Faction Look How The Mighty Fall | The Mandalorian Enclave

[Siv Dragr]

​

Once upon a time, the Shukur Kyr'bes tavern had been teeming with Karjr agents, fresh off a mission or ready to embark on a hunt. Now it was mostly empty, and the Karjr that had filled it was scattered across the galaxy. Some were dead. Others had been enticed by riches and higher bidders, enough credits to win loyalty away from their vod. The dream of a united people, a new Mandalore, was no more. Kestri remained still a safe haven for those who sought it out, but the people she had welcomed were now scattered once more.

"Another round," Siv rasped to the bartender, who gave him a look of grudging contempt before filling the glass. Now that the Karjr were no longer the guild of marshals who upheld law across the lawless frontier -- now that said frontier was lawless once more -- most of those who remained on Kestri looked upon the guild with scorn and disdain. A defeated warrior was a dishonorable one, and the Karjr had been well-defeated. Now they were called grifters, and those who still carried the badge were scorned by their peers.

Siv did not care, as he downed his fifth -- no, was it sixth? -- shot of ne'tra gal. The alcohol numbed him, and rendered him uncaring of the disapproval of his fellows. Made him unconscious of the weeks-old stubble that covered his disheveled face, his unkempt salt-and-pepper grey hair, and the way that his armor dully reflected the dim light, a product of years' worth of neglect.

Age did not look good on the Mandalorian.

Neither did it look good on Kestri.

Nearly two decades of decline had left the gleaming capital of Tor Valum the worse for wear. The fall of the Mandalorian Enclave had not been swift like most had anticipated with the rise of the Sith Empire. No, it had come slowly, a death by a thousand cuts. The death of the Quartermaster had struck a blow greater than they had been willing to admit. With her had died something integral to the Enclave, something key to its identity that rendered the nation unfamiliar with her gone.

Over the years, territory and influence had been lost to the same cartels, warlords, and factions that the Enclave had put down in its infancy. More and more losses had forced the Mandalorians to withdraw from their furthest outposts until only Kestri space was securely held by the remnants of the Enclave's fleet, the fraction of ships that had survived the skirmishes from the then-nascent Sith Empire. Beyond Kestri was a frontier whose control changed hands frequently, and only rarely did Mandalorians attempt to exert the same control they had once for.

The streets were mostly empty these days, and shops that had once been teeming were now shuttered. Up in the spire, what remained of Enclave leadership plotted and planned, but most excursions by the Si'kayha warriors these days were to curb hordes in the Vong Dead Zone. The Enclave simply lacked the strength, or perhaps the will, or perhaps it was a mixture of both, to reclaim what had once been there's.

And maybe it was for the better. For if they were not strong enough, did they truly deserve to rule in the first place?

​

​

 

[Kas Varad]

Tag: Siv Dragr

When he wasn't wiping his boots from the blood of space insect contracts, or cleaning his blaster cell so it didn't fry in his hand on the next bounty. Kas liked nothing more than to drink, and drink heavily. It was a vice he had never shaken and sure didn't care to start now.

There were almost more shots lined up in front of the Mandalorian than there was bar to put them on. The Varad clan had never amounted to much, but then the feeling around this bar was true of a lot of clans right now. His aliit scattered to the same spacer life they came from.

"Another!" Kas shouted. The bartender looked at him like he was a madman, because he still had six shots lined up. He didn't relent until he had his seventh ready, the end of the bar looking like a bad night waiting to happen.

One after the other they went back, slamming each down on the bar upside down. Not a drop spilled. If any Mandalorian wanted another painful mirror to look into, it was the red-armored bounty hunter opposite Siv. Living only for the next contract, infestation to clear, or credchit to earn. Where was the honor or the pride that they once had? Twice cursed himself, having hunted down his own at one point in his time also, he had almost no friends even here. Maybe he preferred it that way, either way, he was used to it.

"gal'gala, bat ni" Shot was on him, offering a drink to the stranger. Siv Dragr . Kas was you guessed it, getting ready for his next line of the night. It took a lot to unsteady someone who drunk so much, but he was damn well going to try. That last bug nest had been plenty brutal and won him a fair share of the credits, so he had a lot to drink off. "Keep them rolling."

 

[Siv Dragr]

​

Tag: Kas Varad

Siv hadn't taken much notice of the other Mandalorian a couple of stools down the bar, but he looked up from his drunken stupor when the bartender slid a shot glass his way. "I didn't pay for that," he half-mumbled, half-muttered, but the bartender merely shrugged.

"From 'im," the gruff Mandalorian said and nodded to the other patron before returning to polishing glasses. Siv looked to over to see a Mandalorian with nearly as much alcohol as Siv himself, with a rugged look that gave away the Mandalorian's experience. He didn't think too much of it -- any Mandalorian worth their armor was rugged and worn from combat.

