Warrior's Call (Mando Only)

[Sisk_Renelo]

In the middle of deep space hung a solitary comm satellite, the burnished metal pitted and scarred from its long vigil in the middle of nowhere. Placed here over a decade before by Clan Orar on Sisk’s order, the satellites had been part of top secret Protector Operation to allow them to maintain a watch on the Galaxy and identify any threats to the Mandalorian people. Long distance arrays were cleverly built into the oblong sphere that allowed the satellite to detect and send transmissions from its quadrant of space. Linked into a massive network the Protector buoy was able to send a message anywhere in the galaxy almost instantaneously to allow the far flung Mandalorians an almost untraceable way of keeping in contact.

Around it hung four members of Dha Werda Verda, armor sealed against the cold dark of space and wearing maneuvering jets attached to hardpoints. Tools were attached to their belts by hooks that kept the hardware close as they pulled panels and repaired the circuits inside before closing the plates and screwing them down. The comm chatter was alive and controlled through the channels as they coordinated their efforts and called for tools and parts and passed them to each other. Sparks jetted away from the satellite as saws cut, arc welders attached disparate parts together, and random tools grated against metal parts. It was almost beautiful in a way.

Sisk stood on the bridge of the Darasuum Gra'tua and watched the work proceed. His buy’ce sat on the plinth next to him, the dark visor staring at nothing. He blinked once as the Mandalorian to the starboard side of the satellite affixed one last panel and then gave the ship a thumbs up. The work was done, the satellite ready. A quick pulse sent by the Gra'tua verified the validity of the work and Sisk moved to the comm panel, snagging his buy’ce as he passed and sliding it over his skull. The Mandalorians needed to know that someone that was not afraid to wear the visor, not afraid of the orders laid against them by their murderers. It was what was needed.

As he moved to the comm panel Marcus moved in front of him, a wary look on his war weathered face. “What are you planning Sisk?” Sisk laid a hand on his old friend’s shoulder and gave him a small nod.

“I’m planning on doing what I should have done long ago. The Mandalorians need a leader, one untainted by the legacy of Vencu and Carien. It will be difficult, but our vode will listen. At least the ones who want to will.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

“The truth.” Sisk patted Marcus’ shoulder and moved past him to the waiting console, where a tech was inputting the final code sequence required for the system. A small green light lit up above the transmission plate and the tech slid back silently and took his place at a signal modulator control. He would ensure that the signal broadcast location stayed hidden from prying eyes and ears. There was no way to prevent the Imperials from hearing the message completely even broadcasting on Mandalorian only channels, but they could encrypt and disguise it well enough. “Are we ready?”

“Yes Alor. Encryption is set, scrambling in place, multiple relay system ready. They’ll never be able to find us.” The tech sounded almost smug even through his vocabulator. He had good reason to be.

“They couldn’t get here in time anyway, and we’re far enough away from the Morut to keep any link secret. But the more layers we add the more resources they devote to tracking down nothing but a dead end. That should keep Imperial ‘Intelligence’ busy.” His hands found the sides of the console and he allowed the motion tracking cameras find his helmet. When they established a solid lock the holographic representation that would be sent out popped into view. It showed his head and torso, the distinctive Beskar’gam that he had worn for a decade and a half marking him to his scattered brethren.

“Ready to transmit on your order, Alor.” Sisk took a deep breath and steeled himself. Then he nodded. The tech flipped a switch and Sisk faced the cameras as they began to transmit.

“This is Sisk Renelo with a message for all true Mando’ade. I know that many of you think me dead, but even the iron grip of the Imperials could not hold me. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes I have returned, as shall all of you. “ The words were heavy, laden with emotion and need. “The Empire took everything from us. They reduced our worlds to ash and killed billions. Our families, our Aliit, are gone. Those voices demand justice. Those voices demand Vengeance. I will not allow this blow against our people to go unpunished.”

