Broken Crown...

[Julius Sedaire]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXzDu071RdQ​

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Daymon was a simple man, but lately life had been intensely karked up. Some wandering warrior had dumped a problem in his lap just after his return to the Galaxy at large. His father - a man he had never known nor wanted to - had apparently been some (in)famous Mandalorian. And by the look of the tech that had been loaded in the battered footlocker that [member="Cato Fett"] had left him with, something of a genius when it came to weapons design. Though he had yet to put on the necklace in the case.

Ijaat, he still had a hard time thinking of him as his father, had left behind a journal as well. Within it's pages it contained a sort of autobiography. The Corellian born mercenary had his doubts about the veracity of it's pages, though. Not that the man who wrote them struck him as untruthful. Just that the truth, for his father, seemed to be told very much from a certain point of view. And if he were to decide what to do with this Legacy, he would need to make his own decisions about his familial inheritance.

So he had sought out to contact those who the journal talked about, though most proved almost impossible to locate. [member="Arrbi Betna"] was hidden, likely dead or otherwise indisposed. [member="Draco Vereen"] hadn't answered any comms, and he was not about to challenge someone Ijaat considered 'as irritable as a rancor with a hemorrhoid if provoked'. [member="Ember Rekali"] was a ghost, unable to be pinned down from a dozen stories and rumors. That left him with one who, though his father didn't know well personally, the now dead Alor seemed to respect the hell out of. [member="Gilamar Skirata"].

From everything in the Journal, and in his own research, Gilamar would be one who stood mostly above petty politics, more concerned with his people as a whole. He had been Manda'lor once, a sort of chief warlord of the Mandalorian peoples from what Daymon could tell. And had been there through many turns of fortune for that people. If anyone could tell him the legacy of his father, and the family in general, it would be this man. And he would do so objectively and without frills.

So it was that he wound up coming to a motley sort of gun-runners paradise, near some backwater world. Well, backwater was really relative after how long he had spent in another Galaxy just recently. Some people at the landing pad had seen the picture, heard the name, and pointed him to a little noodle joint just off the main drag of vendors. Apparently it was a favorite eatery of the old man, so he had set off for it.

A repulsor sled carried the footlocker, obtrusively marked in crimson and gold with the symbol of his fathers - and in a way his - he supposed, House. Walking up, he eyed the aged man for a moment, easing the Baragwin modeled flame pistol in it's holster, and nodded cleared his throat as he approached purposefully from in front of the man, hands open to display no ill intent, even if the pistol was obviously ready to draw. Daymon hated to interrupt the man during his dinner, and the noodles smelled delicious to boot. But he needed answers.

"Here to see Gilamar about Clan business. Heard that's you... "

The smile shown was pleasant, but a bit more on the toothy side of a bared grin than genuine joy. A durasteel capped boot lashed out, kicking the box to draw attention to it. Or more likely, the symbol on it. The man himself was in spacers garb that wouldn't pass for armor at all, and one could easily tell some of it wasn't locally sourced, so to speak. Accent, too, definitely had a thick Corellian twang and drawl, and some of the odd harshnesses on the vowels from the Toff and elsewhere in Firefist. He had learned announcing his intent ahead of time seemed to send his fathers former associates to the wind, so this time he'd just force the issue, so to speak.

 

[Gilamar Skirata]

Sluuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrp

The old man sure was enjoying his noodles.

Sluuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrp.

The droid chef behind the counter looked to Gil with glowing yellow photoreceptors and then lazily shifted its head to the man who stood adjacent to Gilamar, jumping with a start when the man kicked the durasteel box. It tapped its flat claws together nervously before turning and catering to another patron's meal with a series of peeps and chimes.

Slurrrrrrrp.

The old man grunted and heaved a satisfied sigh before he wiped the broth from his beard with a cloth and spun in his stool to face the man. He looked him up and down then glanced at the box which raised a curious brow. His mouth rolled around with Gil deep in thought as if he was trying to pick a piece of meat from between his teeth with his tongue. He sucked his teeth and sighed. The symbol of House Mereel was a sour sight for many, including himself, and he wasn't too eager to listen to what was about to come out of this man's mouth. But he had a feeling he wasn't going to just go away even if asked nicely.

