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Arthos Vizsla

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The prison cell that the Ranger had been taken to was aboard one of the many ships that the Sith had granted to the Mandalorians to begin their crusade against the Jedi anew. It was not the ship that carried the Mand'alor and, as such, it was lower on the priority list when it came to ensuring that the crew was loyal to Mandalore first and the Sith a distant second. Because of this, it was Sith Troopers entrusted with the protection of the prisoner and it would be they he saw first upon awaking.

Arthos would be shortly behind, the door opening to admit the Vizsla as the Weequay would be coming to his senses to find himself mostly healed - his hands bound together by durasteel cuffs. He watched for a moment before gesturing to the Sith troopers with a nod of his head.

"Leave us."


There was a second where the Troopers seemed to hesitate, as if to question him, before they both saluted with hands to their chests and filed out of the room. Arthos hated how they thought saluting properly would endear them to him. He eyed the Ranger in front of him for a moment before moving over to sit at one side of the desk built into the room.

He gestured to Bak-Ru to take the seat opposite him.

The silence that followed for a few beats could be excused as an intimidation technique but, really, it was just Arthos trying to figure out what to say first. He had never done anything like this before. What was he supposed to say to a captured foe? His clan had never taught him that - his clan had told him he would be a failure if he did not execute any captured foes on the spot.

But he was not his clan.

"What's your name, Ranger?"



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Bak-Ru Shooska

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A quiet prayer to Quay was the last thing to leave Bak-Ru's lips before he lost consciousness on Lothal. Then time would drift just as his mind did. His existence became flashes of images as the young Weequay barely clung to life. Sunlight glinted off armor that propelled towards him. A burning sensation in his stomach. Blood covered hands. Armored soldiers dragging him away. Floating in a warm, blue fluid. The order of these event hard to determine as his mind slipped in and out, but eventually life force would return to the Ranger. Sounds would unmuffle as they reached his ears, his sight became less and less blurry. HIs hands....they wouldn't move.

With a gasp Bak-Ru would bolt up from the bedding he had been lying on. His breathing heavy as consciousness returned, the wounds to his chest and stomach seemingly healed. The leathery skin of his wrists were bound, two Imperial soldiers stood watch. Somehow his life had been spared, but it became very apparent that this mercy had cost him his freedom. Before Bak-Ru could even put a thought together the door would open again and through a familiar sight would come. The very armor that had catapulted itself towards him. The last thing he had seen on the day he almost died. He shifted in his seat, testing his bonds though he knew it would be futile to even try. Bak-Ru remained silent as the Mandalorian approached, but his expression would speak more than words ever could.

His captor would dismiss the guards and Bak-Ru would take the seat offered to him. "Bak-Ru Shooska." The Weequay identified himself, his voice dripping with defiance. "Why am I here Mandalorian?"

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Arthos Vizsla

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Why was he here?

An important question.

Arthos reached up to the side of his head and grasped his helmet before twisting it slightly. With a light hiss the seals opened and he was able to lift it from his head without issue. Setting his helmet to the side on the desk for a moment, he took care to rest it down carefully and he took a breath of the sterilized air of the cell without the rebreather. He ran a hand through his dark hair with a long breath.

"My name is Arthos. I am of Clan Vizsla."
he introduced himself as he met the Ranger's gaze, "We met at war, Bak-Ru, and that doesn't leave many options. We both expected to kill the other but you clung to life stubbornly, bravely, and I wanted to see if there was more to you."

He tapped the side of his helmet with a finger.

"I spoke to Mand'alor about what I could do with you and we discussed it. In the end I was told that the Crusade had no place for prisoners in the way you might understand it."
he admitted with a small, rather sheepish, smile, "No sitting in a soft cell for you, Ranger."

Arthos leaned forward slightly.

"So the question I have to ask you now Bak-Ru is if you are willing to die here, now, as a Ranger or if you are going to hand your life to me."
his gaze would be unwavering, "You need not answer right away, but I will have an answer by the end of ship-board night."

Or he would have a corpse to dispose of.


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Bak-Ru Shooska

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Bak-Ru's eyes would bounce around as the Mandalorian reach up to its helmet. Although death was surely just a moment away he couldn't help but to be a little curious. Who knew what lay underneath those infamous helms. What species, what gender? Friend or foe? Well, in this case he knew it to be foe, however there was always an air of mystery when it came to the armored warriors. With a hiss the helmet would release its seal and reveal the face beneath.

Humans always had such delicate features. "Pretty." Bak-Ru said through a cocky smile, hiding his fear behind a taunt. He would also realize that the human male looked young in age, perhaps near his own. The two species did have similar life spans. Had they not been aligned to opposing forces they could have easily bonded over the many things young warriors experienced, but alas they had been destined to war. Until now anyways.

