Private The Honorable Ones

[Carduul Akahl]

Objective: Survive to fight another day.

Carduul woke to the sound of crackling fire, and raindrops ringing against his imperfect armor. Thunder rumbled overhead. Everywhere hurt, his head throbbed in the dull, distant ache of pain, a distinct ringing in his ears with blurred vision. As if he wasn’t fully in his body. He couldn’t remember how he got here, where he was.

Right. He was part of a scouting party, something of a missionary with the aim of arriving at Kestri. The Enclave, at the height of its power, did well to clear out the many criminal organizations and kingpins operating on the fringes of space. However, it seemed with their collapse, they had come creeping back in, and in greater numbers than before. Much to the chagrin of Carduul’s small advance team, who had been ambushed by a surprisingly formidable group of pirates.

They were forced to abandon ship. He didn't know if the rest of his kin had escaped safely to the fleet, and he had no idea where he landed. An unfortunate setback. He hoped it would not be his last.

Hand reached, and with a groan of exertion, he pulled himself forward within the cracked shell of the escape pod. Some of these wounds weren't even from the crash - the new Crusade was demanding in the blood that had to be paid, and it felt as if he had little time to recover between battles. He attempted to push himself up, as the nascent fire spawning from the pod’s engine began to grow closer. “Hfff-” A sharp inhale from a pang of pain, as he felt around in his attempt to get away from the growing heat... instinctively searching for the ever-present weapon.

Thankfully, the glint of gold-hued metal shown through despite the blurriness and confusion that was his mind. It was taken up like a lifeline, forcibly pulling himself from the rubble with a pained cry just as the flames engulfed the pod behind him. Any hope of trying to contact aid with the transponder burned with it. Taking a moment to recover his breath, gaze behind the cracked T-visor took in the marshy, humid atmosphere. Slowly propping himself up, the Rally Master suddenly staggered. Couldn’t even properly stand, much to his annoyance, so he leaned upon the poleaxe as if an elder to a walking stick.

He was stranded. Perhaps with naught but beasts to keep him company.

Jenn Kryze

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Some star-forsaken swamp
| Objective | Survive

Stupid, stupid, stupid.​

​

There was nothing else for her to think about at first. Mortally wounded in her fight against Darth Carnifex himself, the Alor of Clan Kryze had remained bound to a bed for weeks... and this restlessness led her to this unfathomably unwise course of action. Taking a small force of Hastati to escort her into Enclave space to try and convince those willing to lend an ear to join her cause, she had assured her aliit that the risks were minimal. A chance for her to conduct diplomacy and stretch her legs a little.​

​

And now, here she was. Still weary from her wounds, and stuck on a backwater whose name she didn't even know. Hell, her escape from the Conviction was nothing short of miraculous - but the pirates who ambushed her and her warriors had surely taken note of her escape pod heading down towards the planet below, and so there was no time to be lost... she could rest when she was dead.​

​

And she would die only to the blade of one who earned her death. To a vainglorious woman such as herself, only an end worthy of legend could mark the close of the great work of epic that was her life. ​

​

For now, though, she still kept herself reasonably grounded to the mud and grime of soldiery, as evidenced by how quickly she adapted to the averse conditions around the landing site. Claiming a tree branch and fashioning it into a makeshift spear with her beskad, the Mandalorian slowly began her advance through the marsh, testing the solidity of her footing every now and then with a careful poke into the uneven ground. When it proved too dangerous, she went around, trying her best to think of a way off that forsaken rock...​

​

Only to look up as the screaming of engines overhead alerted her to the presence of a search party. Most likely hostile, too; she would have to stay quick on her feet if she was to avoid capture, or worse. So it was that she headed from the marshes and into the bog, where the foliage would better mask her heat signature...​

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... only for her to walk around a large tree, and find herself face to face with the last person she expected to come across that day.​

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For a moment, there was only silence, and stillness, as she stared down the unmistakable form of the Neo-Crusader's beskar'gam. Whether she was merely shocked or appraising the danger, none could say-​

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But, eventually, her hand flew to her holster to draw her pistol. Slower than she should have been, considering how her every motion flowed effortlessly during their fight on Manaan.​

​

By the time she finally had it pointed towards him, it dawned on her that Carduul was in no better shape than she was. Slowly, with a hand that trembled from the effort, she lowered the weapon...​

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Carduul Akahl ​

 

[Carduul Akahl]

He had limped away from the crash site swiftly as he could manage without making a fuss. Search lights narrowly missed catching the crimson armor, as he ducked amidst the winding trees and their raised roots. It seemed they wanted nary a soul to escape; and why would they? Mandalorians were notorious for their vengeful memory. But the Neo-Crusader refused that accursed pirate low-lives would be the death of him, this day. Carduul had far too much left to do, to inspire, to fight for. A good death to meet in the field of battle, not a fool’s accident that saw him trapped like a rat in a cage.

