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[Walon Rauth]

Ord Mantell...

The place had become what a polite observer might describe as a wretched hive of scum and villainy. But for one in Walon’s position, beggars could not be chooser. Besides being a place where the local authorities did not ask too many questions, it could also be a good place to find some quick work for one of his talents. All he needed was to earn enough credits to put fuel in the tank, and food in his daughter’s belly, as well as his own.

He had set the Drahr Valyr down in one of the spaceports at the city of Worlport without much of a fuss, before walking to the closest cantina with Zenia fast asleep in her bunk, with Burc on watch. He did not like leaving Zenia for extended periods of time, but Burc was trustworthy enough to keep anyone from causing trouble should they attempt to break into the ship.

For now though, the armored Mandalorian steered into the cantina, surveying a crowd that took brief notice before going back to their own business. Mandalorians still had a reputation, weakened as it may be...but not enough to merit any major concern...

Walon let out a soft sigh of frustration before crossing the room, removing the rifle from his shoulder and setting it butt first on the ground, then sat down at the table with his back against the wall. As a server droid came over he ordered a Corrillian brandy and a bowl of nerf stew but kept his helmet on as he watched the crowd.

As he leaned back in his chair, his hand strayed down to his thigh just above the holster where his blaster pistol lay. He did not expect any trouble, but in places like this...well...it payed to be prepared just in case...

 

[Garza]

Drinks, guns, women, and business.

Ord Mantell had this in spades. While finding them in different orders would net you negative, or positive reactions, most tended to be on the lower end. That was, unless you kept to yourself, or knew how to walk and talk around here. A life of a Mercenary, Hired gun, Assassin, and even an Informant for various factions led me to places such as this. More often than not, it led to nothing other than ghosts and the towns the flooded. People lived and breathed here, but their time was short. Their breaths were hushed, and kept silent against the gangs that ruled Ord Mantell.

There were many boisterous patrons of the cantina. Loud enough I could hear their conversation over the band playing. A very nice woman's vocals were being almost pushed to the side by rather loud individuals speaking about how great their most recent job was. shaking down some natives for protection credits. Getting that and more. Insinuating that these people were taken advantage of in more ways than one.

However, they fell silent as the doors opened up. The music continued to play as the patrons hushed with the sight of a Mandalorian clad in armor entering the establishment. While most if not all seemed to keep silent hoping that a Mandalorian wouldn't give them a slew of bad luck, either by their aura of being hunted by various factions, or be ended by the man who entered. Silent as he may be, an order went out with one of the staff walking away. Keeping the red hood up over my head, I kept an eye on the man. Due to the helmet and armor, I could not be too sure their age, or experience. However, they walked with some purpose. Someone here? I doubted it. Walking in the open looking for a target was stupid. Nah. Leisure was this individuals desire.

As a Zeltron Waitress walked to a table past me, I raised my hand. Only two fingers sticking up to grab her attention. With a low voice,

"Give the vod over yonder another drink of whatever he has. On me."
"Are you-"
"Yes, Just tell him that its from someone who knows what he's been through."
"Very well stranger."

As soon as the lass was gone into the back to get another drink for the man, I stood up, and began to gather my things. Pulling a Kal from the table and sheathing it, cleaning up my two classes and plate that had once been carrying food. Now reaching to the side to pull a rather strange looking long-armed weapon, and pulled it to my side.

In the side of my eye, I saw the Zeltron over at the man's table. Holding another drink for him and placing it. Speaking the same words to him and pointed to me as for buying the drink. I paid no heed and continued. Just getting ready to leave.

Walon Rauth

 

[Walon Rauth]

( Garza )

Walon tensed up slightly as the waitress approached, though refrained from overtly reacting too much. His visor swung over in a smooth motion as she placed the two glasses down on his table.

His surprise was cut off as she motioned towards the hooded gentleman who had paid for the second drink. He nodded to the waitress and slid a few credit chits across the table for her, then turned his gaze towards his benefactor.

There was a silence for a brief moment, as Walon considered his options. It looked like this stranger was about to leave, but Walon was curious about him.

He motioned with a gesture of his helmet, indicating the hooded man over. His left hand stayed on the top of the table while his right hand clasped the blaster pistol tucked into the holster on his thigh. He did not draw, but should something happen Walon was reasonably sure that he would have enough time to deploy his pistol and win the engagement.