The Weequay nodded as the Mandalorian introduced himself and identified what clan they belonged to. Not that it meant much to Bak-Ru as he knew little about Mandalorian culture. What he could understand though was the tone of respect, almost admiration that tinted the words of his captor. Their fight had been short, but it had been well fought. Although Bak-Ru had lost the fight his warrior spirit was not easily broken as he had clung to life, determined to fight another day. The two of them may be enemies, but they could at least respect each other for that. "Take off these shackles and I'll show how much more there is Arthos." Again, he would taunt.

The cockiness would quickly fade though as the Mandalorian stopped with the pleasantries and got right back to business. Bak-Ru was a prisoner of war and they saw no purpose in keeping meaningless captives. The choice was clear. Die here and now in a last act of defiance or submit. Arthos would leave him time to make his choice, but he wouldn't need much. Although a small part of him may see it fit to lay down his life and die with honor the part of him that yearned to live far outweighed the other. To bide his time and wait for the right opportunity.

When the time came for his decision, Bak-Ru would meet the eyes of his captor. "I submit." The Weequay agreed to hand his life over to the Mandalorian, but his gaze still held the fire of a warrior.

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Arthos Vizsla

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Arthos snorted but didn’t say anything in response to the comment about his looks – he had gotten enough teasing and insults from his own Clan about how delicate he looked. It was a point about himself that he hated but he buried the instinctive urge to scowl at yet another reminder that he was unsuitable to be a True Mandalorian warrior.

Now was not the time for self pity or even self hatred.

The comment about releasing the Weequay didn’t receive a verbal response but he did smirk ever so slightly at the Ranger. They both knew it wasn’t happening but he could respect the fact that he was outwardly so calm in the face of his captor. The worst outcome was death and they both knew it – everything else was better so why not be cheeky?

He didn’t breathe as he waited for the other young man to actually make his decision. On the surface it seemed like something of an easy choice, surely? Either die or give your freedom to your captor. It might even be something simple in the end but when Bak-Ru made the decision, Arthos knew he needed to tell him what it meant.

“Very well. You are now Bak-Ru Vizsla, foundling and my responsibility. You belong to the Clan Vizsla – until you earn your soul, your skin, you are not granted the freedoms of the Vod.”


Arthos placed his hand atop his own helmet to show Bak-Ru what he meant by ‘skin’.

“To earn the right to be Vod, I will test you six times; once for each tenant of the Resol'nare. You may yet not survive these trials – do you agree to this? Will you become Bak-Ru Vizsla, child of Mandalore?”



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Bak-Ru Shooska

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The time for humor and ball breaking had come and gone. It was just a defense mechanism anyways. Something to help him cope with the weight of what laid upon his shoulder. The truth was harsh and his truth now was either face death or live as a prisoner. This may seem like an easy decision given just how strong his will to live was, but he was not being asked to just sit in a cell and wait for some prisoner exchange. He wasn't even being forced into a labor camp or enslaved on some farming world. If Bak-Ru was to live he would have to give up part of himself. The first being his surname.

His thoughts would drift back to the distant memories of his father. The name Shooska meant nothing on his home world of Sriluur, but to Bak-Ru is was a constant reminder of the sacrifice his father had made for them. If it had not been for that, his family would still be living under the boot of Syndicate scum. To be asked to toss it away was to shed a source of pride and honor. It was a name that made him want to beat his chest and call out for all to hear, but that was not all he would have to sacrifice for a chance to live.

From this day forth he would be considered a child of Mandalore. Images of that innocent woman being executed like some rabid beast flicked through his mind. How could one that had sworn the oath of a ranger now truly consider himself a Mandalorian? Bak-Ru had sworn to protect those that others would abandon. To put law and order above all, to uphold justice anyway possible. How could that crime against humanity ever be considered just or honorable? However, as much doubt that flowed through the Weequay in this moment, it would mix and swirl with intrigue.

Looking upon the Mandalorians could inspire nothing but awe. Whether it be terror or admiration the image of the iconic armor tugged at a part of Bak-Ru that had always been there. To live and breath as a clan. To put the whole above the individual was something he had always craved. A chance to prove himself through trial, tribulation and combat stirred the warrior spirit that had been bestowed on him since birth. The conflict between these two ideologies would surely haunt the young Weequay for a long time to come, but there was only one path forward if he wished to live and this warrior was not ready to die. "I agree."

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Arthos Vizsla

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“Bak-Ru Vizsla.”

He smiled ever so slightly as he stood from his own seat and grabbed his helmet. Slotting his bucket back in place, he placed the key for the manacles on the desk in front of Bak-Ru and gestured with his head for him to follow him.

Arthos didn’t slow or stop at the door, instead trusting that Bak-Ru would want to try and keep pace with him. They were heading through the bowels of a Sith ship repurposed as a Mandalorian ship so while the corridors had been bare before, in the Sith style, there were splashes of vibrant paint and colours of different meanings beginning to take prominence.