He didn't recognize the stranger, but on Kestri there were a lot of unfamiliar faces. "Vor'e," he said gruffly in salute as he raised the glass and downed it in one go, slamming it on the table as the hot liquor coursed down his throat. "You come here often? I haven't seen your face before."

 

[Kas Varad]

Tag: Siv Dragr

"Olarom," Welcome. First hit of the night had him warmed up. All he needed now was a pretty date, or someone to shoot, funny how often that was almost the same thing. Usually, they were shooting him though.

The bartender started pouring some Nyriaanan black. Was Kas a regular, he knew more bars than he did bounties. "Could say that." The bartender knew him well enough to know what his routine was. "Been through a couple of times." Always moving on to the next contract. The consortium, local governments, whoever it was kept him busy on errands. Long as he avoided the hutts or slavers, he could tell himself he had a shred of self-respect left.

"Running out of bugs to shoot on the rim." He took a shot of the Nyriaanan black and that stuff blew your head off, could feel it all the way down to your gut. "Again." Work was bringing him closer to the core than he liked, stopping by old haunts was a break.

"You a local?" He asked, getting the next few shots lined up right. The viscous black liquid looked almost solid, thicker than a bantha's hide. "For those who dare." He slid one of the shot glasses over, raising his own up. Drinking with Kas could get you killed. One day he'd be buried with a shot glass and a blaster. Maybe tonight.

 

[Jocun Jones]

Doors to the tavern parted to reveal a slender figure with a wide-brim hat and boots made for traveling. A double-barrel rifle was slung back against her right shoulder, with a pistol holstered across her front and another at her left hip. A sturdy belt kept her weathered pants fixed in place. After she'd taken a step from the frigid, the rifle shifted forward enough to push the rim of her hat up for an eye to survey those inside.

An easy smile spread across her lips before she made straight for the bar.

As she strode up, a casual glance down the way noted the two men talking. "Jenyola." The shake of the bartender's head caused the would-be customer to roll her weight from one foot to the other with a slight deflating of the shoulders. "Whatever they're having." Jones' head tipped slightly in the men's direction. She ignored the flicker of dubious regard for her tolerating that.

The rifle slipped between her fingers from her shoulder to the floor with little fanfare. Jones rested the barrel up against the counter as she eased onto a nearby stool. With a slight raise and tilt, she moved the brim of her hat up further so it'd be easier to drink and conceal less of her tanned features from those present. Well, it wasn't like people were unaccustomed to not seeing the faces of those around them given the Mandalorian presence.

Kas Varad | Siv Dragr

 

[Gwyneira Vizsla]

Kestri had been her home once, a long time ago. Even if she stood behind her reasons for leaving, she was deeply saddened to see it falling more and more into disrepair every visit.

The once glorious capital city of Tor Valum had been reduced to a crumbling cave system, vacant and ghostly. Haunted by what once had been. Walking through the streets, mostly deserted and polluted, Gwyneira Krayt frowned beneath her t-visor. Oh, how the Enclave had fallen...

She herself had watched mostly from the distance. When she had given birth to her daughter, Elise, she had been watching the beginning stages of the Enclave's collapse. Surrounded by Sith, rising crime, war, and internal strife, the Enclave had been spiraling ever since The Quartermaster had passed away. She had called it, even before her pregnancy. She had watched short sighted, battle crazed Mandalorians vote for more violent approaches with the election of a foolhardy, bullheaded leader in Romul Saxon . Throughout her pregnancy, she had been scared watching the once stable life of Enclave space collapsing. She soon realized that if she wanted her daughter to live a normal, happy childhood, she had to raise her outside the Enclave.

She had found refuge with the Novanian Arkanians of Archais, in Empire space. Settling down there, Gwyn focused on raising her daughter as she started an engineering career. Of course, she still considered herself a well and true Mandalorian. Even if she no longer was living in Enclave space, she offered her best support to them. She happily used her mechanical and engineering talents to design and build equipment, ships, and weapons for the Enclave. And whenever it was absolutely necessary, she showed up to larger battles herself. She never brought her daughter, however. She never wanted to put her in danger.

As the years had rolled by, the Enclave's state worsened. Gwyneira watched Elise grow older. She watched her choose to be a Mandalorian warrior herself, as well as a Novanian Shaman. Of course, she was always raised to be Mandalorian; and the culture she grew up in steered her towards being a shaman with Yorunarr Ahan-Yan'Sharlim 's guidance. But Gwyneira was relieved that it all happened in a far stabler and warm environment than the Enclave proved to be.

