. Suffering. His mother spent all her time pirating to feed her children, and his little sister's faith in their father's return had evaporated on Concordia. The little Mando and his team - consisting of a blind force adept, his sister, and a Quohog - had returned to Mandalore to rearm.

The rest of the Mando'ade were off expanding their people's influence in the wake of the tragedy that had taken Corrin's father. More recently, a call for war against some sort of death cult that had come a little to close to their borders. The Tal'verda would have sent its sons and daughters; if any remained to fight. All had disappeared with his father, and Corrin could not go to war knowing his clansmen were captives to...something.

He did not know what, but he had an inkling of where to find them. To do that, he needed more than what was available in Kurs'taylir. He needed Mandalore himself.

Since his early childhood, Corrin's parents and uncles had drummed their values into the boy. He was raised in the isolated northern region of Mandalore, where the Tal'verda lived off of the land and occasionally came down to Keldabe for trade. His clan had no supported Mandalore's growth; they were isolationists, believing the Mando'ade should not rule anything more than the few systems around their homeland. This had gone so far to forcing a mass exodus of the clan from Mandalorian space when the last Mandalore was still in power.

With the crowning of [member="Azrael"], the Tal'verda had grudgingly depopulated their old settlement, suspicious of the Mandalore, but not hostile as they were with his predecessor.

What Corrin knew of the other Mando'ade was that they only respected strength. It was what he had seen when interacting with them. What he had seen when they had treated his mother like a doll rather than the warrior she was. He could not reason with them for assistance - he had to show he was strong.

The small slip of a boy approached the Mandal Motors building with purpose to his stride. He was barely over five feet tall, and as thick as a stick. A Verpine Sniper Rifle was slung from a leather strap over his right shoulder - a gift from his mother - and a single DC-15 sidearm that looked far too big for his small hands was strapped to the holster at his hip. What stood out was the lightsaber hilt that dangled next to it; made mostly of wood and marked with a hundred tiny carvings.

He displayed his trophy proudly, and stepped through the building's doors. He wore a separate section of his father's katarn breastplate over his jacket, and little plasteel plates over each of his joints.

The boy marched right on into the lobby, and locked his blue eyes forward.

"Su cuy! Ni-.. The boy's voice cracked. "...I am Corrin Tal'verda. I've come to speak with the Mandalore...Lord Mandalore."




[member="Azrael"]

 

[Azrael]

If it wasn't the largest structure on Keldabe, it was probably one of the most prominent in the capital cities history. Over the centuries Mandal Motors had grown in size and influence within the borders of the planet, and the name carried a great amount of weight with it. This was the pride and joy for many Mandalorian mechanics, repairmen, pilots, and just about anyone else who had an inkling to engineer or fly. Spanning three city blocks by normal count in this sector, the bulk of the company was comprised of the three massive hangars, the engineering bay, production and assembly lines, as well as the main offices. Off to the south-east quadrant of the mighty fortress was Mandal Motors hall where a lot of the united clan business was held, as well as the throne of Mand'alor that was so rarely used save for ceremonial issues. Then there was the back-end of the hall facing the other location where a memorial lined with statues and armor of previous A'lor'e stood in testament to the long standing tradition of their people. With all things said and done, the facility was massive, and even a subsidiary of it's holdings was found orbiting the planet itself with shipyards that were just as gigantic for the massive ships in the warrior culture's fleet. Despite however it's size and grandeur, Mandal Motors was home to many people, including that of the young half-blood salvager.

With the duties of his position, the Mand'alor didn't often have as much time as he wanted for any given hobby or relationship. Time management was one of the new soft skills he had to work on managing. His time was spent often overseeing some of the larger operations of the vode, and being contacted by the heads of the various clans as he bore the weight of both his own clan name, and the responsibility of managing Mandal Motors itself. At times he longed for days when he could just relax and unwind while salvaging some scrap in the drive bays of a massive fleeting vessel, or having a quiet getaway on Lianna with his Jedi companion. Not many were extremely personal with Azrael, but he wasn't a closed off person, just more serious than he was jovial. At times he even relied on practiced meditation to calm his spirit so that he'd not lose himself to the duties and wear himself out. Delegation helped too, and he had plenty of ready hands to rely on. Currently though the construction of a new line of war droids was on the docket, and Azrael was in the midst of working with some of the lead engineers with the designs he had fashioned with a young Mandalorian girl who was quite the mechanic.