For some reason, he did not expect it to turn out this way.

 

[Ardasz Verd]

He wore the scrappiest old armor, not proper beskar but what could be mustered in hard times. The battle for Manda'yaim had been hard fought, and now some Unionist movement claimed soverignty over the world. It was the same as before, only the names had changed. Worse yet, time had seen more horrible things transpire between Ardasz and his own- his former Clan. It was unforgivable for a Mando'ad to turn his back on his family, let alone the culture. So, when they spoke his name, it was not his Clan name.

Verd was what Ardasz was, not who he was.

The Mando'ade were a broken family, but perhaps in some ways, that had always been true. With a greasy cloak spilling over one shoulder, the Old Ram took a seat at the back of the room, not far from several others that fit the bill. He wasn't truly in the mood for conversation, but a drink or two might change his tune.

It was difficult to find Tihaar anywhere outside the Mandalore sector, even if the strong drink was exactly what he needed in that moment. He wouldn't waste his time ordering it from Aruteiise. Instead, he got an idea of what might be a more realistic order and waved down a Zeltronian woman. "Hey there," he spoke in the trademark mechanical monotone, "I'd like a Tarisian whiskey sour, straight, no frills," he ordered. It was probably the strongest drink they could muster with what meager stock they kept.

People outside the Mando'ade just didn't do drinking quite right.

When she came back around, Ardasz set about sipping on his drink. Nevermind how he did it without removing his buy'ce, no one ever asked questions.

 

[Rynn Vizsla]

Ord Mantell // Worlport, the Capital City // Cantina.
Late Afternoon // Pre-Blackwing Infestation on Mandalore.
​

​

The Young Vizsla was no stranger to drinking alone. It was something he had done for years, whilst the man soared across the solar tides. Something was calming about drinking Unhelmed, without a living soul to see one’s face. Especially when those events transpired within the spacious cargo hold of his Father’s Starship, surrounded on all sides by the infinite sea of bespeckled night. No one could see that his face was bare or how flushed his cheeks would become when the man imbibed too much. He was alone, with naught but his thoughts for company. While others would consider this Lone Wolf mentality detrimental to Rynn’s long-term health - the Warrior cared little. Let others seek to define what transpired within the solace of his own thoughts. The Mandalorian didn’t care for their opinions, as they paled in comparison to his own.​

However, there always comes a time when the Starship’s supplies were inevitably depleted in drinking alone. Thus, Rynn was forced to descend to the surface of Ord Mantell in search of goods that would replenish his Starship’s stockpile. Sure, there were other Star systems nearby that could’ve served a similar purpose - but there was something about this world that drew his attention. He couldn’t place what it was, aside from saying it was just a feeling. Whatever that sensation was, the Young Vizsla pushed that eerie notion aside in favour of contacting the Orbital Traffic Authority to request permission to proceed planetside. After the clearance was granted and his approach vector assigned, the Mandalorian guided his Starship towards the surface - only to touch down within a partitioned sector of the primary Starport sometime later. ​

When the Starship settled upon its hydraulic haunches and began bathing its surroundings in jets of steam, Rynn palmed the terminal mounted into the bulkhead. Before him, the access hatch began to shift like a yawning maw - before kissing the flight deck after that.​

While his figure bore the armour of his forefathers, mounted with various weapon systems and empty sheathes, the Young Vizsla departed for the local Cantina with naught but a trusty pistol strapped to his thigh. For the Mandalorian, it was awkward to venture into the unfamiliar streets of this civilized metropolis nearly-unarmed. A part of the man felt as if he were naked and could only feel some sense of comfort by hovering an outstretched palm over the weapon affixed to his leg. However, while that comforted the Warrior, it set almost everyone else on edge. When anyone has a hand hovering over their weapon - be it a blaster or a sword - people start to get anxious. Especially when it’s an armoured Mandalorian walking through a public and partially crowded boulevard. ​