Now Elise was an adult, as much as Gwyn found it hard to believe it. Elise was ready to truly become her own person. While Gwyn still wanted to hold her like she was still a child, she knew it was time to let her roam. She was considering finally moving back to Kestri herself, as much as she had grown fond of Novania. She could not help but wonder, however, if it was too late to try and fix things. The cracked stone walls, graffiti, and trash littering the ground were all utterly depressing.

With a sigh, Gwyneira approached the Shukur Kyr'bes tavern. The old place was once teeming with life. The hunter cabin aesthetic had been charming, and united Mandalorians all drank together. Now, the place was poorly kept, almost slum like, and dank. Gwyn sighed. The place had seen better days. She pulled her buy'ce off, looking down at it for a moment.

When Elise earns her armor, I'll pass this down to her.

The Mandalorian armor she wore was old, like many armor sets. The aesthetic was far simpler than it once had been, flaired with teenage punk. Small bits of hot pink still remained, such as on the helmet, but a more professional black paint covered much of the armor. The individual wearing this armor carried a more reserved stature herself. She was not the raging, aggressive young adult she used to be. Her hair was stylized with lush layering, and she wore a small amount of makeup to bring some color to her naturally pale face. She looked pretty, but she showed signs of Mandalorian wear and tear as well. Her eyes were completely cybernetic, as well as one of her legs.

Walking calmly through the bar, Gwyneira sat down at a table and placed two large briefcases there. She was here for a reason aside mopping around. She had a contract to sign with a Mandalorian for a custom project. She was used to having these meetings on Kestri, due to where Archais was located, but she usually did not meet in taverns. The smell of death sticks hung toxically in the air, reminding her always of her bitter childhood. She showed little reaction to it, however, as she calmly waited for her new patron, Todblaz Graker , to enter.

 

[Khia Varad]

Thick boots on, standing in the corner, Khia was stoic and swearing under her breath about something as always. The wall-woman looking more like a pillar or table feature than a patron of the bar. Anyone who got any alcohol near her was glared at. "No." Was about the only word you'd hear from her. Blue armor suit on, waiting for someone who may or may not come. She stood there as antisocial as ever.

Didn't take too long. There she was, her battlesister Seska, it was emotional enough for the usually quiet woman to lock arms with the other. They didn't even need to say a word, sharing more battles and memories than she could remember. They held that lock for longer than you'd expect, it'd had been a time. Only thing that earned her respect was your actions.

Turning aside, the two of them looked out over who was arriving. They'd put out a call, maybe someone heard it. See if there was any fight left in the clans. Crusaders in their blood. The room would see a couple of Varad's old crusaders arriving behind and standing next to Khia, a handful at most, all scarred veterans of an old campaign or two.

Others might be down on their luck, but for the mando in the corner, it looked like just another day. Get up and fight. She would have said, but the way she looked at them all probably said it for her.

 

[Obran]

In through the door crept a man in armor scarred, chipped, and painted a hundred times over. Anyone intuitive to the Force would feel a strange void about his dull armor, covered in bits of mando'a script where anything but the bare metal remained. He carried a collection of weapons in a harness on his back, a pair of pistols at his waist, and a rifle hung in a point-sling at his armpit. Wherever he had been, the warrior had been away a long while. Approaching Siv Dragr , the mud and gore caked boots stamped together, and he eyed the man before reaching up to remove his helmet with a hiss slowly, the other hand tapping Siv on the shoulder from behind with an almost hesitant movement.

The face that greeted Siv from under it hadn't aged a day since they last saw each other, fighting Carnifex and the Eternal Empress. For a long moment, Obran said nothing. His time in the Nether had been centuries to him, even if not a day had passed for his body, and finally, he smiled, the expression almost pained and foreign to him.

"You got enough to spot me a round? Left my wallet at the last place, brother."

Siv Dragr | Kas Varad

 

[Mac O Shenanigans]

Mac walked into the tavern, looking around before approaching the far end on the bar. While not an exceptionally tall man, only average height, his beskar, jetpack, and the massive claymore on his back made an imposing image, only enhanced by the kilt and rest of his arsenal. It had been a while since he last visited, and there were less of his vode than should be. Such was the mando’ade, they would come together, only to scatter to the corners of the universe. Every since the Night of 1000 Tears, Mandalore and her people struggled to stay unified, and Mac had seen it too many times….

Removing his buy’ce, he sat it on the bar with a dull thud, and spoke to the keep, ”Your strongest ale.”

He hoped to at least run into someone he knew, or at the bare minimum, someone to help him acquire the rest of the parts he’d need to finish the Prudii’kad, she was little more than an armored no power escape pod at this point. Still, he smiled to himself, once she was fit with weapons and flying, oh the fun that could be had…

Mac simply nodded to the few Vode in the room as he looked around. Picking up the glass from the barkeep, he lofted it in the air in silent salute to those friends and family he’d lost…. Then without warning, he drank the pint sized glass as if it were just a shot glass instead. ”Nu kyr'adyc, s’i taab'ec’aaj'la.”