The warriors of an age they never saw had made their home on Dxun. To weed out complacency, to keep their senses sharp enough and their determination strong enough to survive even the harshest of battles. All in the hopes of preserving their future. He had made his way warily, the chirps and crows of all manner of strange creatures surrounding the damp air. Perhaps even a distant roar, and the distant hum of a search vehicle…

His senses were too dulled at the moment to realize there was another, until they were practically face-to-face with the black-and-blue armor. His own cracked, imperfect armor had still remained unrepaired from previous skirmishes. The coloring, the hazy white markings on her own armor were unmistakable.

His mind briefly flared with rage, despite the headache and disorientation. Unable to fully register the ‘how’ - for all he knew, he could well be seeing a blurred hallucination caused by head trauma. It didn’t matter.

“Kryze.” The voice, ragged though it was, dripped with venom.

She had killed his kin. He had killed hers. Blood for blood. Honor demanded it. After the momentary pause of disbelief, instinct found himself acting before he could think. In a slightly more sluggish motion, made at the same time as her, the poleaxe leveled and angled in the way of the blaster pistol’s aim. It tried to maintain a shaky poise, and with a step forward-

It flowed into nothing, faltering with another short stagger and a strained exhalation. The poleaxe’s blunt end splashed harshly against the murky water at their feet. Forced to brace himself once again, to prevent himself from merely toppling over in what would’ve been a foolish display.

Once again, he stared across at the other. Even as she hesitated with her aim on the pistol, the posture remained defensive. It was obvious what he thought of the gesture.

“...If we are to do battle, let us get this over with, wayward sister of mine. I have no time for games of deceit.”

Jenn Kryze

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Some star-forsaken swamp
| Objective | Survive

Theirs was not a rivalry; too much enmity existed between the two for there to be one. Even brushing their unreconcilable differences in ideology aside, the two of them had lost close friends to the other's forces during the fighting on Manaan; a harsh reality of war Jenn had somewhat gotten used to, perhaps, in the battles fought since her ascension to the rank of Alor. The warriors of Clan Kryze were her blades, and she was not afraid to spend their lives - but she abhorred the notion of wasting them. Pragmatic and calculating as she was rapidly growing to be, the Ersansyr's heart was not yet closed to the grief of losing those who placed their lives in her hands; some had been with her ever since her days in the Enclave, others joined only more recently, when word of her exploits reached them... but she missed them, all the same. ​

​

"Carduul." Even with the helmet's vo-coder effect and the lack of a siren's song in her voice, her disgust was undeniable.​

​

The Rallymaster had taken them from her, just as he doomed the souls of so many others through his words. How was she to convince the aruetiise that her people could change, when so many flocked to the Crusade, and so few swore themselves to her? In many ways, she saw in him only a fearsome dog feeding off of murder and turmoil... but, passionate as she was, Jenn's legend spoke of her wisdom, and vision. Twin virtuesthat led to her forming mighty alliances with outsiders, and thus securing the safety of her people.​

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Such virtues would lead her hand this day as well.​

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"I did not survive a fight against the doom of our people to die in some star-forsaken swamp", came the woman's answer after a moment of silence. "Not to you, my lost brother, and certainly not to scum like them."​

​

Jenn returned her blaster pistol to its holster, all too aware of the danger she was putting herself in by doing so. Her body was in no state for her to take him into a deadly dance with her lightwhip, just as he was in no state to adapt to her as he had done on Manaan. If they were to fight, the both of them would collapse atop one another, and their end would be an inglorious one. Caked in mud, and with a small blade to decide their fate, if not their bare hands. ​

​

And she had just given up her key advantage, as a sign of good faith. Their definition of honor clearly differed - and, in truth, she had considered killing him then and there, honor be damned. What honor was there, after all, in sparing someone who had shed the blood of the innocent? In letting him live, she was indirectly killing others. But, for all of her profound distaste for him, Jenn's pragmatism stayed her hand, just as the bond they yet shared as Mandalorians did.​

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"Every moment we lose fighting one another lets them draw closer to us. You can barely stand, and so too am I diminished. Whichever of us two wins that pitiful contest will be finished off by their search party once they catch up. We've both come too far to let it end this way."​

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Carduul Akahl ​

 

[Carduul Akahl]

Carduul had lost good people because of her. He had mourned, however briefly. For reasons he could not understand, over a betrayal most severe on behalf of outsiders. She had made her point clear in the blood of her own culture. It was doubtful any self-respecting Mandalorian could look past that; especially one such as the Rally Master. Yet still, he could not truly call Jenn Kryze ‘Dar’manda,’ for the Resol’nare had not been broken. The only true unifying code set down by their forebears.

As always, his grip did not leave his weapon. Not that he had a choice, this time. “I did not preserve the legacy of our people for my role to end so quickly.” Was the terse reply. The cracked T-visor rested upon her for a few moments of tense silence longer.