He paid their nervous eyes little heed. At least until the Young Vizsla reached and stepped through the parting Cantina doors. With an enclosed space situated before him, Rynn’s mind felt more at ease. There was a sparse collection of patrons scattered throughout the Cantina. While the owner of this establishment likely considered this to be their peak hours - when they were the busiest - the Mandalorian noted that it paled in comparison to the gatherings on Coruscant. The Cantinas there were bustling with hundreds of sentients from every Race, Species, and Sector of the Galaxy imaginable. Here, on Ord Mantell? It seemed like the crowd was formed from the more local variety.​

Save three individuals.​

They all bore the armour of his Kindred. However, each bore their Clan’s iconography or signature style to make them stand out from one another. It was the small details that were imperceptible to the boorish that set them apart from one another. It was at that moment that Rynn knew why he came to Ord Mantell. Bidden forth by an unseen force, or feeling, the Mandalorian was guided towards an unconventional and likely unplanned gathering of Wayward kin. Whether or not this meeting was foretold or intentional - the Young Vizsla cared not. He was here now and in honoured company. The least he could do was corral them all together and share a measure of his earnings in return for a moment of brotherly camaraderie. ​

But, first thing first - Rynn came here for supplies. So, after tipping his helmet to his three Cousins in a friendly greeting, the Mandalorian stepped towards the counter. There was some inaudible conversation between the Tender and the Young Vizsla after the man garnered their attention. After some intense haggling, a mutually beneficial agreement was made. The Bartender ended up tasking a nearby Service Droid with fulfilling the Mandalorian’s request, as Rynn handed over a handful of Imperial-favoured Credits. His stockpile would be replenished, and several new bottles would’ve been added to his collection. It seemed that the Tender had some bottles of Ne’tra Gal stashed away in their private reserve and was willing to part with them for a price.​

Thus, Rynn did what he could to convince them to sell these bottles. The man hesitantly parted with an additional handful of Credits to grease the Tender’s palms. This was turning out to be an expensive trip - but having a traditional Mandalorian brew with a handful of his Cousins seemed like a worthy expense. With the several bottles in hand, the Young Vizsla beckoned his Cousins to join him at the booth presently occupied by another. It seemed to be an ideal place to share these new attained spirits, mostly since this partially familiar stranger was burdened by a steaming bowl of... what seemed like a stew.​

“It’s rare for Four of our Kind to be gathered under a single roof,” Rynn said in their native tongue. “Would you all do me the honour of sharing a drink of Ne’tra Gal with me?”​

| Walon Rauth | Garza | Ardasz Verd |​

 

[Walon Rauth]

( Garza , Ardasz Verd , Rynn Vizsla )

This day was definitely getting interesting.

First a mysterious stranger bought him a second drink, then another one of his kind walked into the bar. This one he could get a better read on. He knew the type, the one who walked alone because they had little to no choice. He knew it, because it was the same path that he walked.

If he wanted to be left alone, Walon would not interrupt his solitude.

He took one of the two glasses of Correllian brandy and began sipping at it, without removing his helmet. Sure, it made things more difficult, but something his father had hammered home at nearly every damn opportunity was perceptions. How a client perceived you, how the enemy perceived you, how bystanders perceived you. It drove quite a few of Atin Rauth’s decisions in the final days of his life, something that Walon when reminiscing about the old days thought was not the wisest course of action.

And then another one of their kind walked into the bar.

This one carried himself differently. And he was on a mission as he came over holding what looked like four glasses and some bottles. Why was it that the galaxy seemed to want him to get hammered this afternoon? As he regarded the fourth individual, he idly wondered if Burc would be able to fly the Drahr Valyr.

"Bic b a'yihbe par Cuir be cuun Cu'e at cuyir joruur chur a i'eumte madsa'yr, malyasa'yr ma waev narir ni ijaa be me'dinuir a pirur be Ne'tra Gal ti ni?"

Walon waited a few minutes before speaking, keeping his helmet on as he regarded the stranger.

“Meg cuyir narir dasa'na?”

His hand stayed down under the table resting up against his hip, but it was further away from it’s original spot than it had been previously.

Spoiler: Translation

“It’s rare for Four of our Kind to be gathered under a single roof, would you all do me the honour of sharing a drink of Ne’tra Gal with me?”​

"Who is doing the asking?"​

 

[Garza]

The force is mysterious. For many years it was a source of pain for me and my kind. Hunted and killed by Sith and Jedi alike. No mention of my past... altercations given to me by this curse of having the gift of the force. I tend to not use it as often now days to keep any suspicions on the down low. If someone really tried they could feel the presence, but I wasn't flaunting it like some mad peacock wanting to dance.