 

[Todblaz Graker]

​

There is an odd sense of wonderment after failing something so spectacularly, such as the failed research project attempted by a small group of scientists. The goal was to eliminate the prion protein without damaging a host. Though they spent multiple months trying to figure out a correct amino sequence to bind with the protein and eliminate its harmful effects. In the end, all the tests yielded a solution that also attacked the neuron pathways of the brain to such a degree that it just killed the test subject. Most of the researchers abandoned the project, satisfied with having demonstrated that the protein could be neutralized. Todd was one of these men, one who had given up on the project in the end as it was only reaching dead-ends.

The illogical pattern of the universe is truly mind-boggling. How does society manage to make ships and quarries as big as moons but can still be defeated by a tiny protein that is invisible to the naked eye? Though as Todd looked around at his surroundings, these quandaries seemed to fade away. He was getting closer to his destination.

All Todd wanted to do was to meet a character known as Gwyneira Vizsla at a bar to see what she had to offer. Though he didn't work with the Mandalorians as often as he used to, he still kept up with what they were doing. The entire culture of war was always very interesting to him, causing him to wonder about the history of Mandalore. What situations led to clans that bicker amongst each other, although it all seemed primitive, he found it fascinating.

Though the place he was in seemed to still be in the phases of war. As he walked through a slum, he saw bottles broken on the ground, heard faint yelling from a building, and even suspected there was someone being mugged. He didn't have to walk this route, as it was actually longer than the normal one. He was captivated by the region and wanted to explore it a little more. Maybe after this meeting, he may continue to traverse the planet.

He appeared to be a little late for the meeting. Seeing the time on his internal clock, he knew he wouldn't make it on time. This put a little brisk into his step, forcing his coat to flair up, causing it to look more like a cape that had caught a light gust of wind. The crunch of glass threw him off balance a bit, but he continued on, quickly regaining his posture.

As Todd walked into the bar, he breathed in through his mask, filtering out the smell of death sticks and filling his lungs with fresh air. He stood there a little awkward, looking around for the contact he would be meeting. Spotting who he believed was his contact, he sat down across from her. However, this lady was not his contact, and she eyed him, confused by his presence. Upon realizing his mistake, he stood back up and continued to scan.

Spotting Gwyneira, he looked down, putting a hand on his visor and shook it, disappointed in himself for getting it wrong. Walking over, he sat down at the table and said, "Sorry, I believe I'm late."

 

[Jocun Jones]

After the glass stuck the countertop, Jones leaned back slightly and cast a look out the corner of one eye at the crowd.

With a grimace, she rose from her seat. One hand plucked the rifle up from where it'd stood. Her steps carried her deeper into the room toward one of the corners where she'd prop her long weapon up against the wall. Hands free, she plucked a hiyar from where it had no doubt been neglected far too long.

A few slow plucks at the strings. A few slight turns to tune it by ear. Jones didn't even look up at the crowd as she began to slowly finger the instrument in her hands. It was a slow, calm, yet energetic tune reminescent of what every person dreamed for... the endless and even elusive pursuit of one's greatest desire. The pace was slow, and she even repeated the first verse before the tempo began to increase, but the volume of the strumming scarcely got louder than she'd begun. A humble, even forgotten passion steadily grew toward dizzying, even consuming heights with every note. [The Ecstasy of Gold]

Soon after the first song finish, she'd start straight into another. One with an energetic tempo, but still subdued in volume. Now and again she did spare a flicker of an eye to peek out from under her hat at the gathering. These people were about as lively as the dead. Perhaps they needed something to help them remember what drove them in the past. Whether that was the pursuit of money, fame, or some cause... whatever brought them there and had them shackled to the dirt beneath their feet, the silence had perhaps become too comfortable. [The Soul of a Man]

 

[Thonn Rokkal]

It wasn't anything new. The decline of Tor Valum had been steady and ongoing over the course of years. Really, he'd been in denial about it the entire time, electing to simply ignore developments he didn't much like. Which was easy enough to do when they'd taken place over such a long time, and had enabled Thonn's initial passive acceptance over the deteriorating state of the Enclave. Most any time he'd notice something had gone wrong, he'd reassure himself that the setback was temporary. Streets were falling into disrepair, but it was simply a tough year and they'd be getting on top of that soon. Contracts for bounty hunting were drying up, but in time there were bound to be more. All Thonn had to do, he thought, was wait for things to get better.

Which he did.

And it did nothing.