“...Now you decide to see reason. However briefly.” Giving an ironic half-chuckle, obviously frustrated as he was at the prospect. If he strained himself, perhaps he could fell her in battle. The strain, however, would no doubt be too much to fight against what came next, and he would join her not long thereafter. There was no honor in a caged fight like that, pitted against each other by circumstances beyond their control. No glory in the spectacle of wounded dogs tearing each other apart over scraps. And it simply... wasn't practical for either of them.

A quiet scoff left the helm, as he tilted aside. “Very well.” Turning his back to her - his own show of faith, in a way - as the sounds of a search vehicle were getting too close for comfort, and began walking with the aid of the poleaxe to cover for his bad leg. Aiming to move further in the swamp for more cover. The chirping, bellows, and various sounds of the swamp grew louder. If the pirates were bothering to patrol this long, perhaps they had a more notable presence on the planet, somewhere…

For a while, there were no more words exchanged. His brow had slowly furrowed after the mention of fighting against the doom of their people. It sounded too specific for an offhanded mention, especially if referring to the Crusade itself. His inquisitive nature got the better of him. “...What ‘doom’ art thou speaking of.” He queried blandly. “There are many who claim to be, and many more that lurk in the shadows.”

Jenn Kryze

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Some star-forsaken swamp
| Objective | Keep moving

There was no relief, even in the face of her foe's tense agreement to her observation of their shared fate. They could either live together or die alone, that much had been made clear... but they were narudar, and little else. Too much blood had been shed for them to be anything else. Whether her appeal to reason was to thank for her managing to convince him, or some notion of personal honor on his part when she holstered her weapon, she could not divine. They were alike in so many ways... and stark opposites in so many others. ​

​

She was like him, once, and found the thought sobering at best, and terrifying at worst. Were it not for the trajectory her life had taken, she would have found herself at his side, pillaging and murdering whilst cloaked in her own delusions. ​

​

Silence reigned over the pair as they advanced into the swamp, slowed by their wounds as they were. Just as Carduul leaned against his poleaxe to stay upright, so too did Jenn use the hastily-carved wooden spear to assist her advance, carrying her beskad in the other hand to hack away at those pieces of vegetation threatening to slow their advance. They would have to keep moving through the inhospitable swamp, and perhaps find a place where they could lie low and lick their wounds... somewhere out of sight, where these disturbingly competent pirates would not find them.​

​

Carduul's curiosity, however, was answered with a snarl. When her voice rose to speak once more, her disgust was now backed by fury, and heartbreak. None directed towards him. ​

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"I faced Darth Carnifex on Echnos. Surely a lorekeeper like yourself knows of the dark deeds of the Despoiler of Manda'yaim. He who slaughtered our people so extensively to leave a mark on our culture." The Ersansyr's words lingered in the air, then... and, in spite of herself, she found herself speaking once more.​

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"I watched him murder my mother, when I was only a child. He used that fury against me on Echnos. I would have died, if not for the Jedi who fought at my side..."​

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Carduul Akahl ​

 

[Carduul Akahl]

Carduul hated the idea that he had to reduce his weapon to a mere, walking stick. It was undignified, especially in front of a foe he will more than likely have to cross blades with later. The idea of image was something of mild importance to his people; it was the very reason he forsook traditional armor, in favor of the uniform visage of the Neo-Crusaders. To say he’d be upset to be caught like this back home would be an understatement.

As she responded to his question, even the Rally Master had gone quiet in her statement. Doubly so, in mild surprise, as she continued once more in spite of herself. The helm, ever-so-slightly, had tilted in her direction as they walked. She was already cutting the way forward through reaching roots and eager vegetation, though it was clear they could not trek for much longer. Their injuries, paired with the crashes they have sustained, warranted at the very least rest.

“...I know of the Dha’naast. He has manipulated us, butchered us, enslaved us ever since the Darkness - even the Manda has been tainted, by his actions.” Hand subconsciously pressed to his chest. Not even Mandalore the Wrathful could not escape their wretched grasp. “He is one of many reasons why I must exist. The greatest adversity of all.”

His so-called ‘Clan’ had indirectly formed as a result of the devastation caused by it all. He was not present on Mandalore when the Second Mandalorian Excision was done. When Operation Hammerfall came to try to put the nail into the coffin. He wanted vengeance. Retribution for those who had forced him to be away from the Crusade, to have to endure these conditions, then for all those who had wronged his people.

“...I, commend thy bravery, though I lament at the chain wrapped around thine neck to get there. Had you your kin by thy side, perhaps the result would’ve been different. The glory of that kill should be to the Mando’ade, and the Mando’ade, alone.” Came the grim statement. The Enclave had tried, and failed. Three among their finest had gone, and though it was a great battle, it had achieved nothing. The Iron Father, now lost to the void, had fought in a duel with the Butcher King himself, but even that resulted in little difference. Countless more throughout history had tried, and little was borne of it.