While the individual motioned to have an interaction with them, it seemed others joined. One that looked worse for wear, and a second that came in sporting Death Watch symbols. Now that was a sigil I had not seen in a hot minute. There were some that were little more than Prisoners of War to the Sith Empire, but talk of another "Crusade" cropping up did not fall on deaf ears. Just dipping my head, cowl covering more of my face than before, I elected to dress the part a little more. Taking the helmet with a mowhawk-plume, shifting it over the cowl with a hiss the black visor closed.

Was the plume a little over the top? Sure. However, it was a symbol of a warrior of Spatha. A people who sought war to strengthen them. I grew to be one, and such I earned this. However, it was thrown onto the more Mandalorian styled helmet. It didn't take much for me to settle the gear back onto the floor.

"Ni malyasa'yr ganar a tkadetr ra t'ad be katagine vahyar."

Reaching into a pouch on the small of my back, retrieving a handkerchief, and wiped the table I sat at. Being offered the blackened liquor by this Death Watch vod, was something I had missed from my time with the Cadera's. Good drink, and good food. It rivaled that of my native blood in many ways. Such a sweet drink should be shared in the company of others. A sideway's look towards the man I had bought a drink for,

"Lyatr gar camara. Pirur laam bal emuurir meg euk ca'nara mhi ganar."

It seemed we would be speaking in the culture-based tongue of Mando'a. With other patrons starting to stare and even the establishment's staff having loose necks moving between our forms. They were worried a fight might break out, or worse. Instead, a palm placed upon my chest. Speaking clearly about myself as I stood next to the chair I had just gotten up from moments ago.

"Atheus, Ad be Naasad."

Walon Rauth Ardasz Verd Rynn Vizsla

TRANSLATION

Spoiler

I'll have a glass or two of the sweet nectar.
Steel your nerves. Drink up and enjoy what little time we have.
Atheus, Son of None.

 

[Caeos Prahl]

Prahl // SoM // Ord Mantell

Rynn Vizsla Garza Walon Rauth Ardasz Verd

​

The choice of the seedy world Ord Mantell was one that had sparked debate with her younger companion, Caeos didn’t care for the city hubs but had only made the detour to the backwater planet to complete a scrap order some weeks back. It was easy credit as far as she was concerned and it was hard to pass the opportunity. Too many times had she spent on run during the collapse and she had never afforded to be picky. Caeos may have rushed the work under different circumstance but the New Imperial Order had long made their stake on the system and a semblance of order offered a more enticing stay. Enticing as pest infested roadway and red waste water lining the road.

She wasn't eager to get back in the space lane, still well on the mend. Though that did not stop her from looking over her shoulder as the days had dragged out, she had long run from the disputed planetary systems that bordered the Empire. Old habits died hard it seemed. She didn’t think much about the stench laced by a heavy rust, the grime that clung to one’s boots. There was always worse she had decided. Times had changed, though it was an oversimplification Caeos seldom tried to linger on the darker notes of the galaxy. They didn’t have to slink down the roadsides anymore and Caeos gave a gentle push to the smaller girl as they picked their way into the local cantina that had become their haunt.

Music and the harsh voice were a common place but the small cantina had seemed to grow with patrons and noise. A pang in her gut urged her on, tired from the hours of haul and growing ache in belly. She wanted a hot meal desperately. It was a splurge to eat out, or the closest that they could partake in the eyes of others. Caeos’ visor drifted down to her sister, a firm hand clamped on the girl’s shoulder. There were always eyes that trailed after them but the concerned were easy to pick out on the etched lines of the natives. The looks would always bother her but she set her jaw firm beneath the helmet. Caeos raised her elbow to guide the man and alien out of the way, surveying the hall, somewhere a glass fell and the noise rose and simmered before the patrons settled. Caeos jerked her younger companion only when she spied someone, her attention landing on oddity. She had spent many nights in the hub but looking upon four Mandalorians was concerning. It was a first and out of place with the cheap libation and quiet front. Whether or not they had spied the pair or not, well Caeos knew better then to retreat and she could understand the tension and dirty look alike-

<”Are they from the Enclave..?”> Ketra whispered, the comm link muffled her voice.

