Kad's grim visage hung over the Mando'ade as they partook of the drink on Little Sundari. The largest of Echoy'lan stations, it boasted the highest traffic rate and the most prestigious of bars this far from Keldabe. Short of the Oyu'baat, Ori'gehaat'ik made for the best place on the east side of the galaxy to drink. A boisterous mass of Mandos drank in full armor, minus only their helmets for the most obvious reason. Frothy Netra'gal and Tihaar filled the bar with the distinct, swirling scent of spiced alcohol that promised to pack a serious punch. Mandalorians drank light they fought. Hard, long, and against all odds.
They did their Destroyer God proud in all things. They railed against the night, their songs and fist fights little more than a pastime- far different from any place else. Republic soldiers didn't fight in their down time. Sith didn't take the time to busy themselves with unnecessary conflict for the sake of enjoyment, except for a splendid few who innately found respect among Manda's chosen. For a Mandalorian, to live meant to fight.
He was a smaller man than most, and much stranger.
No one notices when someone different walks in the room. At least, no one Mandalorian. Their culture was one of absolute acceptance. As long as you executed the six actions- the resol'nare- you were embraced as a brother. Wear the armor. Speak the language. Raise your children as one of them. Defend yourself, and your brothers. Fight when called to war. They were a simplistic sort, and yet they were the deepest people in creation.
Darian of Clan Beviin stood under every other head. A messy mop of hair and vivid green eyes stood out as his most striking features. Chains that hung from his mantle rattled with each step he took, and anyone with an eye for armor- everyone who cared to look, in this case- would know that each link was forged beskar. The colors were warped, but different. Each was born of another life's end. Every one of them was a memory, and a promise.
Beviin did not speak, nor did he drink. He hunched across a gnarled oaken staff as he ambled toward the bar and sat. His head bowed and thoughts as heavy as the armor he wore, the Priest let out a ragged sigh.
War had come, at last.
Their Crusade was born anew.
Kad Ha'rangir was pleased.
[member="Aedan Miles"]
