Faction Brothers All | Sons Of Mandalore

[The Way]

A far call from a past of valiant crusades in which Beskar clad warriors put the Galaxy to its knees for generation long spans of conquest. The Indomitable, The Ultimate, The Preserver...all long lost forbidden tales of a creed so brutally subjugated beneath the banner of the crimson saber that it may very well have lost its identity as a whole. Scattered to the wind the Mandalorians were left splintered - many taking the rainment of more dominant Galactic cultures and governments as the Sith Empire purged the soil which bred the very creed to begin with.

Perhaps as a faint repieve - these weren't circumstances too unfamiliar to the clans of Mandalore. The Old Republic and Galactic Empires of generations past had longed to shred the banner of the Mythosaur or eradicate the warrior creed that had put the Galaxy to the torch in The Mandalorian Wars and struck fear into its denizens for hundreds of years afterwards.

With the winds of fate at their back and the lessons of history in their favor - the Sons of Mandalore need rise again.

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Concordia​

Sith Imperial Prison Labour Camp 'MIF-BDG-0762' , "The Beast"​

Shortly before and during the events of The Return​

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Conditions couldn't be much drearier for the Mandalorians housed within "The Beast". A name carrying a double meaning, designated by the Sith-Imperial armed forces to mask the presence of a greater Sithspawn present on Mandalore as well a moniker describing the man charged with this facility's oversight. Lord Cyggys was as much a demented creature as he was a hands-on ruler of this particular facility.

One of many following a recent decree ordered by the Sith Imperial throne which confiscated the land and belongings of Mandalore's many established clans only to huddle them into packed internment camps for which they would be slaves to the Beskar mines, wrenching the precious metal from the earth which used to be the vessel from which the Mandalorians crafted their Beskar'gam, their identity, the visage from which they embodied their creed. However now the Mandalorian iron was merely fed into the Sith-Imperial war machine purely as a tool of battle. Shredding the invaluable culture value it held to the Mandalorians in favor of cold utilitarianism.

Atop the spine breaking labor imposed on the prison inmates, cramped conditions which left them to cells two to four at a time were borderline intolerable. On top of this - the nights were sleepless as prisoners were black bagged and pulled from their cells to frantic, desperate resistance and muffled screaming where the Kaleesh Sith would conduct his esoteric rituals and experiments within the bowels of the facility.

Few ever returned from this and those at did were...altered, in some way or another - left with nightmarish visions which all but subdued them until the work claimed what was left of their life-force.

Escorted from work to cell the only reprieve offered might've been the prison yard where the Mandalorians were allowed to congregate for an hour at a time at best - only whilst under the close watch of Sith trooper sentries before being crowded back into their cells.

At two hours past noon the first shift was done and the second meal of meager and putrid expired nutrient was served up leaving the prisoners an hour of yard time before they’d be expected to return to the mines once more.

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Jocko Horn | Careena Fett | Ryv | Parja-Kal | Hypatia Arresh | Gilamar Skirata | Davin Skirata | Deius Koman'na

[PM to join]

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[Jocko Horn]

"Prison, blood, death, create enthusiasts and martyrs, and bring forth courage and desperate resolution."
-Napolean Bonaparte

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Jocko sat on his regular perch in the yard of The Beast. This hellish place had been the source of his misery and anguish for far too long. Once a proud Mandalorian, the honorable Chieftain of Clan Horn, he had been reduced to a slave. He had failed himself and his people on the field of battle, the greatest shame. Because of this failure, his wife and children had been slain, his land conquered and his people enslaved. This sacred moon had been his home since he was born. It had raised him and guided him as his father led him hunting in its mountains and forests. As he trained and sparred on its harsh ground, as he ate from its hearth and drank from its rivers. Concordia was home. But this foul cage had turned it into hell. Jocko knew that this torture would soon end. Soon he would leave this place. His people would be free, their sacred world reclaimed. The Galaxy would tremble in fear before The Sons of Mandalore, the Mando'ade, once again.