“For those of you who feel the warrior’s call singing in your veins, the need to spill the blood of those who attacked us like hut’uun in ambush, unwilling to face the true Mandalorian spirit, you can find me at the Heart of the Shadow. In one weeks time all loyal Mando’ade who wish to regain their legacy shall meet at the Shadow, where all will be revealed.” It was cryptic, incredibly vague. Even if the Imperials figured it out the region was vast, unchartable. They would be safe there.

“We shall walk the path again soon, ner vode. Together as one people. Steel your hearts and prepare your arm for the war that is to come. The ground will run red with the blood of the guilty, and our boots will march anew on fresh battlefields. Oya Manda!”

The tech cut the link and Sisk stepped back and breathed. He hated speaking in public, he always had, but he knew what was needed and would do it. The Mandalorians needed a voice, one not tainted by Imperial propaganda and osik. Sisk had been that voice before and he could be that voice again. Some hailed him as hero, others reviled him, but they all could recognize how hard he had fought for his people and their culture. The former Sol’yc Cabur had always been an outspoken proponent of the Mandalorian Spirit and Heart, a warrior that had been at the forefront of every major conflict the Mandalorians had fought for the last 15 years. When the Imperials had invaded, it had been Sisk and his clan that had struck back. When the others cowered in their holes, Sisk and his Clan had dared to stand against the Empire. When the Genocide occurred, Sisk and his Clan, outnumbered and outgunned 100,000 to 1 had fought with all their strength and ferocity and guile to give others a chance to escape. Sisk himself had spent over two years in an Imperial Prison. Despite any reservations, they would come.

Underneath his boots he could feel the ship shift as the transmission completed and it accelerated towards their new base. The stars in front of him were mere pinpricks against the dark canvas, not even a nearby sun to cast light. Sisk removed his helmet and turned to the bridge crew. “Erase the logs. Both on the ship and the buoy. No evidence that we were here. Set the message to repeat on rotating channels for the next 12 hours, at which point it is to erase itself. No trace.” The Mando around him nodded and set to work as Sisk moved from the bridge into the corridor behind. His walk was not far, and his feet led him with surety to the observation deck on the top of the ship. Several harsh lights lit the space, and Sisk settled his frame into the chair situated in the middle of the small half sphere. “Lights off.”

Around him the lights winked out, leaving Sisk alone in the blackness. It was the perfect place to contemplate on possible futures. He leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes, covering himself completely in shadows.

 

[Loco]

Arya paced slowly across the dimly lit apartment as the message replayed itself again and again from the external speakers of her helmet where it sat on a lonely table in the center of the living area. Reflections of the nightlife and the multitude of speeders passing by outside the floor to ceiling transparisteel wall twinkled through the trio of glasses she held with her gloved finger tips. She deposited the glasses next to her helmet on the low table surrounded by the battered couches she had acquired to fill the ample space. The sparse furnishings were hardly as opulent as the spacious apartment had surely once known, but that didn't make her any more comfortable with the arrangement- she'd never in her life owned a couch. In fact, she was sure if her position here as the ranking Rebel on Tibannopolis didn't mean she was consistently entertaining guests of the various factions that made up the interim government and other Rebel leadership, she'd have remained perfectly content with the smattering of floor pillows she was more accustomed to. Apparently, however, making visiting dignitaries sit on the floor was generally frowned upon.

Some nights she wished she could just shuttle back to the Corusca, sitting just beyond the edge of the system to mask the rebel presence, and sleep there, but she knew that was more impractical than it was worth. She gazed out the window, lips curled into a frown, deep in thought. She hadn't heard Sisk's voice since they had parted ways in uncharted space after the Reckoning. She was sure Bastele and the other command staff had hoped Renelo would lend his aid to the Rebellion directly, but if they had bothered to ask her first she would have told them he'd have his own plans. Well, here they were, as expected. After the transmission had first been picked up by an old subroutine in her helmets comm suite she had wondered if it was genuine or just another Imperial attempt at a trap- nearly two years later, and they still hadn't let up their genocidal crusade. The self righteous bravado was unmistakable though. Arya could count without running out of fingers the number of people in the galaxy who talked like that- all of them were mando'ade, and most of them were dead or missing.

