Mr. Breeze

[Julius Sedaire]

Location: Cantina on a nondescript Outer Rim planet of no consequence or value, vaguely within OP space​

​

He knew it was cliche to have such meetings as this in the Outer Rim... Hell, to be honest it was such a tired cliche he almost felt bad when he had sent off the comm to the collective minds of the Protectorate. There wasn't an exact reason why he had reached out to those in that group... The Mandalorians seemed to be drifting apart, falling prey to egos and pride and indecision. As much as he was of his people, from birth to death, he had begun to lose faith, perhaps, in their current direction. Idle play and politics whilst an enemy destroyed your home was not his style, but it seemed to be for some, and so he had left his apprentices on Beskar'yaim with a secure and encrypted comm channel code to his ship, and had begun to drift.

As he drifted, he trained in earnest with the blade he had wrested from the Netherworld. Hours a day, every day of the week he drilled against pell, against training droid and training simulators in his ship as it churned ever forward about the galaxy's forgotten places. Slowly, the worries of his torture on Selvaris began to fade and die, although they never seemed to quite go away completely. But the number of nights he awoke screaming, wildly waving a blaster in the air at foes not there, were decreasing.

The blade was, frankly, amazing... The ability and prowess it granted him made the mandalorian likely the equal of most any Force User, through some arcane power he'd rather not think of. Quicker, stronger, keener... Blood sang in his veins, and a desire for war burned in his heart as it hadn't for years. The problem of his new situation with armor still plague him, thanks to the Shapers of Selvaris, but he had begun to learn to move beyond such... A Mando'ad was more than just his armor, after all... Several prototypes had failed, or had less than optimal results, and so he continued on.

But none of this bore on what he was about today in terms of purpose. There was a point to meeting in this rather nice, if hole-in-the-wall-ish place on some backwater world. There was no point in slaving at an anvil for ungrateful and greedy folk who did not understand what they asked for. So he had reached out to a place where his experience in war might be handy.

He had sent a message, through friends of friends and the like, inquiring abou the status of the Protectorate, and offering his services to it... Both in creation and war... So now he sat, sipping some local vintage and waiting, the corsuca gem graven blade of his Jathareasa un-belted and leaning against the battered chair at the table he sat. outside the main building on a terrace of sorts. Exposure as such made him uncomfortable in many ways, but... It was best to present with open arms, so to speak.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

The Protectorate was not often called upon by the Mandalorians, even less so an accomplished master smith. As it was, the Mandalorians had been an isolationist state for some time, just like the Protectorate, and so all Sarge knew of them was that they still drew breath. That was more than could be said for most cultures given the length of time they had been running their renewed empire.

But when matters of state came knocking, he wasn't one to delegate the meeting to another, especially given the pending shift in galactic power in this region. It hurt him, physically, to knowingly hand these lands over to the Sith. While he was not doing it directly, by sheer absence of threat of force they would take it, and that was close enough for now. Still, it had been some time since he'd been called to a cantina to meet with someone.

Entering the cantina, those around paused a moment to address the new arrival. Outlined by the light streaming into the dim establishment from outside, Sarge cut a sharp silhouette against the backlight. Clad in armor that was nearly exoskeletal, draped in a coat turned cloak the color of tanned leather, his visored face scanned the crowd. There was a predatory hunch to the cloaked figure as it made its way through the tables towards the terrace, a silence to its steps belied by its armored weight.

Beneath the armor were layered fatigues in digitzed brown, black and green; the colors of the Pyre in autumn and winter. Festooned with pouches and rigging, the hint this man was more than mere soldier came from the cylinder dangling from his belt. Silver at the tip, bindings of thick leather wrapped down the length of the hilt, like a swordsmans blade of old. A lightsaber was a rare weapon in these parts.

Rarer still were those who knew how to use them.

Placing one hand on the table as he tugged a chair around to match the seating of the man who'd called on him, Sarge lowered himself into the chair, pulling down his hood as he did so to reveal a green visor that ran the full length of the front of his face. Opaque, nothing showed from within, though it was clear he was regarding the man next to him in curiosity. "How can I be of assistance."

His voice was quiet, low, filled with the promise of genial laughter, though with enough steel to give pause to any thoughts of attitude. This was a man of barely restrained violence, as if his entire existence was based upon the moment of impact where blade met flesh. "It is not often the Mandalorians have come to me. The last time I saw any of you, you were aiming your fleet weapons at the Jedi Temple on Coruscant before targetting the civilians in a show of force."

[member="Ijaat Akun"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

"I was, at the time, running a cantina in Keldabe, and not really warring much... Nor can I say I would or wouldn't have done the same. End of the story on that line was decisions were made and people were people. It's not my placed to speak for or judge."

Shrugging, the beskarsmith reached a bit forward, and grasped the rocks glass in front of him. Slow movements brought it to his nose, sniffing the woody and earthen burn of the spirit inside it, swirling it as his eyes appreciated the colors, and the streaks of light and dark from the globe of ice in it. Currents and counter-currents driving the original substance to something different. Not better, nor worse, but it was irrevocably changed, that much was for certain. Sipping, he relished the fire that traced his throat and lit a glow in his stomach, and then nodded, speaking in a voice laden with fatigue and the ache all old soldiers acquire after a time.