The massive, mountain of a band watched over the yard intently. Focused, as if he were a predator watching its prey. The guards made their usual patrols, watching from the towers and walls, carelessly conversing as the Mandalorian prisoners milled about the yard. Some did bodyweight exercises, others played Sabaac with homemade cards. Some ran laps. Most, however, simply rested their backs and enjoyed what little conversation they could before being forced back into the mines. Jocko valued their short rec time highly, as this was when he could craft his plans, make his moves.

"Horn." The young Mando said as he approached Jocko. Jocko simply nodded and motioned for the man to take a seat on the bench next to him. As he lowered himself to the bench, he slipped a small note to Jokco, who then seamlessly slid it to the man next to him. The man turned as if he were stretching his back, before concealing the small note against his leg.

"Te kal o'r te palon. Vi cuyir tsikala" The man said in Mando'a as he read the note. The knives are in the vents. We are ready. Jocko nodded. "Jate. Cuun tuur cuyir jii." Jocko responded. Good, Our day has come. This place left them no choice but to speak in the old tongue when discussing anything of note. The Sith were always listening. Always watching. Many of the weaker Mando'a had been turned against their brothers, more than happy to sell out their kind for extra rations or a break from the mines. They would be the first to die. Jocko had waited long for this moment. Himself and his co-conspirators, The Sons of Mandalore, had plotted their revenge for months. Slowly they had slipped suitably sharp shards of Beskar into hiding places around the facility. Making shivs from the precious ore. After months of sneaking and planning, they had finally gathered and stashed enough. How fitting it would be, to bleed their Sith oppressors with the sacred steel of their ancestors. Even in its unrefined form, it was sharp and indestructible. Jocko longed to drive their holy Beskar into the throats of their wardens. Their day had come.

"Ibic ca." Jocko hissed. Tonight.

He gazed back over the yard. His expression still stoic, though his hard was filled with bloodlust and his souls starved for his coming vengeance. He turned back to the man who had delivered the note. Bendak Priest. A good man. A true Mandalorian. Jocko had known him in passing before their imprisonment, but he had proven himself a loyal friend and reliable fighter since. He had helped Jocko develop his plan, and would prove to be instrumental in its execution. As their short yard time passed, Jocko went over the final details in his mind. Readying himself for the coming storm.

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[Ryv]

Ryv sat motionless in his cell, staring blankly at the floor before him. A series of browning splotch marks decorated the duracrete across the cell. He had a roommate once, a young foundling he affectionately nicknamed Garr. The two were close in age with Garr being about a year and a half older than the Jedi. Being friends with the foundling provided the padawan some protection in the hole, given the general respect afforded to their kind. Most of the other Mandalorians couldn't stand the Jedi and to be honest, the kiffar couldn't blame them. With Jedi like Revan remembered favorably in the temples, it was a slight to the punished people of Mandalore. Now that Garr was dragged out of their cell and missing, Ryv wasn't looking forward to the yard. Enough of the warrior-folk was itching to put the Jedi down.

The sound of a horn blaring and the cells sliding open tore the Jedi from his silent contemplation. He pushed himself up and padded out of the cell. Not two feet from his cell a hand gripped tight on his collar and threw him down to the floor. Bracing for the incoming hit, he only coughed up a bit of his breakfast as a much larger prisoner's foot collided with his gut. He rolled aside, shakily getting to his feet. Whoever introduced the padawan to their boot was long gone, though the sound of snickering echoed around him. He just pushed on down the hall, doing his best to avoid making further contact with the imprisoned peoples. As he moved, Ryv tugged pointlessly at the inhibitor collar biting into his neck. Even if it were removed his power over the force wouldn't return to him outright. His connection was severed to ensure none of the Jedi Order could find him. After what happened to Lanik and now himself, it would be damning to plan another rescue. Dying in some shithole prison-like the Beast was best-case scenario.

Another shove sent him crashing into one of the cells, though nothing came for the Jedi next. He silently thanked his luck and trudged after the last of the bunch. A mandatory hour in the yard was the best they were provided, which never boded well for the Jedi. He was immediately met by a trio of barrel-chested prisoners. Ryv attempted to move around them, only to be grabbed by the largest of the bunch and pulled back. His back met the wall as the prisoner gripped his jaw tight in one hand.