Arya turned back and stalked toward the small kitchen, produced a bottle of tihaar from an otherwise empty cabinet, and returned to the ring of couches, her flowing silken garb from Manda'yaim rippling in her wake. She pulled the cork from the bottle, instantly releasing a fruity smell into the room, and poured an even two fingers in each glass.

"Well verd'ika, what do you think?"

 

[Ral]

Ral also had a frown on his face, but for different reasons than Arya did. He had met Sisk not too long ago and they had parted on good terms with the promise that the clans would rise again. While that sounded good to Ral's ears the notion seemed borderline ridiculous to him given how split, separated, and divided almost all the clans had become after the genocide. In fact only the Renelos were the only clan he had met that were still someone coherent in the past two years. Steepling his fingers together he hummed thoughtfully. "Last I saw of Sisk he said he declared himself as Mand'alor and mentioned his plans to fight to bring down the Empire. This certainly fits in along those lines. As for whether it is a trap... I think it's genuine. I feel a trap would be more obvious, and as far as we know the Empire still thinks the clans are broken and not a threat, they wouldn't be far off to be fair, but I don't see them trying to entrap something they think they defeated and dealt with already."

Picking up the glass he drank half of the spicy beverage in one go before holding it in both of his hands as he hummed thoughtfully to himself. By now the flavor didn't bite him as much as it had the first time. He actually rather enjoyed the taste as the burn subsided. Next to him, Carii looked to the older woman with an uncertain frown on her face as she took her glass of Tihaar. "If it is real... what do you think it will mean for the remnants of the clans? Do you think they will rally to Sisk?" She asked in her typically soft voice before taking a sip from her glass. The flavor and burning was a little too strong for her and she made a face as it went down.

"Sisk thinks they will. When I saw him on Cularin there were several Mandos there. A few faces I hadn't seen before, and that's not including the verde Sisk brought with him. He probably has the strongest claim compared to the rest of us. I say we go." Ral stated as he finished his glass setting it down with a satisfying thud. Turning to their young companion Ral asked, "What about you, Alora? As the youngest of us and perhaps less jaded... What do you think? Should we go?"

 

[Chask274]

As his ARC-360 starfighter streaked through hyperspace, Aaron was snapped awake by a indicator going off on the comm panel. Glancing at the display, Aaron did a double take. "It couldn't be...could it?" He hadn't seen or heard of the Protector network since the fall of the Mandalorian Sector, and even then it was just a frequency hastily scrawled on a piece of paper by Aaron's father before he left. The only explanation James had given his son was to keep an ear on that channel, as it would bring news of the Mando'ade. Double checking his connection and encryption, Aaron threw a switch and the holographic image of Sisk Renelo filled his ship's HUD. As the message drew to a close, Aaron couldn't help but shake his head in wonder. "Damn, I've been waiting for years for something like this, it feels almost too good to be true." Dropping out of hyperspace, he took a minute to think. It was unmistakably Sisk, and he'd be one of the only people Aaron could think of with access to that comm array...

The closest thing Aaron came to a reason not to go was his views on Renelo himself. He wasn't denying that Sisk was a great warrior, or that his Clan was one of the best out there, it was Sisk's use of the Force that bothered Aaron. He had always held the belief that Force-users had an distinctly unfair advantage in life. However, Sisk did have a reputation of being a fair and honest man, and in times like these, Mandos needed a fair and honest leader. Setting in a new course and jumping into hyperspace again, Aaron smiled.
"Ni cuyir bat ner miai, vod."

 

[Struggle wagon]

Tokrin had spent the last couple years of his life waiting, not doing anything worthwhile but drinking, gambling, and waiting. That's all anyone seemed to do on the radiation baked planet of Tatooine. Wait for a job, wait for a loved one, wait for a chance...

And on one fateful day, all of Tokrin's waiting finally paid off. He woke up hungover from his nightly ritual of spending what little money he made from his daily hunt on booze and bullets, and passed out in his trusty B-Wing. He awoke with a pounding headache as the indicator light on his ship started blinking like a nuclear warhead was booking it towords the planet. The following message almost hit him like one. "Well ho-lee-shi.." He stoped himself as he hit the button and a Mandalorian popped up on his ship's communications. His promises of adventure, Imperial blood, and honor where enough to convince him from the get go. He had done his time; both in a Imperial Supermax wing, and on this armpit of a planet. Preparations would have to be made before he left for the coordanants, but rest assured, Tokrin was going to once again have his life back.