Thonn had seen the transition happen over the years, but Eventually, matters had reached a point where even he could no longer ignore them. The decline was too undeniable, even for Thonn. The begrudging reality struck him – glory days were long gone and over, and the sense of victory upon the city's establishment a fleeting joy. All the effort in his youth to build something to take pride in, but time had deteriorated its once pristine appearance. There was some relief that it still stood, but barely. The city was a shell of its former self, and the realization hit Thonn hard. He'd built his home here, but it wasn't as he'd envisioned at all anymore.

One thing that steadfastly remained the same, was the solace that could be found at the bottom of a drinking glass. And Thonn knew where to find it. He walked into the Shukur Kyr'be Tavern as he had countless times before, and made his way straight towards the bar to acquire it. After paying for the drink, he took a sip before he wandered through the bar. There wasn't much to wander through, the space was largely open. Once crowded, the place was mostly empty, aside from a handful of patrons inside. He spotted Siv, along with someone he didn't quite recognize at all.

Was he supposed to? If Thonn did know the guy, he'd clearly forgotten anything about him. Which wouldn't be a surprise – he'd forgotten plenty of stuff by now. But then he overheard Siv speak:

"You come here often? I haven't seen your face before."

Well, it sounded like he was new. Thonn approached the table, easing himself onto a seat with his half-emptied glass on the table beside them both.

"Vod." He casually greeted both with a nod.

 

[Vulcan Krayt]

Location: Shulur Kyr'bes Tavern, Tor Valum
Objective: Get a drink
Equipment: Sword, M.I. Beskar'gam Mk.1 M.I. 'Sunstroke' jetpack M.I. Model 6 hybrid pistol
Tags: OPEN

For the last 20 years, Vulcan burned the candles at both ends to keep his business afloat. The capital had been going downhill in a slow and steady decline. Few people wanted to go in and buy his goods, so his bakery had been haemorrhaging money to keep the lights, heating and food on the table. Much of his wartime income dried up when The Enclave began to disintegrate as it fell into a landslide of decay.

He had considered shuttering it and moving on. His stubborn determination had been the only thing stopping him, that and customers who were willing to wait all night for his new creations, just so they can get the first bite.

His stubborn almost ingrained spirit had seen him through a battle with Leukemia and he wasn't about to give up on anything. His hair had grown back, thick and full and he won.

He changed in the 20 years since his teen years, he had matured and was above playing "catch the Ubese" with the hospital staff. Vulcan had the distinct suspicion the staff missed it greatly. Made their jobs interesting, but that was a good while ago.

Vulcan had made his way to the tavern, the once active epicentre of city life stood quietly and with little activity. A far cry from the glory days of his foundling years. Still, the tavern was a fixture that needed to be visited for old times' sake. He missed going and he missed the atmosphere.

Entering the Tavern, Vulcan wasn't surprised to see it empty and devoid of the chatter, banter and fights of old, he was just sad that it ended this way. Alas, time waits for no man, woman or child.

Getting to the bar, he ordered a pint of Tihaar.

 

[Vren Rook]

TAG: Thonn Rokkal | Siv Dragr | Kas Varad | Vulcan Krayt | Open
GEAR: In Bio

DEADMAN'S GUN​

They were broken.

Vren himself had to get off Tatooine eventually - he alone could not uphold an entire planet's order. A once proud people broken and scattered once more.

Back on Kestri, it wasn't much better. Not only were the Karjr shunned - well, the few that remained - but Vren's personal life was falling apart as well. He shouldn't really have been surprised to find the house empty of life. Tawnita had done it before, after all. Be that as it may, it stung even more than it did the first time, given how well things had been going.

He guessed he couldn't really blame her for disappearing again. Nigh on twenty years of him barely being home at all as he struggled to keep a firm hand on the law of a planet she hated even more than Kestri. She had stuck around longer than he had expected her to, given his line of work. But to have her gone like this, without a word, still hurt more than it should have.

The hagard old Karjr, if he could still be called a Karjr, staggered into the tavern. The once bustling watering hole of Tor Valum was almost empty. Those that were in there glared at the once-loved Mando'ad.

He did not, however, expect to see a few familiar armours and faces in there as well, suffering under the same glares. With a sigh, he made his way over to join Vulcan Krayt at the bar. How the lad had grown up. Vren still recalled the short-lived Foundling Rebellion where the young Krayt was one of those that had tarred and feathered the then-younger Karjr in good fun.
"Vulcan Krayt. Good to see you're still alive." he told him before turning to the barman.

"Whiskey, partner." he said to Strill.
"You've got some balls showing your face in 'ere, Rook." he said in a low voice.
"Still Mondo'ade over here, Strill, so I can drink in any of our watering holes still. Y'all can point your glares somewhere else. Didn' see your face ,Strill, to name one, helping me on Tatooine among others. You wouldn't even be on Kestri if it weren't for me and a few others. Now, whiskey or I come get it myself." the aged Vren snapped, his last nerve frayed.
Strill glared at him, but finally relented.

