Keepin Corellia Weird
https://youtu.be/eJlN9jdQFSc
Location: Wilds of Dathomirian Jungle
Like so many beskar shod feet, a pair landed on the ground on the jungle, near Port Shardrock. It was near dawn, that cold and smoky mist of the dense jungle lending their place of meeting an eerie light. In the clearing with him stood a dozen or more of his direct troops, with a squad or two more directly like this. Though temple to hold the natives who would not be cowed had been razed, and their dead properly buried according to clan custom, their small band had paid dearly for it, and now they had to hope their near suicidal courage was enough.
Booted feet stepped forward between two braisers, iron bowls carved with symbols of both Mandalorian and Dathomirian culture and borrowed from Clan Rekali. It had been Ijaats idea to show that the culture who was so often to their aid would not be left to die out, and he took a stance between the braziers, figure thrown in sharp relief.
They had been trickling in, his small band, for weeks since a rash of war had broken out. After Utapau, bloody, bloody Utapau. There, from the depths of grief and insanity, his mind had been rescued by a Neti Jedi Master named [member="Orn Pharr"]. A man, or tree really Ijaat wasn’t sure which to call him, who had no idea what the gentle words he had spoken had righted in the ori’ramikad. His armor stood, like many with him, in proud colors of the Mandalorian Protectors - the cause he had forsaken for pride. But now that didn’t matter. Not to him. Pride? Clan? No. Nothing more mattered than righting the wrong he had unleashed on the galaxy, and saving his people from utter madness.
Walking forward, a pace, he stepped into better lighting of the clearing and braziers, and a young female Mandalorian with more gear on her belt than a droid had internals nodded to him. The sun was just piercing the canopy. Lights sprang from tripods, and Ijaat faced what most would know as a holoprojector and recorder, hooked into a relay and a massive signal boost. If he was right in his agreements, [member="Sor-Jan Xantha"] would receive this signal first, and hopefully he had already gotten his request, and would relay it across everywhere he could.
If not? It was still set to broadcast along specific channels to the Galactic Alliance brass like [member="Coren Starchaser"], to the private places [member="Ember Rekali"] had built for his Clan(though he knew not Ember had returned, he hoped old alliances between clans might hold, as even now the Warlock was reemerging) , to hermit like yet bastions of his people like [member="Fabula Caromed"] and even some of the pluckier types of those in the Outer Rim he knew, like [member="Jorus Merrill"] and [member="Bryce Bantam"]. Yes, even some of his old war time allies like [member="Draco Vereen"] and his daughter [member="Laira Darkhold"] would receive it, as well as an anonymous communique to an old frequency of Isley Verd ([member="Darth Metus"]) that he wasn’t even sure was used any more, or would be listened to. Probably every planet in the known Galaxy would receive it in some form, and all the most obvious people would.
His helmeted head was focused on a twisted bit of metal and rock that faintly pulsed with the Force for those nearby him that could sense such. A black rock of duracrete, twisted with metals and glass and other things that made up that vile and defiled temple Ra’s petty Empire had used to hold the Witches prisoner or like cattle for slaughter. Casual procedure for that sect had been forcible reeducation or slaughter if you disagreed and fought o live on your own terms. Personal beliefs were fine, but when you slaughtered your own people for them, you went too far. Ijaat was the master of that mistake.
But today was not about his sin. Nor about clearing his name. It was about standing strong and tall, so others might weather the storm behind you while you dealt with it. Not every Mandalorian would be as he was, and that was fine. He was. Light gleamed dully off the grave-ash streaks a Witch had applied to his armor. Signs of Mourning, in the languages of Dathomir and Mandalore, and Aurabesh besides. And a face covered in a T-Visor bearing white jaig eyes looked at the recorder, and held up the rubble.
“Payment is due. For the Children and Families of Dathomir, Mandalore, and more besides. I stand here as part of the problem, as do all of my people, that created the rabid dog known as the Mandalorian Empire… Every planet in the Galaxy is in direct threat. Even the Sith who would think to command them must surely realize their pet dog is going rabid. Now, I call on all of you hearing this to rise up. The Empires, the Galactic Alliance, Republics both Remnant and Shrouded, one and all, I call.
I call on all of you, and last but not least I call on the vode not stricken by this demagogue to come to Dathomir, now. The first blow is already swung, and a Temple will be in flames shortly. We will cleanse those monsters from this place if they will not leave, and send a clearer message to them - No more. Now we ask all the powers that be, strange bedfellows or no, to join us. For the good of us all. Then, I promise, we can all go back to shooting one another the very next day. I swear my life to this, and all that I am to seeing the oath I make through. Surrender and renounce your madness, or face your doom. This empire of curs has breathed its last days. Dathomir must seek justice done."
Silent now for a moment, he took off the crush gauntlet on his right hand, and drew a mythosaur bone knife from his belt. Ceremonial, entirely, the bone had never been allowed to calcify and strengthen. Brittle or no, it was sharp, and the veteran drew his hand across the blade as he handed the temple rubble to a bystander. As blood flew freely from the slice, he let it drip over the rubble. Even helmeted, one could almost read the dire, deadly expression on his face.
“Haat, Ijaa, Haa’it”
Turning, he picked up his gauntlet and put it back on, and walked away. The recording cut out with static and then would go blank after playing on whatever audio, visual, or any sort of device it could receive.