"What's a karking Jedi doing on Concordia?" his gravelly voice growled out inches from Ryv's face. "You'd think they'd know you sorcerers couldn't work a pick or shovel to save your pathetic lives," he grinned wide, showcasing dirty, rotted teeth.

"Yeah man, I couldn't care less," Ryv gripped the mando's thumb and pulled it back. The grip on Ryv's jaw loosened as his assailant winced in pain. "I'm not playing around, dude," he shoved him back with both hands before bracing himself. A fist was thrown towards the smaller kiffar only to be parried and tossed into the wall. As the prisoner cried out in pain, Ryv reached up, dug his fingers into his lower jaw, and pulled the larger man into his arching knee. Blood spurted out from the flattened nose. Ryv followed through by wrapping a free arm under the larger warrior's armpit, before shooting one leg out, between the prisoner's legs. Ryv's hips pivoted and guided the helpless man over the shoulder. The body slammed into the dirt beneath them. The assailant's lungs emptied as the air escaped them. Unceremoniously, the kiffar sent the heel of his foot into the downed warrior's temple.

The victory was shortlived as the other two prisoners grabbed him, threw him to the ground, and began mercilessly kicking the smaller kiffar. With nothing else to do, Ryv tucked his chin, balled up, and grunted with each kick.

 

[Gilamar Skirata]

How long had he been here? It hadn't been long after the Resistance meeting had been crashed by a Sith task force that he and a small band of his Mandalorian Resistance fighters had been captured and brought back here, to the Beast. Before the Sith Occupation he'd largely retired as a warrior, abdicating his position as Alor of House Skirata to a younger fighter after a grueling bout of combat. While he didn't agree with the Mandalorian Empire they had rebuilt much of the damage from the Mandalorian Excision and the Civil War, but old now and tired of war he'd retreated with other like minded Mandalorians and ran had been running a chapter in Outer Rim Coalition space, moving from sector to sector with the large mercenary trader fleet he'd amassed after the Civil War. His vocal disagreements with the Mand'alor had cost him dearly as when the Sith Empire came to collect on their debt, the Gogi's word wasn't taken to heart and he was nearly imprisoned just prior to the invasion.

But even that felt like so long ago now. Now, for the second time in his life he found himself experimented on and prodded by Sith scientists and alchemists, a result of the first bout of biological tinkering that he'd undergone after nearly losing his life to the emperor of the One Sith. Unique alchemical markers to Velok and Rave Merrill had made him a specimen of interest and so despite the order to return Gilamar Skirata to Darth Carnifex directly, the Sith Taskmaster had kept his imprisonment a secret, changed his name in the records, and assigned him to solitary confinement during the working hours of the day. Much to the ire of his fellow Mandalorian prisoners he often saw days away from any prison activities at all, usually though unbeknownst to them he was spending those days in kolkta tanks or under the knife. The old man had accumulated more scars in the last few weeks and months than he had during the entirety of the Mandalorian Resource Wars.

Now as he sat in isolation he wondered what the Mandalorians thought of their old Mand'alor. He had been denied the physical labor of the mines and much of his free time was spent recovering in his cell. He looked almost emaciated now but well taken care of. He'd heard the whispers surrounding the younger Jocko Horn. The man who's clan either took their name from the foreign Mudhorns or the local Bev'uliik looked like a Mandalorian Dragon Bear. A strong, battle tested body made only stronger from his work in the mines and towering over Gil, he and his clan had once been one the elders wished to court into their House Skirata, but Jocko had been strong willed then and was even more so now. Gil rolled a pebble between his fingers, mumbling an old Mandalorian poem to himself. Whatever these Mandalorians were planning he needed to join them, whether or not they'd have the emaciated old man who'd been "allowed" to skip out on the work in the mines was another story.

"What's a karking Jedi doing on Concord Dawn?" Gil's eyes darted to find the source of the gossip, and realized immediately that it wasn't gossip. He shot up from his bench. For a moment he looked fine, but then two more Mandalorians came after the youngling. A stream of Mandalorian curses escaped the old man's lips as he started walking with purpose towards the scuffle. His hand gripped one of the prisoners' shoulders and turned him around.