"That it is. I hope that isn't a bomb you brought aboard my ship." That drew a few chuckles from around the noodle stand.

[member="Daymon Vale"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Looking at the man, he read the posture of face and mouth, and the sigh, that followed his kicking of the footlocker. So his old man had soured even someone he praised as neutral and fair. He really had fallen in the end. And then Daymon grinned slightly at the comment before he bothered to respond.

"Whatever blood connects me to Ijaat Mereel, I am not him. Nine Hells, I never even knew the man to my memory. Just a few picts from my ma. I'm not so dumb as to see every problem as a nail, just 'cause I'v a hammer. But he saw fit to put a target on my back when he named me his in his will. I've had nothing but threats and worse since his death. Though, died in such a way he's apparently absolved his family of blame. I don't understand your culture in that matter. But I doubt that will hold long for some of the folk what i've met. Some don't realize I'm not him, no matter if he is my father or not."

Taking a seat, he pointed at the bowl Gilmar had been eating from, and then himself, sticking a finger in the air to indicate an order. A casual kick of a trigger lock on the center, and the lid swung open. Bloodstained banner of the House nestled a set of heavy beskar armor, a gleaming crystalline sword, a very distinctive mass-driver rifle, and two pair of worn DE-10's. Ijaat's colors were still fresh and blood stained the gorget and chest pieces in a pattern that unmistakably spoke of a beheading.

"I'm not here to blow you up. Or to hurt you. Or to do anything to you. I need your help."

There was a silence for a moment, then he turned, and there was almost a young boy sitting in the wary eyes that locked to the old mans.

"I need to know who I am. Who he was. Who we are"

The "we " was punctuated by a curt nod to the open device, and the quest was plain. This man, courtesy of a father he had never met, had been named heir to a House of a culture he was not part of. And now sat on the knife's edge, debating if he should jump or dance. The question he asked was simple, on the face of it. But beyond that, it meant much. Daymon was asking no small thing to be explained - the legacy of a murderer, the future of a House and Clan, and the way of a truly ancient people.

[member="Gilamar Skirata"]

 

[Gilamar Skirata]

A deep, rumbling sigh escaped the lips of the old gogi as he pinched the bridge of his nose in what could have been frustration.

"Gar taldin ni jaonyc; gar sa buir, ori'wadaas'la," a pause, "Nobody cares who your father was, only the father you'll be...Its a phrase we seem to have forgotten in the harsh days since your father did the unthinkable. We've become so obsessed with revenge and anger that its blinded many of us, myself included, to the few good things that remained for us."

<Ne'tra gal if you have it,> the old man spoke in Mando'a. Whatever he had said, the droid understood and nodded. A ceramic pint filled with a thick, black ale found its way next to the empty bowl before Gilamar.

"Ijaat...Was a beskar smith. One of the finest on all of Manda'yaim, er, Mandalore. He liked to keep to himself but fancied himself the carrier of a long legacy. House Mereel was an old, famed house and he saw it his goal to make sure that house's name stayed in the history books. Though I'm not sure if he thought that one through all the way...His name will forever be remembered in the darkest pits of our history for what he did and most of his name unfortunately will probably forever be tainted by his deeds."

He sucked his teeth before taking a swig of his ale.

"I had respected the man based on his name and his work, so...what did you want to know?"

[member="Daymon Vale"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

"Whyren's, if you have it..."

A clink, and a bowl of noodles and a full shot glass slid over to the younger of the pair, and he began eating with a heavy sigh. Beskar was the Iron of the Mandalorian people. There were a few bites taken of the noodles, noting the odd spicy flavor. Not something he had ever taken note of before. The whiskey went down and the shotglass was flipped upside down, forming a ring on the table. Then there was a drawn out look to Gilamar as he nodded. So his father hadn't been a man without cause, just deluded or demented into the wrong actions. So then it came to a more intent question, which he ordered another go of whiskey for.

As the glass arrived, he sat thinking, turning it in his hands, pondering. Then he spoke, the words almost halting, but the voice iron.

"The boy in me wants to know his father. What kind of man he was. What he was like. But the man I am now? He told me to fix our families legacy. That he had walked the wrong path, and redemption or damnation of the name had passed to me..."

A scoff. A noise of disgust and frustration.