Whiskey in hand, he turned back to Vulcan, finally removing his helmet.

"How is the rest of your Clan doing?"

 

[Gwyneira Vizsla]

Gwyneira showed no signs of annoyance at her client's tardiness. She was past being petty like that. She had come early, after all, so he likely felt late despite not being so late. That, or Gwyn had been staring off into space again. Either way, there were no bones to pick.

She simply offered a pleasant smile and nodded, "You're absolutely fine. I enjoy waiting."

She spotted Vulcan Krayt through the corner of her eye. She lifted a hand and waved in greeting in his direction. It was unbelievable that Elise, who she literally carried and gave birth to, was grown up. Yet it felt even more shocking that Vulcan was grown up! Gwyn remembered all his pranks, his carefree demeanor. She remembered when Vulcan had dirtied Gwyn's good dress in a prank, and Gwyn had chased him with a paint bomb in her rocket launcher. They were both young and silly then. It was fond and stupid memories. Unbelievable, that Vulcan had grown past that!

Every time Gwyn came to Tor Valum, she was sure to visit Vulcan's shop and buy his treats. Elise always enjoyed them at home. And Vulcan needed help with his sweet little bakery. Gwyn waved to her little brother figure and returned her attention to the doctor she was meeting up with.

"Alright, let's get down to business, shall we? I believe you are Todblaz Graker ?"

Gwyn shifted in her seat a little, leaning one arm against the back of the seat. "I'm sure you already have looked at what I'm capable of on the holonet. I can make equipment, technology, ships, vehicles, weapons of all kinds, robots..."

She listed the array of crafting skills she had developed through her entire life. "But if course, most of what I make goes to Mandalorian customers and commissioners. And some things, like my beskar forging, will be barred from you by my loyalty to the Resol'nare. But I am still very happy to craft something for you."

"So, I do have to ask," She inquired, "What exactly are you looking for?"

 

[Elise Ahana-Gwyneira]

Elise was probably one of the most sheltered Mandalorians in history.

Not in terms of not knowing that the galaxy had terrors. Not in the way of knowing to fight. Elise had trained hard since she was a child! No, she simply had not seen much with her own two eyes. Most of her life had been lived on one planet, Archais.

She had always known Kestri was a thing. Her mother frequently visited it on business, and her grandfather still lived there. Elise had tried weaseling her way into a trip there, but her mother caught her every time. Sometimes, Elise really wished her mother didn't have such powerful Force Sense...

Now that she had finally gotten some free time as a young adult, Elise wanted to see Kestri for herself. Through memories she had picked up through the Force, from her mother and grandfather, Kestri was a glorious underground city. Far from the tropical nature Elise grew up in, Kestri was under a snowy mountain, heavy with industry. No wonder her mother hid in a cold, dark workshop most days! But seeing it now, after so long...

Kark, this place was depressing.

The beautiful architecture and glowing streets from memory? Replaced by cracked, dilapidated stone. The pride of Mandalorian society? Decaying and darkened. It was pathetic, seeing aruitii homeless people huddling around garbage fires. Who the kark ran this place? Allowed it to become this awful?

As she turned a corner, she blinked rapidly in bewilderment. A man stopped her in her tracks, standing in her path and blocking her way.

"Err, excuse me?"

The man towered over her, trying to intimidate. "Hey, boys! There's a stranger here! Looks thin and weak too!"

Elise could sense three more thugs coming from behind the block her. She paused, biting her lip as another brigand scoffed, "No armor either! Clearly not Mandalorian! We can take her and use her for whatever we want!"

Elise looked down at herself. It was true; not a plate of beskar was on her. She had not earned it yet, both in her eyes and her mother's. But she still wore an Iron Heart charm on a necklace. Of course, it looked so subtle in the dark, she realized they likely did not see it.

Still, she could use this presumed weakness to her advantage.

She feigned shock, lifting her hands slightly in the air as she mumbled, "Oh! Oh my! I-I-"

The ring leader chuckled, "Aw, you're alright, sweetie. We will protect you..."

He snickered and pulled out handcuffs from under his coat, "Come here, little angel."

He stepped closer, handcuffs held out. With fear sparkling in her red eyes, the girl extended her hands. He was inches from cuffing her when she grabbed the cuffs herself. In a swift movement, she moved in and brought her elbow to her flat arm. As he cried out in pain, she cuffed him from the front. Sensing the precise movements behind her, she bent down and threw the thug over her head, between herself and the thugs. She used him to shield herself as blaster fire rang out, impaling the poor sod with holes. She used him still, charging towards them before telekinetically shoving the now dead ring leader into two of the men. She jumped the third, agility aiding her in blindsiding him as she kicked his side hard. She grabbed the pistol and brought it to his skull, knocking him down.