 

[Crim]

Heavy snow and wind swept the metal balcony of Fort Kelborn. The blizzard had turned the night into a dreary, miserable one. The massive, martial complex jutted out from a massive mountain, dominating the landscape. The lights of the city Kurzkesk, normally visible from this height, were obscured by the blizzard that rolled through Kurzbesk Valley that evening. On top of the balcony, Inga Kelborn strode back and forth. Her brown cloak fluttered in the howling wind as she reflected on her current situation. That balcony had always been one of her favorite places on the planet. The weather on Ciryc'yaim was often highly unpleasant, but Inga still found the balcony a place to gather her thoughts. As she stood there that night, harsh winds bit at her uncovered fingers as windswept snowflakes gathered on her hood. Her breath condensed in front of her as she sighed. She remembered a time long since past...

The early morning sun of Ciryc'yaim shone overhead as mist rolled in from the nearby lake. The city of Kurzbesk was just waking up. The crisp, dry air, usually reflecting on a day like this, couldn't calm young Inga Kelborn. The eight year-old stood on the balcony in her nighthown, clutching the railing until her knuckles turned white. She squinted and gritted her teeth, refusing to give in to the pain. Inga suffered from a neurological disorder that caused intense flares of burning pain. It was localized on her arms and her face, though her entire body felt the pain in some shape or form. As she tried to push through this wave of intense pain, she opened her eyes, trying to find something calming to take her mind off of the pain. Her eyes began to water. She closed them again. Crying was a sign of weakness. If she cried or fell to the ground in agony, she was admitting defeat to this disorder. She refused to cry, no matter how bad the pain got. She felt her nose beginning to run and, instinctively, sniffled.

"Crying?" a voice jokingly called. Her father, Jarmouth Kelborn, stood behind her, his greying red hair unkempt and in a mop around his head. Inga looked back and said, "I'm not crying, it's just cold."

"Inga. I know it hurts. I'm proud of you for braving it, especially at your age," he said, walking to his daughter. Inga said through gritted teeth, "I hate this. It gets in the way of everything!"
"That's because you let it. You focus on the pain and do everything you can to resist it. What you want to do is ignore it. Focus on something more important than some silly... disorder."
"How am I supposed to ignore it?"
"Always have a goal in mind. Admitting pain isn't a bad thing, Inga. Focusing on it and losing sight of what you need to do is what you must avoid. That's how people make dishonorable decisions."
"Like the Separatists?"
Her father looked at Kurzbesk. For a second, it seemed as if he longed to return to the galaxy. Re-unite the clans again or avenge the Mandalorians. Instead, he looked at Inga, his green eyes meeting her green eyes. He nodded with a slight smile at her apprehension. "Like the Separatists."
Inga looked at the fading moon of Ciryc'yaim. She, more than anything, wanted to be able to see the stars like the other Mandalorians had. She wanted the galaxy to be a safe place for the Mandalorians. She closed her eyes and imagined herself traveling through space, seeing the universe like her brothers and sisters of the clan once did, bringing honor to the name of Kelborn. As she imagined herself performing amazing feats of strength, cunning, and bravery, the pain left. She looked at her father with a smile. Jarmouth put a big hand on her shoulder and said, "And remember: if it ever gets too much to bear, I will always be with you, Inga. Always."


Now, her father, Jarmouth Kelborn, chief of Clan Kelborn and leader of the Mandalorian settlements on Ciryc'yaim, was dead. The warrior that led the last Mandalorian Loyalists to safety after the Second Mandalorian Civil War and brought them to Ciryc'yaim, was dead. Felled by an invisible foe. Cancer, no less. His titles and claims had all fallen upon the shoulders of Inga Kelborn. The funeral pyre had only recently been extinguished. With her father dead, his ashes scattered, all that remained of Jarmouth Kelborn was his legacy. His memory. Now, Inga Kelborn's job as his heir was to ensure that she did not tarnish his good name. Jarmouth did a lot for the clan. Inga had quite a legacy to live up to. Nerve pain shot through her fingers as she turned to go back inside. Seeking solace in a blizzard was senseless. The room adjacent to the balcony was an office that contained a desk, some chairs, and a fireplace.