<What are you looking at old-> He didn't finish the sentence. A fist flashed out sinking the Mandalorian's nose into his face, dropping him to the permeate floor. Blood spurted and clinged to Gil's knuckles as the Mando curled into a fetal position. The other Mando looked at the old man confused.

<Rotten karking kids...> he muttered, shaking his hand loose of the blood on his hands.

Ryv Jocko Horn

 

[Careena Fett]

Half step forward, left arm up to block a hook, twist torso and direct palm to the chin with a swift right hand. A series of movements done quicker than one could blink and would have resulted in knocking her opponent out if she hadn't stopped her palm mere inches away from a solid hit. She'd relax her stance as her opponent also relaxed out of it, thus concluding the spar she was participating in the yard. Lethargy and complacency was a deadly poison to a warrior, especially to Mandalorians. Many had given up hope and faith after Mandalore had fallen to the Sith, but not the young Fett who still clung to her pride and heritage as a Mandalorian warrior. Careena kept the fire within her ignited and her skills sharpened so that she would be ready for when the time came.​

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Careena had been captured after conducting raids and attacks in Sith Empire space after the fall of Mandalore, her defiant nature having gotten her caught eventually. Thankfully most of her clan and allies had escaped when she was incarcerated and brought to the prison, and since she was imprisoned she had kept her defiance to a minimum, reserving her strength for the appropriate time it would be needed.​

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The Alor of Fett would slip her pale fingers through her coal-black hair, getting it out of her eyes as she hopped up and down a few times, keeping the blood pumping as she began to lightly pace around, waiting for her next sparring partner. Her small stature in comparison to some of the bears around her was deceptive even when her specialization was ranged combat, she had kept her CQC skills just as sharp as her ability to lay out a target from hundreds of meters away. ​

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She'd glance over to see a young boy with an inhibitor collar getting ganged up on by a few Mandalorians before looking away, uninterested with what happened to a captured Jedi in the camp. To her the Jedi were just as bad as the Sith, having attacked Mandalorian space in the past, their ideologies and belief in the Force was what shaped the galaxy in their image. What happened to that boy was of no consequence to her.​

 

[Jocko Horn]

Jocko's deep thought was interrupted as a scuffle broke out in another part of the yard. He watched as a small Kiffar with an inhibitor collar threw a burly Mando with a perfectly executed Koshi-Waza. The other two Mando's quickly threw the small man to the ground and began beating him down. Jocko stood and walked strongly towards the confrontation. The guards were as careless as usual. They were happy to watch the prisoners fight, even placing bets.

The poor teenager was being mauled. In the chaos, another prisoner approached and laid into one of the assaulting Mandalorians. He dropped the man with a powerful blow. Jocko approached, disgusted to see fellow Mandalorians behaving like such thugs. "STOP!" The men looked up from their scuffle. The two thugs seemed to recognize Jocko. The third was a stranger, but Jocko planned to scold him all the same.

"You dishonor yourselves with such petty brawls. Stop this nonsense at once. We are Mandalorians, not petty thugs. If you wish to fight, fight with honor. Fight our enemies. Don't waste time assaulting the helpless and brawling with your vode." Jocko stared at the gully Mando's, his angry gaze burning a hole through them. He looked at the original victim, a small Kiffar Jedi.

"Stand." Jocko motioned for the small Jedi to rise but didn't offer him a hand. He had not earned Jocko's respect, nor was he of the Mando'ade.

"There will be plenty of fighting to come. Sate your thirst for blood with that of the Sith, not with our own." Jocko said, motioning with his head towards the guard towers.

Ryv Gilamar Skirata

 

[Harath Eldar]

There wasn't much to do in the way of entertainment in the prison camp. Harath was never a fan of card games or throwing bones, his father hadn't provided him much free time in his youth. His induction and upbringing in the exiled clan Harath was one of harsh training and even harsher punishment. It made him the warrior he is, but he couldn't say the memories were fond ones. None of his recent memories were positive ones. Once Mandalore had fallen to the Sith Empire, clan Eldar had vied for control over the planet. When a nameless farmer was declared Mandalore and a space elf was declared governor, Harath whipped his people into a frenzy. They stormed the palace and slaughtered every imperial dog between the throne room and the lower courtyard. Blood ran in rivers through the halls of the palace.