“...But I presume he is not dead. Far from it. That should’ve been enough to awaken thee to the truth of the matter.” Accompanied by a quiet exhalation. His cracked T-visor returned forwards to the brush - the raised roots of the trees, by now, were reaching above their heads like a strange canopy. There may yet be shelter to find, amidst it; the soggy landmasses were intermingled with patches of shallow water. The crowing and chirping had toned down, as they moved further inside. “No doubt glorious deaths, to those who fought in that battle - but alas, ‘tis not enough.” Not with the Alliance breathing down her neck, when they couldn’t even front an offensive they launched themselves. What point was there to such a large nation that could not even defend its own borders?

Jenn Kryze

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Some star-forsaken swamp
| Objective | Survive

"When he is finally destroyed, countless souls will be avenged... and I will finally rest easy, knowing that my mother's soul, and that of my brothers, can be at peace." ​

​

It was easier, in a way, to open up to Carduul. Although she placed a great deal of trusts in a select few outsiders, there was no getting around the fact that they lacked the perspective her vode did. Even those whose curiosity allowed them to understand a few key notions of Mandalorian society were not as thoroughly immersed within the culture; incapable of truly understanding the fullest extent of Jenn's heartache. Even though the Rallymaster had not been present on Mandalore when the end of everything she knew came for her, Jenn knew, deep in her heart, that he was more able than most to understand the feeling of complete and utter helplessness that yet haunted her on sleepless nights. ​

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"I chose my shackles, Carduul", came her answer to his words after a pause to mull over their meaning. If anything, the Crusade was just as genuine as she was... another disquieting reminder of how similar the two of them were. "To love is to be bound. I owe more than my life to that Jedi, but my heart also; it soars when we stand together, and I know no shame for it. Perhaps one day, you may realize that." ​

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There was no bite to her words. Perhaps the exhaustion she found herself experiencing was to blame... or perhaps she felt some measure of sympathy, even for a soul that found itself so terribly astray. Hers was a profound distaste, perhaps even hatred, but it did not consume her as wholly as she had first thought. ​

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If an ambush was sprung around the both of them right now, if the world came crashing down and the fury of a dozen cutthroats descended upon them, Jenn would hurl herself in death's way to save him. She was sure of this.​

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"You are correct", elucidated the Alor slowly as she brought her beskad to cut down another obstacle standing in their way. "The loathsome creature used the corpse of a fallen kindred as one might a puppet. I was... so filled with hate. Focused on every attack, every motion I made. I failed to notice the twisted corpse's charge until a beskad was embedded to the guard within my side. If not for the Jedi's efforts, I would have died with my face down. Failed my Clan. Failed our people."​

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And, in a way, she had. Darth Carnifex yet lived, and she had failed to take his life. That she was not the first to fail to collect was but cold comfort to her; just as the great heroes who once tried to avenge Mandalore realized then, she was faced with the dark realization that victory may yet be out of their grasp. ​

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"It was not a battle", admitted Jenn bitterly. "It was a massacre. The Sith used a sorcerous device of some sort, inducing fear in the ranks of their enemies; with our morale shattered, their maddened cultists used their suicidal devotion to launch devastating suicide assaults on our positions. To make matters worse, if we failed to inflict enough damage to their bodies, the fallen Kainites would rise from the dead once more. As you can imagine, such sorcery proved decisive in their victory."​

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Jenn squinted, then, at the sight before her. Partially hidden beneath a layer of moss, lie the entrance to a warren of some sort; one that looked all too likely dug by the local wildlife, if large enough for them to walk within it with little effort. Perhaps it might lead to a cave, or some other natural formation for them to find shelter in... and their chances against a beast were no doubt better than against their pursuers, heavily armed as they were. ​

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"Nothing ventured, nothing gained", mumbled the Mandalorian as she hacked away at moss and roots, and made her way within - away from the uncomfortable dampness of the bog itself.​

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Carduul Akahl ​

 

[Carduul Akahl]

The Rally Master did not mind her conversation. As if that wasn’t obvious by how the two had interacted thus far. It was the only excuse to keep things from being dreadfully, eerily silent - with naught but the burden of their injuries to occupy their thoughts. This, at the very least, distracted him from the lancing pain that came with every other step. However, his gaze briefly flickered sidelong upon the topic of shackles.

In love, with a Jedi. Of course she was. The Jedi of old were not even capable of such an emotion.

“You believe me bereft of love. Thou’rt sorely mistaken.” Came a terse statement thereafter. “Tell me, Jenn Kryze; what is ‘love’, to you? Mere desire? An understanding betwixt two minds? Or something deeper, an unexplainable connection with which you would lay down your very being with?” A pointed query, obviously a touch agitated at her implication. He did not need her seemingly pitious words to elucidate such a concept.