The fire crackled, illuminating the dark room as Inga walked in and removed her cloak. She wore a blue and silver collared shirt underneath. As she sat down and prepared to pour herself a drink. Right before she retrieved her glass, a beeping from her desk erupted, echoing throughout the room. Someone wanted to speak with her. Inga walked to the desk and pressed the comm button as a blue holographic projection appeared on top of the desk. A Twi'Lek's upper torso and head appeared in the holoprojector. Captain Car'i. "Chief Kelborn. We've retrieved something you... you might want to see..." the Twi'Lek said.

A knot formed in Inga's throat. The planet was on lockdown - had been since her father had restricted travel from the planet in order to prevent the Empire from discovering their location. It was an intelligent move and the hostility of the indigenous lifeforms on the planet were more than enough to sate the wanderlust of the Mandalorians. Any transmission that reached this planet was intentional. A transmission could mean real trouble. Inga quickly walked to the communications room, ready for whatever bad news they had to deliver to her.

---

In the comm room of Fort Kelborn, a few officers gathered around the comm systems. Inga walked in and nodded before saying, "Captain Car'i. You said something urgent required my attention."
"Yeah, Chieftain. Roughly seven minutes ago, we received a transmission from Mandalorian forces. It was on Mandalorian Protector channels," he said.
"Mandalorian Protectors?"
"You heard right."

Mandalorian Protectors were among the most honorable fighters in the history of the Mandalorians. They were nothing short of legends. For their channel to be used, someone must have found their old relays. The Empire would never use these relays as a ruse. Dishonorable Mandalorians and pirates wouldn't use them either. Inga looked at Captain Car'i and said, "Play the message, Captain."

“This is Sisk Renelo with a message for all true Mando’ade. I know that many of you think me dead, but even the iron grip of the Imperials could not hold me. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes I have returned, as shall all of you. “ The words were heavy, laden with emotion and need. “The Empire took everything from us. They reduced our worlds to ash and killed billions. Our families, our Aliit, are gone. Those voices demand justice. Those voices demand Vengeance. I will not allow this blow against our people to go unpunished.”

“For those of you who feel the warrior’s call singing in your veins, the need to spill the blood of those who attacked us like hut’uun in ambush, unwilling to face the true Mandalorian spirit, you can find me at the Heart of the Shadow. In one weeks time all loyal Mando’ade who wish to regain their legacy shall meet at the Shadow, where all will be revealed.” It was cryptic, incredibly vague. Even if the Imperials figured it out the region was vast, unchartable. They would be safe there.

“We shall walk the path again soon, ner vode. Together as one people. Steel your hearts and prepare your arm for the war that is to come. The ground will run red with the blood of the guilty, and our boots will march anew on fresh battlefields. Oya Manda!”

Inga thought for a moment. Renolo was not a Loyalist. For all Inga was concerned, he ceased to be Mandalorian the moment he betrayed them. However, as she considered the many possibilities, one recurring thought played in her head: The war is over The Mandalorians had to unite to fight the Empire. Whatever this was, it was bigger than the civil war. Inga thought for a moment. What would her father do? He would increase defenses and sit tight. Prepare for the Mandalorians to invade. Inga was not her father. She looked at Captain Car'i and said, "Prepare my Tauntaun. I ride on the spaceport."

 

[Loco]

Stunned silence overtook Arya as Ral and Carii did their back and forth. She sat, mouth partially agape, bewildered by what she still wasn't entirely convinced she had just heard. He declared himself Mand'alor??? For all Sisk's skill and value to the mando'ade, she knew his arrogance and ego were liabilities, but this was beyond what even she had expected. As Ral turned to his and Carii's newest charge, the girl Alora (whom Arya had only met in passing), the diminutive woman finally found her voice again.