"But I don't know the first thing about being one of you. Or even what my family among you stood for... He said you were fair. Tending to self-righteous, but balanced and fair... And you are the only one I can pin down... I just... I just need to know where to go from here... Can the name be redeemed?"

[member="Gilamar Skirata"]

 

[Gilamar Skirata]

The old man's chuckle sounded more like a grunt.

"Not by an aruetii like you." He took a swig and wiped the dampness from his beard with his arm. "To tell you the truth, it might be better off if you let the name become just that, a name." He took in a breath.

"The name Viszla had been scorned, thousands of years ago, for a similar treachery. Its name only reached infamy again from Ra and Ronan's actions. Letting the name settle with the dust of Mandalore is something that no one would fault you for. Cin Vhetin."

The old man stood from the bar and tossed a credit chit onto the durasteel counter. The droid beeped in delight and a Mandalorian in the corner of the stand nodded to Gil.

"The Ketyadyr is heading to Kyrimorut on Mandalore. I have business to take care of with my people. We should be there in about a week. If you really think you have what it takes to fight back others of your own clan that scorn your father and to possibly begin to heal the House, you'll stay and come to Mandalore with us. If not, you can take that armor and toss it in a sun and continue with your life."

[member="Daymon Vale"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

For a long moment, there wasn't anything said by the younger of the two. The Corellian born mercenary sat quietly, eating noodles as if it were just a quiet day talking with an old friend, finally letting the utensils clatter to the chipped white bowl and wiping his mouth slowly. A heavy gaze fell on the open crate, and words just said echoed in his mind. Seconds ticked by like hours to him, pondering the possibilities and chances. Time dragged, slowing like honeyed time as the light of their surroundings seemed to grow all the brighter in his introspection.

Finally, he looked up to the aging warrior. Compared to him, he was as green as summer grass. That was a new feeling for Daymon, but he sucked in a ragged breath and nodded.

"I don't know what I have in me. Just a hired gun with rocket fuel for blood. But I've never had a home before. Or a real family. What sort of son would I be, if I didn't strive to be a better man than my father was? Besides, it's better than working for the Hutts. Pretty sure they want my head on a plate anyway..."

Draining the shot of whiskey, he stood, casting another glance to the footlocker before he shut it with a hand gentler than earlier. A sharp turn had him eyeing the man of Clan Skirata.

"Lead the way then..."

[member="Gilamar Skirata"]

 

[Gilamar Skirata]

The old man grunted before he shrugged. He started to walk down a corridor of large storage containers and welded metal that seemed to be the dwelling of other Mandalorian families. As the pair walked further and further through what was no doubt one of the cargo holds of the ship during its service the cargo containers opened up and morphed in odd ways and almost organically began to make something that resembled a town. Homes and small businesses shared the same space. It lacked the airspeeders of Coruscant but had a very undercity feel. The man led them through a couple of blast doors into a different area of the same town. The air in this place was hot and it smelled of slag and burning cloth.

A large sign in Mando'a hung above one of the more central stalls here that read, <The Ironclad Forge>. The place was a weapon dealer's paradise. Exotic weapons and armor from all across the Galaxy seemed to be gathered here for sale. The offbeat rythm of metal clanging on metal said there were traditaional Mandalorian smiths here as well.

"There's someone here I want you to meet. After that you can find yourself a bunk in the guard barracks and fall in it."

They approached a small metal shack that lacked a door and only had a burlap curtain adorned with the symbol of House Mereel as its entrance. Gil pulled it back and motioned for Daymon to enter.

[member="Daymon Vale"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Threading their way through the tumble-town, Daymon seemed on alert. The statement earlier, of him being an outsider... It was sinking in as he followed the older warrior. No one accosted him, or even really looked at him oddly. Some spared him a moment's curiosity, his guide surely known more than he and the reason for it likely. The footlocker he pulled on a floating sled was also likely cause for question, given its symbol. But, as well, Daymon might be some of his own oddity. Shiny, well oiled and new armor, odd exotic markings and weaponry from the Firefist galaxy, or bearing the hallmarks of Baragwin invention from his time learning with them after coming back to the Galaxy proper. Either way, his gait remained as relaxed as he could make it, taking faith that while he was not really a Mandalorian, he was formidable in his own right.