The helmeted visor had tilted towards her, an undoubtedly piercing look from behind the shaded visage. A few moments of silence, before it looked back elsewhere. “‘...Love, is the sum of my war. For my Clan. For my people. For my home. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve yet to do, is for Mandalore.’”

The words had been spoken out quietly - and though they flowed easily from behind the helm, seemed to be carefully placed. Spoken with a measure of reverence, as if it was quoted from somewhere. Ideals taken from a Mandalorian of terrible wrath to those who opposed their people, yet an intrinsic care for those he stewarded... despite what he seemed to be. She would likely doubt him, if he told her where they came from.

A finger jabbed towards her, then, “The result of thy fight is the very reason I must fight. You understand the measure of injuries upon thy body. The compatriotes thou hath lost. Clan Kryze was dragged along as a hound for the Alliance’s fight, and you paid the price that should’ve been paid by them - as I said would occur. Now all know they cannot even defend their own borders, just as the Republic of old. The battle, while fought valiantly, worthy of great honor even in defeat, was lost through thy choice in allies.”

They had saved one life - she didn't seem to be mentioning her allies heroically swooping in to save the rest of her clan. Coincidentally, just the one who she held a connection to. One, out of how many of her clan that had perished in the assault. Much of the blame for the loss, and subsequent massacre, was levied upon the Alliance as much as the Sith - yet not her. Perhaps in some corner of his mind, he still wished to sway her to their cause once more. It was difficult for him to despise all but the most abominable of Mandalorians. Himself, still uncertain if he could truly disregard any Mandalorian not part of their cause until a new Mandalore had been forged from the fires of the Crusade. Jenn, of all his foes thus far, had certainly earned his begrudging respect as a warrior. He dared not think too much upon the circumstances which forced them to cooperate - he would grow too used to the conversation.

Nonetheless, the tale of her battle with Carnifex was important to hear. Stories told that the very shadows pulled at your mind and body, around the Butcher King. Intelligence reports only gave vague descriptions of who’s attacking what. The Sith’s strategies hadn’t changed, it seemed - victory at any cost, even if they had to burn every resource they had to maintain their firm grip over a world. He had come to the unfortunate conclusion, at one point or another. All evidence pointed to it.

“...Carnifex is beyond our typical means. Nay, if you want even a chance at him - you’d have to be willing to sacrifice everything. Your ideals. Your compatriotes. Bodies of people you don’t even know. An entire planet, just to get a shot at the wretched foe.” It was not spoken as if it was an endeavor he planned to undertake, merely the fact of the matter. It was moreover obvious the wayward reformist would not undertake such a thing - and, thus, could never be the one to fell him.

He had eyed the opening that was cleared not long thereafter. Silently in agreement, he trailed sidelong. Occasional swatting a protrusive vine or root with a wristblade - incontent to stand by idly and do, nothing. The chirping and croaking had fallen almost completely silent, echoing further as they had ventured forth. If they were very unlucky, perhaps a low, guttural breathing might be heard in the depths of the cave. At the very least, the alcove and the brush that had covered it would serve to obscure them for a brief rest. The severed roots, in fact, could make decent firewood for a brief camp, if the dampness had started slowly infiltrating a seeping cold past the armor.

Jenn Kryze

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | Into the earth...
| Objective | Find shelter

Now, more than ever, Jenn wished she had within her possession a flare, or perhaps even a flashlight for her to light their way; as it was, her truly antiquated HUD provided her with imperfect vision in the increasingly dark conditions of the burrow. Not quite the ideal conditions to be descending into the darkness, where they might just find a beast defending its home, but compromise was an old friend by now, and their circumstances were far better than if they had remained above ground to be found by murderous pirates intent on stripping their armor from their bodies.​

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"Love, in its many forms, is the fire within", answered the Alor firmly. "A warrior may fight for himself, seeking glory. He may fight out of hatred for what lies before him. My people and I fight all the more fiercely because of what lies behind us, and the fire it sets within our hearts." ​

​

There was a pause, then, as she answered his piercing gaze with one of her own. In such dimly lit surroundings, the scratched-on look of her helmet's paint, combined with the deliberately stylized Jaig Eyes... truly made her seem like a supernatural creature. Which, after a fashion, she was, being a Sithspawn.​

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"Everything?" repeated the Mandalorian cooly, stopping dead in her tracks to face him fully. Keeping her anger from boiling over was proving more difficult than anything else, then. "The senseless murder of the Cathar, the burning of their city-trees... if you are so keen on repeating the atrocities of our past, do not insult me by pretending you commit them for Mandalore. It is a tomb of a world, Carduul."​