Sith troopers eyed them as they patrolled the corridors but Arthos paid them no mind – Bak-Ru was a Vizsla and that meant that he was Arthos’ responsibility. Which was something he probably should have mentioned earlier…

“You’re my responsibility now, Bak-Ru, and anything you do directly reflects on me. So just know that if you try and betray the cause, it will be me who needs to answer.”
He glanced back at Bak-Ru over his shoulder, “And it will be me who cuts your head from your shoulders to remove the stain from the Clan… so maybe try not to let it get that far?”

He didn’t really want to be forced to kill someone he was so blatantly sponsoring as a Mandalorian after all – if nothing else, he would be spending a lot of time with Bak-Ru. Being forced to kill him would hardly help improve Arthos’ already nervous disposition. Together they would arrive at a room that had been converted from an Imperial armory to a Mandalorian armouring room.

The difference was readily apparent when they opened the door to reveal racks upon racks of beskar’gam pieces, no full sets but enough spares to serve as replacement parts. Of the entire room, there was one exception; a full set of beskar’gam stood in the middle of the room in a bright, vibrant, blue.

“To be a Mandalorian means wearing your soul as a steel skin – the measurements should be about right. Check it over and we’ll get you fitted into it.”


There were, pointedly, no weapons around save for the ones Arthos was armed with. He wanted to trust that Bak-Ru would learn to love being a Mandalorian but his clan hadn’t raised a fool – that would take time, sweat and blood yet.


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Bak-Ru Shooska

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Bak-Ru Vizsla, one of many.

Although it would take many moons to be proven as a true Mandalorian, he had taken the first step towards a potential future. One of the many paths that his life had could have taken, but destiny had fated him to meet these armor clad warriors. The clan name Vizsla had granted him his life and freedom, however there was still a sense of loss when Bak-Ru heard his new name. As he stood, as he released himself from his bonds, as he set off to follow Arthos, every action was one step further away from his surname Shooska and everything it had stood for. A proud Weequay that treasured his family. An even prouder Ranger that had sworn to protect the innocent and uphold the law. A member of a Galactic society that strove to create a place for all of those who sought a better life. This new existence could still carry honor and purpose, but there would be parts of him that would have to die if he was to ever be reborn a true Mandalorian. That, however, was for another day.

Bak-Ru would follow Arthos through the belly of the ship. His eyes would fall upon the vibrant paintings, their meanings completely unknown to him, but he did his best to commit them to memory. One thing he did realize however were the Sith troopers that lined the corridors. A flash of hate would flicker through his guts as he eyed everyone of them that they passed. How could a people like the Mandalorians ally themselves with this radical cult? Bak-Ru had never met a Sith before in his life, but the stories had spread across the Galaxy. A belief that held dominance and destruction above all? It disgusted him. These lives served no purpose. They carried no honor. His fists clenched as they walked and Arthos' words would be well timed.

Fists would relax as Bak-Ru listened. He belonged to clan Vizsla now and more so to Arthos as he was now solely under his responsibility. The young Weequay was many things, but a liar was not one of them. His word was his honor and he had submitted. "You'll have no treachery from me, Arthos." The Weequay pledged. "If I want to be released, I hope you wouldn't deny me the chance for your head." He knew not of their ways, but hopefully he would be given the chance to die with honor if he could not accept the way. "But I agree, let's avoid that for now."

Soon enough the pair would arrive at a door and as it opened they would enter an armory. Bak-Ru had never seen a collection of such fine armor. Even though most looked to be replacements, Mandalorian craftsmanship was renown across every reach of space. A study and practice that had lasted over a thousand years. It was awe inspiring to say the least, but nothing compared to how he felt when his eyes fell upon the full set in the middle of the room. Bak-Ru had seen Mandalorian armor before, but it was the fact that Arthos indicated that it was potentially to be his that truly floored him. His leathery fingers would gently glide along the vibrant blue pieces. Every dent and scratch carried a story and a piece of everyone that had worn it before him. Arthos' words would linger in his ear. To be Mandalorian was to wear your soul in the form of armor. He could almost feel the others that had come before him. "Show me." Bak-Ru yearned for more.

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Arthos Vizsla

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It was gratifying to hear that Bak-Ru had no immediate plans to try and betray him – if Arthos took him at his word. Having seen enough of his character to make the offer in place of execution anyway, Arthos was happy enough to take the young Weequay at his word. By the time Bak-Ru was ready to try and challenge him over anything, Arthos was certain that he would be as Mandalorian as they came.

And by that point he would know what it was like to be part of something beyond what the Rangers or the FWA or even the Sith could offer someone like him.