As the insurgent Clan Eldar reached the throne room, they were surrounded by the traitorous clans still willing to serve Imperial rule. Most of Harath's warriors were cut down, whereas the Alor was permitted to live. He was sent to the Beast with the remainder of his people. One by one they went missing, never to return. After months passed, Harath Eldar was alone. An Alor of an empty clan left to rule over an isolated cell. It infuriated him at first, but the longer he spent locked away the less he cared. An inner fire to reclaim his homeland and put the empire to the blade still raged deep within him, as it likely did for many in the prison. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to be done quite yet.

Rumors spoke of growing power within the prison camp. Jocho Horn, much like Harath Eldar, stood alone in his clan. Both their families had been stolen away, executed, and left broken and bloodied before them. It had been said the Alor of clan Horn was rather charismatic, bringing others under his banner through sheer force of will. Harath had seen him a few times around the yard, surrounded by his following. A part of the Eldar warrior didn't want to trust outright anything could get them out of the hell-hole that was the Beast. Giving up meant the Sith Empire would win and retain control of their ancestral home and that wouldn't do.

The sound of a growing scuffle caught Harath's attention. When he turned his gaze to ascertain what was happening, he could only wince seeing the target of the prisoner's ire. It was no surprise the young Jedi, not a month old in this prison, received a proper welcome. The padawan's cellmate, Garr, was the last of Eldar's clansmen. A young man Harath took in as a foundling some five years ago. There were far more good memories of then, in comparison to his earliest years or the recent ones, but it couldn't be helped. Young Garr wouldn't be seen again, given he was the latest of the spineless Sith warden's twisted experimentation.

Harath shivered at the thought. He could still remember feeling the small parasites injected into him burrowing through his chest and arms. In some mad advancement of sith-sciences, Harath's connection to the force had been severed. He had become force dead at the hands of the empire. Just another element of his being stolen away for nothing more than the Dark Lord's sick fantasies.

To shift his attention away from his thoughts, Harath focused on Jocho and the others.

 

[Hypatia Arresh]

If Hypatia stared at the wall any longer she was going to bust her knuckles, again. Concordia wasn't what it used to be, Mandalore... Mandalore her thoughts turned to the sequence of events that led them down this path. Yasha the Infernal? Infernal alright, infernal damnation and stupidity. It was her careless leadership and perhaps the misuse of her body that put them here. Yasha turned to the Sith and then abandoned her people left them to rot when the Sith inevitably turned on them. They had been reduced to property, slaves, with chains that bound them to the very cells they were now placed in.​

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Clan Rodarch had been a great clan once, and now it was only Hypatia. Even now, she had forsaken the name and turned to an Onderonian surname. Not that it mattered to the Sith-Imperials, one Mandalorian was as good as another. Hypatia passed the time with basic calisthenics, reading wasn't something she was allowed to do and so her mind rotted. Her body? Not so much, she did what she could to tone it for when the day came, the Onderonian would decapitate every Sith she saw with her war ax. ​

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Rumors swirled of an escape attempt, Hypatia didn't put much stock in it. It wouldn't have been the first time someone attempted it, and they usually failed. Still, she couldn't let another opportunity to leave pass her by. While she waited for the next shift to start, she had sent her message. A small pick she pocketed between work shifts. Until then she focused on her body, and keeping it in pristine condition - so that way, when the time was right and the match was struck. She could be the fire that consumed the Sith-Imperials.​

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[Ryv]

Ryv covered what he could between each oncoming strike, but there was only so much one could do when surrounded on both sides. Each of his assailants appeared to be taking turns beating the smaller kiffar, almost as if they enjoyed the depravity of it all. Ryv counted up to the fourth, eyes squeezed shut in preparation for the next blow that never came. Instead, one of the two remaining was dropped by the intervention of Gilamar. A kindness to be sure, one Ryv didn't expect. He shifted to take advantage of the surprise, only for a monolith of a man to stride up to the encounter. Unsure of whether Jocko was coming to join in on the beatdown, Ryv scrambled up onto one knee and pressed his shoulder to the wall. His body was the smallest it could be, more akin to a wounded animal backed into a corner.