​

Whatever understanding had come to pass between the two, his words had clearly left her just as agitated as her insinuation had for him on the topic of love. Now, more than ever, she found herself well and truly reminded of the unreconcilable differences between them, and how profoundly she had come to resent the devastation wrought by the hands of those who wore the same armor, spoke the same tongue, and wielded the same weapons. Their sins were made hers, in the eyes of the Galaxy; her glory, theirs. ​

​

It was only when the topic broached the matter of her Clan's military alliance with the aruetiise of the Galactic Alliance that her voice rose once more, quiet and calm once more. Hers was the countenance of a leader, that much was well and truly undeniable.​

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"... This is so", agreed the Mandalorian quietly with a cant of her head. Evidently, admitting that she was wrong asked a great deal out of her, but she yet knew how to humble herself, if only for the time being. "My rescue at the hands of a Jedi has ensured my Clan's opinion of them remains intact. I cannot say the same of the Galactic Alliance and that assault on a rat warren they lead us into. But, brother of mine, even should I reconsider my choice of allies, I would remain true to my ideals, even if I must stand alone to keep them alive. This is the way."​

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Before she could go further on about the topic, she suddenly lifted up a closed fist, silently motioning for him to stop, and be quiet. The warren had lead the both of them to a large cave of sorts... and, almost seamlessly fitting into the rocks, a passage of carved stone lead deeper into the earth. ​

​

Mandalorian sigils adorned the steps, faded as they were by the centuries.​

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Carduul Akahl ​

 

[Carduul Akahl]

Likewise, the Neo-Crusader’s ancient design held little room for advanced systems. It emphasized a focus on the natural senses, for that was one’s only true ally in the heat of battle. At the very least, he was not tumbling in the dark despite his condition. Then his words irked her, and they came to a brief halt. He had stopped, and stared unflinchingly in return to the Ersansyr.

“Everything.” He firmly reasserted, an utter conviction underlying the words. His compassion did not extend to the rebellious elements that opposed them. Only to his own people of which he fought for. It was true - that fight in itself was worth personal glory and honor. But his aspirations did not care for such things; he would sacrifice all the glory in the galaxy to see his people elevated to where they deserved.

There was a soft scoff at the mention of Mandalore. It was a fact all knew well, him better than most. No matter the efforts to reconstruct it, it will always be a shadow of what it was millenia ago.

“This is true; ‘tis but a shell of what it once was. The Republic made it like that, so long ago - then the Loyalists of Monroe, then the Sith. But Mandalore stands for all Mandalorians. For home. When we are finished, all shall be our home. And all shall share in its bounty.” Came the steadfast statement in turn.

Though, his gaze briefly flickered to the floor upon further thought of her accusations sent forth. It was the reason many Mandalorians opposed them - such radical methods. In his view, however, there was little other choice for what must be done. Clearly, many more than he had thought agreed.

“T’was not senseless, without purpose. What happened to the Cathar was…regrettable. ‘Tis the same with Manaan.” He admitted thereafter. Carduul knew the flaws in their methods - nothing was without them. Yet still, he fought for it, for it was his duty to improve upon the old as a historian. As a warrior. As a leader. “Some elements are resistant to our culture. I do not take pride in such choices, but if it is what is needed for our people to thrive, then so be it. When Mandalorians are no longer threatened, and the ones who vye for our downfall beyond its borders are stamped out, and the eternal war ends however briefly, perhaps then I may finally rest.”

Another period of silence passed between them as they treaded into the cave, quiet in separate ruminations. He was a touch surprised, however, when she admitted to the usage of her Clan as a tool in the Alliance’s arsenal - though the only thing that betrayed it was the slight tilt of the helm sidelong, towards her.

A quiet, ever-softer hum followed at her resolution. “You should understand, then, what I fight for. Why I must fight.” He could not honestly say the same for certain individuals amidst the new Crusade. He knew that better than any - especially after certain, encounters, with particularly audacious brothers in arms. The same one of which, was in charge of Cathar’s front. “T’would be a blessing to have thee understand the blade pressed to thy throat from the shadows, alone. The cowards who consign thee to an early grave, only to steal the glory of any victory for themselves.” His hand raised, clenching to that of a fist as if to accentuate his point,

“I will not let our way of life be stolen away by bureaucrats and self-righteous monks who vye for our downfall, merely because ‘tis the easier option. Even the Enclave understood; we do not forgive, nor do we forget. Catechism fourteen.”

He didn’t go further with the pause, a clenched fist of her own raising with a tilt of the helm. Eyes behind the visor squinted - the sigils undoubtedly were Mandalorian. Old, yet well-preserved. How old he couldn’t tell from this far away.