"The drive train needs to be able to clear both arms when it takes the bend. If we lengthen the track here, we can circumvent the need to pause the array. See what you can do about bringing the plasma torches up from below instead of hanging from the top. It'll give more clearance." The half-blood instructed looking over his datapad resting in his bionic grip while pointing towards the section they were still working on. A curt nod was offered from the foreman after Azrael handed over the datapad and turned to make his way north of the catwalk that extended over the clamor below of workers creating the assembly line they would need for the production of the droids. As custom, he wasn't clad in his full beskar'gam, and was simply in a more casual set of armaments that would deal with with the rigors of the factory floor rather than open combat and war zones. The commlink worn over his right ear buzzed and chirped pulling his attention away from the work below to the alert. Touching the device to cup the sound out, his grey eyes shifted as did his body to the western entrance to the factory over two kilometers below.

"Oya, I'll be down shortly." The response was clipped, but he wasn't as pressed for time as he normally would be. The current tension between their own losses after the Netherworld incident and the growing threat of two major factions vying for control in the Galaxy was causing a lot of talks to be had with various border planets, other factions that wanted to remain on the good side of the Mandalorians, and interested third parties that were looking to make a quick credit off of the situation. It didn't really mean much to Azrael which path he was approached on, he disliked those talks the most - and welcomed a vod above all else. Traversing the grated metal of the catwalk system towards one of the lifts that would take him down to the factory floor, Azrael slid onto one of the hover boats that was used to go between larger projects and the various buildings of the Mandal Motors conglomerate to speed along towards the west entrance. Hugging the wall, and passing by the massive floating station ships and repair docks, his own thoughts were not so much on the request for his presence, but on the next move on a far more grand scale.

A side shift brought the craft to a muted pause, letting Azrael trade places with a mechanic that needed to take to another matter on the far side of the complex. Stepping free, and clipping his stride towards the young boy who had made his way and proclaimed his need for the Manda'lor. All Azrael knew about him was his name, as communicated from the commlink earlier, but the clan was recognized. He'd met several of them in other arenas, but hadn't seen many since he took the mantle of A'lor. Azrael liked children, although in the Mandalorian culture anyone who was about thirteen years old was considered a full blown adult in the culture. Corrin was just shy of that, but it was never too early to get a head start on a life that was born from bravado and brutality. A calm smile drew over the slight crimson sheen from his half blood heritage as he approached, dwarfing the lad in his shadow alone.

"Oloram ner'vod. Me'vaar ti gar?"

[member="Corrin Tal'verda"]

 

[Corrin Tal'verda]

"I'm okay." The boy answered instantly. He quickly shut his mouth, taking his father's advice to heart.

Don't get distracted by niceties.

Corrin gazed up at the Manda'lor in silent awe. He was huge, just like his father and uncles - or maybe Corrin was just small. He was particularly skinny for a boy of his age. No matter how much he forced himself to eat, his body just refused to grow. It didn't help that unlike many other Mando children, he had never been to war. Hunted Nerf, yes . Fought a pack of wolves with his siblings, yes. Seen the unadulterated violence sentient beings took part in over resources, no.

"I..." He sputtered, naturally shifting over to basic. Since his father's disappearance, there was little reason to speak the language of his birth except on Mandalore. "My father is missing after the...thing. Tragedy. Mass kidnapping." He shrugged his little shoulders, and scuffed his boots on the floor. "And I'm Corrin." He repeated.

His gaze was locked on [member="Azrael"]'s. His father had always said to look a man in the eye when you were trying to be serious, even if you were intimidated. Currently, intimidated was a bit of an understatement for how Corrin was feeling.

"I need resources and..."

Challenge him.

"To do that I need-" He motioned uncertainly at Azrael. "The uh...position."

 

[Azrael]

Despite how the Mandalorians had evolved over the millenniums in their lineage - a few common truths has been cemented in ideology and practice early on. One of the founding principles of the culture was that of adoption and acceptance. Unlike other creeds, you didn't have to be born a Mandalorian in order to be brought into the fold. One simply needed to prove themselves loyal to the vode, and swear to ally yourself with the Resoln'are. Certainly other things were taken into consideration, but the common practice of making aruetiise into vode was straightforward and time honored. Azrael had been one of these adopted sons of the Manda when Gilamar Skirata had inducted him as his own son, and brought him into clan Skirata. Still, even with all that knowledge, and the family he had gained because of it, he never stopped feeling that slight sliver of envy when he saw a young Mandalorian born child. Corrin was no exception in the eyes of the Mand'alor, understanding that this young man had been given a great blessing by being born into the culture - though they certainly shared entirely different perspectives on that point. The admiration in his gaze was evident enough that he respected the lad's approach, and welcomed what he had to say.