<”I doubt it..go up the bar Ketra and make our order and I’ll figure it out..”> Caeos said, hesitant.

<”What if they’re Union?”>

<”I don’t think that's the case either, go on..”> Caeos urged, a sharp fizzle ate up the audio as she cut the link. They traded heavy hands as a handful of credits passed between the pair of them and Caeos rolled her shoulder, they couldn’t be more careful and she hooked her thumbs on her belt. Ketra and her had made it by the skin of the teeth before. They had long relied on one another to watch carefully. Maybe it was foolish to be so mistrustful. It was the best she could think of, walking plainly up with a hand on her blaster spelled on things clear. Caeos was mindful but had figured quickly that it was politics that had soured their people. That's all she had to go off as she approached the table with heavy footstep.

 

[Rynn Vizsla]

Ord Mantell // Worlport, the Capital City // Cantina.
Late Afternoon // Pre-Blackwing Infestation on Mandalore.
​

​

Although his Mother often cautioned him against judging someone before getting to know them, Rynn had come to notice that wasn’t a virtue practiced by the wider Galaxy. For reasons unknown, Sentient Life seemed to revolve around the nebulous aspects of perception and reputation. Such truths were apparent in the eyes of these Mantellian Patrons, as their cautionary glances drifted towards the meagre conclave of newly-gathered Mandalorians. Each member of these Once-Noble Warriors was clad in armour and bore weapons that could easily gun down every soul within the Cantina. That alone was enough to cause concern amongst the masses, but what made matters worse - especially here within this very Cantina - was that these Mandalorians were drinking.​

A certain stigma was rightly applied to the Scions of Mandalore revolving around their destructive behaviour when they were intoxicated. In the not-so-recent past, Mandalorian Warriors would storm Cantina’s and cause quite the ruckus, which usually involved a plethora of property damage and countless injuries. There were even instances of blasterfire and blades being drawn, as two Combatants decided to escalate their grievances without a care for their surroundings or comrades-in-arms. So, it was little surprise that this stigma spread throughout the Stars like wildfire, and their presence was welcomed with caution and hushed whispers in darkened corners.​

For better or worse, to be Mandalorian in this tumultuous time was asking for trouble in one respect or another.​

Brushing aside the untrustworthy glances and the silent stare from the armoured Warrior with a bowl of stew, Rynn placed the glasses on the table, followed swiftly thereafter by the bottles resting between his fingers. His fingers were starting to ache from the burden he was carrying. And, it was foolish to stand there for several minutes whilst his fellow Mandalorian sized him up. While some would consider it rude to place down the drinks before an invitation was given, the young Vizsla cared more about his hands cramping than some formalities. Especially when the Mandalorian was given the silent treatment from another of his kind for a measure of time. When the man finally spoke, some moments later, they inquired as to who he was.​

Had Rynn cultivated a legacy worthy of being sung by his ancestors, the Mandalorian would’ve been insulted that he wasn’t recognized. But, as this was his first step into the greater Galaxy, the young Vizsla paid it little mind. He tilted his helmet to the side as the man couldn’t see the thin-lipped smile beneath the iconic shape of his polarized visor. “My name is Rynn, of Clan Vizsla,” he said in his native tongue as the man proudly tapped the Shriek-hawk crest emblazoned upon his Cerulean pauldron.​

It was then that another of their number elected to approach, stating that their intentions to share in Rynn’s spoils and introduced themselves as Atheus, Son of None. The young Vizsla cocked a curious brow as his gaze was drawn towards the newcomer. As the Mandalorian Culture was based heavily around one’s family and their lineage, it was uncommon - if not rare - to hear one of their kind refusing to name their Clan. Those words caused the Warrior to take a moment before responding, as he wasn’t sure how to react. Was the man an Outcast? Or had he lost everything during the Genocide of Mandalore? There were so many questions that begged to be asked - but it would’ve been rude to pry without consent.​