“This is the Way.” Quietly agreed, only to move forward to see the sigils for himself. Perhaps it was a compulsion. He was a historian - he could not resist the temptation to preserve more of their culture. At the very least, it would brighten this dour day if he managed to garner knowledge from it…

Jenn Kryze

 

[Jenn Kryze]

Beskar'gam
​

| Location | ... not so forsaken a place
| Objective | Explore

Everything.​

​

The surety of his voice chilled her to the core. The fire in Carduul's heart had been hers, once.​

​

Perhaps it still was.​

​

A disquieting thought that left her silent, listening to the Rallymaster speak of Mandalore, and the place it held in the common psyche of their people. Their language itself spoke of the importance of the homeworld, for they were Mando'ade - and their homeworld, Manda'yaim. Unlike him, her childhood had been spent on Mandalore and Kalevala both... and she had seen the world die all around her, when the Sith struck. For all of her talk of leaving behind that dead planet, her heart yet ached when she thought of it. Somewhere, deep inside of her, she yet long to call it home, and despaired to see it fall under the sway of the Neo-Crusaders, barring her from visiting the planet.​

​

Jenn's helm turned towards him, then, as he spoke of the atrocities perpetrated by his people on Manaan, and Cathar. For a moment, she felt an overwhelming urge to bring out the vibroblade mounted on her vambrace and drive it in his neck, pushing up her helm against his so that the last thing he ever saw in his life was the wraith-like visage of-​

​

Snuffing out the thought took more effort than she felt comfortable with. ​

​

I am not that person. Not anymore.​

​

If she repeated it to herself enough, perhaps the Mandalorian could make it truth. Grappling with her anger had ever been her greatest challenge.​

​

"Our people will always be threatened", answered the Alor with grief, "because the people of the Galaxy hate us. They will always vye for our downfall, because of what you and your ilk perpetrate, again and again! If you truly cared, Carduul, then you would leave them behind. I learned this, when I fought alongside the Enclave, and saw them brutalizing world after world, so convinced that their honor demanded it. The Cathar had done nothing to you, or to your Neo-Crusaders, but you murdered them all the same."​

​

For the first time in... what truly felt like a lifetime, her voice broke. Somewhere inside her, she desperately wished she could make him see things as she did, to unearth a measure of decency within his soul - to earn a form of reciprocation for the display of trust and honesty she showed him through her open admittance of her misgivings concerning the use of her forces at Echnos. This was beyond the pragmatic desire to remove a powerful figure from the Neo-Crusaders and acquire a powerful ally, but a true, earnest desire to save a brother, wayward as he may be. Jenn had never given up on her people, offering a second chance for all who sought it; her own daughter, Varys Amun , had been adopted from one of those traitorous Clans who sided with the Sith during the purge of Mandalore. Loved as if she were her own flesh and blood, treated as she would a Kryze. ​

​

If Carduul could only see the injustice of the Crusade, then maybe, just maybe, she could one day sit around a fire with him, challenging him to a harmless contest of storytelling. ​

​

But so too did he wish for this, and therein lie the true reason why she could not bring herself to take his life. They were forged of the same fire, kindred in spirit, if not blood nor aliit. Even now, as they so clearly disagreed with one another, he wished for her to see things his way. ​

​

For the first time since the two had met, she lost her patience enough to become crude in her words.​

​

"Fuck the Catechisms!" snarled the Ersansyr menacingly, her voice truly befitting the dangerous creature that she was. "You want to see where it took that raider scum? Look at the pitiful carcass that is the Enclave. They faced their Ani'la Akaan. They were found wanting."​

​

And with that, she crouched down to look over the sigils, all too eager to let her fingertips trace along their form. Anything to occupy her mind with something else than this dour exchange between the two. Removing the mud and dust allowed a clearer view at them... and a hoarse laugh escaped her throat as she looked over the unique shape of the words, and parsed their meaning.​

​

Motir Tome.​

​

Beneath the inscription, two Mandalorians were depicted fighting back-to-back against... something. Whatever it had been, time had eroded their foe, or perhaps even the intervention of would-be defilers. But the warriors themselves remained.​

​

The passageway leading down beckoned her attention next, almost calling to her, for it was similarly adorned with murals. Scenes of great battle between their people and all matter of species and adversaries... some, too, seemed to show the defeated foe being offered a hand and raised to their feet, a helm placed upon their head. ​

​

"How blessed are we", uttered the Alor reverentially, "to bear witness to this?"​

​

She stopped, then, as the art etched upon the walls abruptly stopped, the last scene depicting the death of a Mandalorian had what seemed to be a Jedi. Hard for her to identify with certainty who either of them were, seeing how someone had heavily damaged both figures, ruining any chance to identify their features. The lightsaber was a dead giveaway, mind.​

​

"... always end the same", murmured the siren, bringing a hand to the wall in a soft caress. ​

​

Carduul Akahl ​

 

[Carduul Akahl]

His gaze briefly tilted towards her, upon her intent stare. A hand tensed - still unsure whether it was a prudent idea to show trust to the woman who had already blooded her hands with his kin. Perhaps she was thinking of doing it again, right now. Then she looked away, and so too did he.