Surprise hit the kiffar like a slap to the face as he talked the others down through sheer force of character. He'd heard of this titan, they called him Jocho Horn. Whispers of escape had even reached Ryv through Garr. Each rumor, promise, and denouncement had one thing in common; and that was the Alor of Clan Horn.

At Jocko's word, Ryv pushed himself to his feet. He didn't expect any help from the Mandalorian beyond his intervention. It was nigh impossible the kiffar would be so lucky twice in one day. He spit a bit of blood from a torn cheek and kept a shaky arm on the wall. His entire body hurt from the assault. Dark bruises already forming against his honey-colored skin. Rather than stick around and gamble he nodded his thanks to Jocko and limped around the group. As he passed Gilamar, Ryv reached up to weakly squeeze the older mando's shoulder.

"Thanks, chief," Ryv struggled through the sentence as he winced and grunted with each movement. "Real good dude." he continued past Gilamar across the yard to a mostly solitary corner and slid down the wall. He kept one eye on the courtyard as his head drooped a bit. None of the other prisoners seemed intent to pick a fight with the wounded Jedi. Jocko's intervention served him well.

Gilamar Skirata | The Way | Jocko Horn ​

 

[Gilamar Skirata]

The old man was pulling his fist back, preparing to strike another fool-headed Mandalorian when the Horn boy approached the scuffle. Eyebrows raising in surprise when the Mandalorians stood down, he shrugged, shaking the pain out of his right hand and wiped the blood from the welp's nose on his prison jumpsuit trousers. Maybe his elders had been right about the young man. He hadn't seemed as charismatic before, but then again at this point being a charismatic Mandalorian leader wasn't difficult when compared to Cadera and Australlis or even that pretender Vornskr had sponsored to take up the mantle of Mand'alor. He was, at the least, deserving of respect here in this hell hole and at the moment that was all that mattered.

His eyes narrowed at the Horn's words though. The guard tower? These fools really were trying to break out of this prison. He had to give him credit, the man was confident at least. As the others dispersed, Gil appraised his knuckles for damage and upon finding none he looked to Jocko and grunted in appreciation.

<You talk pretty boldly about bloodying Sith,> he muttered in low voiced Mando'a. <You have a plan I'm guessing?>

Jocko Horn Ryv

 

[Jocko Horn]

Jocko looked to the old Mando who had confronted the thugs initially and answered his question, once again in Mand'oa. <You shall see soon brother. Ready yourself. Our time has come.> Jocko chose to leave it at that as he began to return to his usual perch. He walked with purpose and focus. Each step deliberate and powerful

As he gained a bit of distance, he turned to the old Mando and the young Jedi. "Come. We must speak." Jocko said sternly, before returning to his seat and staring back at the yard. The guards had already lost interest, having seen the fight end. They had returned to their usual patrol routes. Lazily walking the ramparts or the towers, hardly paying attention. The size and reputation of the prison had given them a false sense of security. Hubris. Jocko watched them with his piercing eyes as they lounged in their complacency, ignorant of the storm that awaited them. Revenge.

The fools would learn soon enough. The Mandalorian Soul would not be crushed by such petty struggles as torture and hard labor. These were the children of the great warrior who slew the mighty Mythosaurs. The Legendary Clans who held the Galaxy hostage many a time. The warriors who faced the legendary Revan in battle. The very word struck fear in the hearts of the Galaxy's weaker inhabitants. Those less fortunate, those too week to walk The Path and follow The Way. Those unworthy of the title of Mandalorian. The weight of honor is heavy, but to a Mandalorian it is worth the struggle.

They would take back their honor tonight, and the Galaxy would once again know their name.