As he fell, she aimed the blaster towards the men who were hastily recovering. Fear now shone in their eyes as they froze, aiming their pistols at her. It was a standoff. Elise glanced down at the dead leader with wide eyes. She loathed killing. Feeling his Force Signature fade as he passed felt terrible, in those fickle moments of adrenaline. And yet, her training, and long term thinking, forced her hand.

These thugs were scared. But they were still thugs. How many more people would they threaten if they were allowed to live? If Kestri's government was simply letting these low lifes roam, would she have to play her hand?

She grimaced.

From the surrounding allies, the poor pooled into alleyways and dumpsters as several shots rang out. An eerie silence followed that rapid succession of glowing bolts.

"By Melarran, by his beloved Melarria, let Sur'Huwal smile on their passage."

The doors to the bar opened. In stepped a frazzled Elise Krayt.

As she stepped in, she held her hand over her necklace. The trim of the Iron Heart glowed a glorious amber, bright and beautiful. This necklace had been made by her mother, Gwyneira Krayt. She had learned to augment material in her many years of craftsmanship. Using the Force, Elise was able to will the necklace to glow. It was an intriguing art, but Elise herself had never been interested in learning such mechanics. Despite a lack of interest in trades and crafts, Elise was always thankful for her mother's gift.

The necklace itself gave away so much of Elise's standing as a foundling. She had not earned her armor, but she was learning of the Way. She certainly knew how to fight like a Mandalorian already! Those blaster shots all put an end to the remaining criminals she had encountered. She felt dread in the deed, but it was what she had signed up for - both as a Mandalorian and a Shaman.

She looked around, sighing deeply. Every soul here was a stranger - with one massive exception. Following the too familiar Force Signature, she spotted her mother talking to a client in the corner of the bar. Perhaps, it was the familiarity of her mother that drew Elise to this place. But Elise was not here for her Buir. She was here to explore! Still, there was not a single familiar face here. Nervous, feeling vulnerable amongst so many armored vode, she approached the counter slowly. Eventually, she approached and sat on a bar stool. She tapped her fingers against the counter, silently cursing how much her mother had sheltered her growing up.

She was silent until approached by the bartender. When greeted and asked what she wanted, Elise cleared her throat and spoke clearly.

"Olarom, vode. May I order your skraan'ikase meat and cheese tray?"

As the order was being filled, Elise felt the isolation in full effect. She wanted to get to know her people here, but how could she? The only hints of her Mandalorian heritage were the necklace around her neck and language she spoke. She was only a foundling, split in training to be both a warrior and a Novanian Shaman. She knew her mother had done her best to raise her and keep her safe. She was a wonderful mother! She loved her Buir dearly! And yet, despite knowing why she had done it, she felt some resentment in being raised away from proper Mandalorian holdings. She was... an outsider in a place she should feel at home.

 

[Kalðr Ísbjørn]

Spoiler: Equipment

Armor: Htagir'Jorir | Kalðr Ísbjørn's Beskar'gam
Weapons: PS-118 Blaster Shotgun - G'ahycaya | Kalðr Ísbjørn's Beskad​

---

Kalðr Ísbjørn had never been on Kestri before, though he had heard about it. There were actually a lot of places he had never been, having spent most his life in isolation on Hoth. But he had felt it was time to end the isolation and find his people, though he did not yet know why. And so, he was here. He was rather surprised by the state of things. Was the upkeep of a city that difficult? He had no idea about such things. Maybe there simply weren't enough people. Or maybe they no longer cared.

He walked along the streets, a chill following him wherever he went, a chill even colder than the normal chill of Kestri's air. He wandered the streets, coming across a tavern of sorts. Why not have a drink? He walked through the door. There was a decent number of people here. Economy must not be all that bad. He walked up to the bar (anyone close by that any exposed skin would probably feel the sudden drop in temperature as he walked past) and ordered a drink. He took off his helmet and placed it on the hook on the back of his belt. This revealed a man with smooth, fair skin, snowy white hair, and icy blue eyes. He had a long scar on his left cheek that he had gotten while hunting a snow bear during his verd'goten years ago.
He accepted the mug given to him, the drink frosting over as he touched it. Extra chilled, just how he liked it.

---

TAGS: Open

 

[Siv Dragr]

​

Interacting: Kas Varad | Jocun Jones | Thonn Rokkal | Obran
Tag: Vulcan Krayt | Vren Rook | Gwyneira Vizsla | Elise Ahana-Gwyneira

Siv's jaw tightened as the man spoke. He wasn't necessarily in the mood for conversation, but the fellow Mandalorian had just bought him a drink. out of politeness, he indulged the other. "Not from here, no. But Kestri's my home just as much as any Mandalorian." It was more than that. He'd fought for the damn place and killed hundreds of Yuuzhan Vong just to render the ice world habitable. That had been decades ago, though, and the Vong wars were as distant in cultural memory as the genocide.