“They will always hate us, and that shan’t ever change. Rather, they want us to change. To no longer be Mandalorians. That is what every Jedi, every Sith, every being who does not share our mindset, wishes. I will not bend to their whims, for if I did, I would cease to be Mando’ad, and they will have claimed the ultimate victory over me. A shell of what I was, dancing to the tune of Arasuum. Forever bereft of the grace of the Manda. I refuse.”

Head tilted aside to avert his gaze, at the break of voice. At the repeat of the mess that was Cathar. Words were returned thereafter in a sharp retort, “I would not be in charge of such wasteful slaughter. Do not equate that egomaniac's deeds with all of us - he is the worst of our number.” Obviously carefully mulling over the next words. “...In time, I will deal with the man who led Cathar’s front myself, and cast him from our midst if that is what I must do. That is all I can offer thee in comfort.”

Perhaps it wasn’t just because of what he did to Cathar. It was a symptom of a far larger problem within the renewed Crusade, one he had to nip in the bud before it spiraled out of control. Barbarism. War without reason. Dishonor of the highest degree. He made the mistake of believing all in their cause were righteous in intent and heart, that they would not act no better than pirates. And if his suspicions were correct, that man had more than earned the title of Dar’manda - of that, he was for once certain. If battle did not claim him, he would.

“...It takes time to improve upon greatness, but it shall be done. The best principles of Mandalorian life applied to a world, and t'would be better than any of the cesspits the Sith, or the Alliance dredge up. But all good things must have its worst aspects rooted out first.”

From those words alone, it seemed he was not truly blind to the rot the Crusade perpetrated. It was why, after Mandalore the Ultimate fell, the Mando’ade scattered to the winds. By the time he was killed by Revan, their forces were naught but thugs and low-lives - no honor, no ideals, no conviction. Just greed. But how one fixed that, he could not yet tell.

He glanced again at the sudden words regarding the Enclave. It irked him mildly - though t’was not a group he had ever been with, only ever seen in passing when they visited the jungles of Dxun, he respected greatly. Singlehandedly, they had preserved their people when the Union fell. Nor did they cower away to do it - they went to battle against the Sith, the Maw, then the Jedi.

“They did their duty.” Was a firm statement in turn. “As their last glorious act, The Enclave proved once and for all that the Republic, in whatever form it choses, will never leave us to our affairs. Much like the Excision before, they interfered in our kin’s turmoil, and scattered them to the wind. They want us to either serve them as slaves, or not exist at all. All things come to an end. The Enclave chose one befitting a Mandalorian, rather than rotting away in the shadows or in chains until it expired.”

As they made their way down the hallway of their history immortalized, he took in the many differing scenes. Speaking of days of yore, the days of which he fought for.

Carduul peered, approvingly, at the scene depicting the defeated foes being integrated into their culture. Neo-Crusader tradition, to bring those who showed valor into their ranks. If they were a warrior, most anyone could become Mandalorian, if they only had will to strive to be. It was why they had survived this long. They did not need armor, not weapons - only an idea. That could never be destroyed.

He aspired one glorious day to see his people stand united. To have them face the insurmountable foe that threatened to tear them down again and again, together. But through this conversation, with the unfortunate opponent what was Jenn, the ultimate, unavoidable question arose from such an aspiration.

What would be the cost? How much of their soul would have to be reshaped, how much of their people would be forced to be burnt away because of their beliefs? What was the limit they were willing to indulge before they ceased to be Mandalorians? Such baleful thoughts had to be confronted, sooner or later.

A hand reached for his hip, instinctually unclipping a small, compact datapad. Only when he brought it up, did he curse to himself - for the screen was blackened and cracked, rendered inoperable. “Of course.” He mumbled quietly, as he placed it back upon his utility belt.

A stare towards the faded makes, a hand from cracked crimson armor raising to lightly touch upon it, brush away dirt and dust. “It must be from before the Darkness…” Lightly murmured. Gazing upon the sigils lost to time. “How quaint, a find like this…”

‘Motir Tome.’

“Mandalore the Uniter.” He intoned aloud, reverential in the words. It was an educated guess, the Mandalore who standardized the armor Jenn now bore, and brought their people together once again on their own terms.

Slowly he paced further, where the other was motioning towards. Towards the scene of the pair of Mandalorians, standing off against some saber-wielder. Jedi, Sith, it mattered not to him - they were but two sides of the same coin. “And the First Mandalorian Excision, perhaps..? We are fortunate. Such first-hand depictions are rare, even amidst my number.” The scenes, blurred as they were, lined up too well to be otherwise in his mind. Or perhaps it was merely a summation of their history as a whole. It was interestingly unfortunate the way it seemed to repeat.

“...Peace is never meant to be. Not for a Mandalorian. We fight for it, all the same.” Was his statement towards the other’s quiet murmur.

Jenn Kryze