"Wait, he what!?!" She demanded, leaping from her position on the couch and sending liquor splashing violently from her glass, "Why em I just hearin' of this, yeh?!"

Ral's answering shrug was less than satisfactory in her eyes as he replied almost nonchalantly, "I didn't think the man would move quite so quickly." A sharp look from Arya must have indicated that she felt this response too to be inadequate, and so he continued; "He said it to the Mando'ad we met there... Tor'kad. Davma Tor'kad. And with the three dozen at his back I didn't see a good reason to argue. He sure acted the part at least." Ral finished with another shrug.

"O' course he did," Arya scoffed, snatching the bottle of tihaar from the table as she stalked back off toward the window, "I'll bet he sounded kriffin' brilliant, yeh? The dikut'sheb's a walkin' speech just waitin' fo' people to listen to 'im." She topped of her glass before quickly tossing its entire contents down her throat.

"I should heve left 'im in his kriffing cell." She finished bitterly, turning her gaze out to the Tibannopolis nightlife.

Arya had volunteered to help rescue the man for two reasons; For one, he was a Mando'ade. They'd fought the same battles and the same enemies for decades, whether they liked it or not. Personal feelings aside, she had enough respect for Sisk and his record to not leave him rotting in Imperial custody. For two, his position as Sol’yc Cabur- the leader of the old protectors- made him a symbol for their people. He was a sign that they could survive their present circumstances. What he WAS NOT, in her mind at least, was the kriffing Mand'alor.

Ral seemed a bit taken aback by her outburst, and sat back into the couch, his brow crinkling as he delved into the problem "What's so bad about it? If he has a good plan for the clans shouldn't we want to help him? Try and hit the Empire while trying to preserve what's left of our culture?"

Arya scowled and held her gaze steady out the window. The initial flash of anger at Sisk outrageous presumption had begun to subside, but that was tempered by the diminutive mandalorians profound annoyance at Ral for how passively he appeared to be taking this. She knew she had a biased opinion here. She was angry. Angry about Sisks arrogance, yes, but it went deeper than that. This was part of the deeper seated anger she still held, she knew toward all his kind. Nothing he could do or say would ever shift the weight of the blame she laid at his feet, and the feet of all the other Alore's for the fate that had befallen her people. She realized her knuckles had gone white around the empty glass, and she took a deep breath to relax and gather her thoughts.

"You're right Verd'ika- what's the problem, yeh? Why not go jump right beck into the nonsense thet got manda'yaim slagged in the first place?" She turned back to face the three mando sitting before her and realized they were staring at her rather incredulously. Arya gave an exasperated sigh and poured herself a second glass of tihaar. "Sisk isn't eny different then Echolyir Bralor end the rest of them, Ral. All the big bed aliit'alore. We're here right now because they're all arrogant shebs who think they know best fo' everyone, end they all want to sit around end be in karkin' charge. If all he wants to do is fight the Empire then why isn't he here now? We're doin' just fine, yeh? People like you and Carii, Onoveus wherever he is, the Ordo's... We're the ones thet heve been here doin' what we cen for two years, end then WE bust 'im out of thet blested prison end all of the sudden he's the echuta mand'alor!?" Arya realized belatedly that her voice had reached a fever pitch, and she wrestled her emotions back under control. She took a long slow sip of tihaar to herself a moment to regain composure before she finished.

"Sisk Renelo is a lot of good thin''s, yeh? Mand'alor isn't one of them."