Yet, it would’ve been even ruder if he didn’t respond to this Son of None.​

“You speak true, Cousin.” He paused for a moment to consider his words. In that brief moment, Rynn twisted the cap from one of the bottles with a satisfying hiss and began to slowly pour the fragrant contents into each of the glasses. “Death comes for us all eventually. Yet, we were never meant to live forever. Besides,” Rynn said with a soft chuckle. “Immortality is overrated anyway. If you can live forever, life and what fleeting joys we relish become meaningless.”​

“Sorry,” the young Vizsla said quickly, sliding one of the filled glasses towards Atheus. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in the company of anyone who wasn’t my employer or some soulless automaton.” As his armoured fingers reached out towards the second glass, Rynn’s eyes darted towards the Mandalorian with the stew before him. He paused for a second before offering another soft chuckle. “I’d slide one of these your way, Cousin, but it looks like you’ve got plenty enough on your plate as is. So, I hope you don’t mind if someone else drinks your share, as I assume you’ve got somewhere to be.”​

“I’d hate to have to carry you to your ship,” Rynn finished with yet another hidden smile. After pouring the rest of the bottle into the two crystalline decanters, his shrouded eyes were drawn towards the parting doors. It seemed that this Cantina was starting to get busy again with how frequently the doors opened and closed. What was most surprising was that the two newest patrons… were also Mandalorians, bringing their total up to Six. He could feel the tension rising in the air as more awkward glances were tossed towards the armoured figures by the entranceway.​

Something needed to be done, lest the Cantina patrons were embraced by their rising paranoia and did something they’d undoubtedly regret down the road.​

As Rynn turned towards the approaching Mandalorians, the man noticed that the pair parted ways after briefly exchanging something. The smaller, if not younger one, worked her way towards the Bar - while the other elected to approach their growing cadre. However, her step was heavy, and an armoured hand hovered near a holstered blaster. While others would’ve considered that a threat worthy of a response, the young Vizsla was mature enough to understand that not every Mandalorian saw eye-to-eye. Those that bore the Iron Heart were more likely to war amongst themselves, just as much as they would make war upon others.​

Add to that the chance of encountering Sith-enthralled Traitors to the Creed? These armoured maidens have every reason to step with caution.​

“I would hate to ruin this perfectly good Cantina and these bottles of Ne’tra Gal by shooting it up. Why don’t you and your companion join us, save some Credits, and enjoy the company of kindred spirits?”​

| Walon Rauth | Garza | Ardasz Verd | Caeos Prahl |​

 

[Walon Rauth]

Rynn Vizsla Garza Caeos Prahl Ardasz Verd​

And things just kept getting more interesting...

The more of his kind that wandered in here, drawn towards his table, the more suspicious the glares and stares directed towards him were. As the one bearing the glasses and bottles set them down on the table, Walon directed his helmeted gaze down towards them before looking back up at the stranger.

While he might not have been looking for this, this occasion presented an opportunity. He nodded his assent towards the one who identified himself as Rynn Vizsla, then proceeded to reach up and pull his helmet off, setting it down on the table next to his bowl of stew. Gray eyes turned over towards the other who identified himself as Atheus, Son of None, to whom he also gave a nod. It would do well to figure out his exact meaning. When it was his turn to speak, he looked directly into the cross of Rynn’s T-visor before speaking. “I am Walon, of Clan Rauth.” he said, continuing on in Mando’a. As Rynn continued with a joke at his expense, Walon gave a soft chuckle before continuing. “Well, someone needs to stay sober enough to keep the rest of you in check, based on the looks being thrown our way.”

His gaze was drawn towards the door, much like the rest of those in the cantina to the two Mandalorians who stood framed in the doorway. After a moment the pair separated after exchanging something, the smaller of the two approaching with heavy steps and a hand near a holstered blaster pistol. Had the events on Nar Shaddaa finally caught up to him?

No, judging by their steps this newcomer was nervous, and not about collecting a bounty. And even if his judgement was wrong, he was quite confident that their choice of tactics would enable him to defeat them. As Rynn Vizsla invited them forward, Walon offered a supportive smile and nod of his head, beckoning them over to the table as well with his hand.

“My compatriot speaks truth. Come, fill your boots.”

He took his other hand and raised the bowl of warm stew for a moment before setting it down, grabbing the spoon next to it.