There was a struggle growing in the pit of the boy's stomach, that much was wholly apparent by not only his words, and tone of voice, but of the minute actions that laid bare the insecurity and deep water he was apparently jumping in to. Both arms shifted to cross against the salvager's chest while appraising grey eyes watched as he listened to the short tale of his presence here. The Netherworld was not a pleasant memory for the Mand'alor, having been so freshly rescinding that deathly playground. Many vode had been taken in that calamity, and while most had come out of it alive, it was not hard to imagine that there were still several more that had not escaped that fate. Normally it would have saddened him to think of family being lost to that dark place, but even moreso as Mand'alor that he didn't have the knowledge that some of his people were still trapped there apparently. Mentally adding the notion to investigate who might have been left behind was adding to the long laundry list of duties he needed to see to. The silent reminder though stopped short when the phrasing of the child before him ended with something resembling a thinly veiled challenge.

"Corrin." Azrael said after a few moments of scrutinizing silence on his part. The tone of his voice almost breathing out in a sigh...weighing his words for a moment as if to balance the right amount of tact and honesty to meet full measure the weight of what this Mandalorian boy had just laid out. "I'm sorry to hear about your buir. I was among the taken - and I know firsthand what that place is like." From there, the half-blood shifted his position and took a knee, drawing his frame down, and keeping his gaze fully locked on the young boy. His right hand reached out and clasped upon the young man's shoulder. "I assure you though, vod - I will do whatever I can to help you find him, and any other of your clan that hasn't returned from the Nether." A promise was offered, and one he intended to keep, yet his voice simply paused for effect before his right arm slid to his bent knee and rested over it.

"I want you to understand something though Corrin'ika. This is a tradition that dates back to the very first Taung that rose to lead our glorious heritage. I will help you, and ensure the clans rally to find what you seek, but if you insist on what you just said - I cannot and will not ignore that challenge. Consider the weight of your words ner'vod, for they are not without consequence."

[member="Corrin Tal'verda"]

 

[Corrin Tal'verda]

Don't break. Don't break.

There was a tenacity in the boy's gaze when [member="Azrael"] clamped a hand on his shoulder. Corrin was not a strong boy. He had barely survived his own birth, and the weakness he was born with was slow to leave him. He was no great warrior, no soldier of the Mando'ade like his father and uncles. At best, he was destined to be a cook, maybe a shopkeeper, something menial to hide Tal'verda's living shame.

Still, he had a responsibility. As was noted, Corrin was almost an adult in societal regard. His father was missing, likely dead as the others had decided, but the boy held strong. If he needed to step up and take charge of the clan, then he would eagerly. He might have been a terrible Mandalorian, but his love for the people that he'd graciously been born into kept him loyal.

"I understand." He replied quietly. The shake in his voice was gone, replaced with a resigned, grim understanding. "I did a lot. I..." His voice trailed off into nothingness. The Manda'lore reminded him of his father. It frightened the boy. Coming to take the crown from a bloodthirsty king did not require much stomach. Evil was veil, so far as Corrin had been taught, and it was okay to kill that evil if you needed to.

But this man did not seen to be the case.

A heavy sigh fell from the boy. "You aren't like I expected." He shook his head. "Not at all."

 

[Azrael]

While not physically as adept or trained as other Mando'ade of his age and species - Corrin did not lack the heart and courage it took to make decisions that were still way above his caliber. That alone spoke volumes that despite what disadvantages may lay in wait for the young Mandalorian, he was ready and willing to face them with grit and determination - even if misguided. Mandalorians were not perfect people; far from it, but they were resolute in their decision, unshakable in their conviction, and determined to see it through no matter the consequences. That unconquerable will had proved them time and time again on the fields of battle and war, cementing their reputation for centuries, and Azrael appreciated seeing that same spirit in someone that was on the cusp of earning his place in the Mando'ade and forging his own path. A small smirk touched the slight crimson sheen upon the Mand'alor's visage as Corrin had voiced his mistaken identity.

"I'll take that as a compliment ad'ika. It takes great courage to come to me with that mindset, and I respect that. You're trying to do right by your allit, and your buir." A soft smile was offered before Azrael rose to his full height, which to some was actually shorter than most as he didn't even clear six feet himself. "I know of a few vod who have crossed that realm with me and made it back safely, and you're going to need a tracker for certain." Turning to look towards the entrance of the large hangar they stood at the mouth of - his eyes gazing up towards the setting star - a constant reminder of the time he watched his own father's body and ship sail into the heart of the bright central star of their system. "Rally Master [member="Vilaz Munin"] stood by my side in the Nether, and he is as brave and capable as any tracker I know." Pausing for a moment, and turning to look upon Corrin once more. "I'm certain he will help you in finding your Buir, and if you need anything else - you have my blessing to use it."

"When I was your age, these ships were my life - well to be more precise their shells. I grew up on Ord Mantell, never set foot on any other planet, and was working for a scrap yard. I didn't know of a family until I was taken to Yaim by my Ori'vod, and I will never forget how much that has changed my life for the better ad'ika. If I can help you find your Buir and Allit, you have my word, vod, it will be done."

[member="Corrin Tal'verda"]