He was shaken out of his stupor by the clasp of a hand on his shoulder and the voice of a ghost. He turned to look up into the eyes of Obran Dragr. His brother. His brother had been dead.

Everything else in the room stopped. His mind stopped processing as if someone had flipped a switch. Was this really his brother before him, in the flesh? Or was it a ghost, a product of the alcohol addling his mind? "You're. . . dead," he finished stupidly, his mind unable to process anything happening around him.

 

[Mac O Shenanigans]

Mac was about three pints into his drinks, when he noticed a young woman came in. As she sat and ordered food, Mac was just about to delve back into his drinking when his nose picked up the slight tang of blood. He didn’t even look her way, though she was just a couple spots over. ”Looks like you’ve already ‘ad fun tonig’t…”

Mac, flagged the barkeep down and ordered two more of the strong drinks. He picked one pint up and slid the other over to her, ”Ib'tuur jatne tuur as’'ad kyr'amur…” Mac just smiled a wry smile, ”Not’ing like a good strong drink after a fig’t.”

Mac could remember his youth, always eager to fight and prove himself. That, however ended early for him, as he struck off after his father’s death to earn his own way. Mac absentmindedly stroked the gold painted diamond in his chest plates as he thought about his dead family. There wasn’t many of them left and his cousins currently were staying mobile, seemed Mac was outliving everyone these days, including the last few times the Mando’ade had flourished as a people. ’The Enclave is dead.’ he thought, ’Mayhaps a return to the old days, the old ways, is what we need. A true Mand’alor, someone we can all follow…’

Mac gave the young woman another salute with his pint, before taking another big swig. Nope, Mac tried his hand at making a play for the Kyr’bes long ago. He wasn’t meant to lead, at least not more than his own small clan. Though if someone would pick up the mantle, well, Mac could still funnel the strength of a Mythosaur when needed, besides, being a goran helped keep him in as good of shape as one could be when not constantly fighting…


Tag: Elise Ahana-Gwyneira

 

[Elise Ahana-Gwyneira]

As she picked away at her platter, Elise sighed and closed her eyes. She extended her senses, using the Force and her Shaman senses to feel the people around her. If she could read their emotions, perhaps she could find a connection somewhere. She immediately felt the overwhelming shock, joy, and bewilderment of a man who had just discovered a long thought dead loved one was alive. Not meaning to intrude on such an intimate moment, she immediately shifted her focus elsewhere. Some old friends meeting again, another group of friends catching up, some sad vode drinking heavily. As she drifted her senses around, she eventually fell upon emotions she herself felt, but from someone else.

She opened her eyes.

The Shaman looked over. Just a couple seats over was a man with features somewhat familiar to her. The white hair reminded her of her Novanian people, and the icy blue eyes starkly glowed like some Arkanian Shamans' did when in enlightened states. But clearly, the eyes were something different. Feeling closer, she senses a bitter cold aura coming off of him. It was like the dead of winter. It was so potent as she felt it, she mistook her Sense for touch! The hybrid hastily withdrew her Force Sense. She had sensed the feelings of isolation within him, similar to her own. And that arctic cold pricked her curiosity. She was about to start a conversation with him, but someone else spoke to her first.

She would never complain about being spoken to. She enjoyed conversation with others.

Of course he reminded her of her run in again. She realized just then that she had some blood on her winter coat. How did she not notice?! But he only slid her a drink remarking that a good drink would be good for her.

Just to be safe, she reached tentatively with her finger and tapped the frothy top of the drink. She could detect no drugs, so it was good! She lowered her hand and wrapped her fingers around the mug.

"Vor'e."

She could feel the emo tion radiating off of him too. He felt... disappointed, dissatisfied. Elise recognized this as a common emotion nearly everyone here felt. The grief and woe of not being what they used to be. Things were not what they used to be. Nostalgia and defeat. It was such a common feeling in this room.

She looked up to the man and spoke, "I wish I could have seen Kestri in its glory days. When I was born, my mother already could tell things were going downhill and decided to raise me somewhere else. I don't blame her, seeing Tor Valum now. But I still wish."

Once again, she could not blame her mother's reasons. She had only done what she thought was best for her. Yet still, Elise was disappointed.

She looked down to the mug, the swirling liquid, and continued, "I have seen glimpses of my mother and grandfather's memories. I saw moments, where Tor Valum was not littered, filled with poor and thugs, or cracking in the foundations. It looked beautiful. But I never saw it with my own two eyes."

She looked back up to him, "What was it like?"

Mac O Shenanigans Kalðr Ísbjørn