"My people, quite simply put, have no idea what they are doing anymore. They hop from target to target, conquer and then move to the next without thought of infrastructure, sustaining, or much of anything beyond glory, or what they perceive as it. We are dangerously close to becoming nothing more than raiders and mercenaries, without thought for anything but the price of the job and the thrill of the hunt. We are dangerously close to falling off the ledge Jaster and Jango clawed us up onto. If this is the direction they go, then while I won't abandon or betray them, it is time to find elsewhere to be, as I will not be drug down with them."

Another long drink, the glass almost drained, and it was sat down on the scarred wooden table the two warriors sat at, and Ijaat nodded to the man across from him, the nod unmistakably aimed at the weapon he carried. There was a knowing grin, almost a smirk if not for the touch of respect showing in his eyes for the other. Make no mistake, if it came to it Ijaat would do his damned best to cut down Sarge, but he respected the man, and the tales of him were enough to make that a last resort, to be sure. That nod was an hour of talking in one gesture, and it spoke volumes. It said: You know..

"To that end... I looked at places and people I could follow... Groups where I might still find work when I need it, that I wouldn't so often have a bad taste in my mouth from working with. Your name, and the Protectorate, popped up a few times... And so, I decided to see what end would result from meeting, to see the measure of the man in person, so to speak. Can't know a man until you've either met him, drank with him, or fought him. And neither of us would enjoy fighting the other I don't think."

Gesturing to the open bottle on the table, next to a glass turned upside down on a napkin next to it, the Rally Master invited the lightly armored man to a drink, if he wished, and leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment as if thinking, the eyelids flickering in an odd and rapid pattern like one used to controlling armor through a blink-command system maybe. After a moment they opened, and he nodded, almost apologetically. IF Sarge was the type to try and sense anything at that moment, there might be a mild surprise in store for the other, as Ijaat's torture on Selvaris yielded some interesting side-effects, he had discovered.

"It's a good vintage, if you've a taste... Coreilla won't be making it again anytime soon. Not as good as some I have, but those folk can make a whiskey, to be sure.."

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

[member="Ijaat Akun"]

Two gloved hands reached up, pulling the terentatek-hide hood down, revealing the intricately detailed helmet. While the face was an opague visor, the rest was intricately detailed in swirls and eddies of flowers and vines, though it extended no further than the scalp and temples. Pulling the faceplate off, Sarge gave the man a considering look. The Lord Protector might once have been a young man, and by many measures still was.

But none of it showed.

His right cheek was cratered from ages old shrapnel scars, like a light rain divots the sand. Disturbingly black veins ran up into the thick growth of his beard, which was unkempt and gnarled like dense undergrowth. His veins were matched by eyes with no visible irises, save when the light caught them just right. Why was evident immediately, as each was a liquid pool of void-black, glistening like a moonlit lake.

Those eyes were inordinately soft, as though possessed with a profound sense of regret for what was to come. "If you were looking to join the Protectorate, friend, then you're a decade too late. We've done what we needed to do, and now we're ceding the defense of our worlds back to their governments - governments who'd hired us to keep them safe while they rebuilt from the plague."

And they'd done just that, time and again. No territory had ever been lost by the Protectorate that they'd already owned. Never before had the bags under those eyes looked so pronounced, crested as they were by the unkempt bangs of his hair, a coffee brown to match his beard. "It will return to its mercenary roots though, providing services to those who need it.

Though you'd already mentioned not enjoying that the Mandalorians are doing what they've always done - sell their services at fighting." A sad smile crossed his beaten features, even as he poured himself a measure of the drink. "Corellia isn't my home, you know?" He says suddenly, staring off the terrace as the past welled up within him, breaking out into the open like the tide through the levee.

Sarge was always considered a Corellian, and the world had always been proud to call him and Ayden its sons. That he was not, in fact, Corellian was a revelation he'd rarely uttered aloud. "But I considered it home." The glass was brought to his lips, and a measure passed down and into his throat.

"But that's the thing about life, it pulls you along, requiring new homes to be chosen as you ride the river of the Force, which carries you wherever it feels you should go."

 

[Julius Sedaire]

Ijaat gazed at the man before him as he revealed his face to him in an honest and earnest show he valued. There was not much said in those first few moments, as Ijaat merely stretched his hand up as if to show the scarred back of it to Sarge. The skin seemed to tighten, bulge, and then actually rupture in deep bloody rents, bits of skin hanging from the appendage momentarily until a glimmering liquid of red and gold spread across the back of the hand, down the palm, and across his arm.

As it spread, his skin rent and tore further, and the Mandalorians' face remained locked in a rictus of pain and tense suffering, the eyes determined and fiery. There was something in the set of his jaw, the defiant tensing and twitching as his skin released whatever the substance was from within him, and it covered him much like a suit of armorweave might. Finally covered, the smith placed his hands to either side of the table, clenching it, cracks spreading through the thick wood at the strength of his grip. After a moment, as if fighting back pain, he spoke, and sadness was in his voice.

