Ever since he had a glimmer of understanding in what made the Mandalorian people give allegiance to that of their ruler, Azrael had only ever known the decision to be made while the current and reigning champion of their people was still alive and breathing. The Liberator was the first he had served under, just starting to gain the knowledge and clarity of what it meant to be part of the vode, and to be a child of the Manda. The woman was a fierce and apt fighter, who commanded the respect and devotion of her people. Word had it, though he never had checked too far, that it was the retiring of the previous Mand'alor that had granted her that title. And she had owned it. Later, the man he had met as a Field Marshal, and his personal battle instructor, Verz Horak had been gifted the proverbial crown as the events of a Sith's final will had caused Mia Monroe to step down in that leadership capacity. Under Verz, the bulk of his Mandalorian history was written, following the crimson clad man into the thick of battle, even to the point of wading into that nightmare known only as the Dark Harvest. While he reign was admittedly shorter than Mia's, he'd been a figure of power and strength. Only after his return from the depths of Wild Space, did he learn that his Allit Buir had challenged and taken that title from the younger man, as his actions had torn the loyalty of the United clans from him. Now, all that remained from the father figure he'd served was seated on the cold metallic throne that sat at the peak of the stairs. The hollow armor serving as a reminder of what they had all lost. The first time in the half-blood's history in which their people were truly without a leader.
Voices carried in waves of sound, bouncing between the massive columns supporting the grand hall as vode from all over the Galaxy had gathered. The crackling of the fire ripped and roared, but would not overcome the voices that carried in the hall, especially when one of the eldest of their people stepped forward in archaic armor and drew their attention to him and his words. That mighty hammer clamoring down on the pavement and ringing out like a small shockwave in every direction. His words signified the weight of this gathering, and the reason for the call. For the first time in a long time, the title of Mand'alor lay unclaimed, and uncontested. Most were taken from others, or passed down from the current - but rarely did these sons and daughters of the Manda have a void so poignant. His seeming reluctance to even step forward from the shadows of the pillar to which he leaned on spoke to his attitude. Gilamar had entrusted his young protege with much already in his passing. Head of Clan Skirata, a weighty burden that rested on his square shoulders, as well as the responsibility to oversee the continued production and thriving enterprise of Mandal Motors. He knew in his own heart that Gil was so much more than Mand'alor - and yet that seemed to be the one trait that echoed with every syllable from Eric's bearded mouth. How did you replace that? How did you fill the boots and buy'ce of someone like Gilamar? Azrael truly didn't know.
The proceeding silence didn't do him any favors either. While the Field Marshal understood the necessity, he didn't understand the overwhelming reluctance. While he struggled with his own reasons, he wondered in silence why there was such a low response to the greatest honor to ever be bestowed upon a Mandalorian. These warriors were honor bound and seekers of great glory. Why push away that opportunity in the wake of Gilamar's passing? Perhaps they felt like he did, and it only made the halfblood feel all the more useless to do something about it. He shifted uncomfortably against the stone and metal column at his back, attempting to find solace to his anger that welled up from within. Anger not at his family and his vode, but at the futility he felt. Ever since Empress Teta's events unfolded, the backlash had sapped Azrael's confidence in himself, and dealt some emotional turmoil to his already taxed mind. Gray eyes flicked upwards though as Desmond stepped forward to command the attention, offering a different suggestion to the gathered warriors. In spite of the reluctant attitude, the idea of allowing the clan heads to gain sovereign rule still didn't sound like the best option. After Teta, the Mandalorians needed a united front, and there was no better way to present one than with a single figure to look to. Thankfully he didn't have to abide that thought for too much longer as a couple of the vode finally broke their silence and stepped forward catching his turning gaze. While Azrael might have had issues with what these were capable of, in the aspect of taking that role upon themselves, he admired their resolve - for he wished he had such a bravado still.
No sooner than he attempted to resign his fate by a close of his eyes and a shift of his feet, intending to depart company, than the source of strength he'd been holding fast to touched the bridge of his shoulder. Devorah's chestnut eyes seeking his own gray orbs out. A deep sigh accentuated his immobility against the pillar as she placed herself at his flank. The woman had been a new addition to his life, and a welcome one since even before Coruscant. Having met her at the KDY in Republic space, he hadn't imagined she'd carve such an important spot in his life, and his heart so quickly. Her words asked the question he'd been asking himself ever since he'd seen Gilamar memorialized in the Mandalorian star. Why hadn't he voiced his challenge? That answer was both simple and painful. He failed. He had called a retreat on the core world, and gained nothing from the battle. While there was some devastating damage to the Sith forces, their losses felt far heavier. For a moment, Azrael held Devorah's gaze as if speaking mind to mind without saying a single word. Then a turn of his head brought his eyes to the husk of armor that had once contained his adopted father. To back down was not the Mandalorian way, to be labelled hut'uun was a disgrace. Gilamar would not adopt a coward, Ordo would never rescue a coward and bring him to Mandalore - and the vode would never rally behind one. He simply couldn't be one, and that thought stuck as his bionic arm reached for the E'tad Kal that was pressed up against the column. A kiss to Devorah's cheek was offered before he slid the staff like weapon into the sheath on his back, and broke from the shadows.
"No, ner'vod, you will not stand alone. The Mandalo'ade do not stand alone." Azrael's voice boomed from the right side of the lighted path that lead to the throne. His buy'ce still clipped to his side, heavy footfalls to him to stand along with Vilaz and Atin before turning to face the elder Edric. A solemn nod was offered in accordance with the man's words, and even a nod of appreciation for Desmon'd words. He had at least brought a suggestion to the proverbial table. "Gilamar was our A'lor, and he deserves the respect of knowing that the Mando'ade will always press forward. If not by me, than one of you." He said as he turned, looking in a slow pan of the audience gathered. "Who will challenge the title of Mand'alor?" He paused for a moment and squared himself. "Who will challenge me?"
[member="Devorah Khaladan"] | [member="Atin Kandossii"] | [member="Vilaz Munin"] | [member="Desmond Verd"] | [member="Edric Ay'bara"]