Then they stopped, and Gilamar pulled aside a flap and gestured him in, after getting a silent nod in assent to the man's statement. Almost subconsciously, he touched the butt of his pistol in a reassurance before he ducked in as shown.

[member="Gilamar Skirata"]

 

[Gilamar Skirata]

The hobble was larger than it appeared to be from the outside. Definitely rectangular due to the nature of that particular shipping container, the hut was filled with bits of armor and weapons hanging from the walls. A warm light came from the center of the container where a young girl was sitting cross-legged, tightening something with a hydrospanner. Her eyes were glued to the device and her tongue hung rigidly from the side of her mouth along with her frown of intense concentration. She had a mess auburn hair pulled up into a ponytail and was wearing a black tank under an orange flightsuit with the torso tied around her waist. The bottoms were stained with coolant and oil, as was her right cheek. The rustling of of the door flap caused her head to jerk up. She tilted her head and gave the man a look that told him he wasn't supposed to be there and she started to say something as she stood up waggling the hydrospanner threateningly.

Gilamar walked in behind the stranger though and suddenly she dropped the spanner.

"Uhm," she stammered, "W-what are you doing here Gilamar?"

"This is Daymon Vale, he's your half brother." Her jaw sort of hung open for a moment. She didn't know she had a half brother, she didn't know she had a brother at all. Her mouth closed and her face turned back into the same scowl as earlier.

"What does he want? I sold all of Papa's junk that he'd left behind."

"To be Mandalorian," he said with a smirk. Jenna couldn't hold back her laughter.

"Pfft...!!" She tried to compose herself but chuckled before stepping forward to properly greet her half-brother. "Jenna Mereel. How old are you?" It was obvious the girl was younger but the question was asked either way as she extended her hand. It was still slick with oil and a side glance from Gil told her that probably wasn't the best look. She quickly rubbed it on her orange flightsuit pants before sticking her hand out again.

[member="Daymon Vale"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

There wasn't a hesitation to take the hand offered, and the slightest trace of a wry smirk curled around his lips as she wiped her hand. Trying to be proper wasn't in his sisters wheelhouse, that much he could tell right off the bat. But there was something to her attitude that made him at ease. There was no immediate and naked hatred. Nor a weepy reunion. She would be honest with him, about their father and his legacy. And looking about, she was already a part of said legacy, having inherited his tinkering compulsions in a major way.

Pulling his hand back, he turned to the question at hand.

"Thirty. He got mom pregnant on Corellia shortly after he gave up searching for his wife. There were a few visits, when I was young. Then they had an argument. He never came back. I'm not looking for trinkets. Or a teary reunion. I'm looking to understand who I am. Who he was."

Turning to the elder, he raised an eyebrow as he answered Gilamar's non-spoken question.

"And yes... Maybe redeem the damage he did."

[member="Jenna Mereel"] | [member="Gilamar Skirata"]

 

[Gilamar Skirata]

"Cin vhetin," that phrase again. She shrugged and waved off the man. "Not much left to redeem, not sure if anyone wants House Mereel to even be a House any longer." she said as she walked back to the pile of tech she had been tinkering with before the pair had entered and plopped down, legs folded. "You can sit anywhere you like." she huffed a lock of hair out of her face and picked the hydrospanner back up.

"I think he's coming to Mand'alor with us." Jenna visibly flinched and groaned.

"You want me to take care of him? Why not Jak?" Gil gave her a look.

<Because you're family, besides, Jak is busy with the Verd'gottens coming up.>Gil had switched to Mando'a.

<Family is more than bloodline,> she muttered in the same language. "Fine! I guess you can stay here until we get to Manda'yaim. You can take the couch. If you go past that I'll kill you," she said, pointing at another cloth door that no doubt led to her room.

"Can you fight?"

"Apparently he's been living as a mercenary," Gil patted the younger man on the back. Jenna sucked her teeth.

<That doesn't mean he can fight,> she hissed back in Mando'a. She heaved a sigh, exasperated. "I guess I can give you a tour of the ship tomorrow. Maybe we can visit the other ships some time on the way."

"Make sure he can at least understand some Mando'a, enough to order some food and drink once we land." Gil gave Daymon a smirk, "You've got some shoes to fill boy."