"This happened to me on Selvaris, at the hands of a man responsible for much woe in the Galaxy... Instead of worry over a vode disappearing, or help to fix or augment my condition, I have been met largely with suspicion and in some cases hatred...So I begin to remove myself from the equation....

If the Protectorate has disbanded, as you say... Then you have my condolences... You were one of the few who stood for something. Who had clarity and purity of purpose. I mourn the loss, but do not mistake me. I am not above mercenary work. What I am above is mindless profiteering and slaughter and war for nothing but a few credits more. And we from Mandalore place more value on who or what raised you and took you in than the blood in your veins.. Aliit ori'shya tal'din.. Family is more than blood.. I wish, truly, I did not feel so alienated on the very homeworld of my people...

Tell me... What do you know of my people, of Jaster Mereel?"

Taking a drink as well, he nodded to Sarge, and drummed the red-sheath fingers on the table top, releasing his grip on the side and leaning back in the chair, at apparent ease and comfort, though his draw hand remained only a hairs-breadth from the hilt of his sword.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

[member="Ijaat Akun"]

(Sincerest apologies. I could have sworn I had posted.)

What did he know of the Mandalorians?

He knew plenty, though not specifically of Jaster Mereel. Sarge was a studied of culture, and names were often hardly of the utmost importance in said studies. Over time, you found five or six different authors of the same ideology, and so you just gave them broad terms to ease the burden of remembrance.

So what did he know...

They had started out, long ago, a warrior culture who mostly seemed content to keep to themselves. Feared and respected in equal measure, they were a harsh lot whose primary interactions with the galaxy at large often involved copious amounts of blaster barrels.

Then the Sith stepped in, turning them into a pre-invasion force. At least some texts argued that. The evidence was often hit or miss. He did know for sure they sided with the Sith Empire, however, when it established itself.

And he knew they had continued their mercenary ways for countless decades and centuries since. Then, at some point, someone had them out their guns down around the time of the Clone Wars. Then, they returned to their roots during the Plague at the hands of Bear.

Perhaps that hadn't been for the best.

So just what did he know? "I know your people always come back to violence." He says finally, tone somber. It was not an accusation nor judgement, merely observation. "And I know better than most that those forced to suffer at the hands of the Sith need trust more than any other.

I'm sure you've heard the tale of Cira by now."

Many had. It was hard to forget. A thousand ship fleet dropping into orbit around Alderaan, all to bring back the former Lady Protector turned Vong Queen. She and Sarge had met on the battlefield, and for once in his life, he hadn't raised a hand in aggression towards his opponent.

A fight with no violence, at least from him.

It had worked.

But she had needed trust later. A careful, guiding band. Not apathy or distance. Maybe this man had come to the right place after all.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

"I am a Mandalorian without his people... Without family... It is hard to explain to an outsider who doesn't know our ways... Who doesn't know what Jaster tried to turn us into, the potential we had. He wrote codes of conduct, ideals of virtue.... A sort of set of guidelines for us to follow and behave by, so that we would become more than blood thirsty monsters wielded by the Sith or the highest bidder... A man of my heritage bereft of it suddenly... It's enough to make me stare into the black and wonder just how much pain I can wreak on those who toss me aside. Hell, I own a bloody forge on a volcano... I make weapons for a living... Do you think i've not stared down into a blast chamber and wondered what would happen if I tossed a shielded atomic down it towards the core? That sort of darkness was never in me before Selvaris, but now I can't seem to keep it out of my mind"

Shrugging, the man took a flask from his hip, tipping it back as the scent of varied fruits and a strong alcohol wafted out from it. The pull was long, desperate, but the slight numbing and buzz wouldn't last long. The ooglith would see that such minor toxins like alcohol would quickly be gone from his system. But even those few minutes of blissful lessening were worth any cost to his mind. The pain that tore at his gut was enough to make him want to drown himself, to want to step away from it all and just let go. A warrior of countless battles, he was situated now across from another like himself, and all he could do was contemplate a slow descent into anonymity and nothingness, and self-poison and destruction.

Slapping the flask closed and twisting the top tight, he set the tihaar down on the table and clenched and un-clenched his fists as if trying to work out a cramp in the old joints and muscles. His knuckles cracked and popped as he did so, and if they weren't covered in the strange biot they would have been white and shaking. This was his last point of return he could think of, his last purpose, and it had cracked and crumbled before he even reached it, which figured into his luck just about as well as anything ever did really. Such were the winds of fortune and fate for him recently, to bear him on such eddies.

"What haven is there left for one such as myself now? Or do I just wander into the next bloody conflict and end this saga finally?"

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"At the risk of being undeniably terse, the only haven you have is for yourself. You're at a crossroads, one I've been at before." The man blinks, then shrugs. "You've gotta go your own way. No one can help you but you."

[member="Ijaat Akun"]