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Ryv || Gilamar Skirata || The Way

 

[Ryv]

Ryv made it no more than half a dozen steps, his wounds slowing him down considerably before Jocko's voice called out to him. Ryv stopped and looked back to the towering man as he lowered himself down on the bench. What purpose did the monolith have with the padawan? Garr spent the past month introducing Ryv to Mando'a, which proved to be one of the few silver linings in prison. He managed to make some progress, but the language had far more to offer than what he'd picked up with the missing foundling. The little bit the padawan could hear between the two Mandalorians spoke of being ready for something, perhaps an escape? Said possibility for the Jedi seemed farfetched for as long as he'd been there. If Jocho and his posse could provide Ryv with a means out of the labor camp, why wouldn't he take it?"

Taking a deep breath, he switched directions and limped over to the Alor's perch. Unsure of what to do, Ryv remained standing before the man. He did his best to straighten, breathing as regularly as he could manage, given the burning pain in his side. With one hand, he slowly ran his fingers along the bruised flesh and examined the wounds. Nothing felt broken or out of place, which was always great. With his other hand, Ryv offered a basic salute to Jocko.

"I don't mean to be rude, man, cause I totally appreciate what both you did back there," Ryv motioned to both Gilamar and Jocko. "Not the first scrap I've been in since getting here, probably the worst one though. With my cellmate going missing, I can't say things are quite as easy," he paused and considered his next words for a moment. "What uh- what do you want exactly?" the question posed came from a place of interest, as seen in the kiffar's amber gaze. He seemed unbothered to be having the conversation, just confused. "I suppose I wanna know why you called me, a Jedi, over. The yard is full of dozens of your people. Anyone of them probably willing to do whatever you say, given your status among them," he slowly crossed his arms over his chest, still choosing to play it safe and not aggravate any of the fresh bruising across his upper body.

After mentioning the others, Ryv took a cautionary look around to make sure more of them weren't flanking him at that very moment. It be quite a blow to his pride and his body to be saved, only for more of them to surge forth and beat him in a public spectacle at Jocko's order.

Jocko Horn | Gilamar Skirata | The Way | Hypatia Arresh | Careena Fett ​

 

[Gilamar Skirata]

The old man folded his arms when Jocko addressed him back and a familiar feeling of danger prickled at the back of his neck. It wasn't an immediate danger, his body could tell him that much, but there was something about the way the younger Mando looked at others and spoke, a dangerous fire threatening to leap from his eyes and engulf any who thought it merely a spark. He shrugged and followed the man. His eyes fell on the young Jedi again as he spoke and wondered how or why a Jedi ended up within a Mandalorian labor camp in the first place. He wouldn't have been surprised if the Prison Alor had the two set upon by those of his cause, whatever that was. He was trying to be optimistic about the situation, but he just didn't see this going over well.

A riot would be well and good but they needed transport, something fast enough to outrun the fleet of Star Destroyers between Concordia and Mandalore. Did this man have people on the outside waiting for a signal? There was no point in wondering about it if the younger Mandalorian was just going to tell him anyway.

Ryv Jocko Horn

 

[Jocko Horn]

Jocko watched as the small Jedi approached. The boy was clearly in great pain, and unsure of how to respond to a summons from Jocko. He made his questions and concerns known, opening his speech with an awkward salute that Jocko found mildly amusing.

"Ah yes. I have many loyal Mandalorians who would lay their lives down for our cause. However, I have yet to earn the loyalty of a Jedi." Jocko smirked as he replied to the Kiffar. "I sense that you yearn to breathe free as much as the rest of us, and we share a mutual enemy. I don't know about you, but I don't plan to spend another night in this wretched hell hole. In fact... I plan to burn it to the ground." Jocko had stood and approached the Padawan by now, leaning in close as he spoke, towering over the small teenager. "You possess something I do not. A connection to the Force, and training in your... Jedi arts." Jocko paused, mulling his next words for a moment before reaching the crux of his proposition.

"I believe we can help each other Jedi. Myself and my Mando'a have worked tirelessly to plan our great escape. We will do it with or without you, but if we can get that collar off, I believe you could be of great use to us." Jocko motioned to the inhibitor collar on the Jedi's neck. "What say you young Jedi? Will you fight for your freedom alongside Mandalorians? Or will you rot in this pit for the rest of your days?" Jocko could see the courage in this small boy. He already knew what the answer would be. Putting any sort of trust in a Jedi was a gamble, but with the stakes as high as they are, Jocko is going all in.