“When you’re vod? You’re welcome to try.”
He offered Bak-Ru with a small grin underneath his helmet, “By the time you can challenge me for such a thing I doubt you’ll want to leave.”

Arthos himself had been a foundling and even now, now that he was old enough and wise enough to know that his adoptive mother hated him and his clan tolerated him at best, he knew he would choose to be Mandalorian. He had the chance as soon as he was old enough to run back to the people of his birth parents but he hadn’t. Because being a Mandalorian had given him something that nothing else ever could.

He couldn’t name what it was, precisely, that it gave him because he was a soldier, not a poet.

Bak-Ru’s current clothes would work fine as under-armour so it was with steady hands and slow, deliberate, movements that Arthos started to strap the armour to his vod-to-be. He didn’t call out what he was doing but he was making sure to do it slowly enough that Bak-Ru would be able to see what he was doing. In the future, Bak-Ru would be expected to do this himself after all.

“This armour is your soul. It’s colours speak to your character – Blue for Reliability.”


He patted the cuirass as he locked it into position on Bak-Ru’s chest.

“Black for Justice – lined with White for New Beginnings.”


Reaching down to the table, he picked up Bak-Ru’s new helmet in both hands as he looked at the Weequay clad in his new armour, his new soul. He held it out to him.

“Your armour is a reflection of who you are, Bak-Ru Vizsla. Wear it proudly and let none take it from you.”



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Bak-Ru Shooska

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Arthos would cast doubt on Bak-Ru ever wanting to turn his back on the Mandalorian way. A bold prediction, but one that may prove to be true given how the Weequay felt at this moment. As he looked upon the armor presented before him he would be enamored by it. Not just the craftsmanship of it, but also what it stood for. Parts of him would have to be rewritten if he were to ever truly wear it as his soul. The parts that could not stomach the killing of an innocent or the need for conquest, but the armor would stir a piece of him that he had only seen a glimpse of before. The flame was lit, time would tell if it would consume him.

Perhaps one day Bak-Ru and Arthos would be able to bond further. They were of similar age and it was yet to be seen how the rest of the clan would treat the Weequay. Not that he knew this now, but the fact that they were both foundlings might prove another likeness they could share. Either way, something would change when Arthos began to strap the armor to Bak-Ru. A sense of brotherhood or maybe even kinship would flash through his chest as the other began to show him the way. The thoughts of captor and prisoner began to fade.

These feeling would only intensify as the colors were explained. Reliability. Something Bak-Ru could always be counted for. When he gave his word there was next to nothing that could keep him from it. Justice. The very thing that had pushed him into a life of service. He had sworn the oath of a ranger to uphold it at all cost. This path before him would be different, but perhaps a sense of justice would be achieved all the same. And last, new beginnings. A perfect representation of what Bak-Ru was being presented with. This new armor would indeed reflect who he was. Perhaps it would be possible for him to hold onto these values and let himself grow into what it would take to be a true Mandalorian. Whether he became Vod or not, he would nod in agreement as Arthos charged him with wearing his new soul with pride. None would take it from him. Not while he lived anyways.

Although there were many things yet to be seen, there would be one resounding truth, Bak-Ru would never be the same as he was handed his new helmet. With gloved hands he would hold it above his head and let it slowly slide into place. At first it would constrict his vision, but as power flowed through it he would see with new sight. The sight of Bak-Ru Vizsla.

"What now?"

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Arthos Vizsla

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It gladdened Arthos to see that Bak-Ru was taking the colours and meanings to heart even as he showed him the way to strap on his new skin. He took some pride in having selected and applied the colours to the armour himself before he had even come down to the brig to see the Weequay. Traditionally the wearer would decide and apply their own colours – it was their own ideals after all – but until Bak-Ru was truly a Vizsla, truly a Mandalorian, it made sense for Arthos to apply them for him.

Thankfully it seemed that the newest prospective member of the clan agreed with both the colours and the meanings behind them.

Seeing the helmet fit snugly, perfectly, had Arthos letting out a half breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. It had been a silly little fear, that the helmet might not fit because he had adjusted it wrong. That would have really taken away from the gravity of the whole moment and it thrilled him to see that he hadn’t made that mistake.

But the question asked was valid… more than that, it was something that needed to be answered because he was nominally in charge of Bak-Ru now. He had assumed responsibility for the life of this new blood and it filled him with a sense of determination. Arthos clapped Bak-Ru on the shoulder with one hand.

“Customize your armour with functions from the armoury.”
He instructed his Vod, “I shall send messages forth to Mand’alor and the army that you have joined.”

That would be a simple matter of a com message sent out to the fleet as a whole – so they didn’t think Bak-Ru had stolen someone’s armour in an escape attempt more than anything.

“… we shall be heading for Mandalore. I shall introduce you to Clan Vizsla as our newest member.”



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