Location: Wilds of Dathomirian Jungle
Like so many beskar shod feet, a pair landed on the ground on the jungle, near Port Shardrock. It was near dawn, that cold and smoky mist of the dense jungle lending their place of meeting an eerie light. In the clearing with him stood a dozen or more of his direct troops, with a squad or two more directly like this. Though temple to hold the natives who would not be cowed had been razed, and their dead properly buried according to clan custom, their small band had paid dearly for it, and now they had to hope their near suicidal courage was enough.
Booted feet stepped forward between two braisers, iron bowls carved with symbols of both Mandalorian and Dathomirian culture and borrowed from Clan Rekali. It had been Ijaats idea to show that the culture who was so often to their aid would not be left to die out, and he took a stance between the braziers, figure thrown in sharp relief.
They had been trickling in, his small band, for weeks since a rash of war had broken out. After Utapau, bloody, bloody Utapau. There, from the depths of grief and insanity, his mind had been rescued by a Neti Jedi Master named [member="Orn Pharr"]. A man, or tree really Ijaat wasn’t sure which to call him, who had no idea what the gentle words he had spoken had righted in the ori’ramikad. His armor stood, like many with him, in proud colors of the Mandalorian Protectors - the cause he had forsaken for pride. But now that didn’t matter. Not to him. Pride? Clan? No. Nothing more mattered than righting the wrong he had unleashed on the galaxy, and saving his people from utter madness.
Walking forward, a pace, he stepped into better lighting of the clearing and braziers, and a young female Mandalorian with more gear on her belt than a droid had internals nodded to him. The sun was just piercing the canopy. Lights sprang from tripods, and Ijaat faced what most would know as a holoprojector and recorder, hooked into a relay and a massive signal boost. If he was right in his agreements, [member="Sor-Jan Xantha"] would receive this signal first, and hopefully he had already gotten his request, and would relay it across everywhere he could.
If not? It was still set to broadcast along specific channels to the Galactic Alliance brass like [member="Coren Starchaser"], to the private places [member="Ember Rekali"] had built for his Clan(though he knew not Ember had returned, he hoped old alliances between clans might hold, as even now the Warlock was reemerging) , to hermit like yet bastions of his people like [member="Fabula Caromed"] and even some of the pluckier types of those in the Outer Rim he knew, like [member="Jorus Merrill"] and [member="Bryce Bantam"]. Yes, even some of his old war time allies like [member="Draco Vereen"] and his daughter [member="Laira Darkhold"] would receive it, as well as an anonymous communique to an old frequency of Isley Verd ([member="Darth Metus"]) that he wasn’t even sure was used any more, or would be listened to. Probably every planet in the known Galaxy would receive it in some form, and all the most obvious people would.
His helmeted head was focused on a twisted bit of metal and rock that faintly pulsed with the Force for those nearby him that could sense such. A black rock of duracrete, twisted with metals and glass and other things that made up that vile and defiled temple Ra’s petty Empire had used to hold the Witches prisoner or like cattle for slaughter. Casual procedure for that sect had been forcible reeducation or slaughter if you disagreed and fought o live on your own terms. Personal beliefs were fine, but when you slaughtered your own people for them, you went too far. Ijaat was the master of that mistake.
But today was not about his sin. Nor about clearing his name. It was about standing strong and tall, so others might weather the storm behind you while you dealt with it. Not every Mandalorian would be as he was, and that was fine. He was. Light gleamed dully off the grave-ash streaks a Witch had applied to his armor. Signs of Mourning, in the languages of Dathomir and Mandalore, and Aurabesh besides. And a face covered in a T-Visor bearing white jaig eyes looked at the recorder, and held up the rubble.
“Payment is due. For the Children and Families of Dathomir, Mandalore, and more besides. I stand here as part of the problem, as do all of my people, that created the rabid dog known as the Mandalorian Empire… Every planet in the Galaxy is in direct threat. Even the Sith who would think to command them must surely realize their pet dog is going rabid. Now, I call on all of you hearing this to rise up. The Empires, the Galactic Alliance, Republics both Remnant and Shrouded, one and all, I call.
I call on all of you, and last but not least I call on the vode not stricken by this demagogue to come to Dathomir, now. The first blow is already swung, and a Temple will be in flames shortly. We will cleanse those monsters from this place if they will not leave, and send a clearer message to them - No more. Now we ask all the powers that be, strange bedfellows or no, to join us. For the good of us all. Then, I promise, we can all go back to shooting one another the very next day. I swear my life to this, and all that I am to seeing the oath I make through. Surrender and renounce your madness, or face your doom. This empire of curs has breathed its last days. Dathomir must seek justice done."
Silent now for a moment, he took off the crush gauntlet on his right hand, and drew a mythosaur bone knife from his belt. Ceremonial, entirely, the bone had never been allowed to calcify and strengthen. Brittle or no, it was sharp, and the veteran drew his hand across the blade as he handed the temple rubble to a bystander. As blood flew freely from the slice, he let it drip over the rubble. Even helmeted, one could almost read the dire, deadly expression on his face.
“Haat, Ijaa, Haa’it”
Turning, he picked up his gauntlet and put it back on, and walked away. The recording cut out with static and then would go blank after playing on whatever audio, visual, or any sort of device it could receive.