Ryv || Gilamar Skirata || The Way

 

[Ryv]

The Mandalorian made an excellent point, or so the Jedi thought. Ryv moved to take a seat on one of the nearby benches. As much as he'd want to appear stronger to the majority of prisoners in the yard, the pain reached a point where just taking the weight off his feet went a long way.

"Yeah, I gotta admit my guy, it be pretty lovely not to be a prisoner here any longer. The food sucks, everyone wants to punch me in the head, and I think I've been tortured by the rancid khaleesh dude somewhere in the range of ten to eleven times. Getting out of here and back home would be pretty nice," Ryv shifted his weight, adjusting in a way to alleviate more of the pain. "I can't say I'd be mad to see this shithole go, so I'm down to clown on this one," he looked out at the various Mandalorians moving back and forth or resting in the dirt. So little happened when the people trapped within weren't working; it was a real mood check for the kiffar. "Honestly, yeah, I'm in. Seeing all these people just miserable all the time is getting old. I'm a Jedi; I'm supposed to help people."

He reached up and pointlessly pulled at the collar once more, wincing at the discomfort it caused him. "If you get this color off, I can do a fair amount. What's the plan exactly? I don't see much in the way of weapons, and literally every guard in this prison is armed to the teeth," he looked up at the guard, making rounds along the walls overlooking the yard. The towers kept guards as well, as well equipped as the men and women closer to the prisoners themselves. "I'm decent with a blaster. Spent a few years slinging spice on Nar Shaddaa. Lot of shootouts with local authorities and whoever else wants to move in on the game."

Jocko Horn | The Way ​

 

[Deius Koman'na]

Deius Koman'na
Location: Thyrsus, Fighting Pits
Objective: Survive

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The taste of sand was something he was accustomed to, but even after regular meals of sand it always tasted awful. No amount of tolerance build up could ever be enough to make that taste of sand ever bearable. Yet, Deius found himself unable to learn to stop landing face first into the sand, which he strangely felt as soft even as the coarse nature of the sand dug into his cheeks. With several coughs and a groan, the young Mandalorian Slave stood back up, even as his pained limbs demanded a cease to the torture he was forcing upon his body to just stand.

The roaring crowded filled the air with vibrations, though Deius wasn’t sure if that was just the throbbing in his head. Rather put off by the sudden meal the young Mandalorian Slave quickly stepped back as a wild kick snapped in the spot where his head had been. Perhaps it was instinct after his body had been beaten by such larger opponents before but whatever took over his body Deius silently thanked for his second helping of sand.

Now with at least a meter between himself and his opponent Deius kept his distance, this was an unfair fight. He was shorter, lighter and comparatively inexperienced, if anything the gladiator in front of him looked as if comfortable beating on smaller fighters. They rigged the fight against me? The thought hardly bounced in his head before he needed to duck beneath another kick, as Deius threw himself back again to avoid a rather close follow up kick.

The crowd was clearly annoyed with him running, and without any actual physical contact he’d lose the crowd and the fight at the same time. But they also lose the crowd. . . Again Deius couldn’t think more than a split second before his instincts screamed at him to dodge again. His golden irises narrowed, annoyance flared as he waited for another kick, the lazy sloppy kick. The half-hearted kick from his opponent gave Deius a small opening, but it was enough, the faint feeling of possibility spurred his body into motion.

Cheers grew to a crescendo, applause shook the air as foot stomps quaked the earth, the fight was over, the combatants limping their way back to their holding cells.

Deius fell upon his bed, a soft thud but before he could properly fall asleep a sharp pain erupted across his body. Even the simple light impact of falling to his bed had exploded into a world of pain as the young Mandalorian Slave groaned. Moments passed, the pain seared before it dulled and allowed him enough respite to drift towards darkness.

He was a slave, sentenced to die, but his Masters demanded his death to be drawn out. Suffering allowed retribution to last, torment provided vindication and only after all could be properly met, death shall complete vengeance.
​

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The Way