(written in conjunction with Ral Aran)

 

[Alora]

Alora listened to the message intently. It was crypric, damn right. But one thing she understood perfectly well.
One man was trying to rally the clans. He wasn't Mand'alor, not officially. But when did mando'ade cared about official and ceremonial. We are simple people, not burdened with all that osik.
Alora looked up at Ral.
- Do you think he can do that? Unite the clans, I mean.
Nodding to Ral's comment about strongest claim, Alora looked at the communication panel again. The message was repeating itself.
- I don’t like this idea of battlefields and bathing in blood. We're too few now. But who listens to a stupid girl from the gutter of Nar Shaddaa… You're the alor here, you decide. I'll follow whether I like it or not.
With that said, Alora turned around and exited the room.
She found an empty room and sat down on the bunk staring at the wall for a few minutes. Then she slowly pulled out her father's bes'kad and looked at it. Her distorted reflection looked back at her from the blade's dulled surface. It was a face of an angry and miserable human being, one who suffered and lost almost everything she had. Only memory remained.
It's not that she was ungrateful to Carii and Ral for taking her in. She just wasn’t very sociable. She did care about what would happen to her people, more than she cared what would happen to her. Her mother once said that this was the mark of a true leader. But Alora wasn't one and won't be ever. Who's going to listen to young uneducated little fool girl. They certainly didn’t listen to her before. She closed her eyes, repeating the resol'nare in her mind, as she always did for most of her life.
The path was laid. Where it lead - no-one knew. But if they chose the wrong one, it will be the downfall of her people. And this time it could be final.
Alora opened her eyes and looked into the eyes of Zeera, who sat right in front of her. The strill's face was just as worried as hers. It was a path that lead either to glory and rebirth or to death and oblivion.
Time will tell.

 

[Dargeth The Hunter.]

: The jungles of Kashyyyk were dense and the signal easily found the small helmet that sat in the corner of the cave like a grim reminder and he heard the beeping as he entered the cave, throwing down the captured dinner he moved to the helmet and slid it over his head and hit the play button. It was like a punch to the stomach as he saw Sisk and he fell to one knee as he gasped in shock, the last image he'd had of Sisk was the mutual force sight with Xotomi and he rose ripping the helmet off, breathing deeply as a crack of thunder formed he knew he had to see if it was true and he dropped the helmet and race out into the storm.

Following his innate direction's he came upon a large tree marked with a simple notch and reached into the root's pulling out a small shovel and took a step back, slamming the tip into the muddied ground he began to dig and within a half an hour his shovel slammed into the metal lock case. Dragging it from the ground he opened it to reveal his Armour and weapon's that had been buried and he breathed harshly. Slamming it closed he shouldered the metal casing with ease and made his way back to the cave he'd been hiding in the last few years he tossed it onto the ground next to the helmet, he grunted and made his way to the back where a small pool of spring water formed in a small rock basin and he filled the small bucket.

Washing himself he moved and donned his Armour and weaponry and slipped the helmet back over his head and slowly tidied the cave in case he needed to return, burying the lock box with his tools and utensil's in a small dirt grave he tossed the recently caught meat out the entrance then slid the heavy rock into place. It took but a few hours to travel to the place where he'd stashed the former slaver's ship and he powered it up, within minutes his hands were flying over the console as he entered the co-ordinates and he grunted as he heard a sudden noise from the hold and he rose. It took him but a moment to spot the movement and the flash of a lightsaber and his eyebrow rose under the helmet as he looked at the young girl, obviously she'd taken refuge in the ship at some point and had not expected it to suddenly take off " Well girl, either kill me, or at least make yourself useful and make us a meal, it seem's we both have a story to tell ".

The young girls eyes narrowed as Kyouteki turned and went back to the front and the young Zabrak switched off the lightsaber and cautiously made her way to the front as well, stopping at the door she asked " This your ship? " and Kyouteki chuckled as his fingers flew over the console " After i killed the slaver's who owned it, the wookie's seemed to think i could use it more " and his helmet turned to stare at her. She chuckled sensing no lie from him and slid into the co-pilot's seat and frowned " my master's dead, i hid here trying to contact the Jedi ", Kyouteki grinned " well your going have to wait, seem's i have a meeting to attend " and his hands slid the helmet from his head as he flashed a feral like grin.

 

[Crim]

Garbled cries of Tautauns echoed in the Tauntaun pens. The smell of Tauntaun dun was foul, lingering in the air like a heavy cloud. Inga Kelborn entered the pens carrying her helmet. She adjusted her silver armor with one hand before brushing some hair out of her eye. She moved at a quick pace, each deliberate stride taking her closer and closer to the Tantaun pens. She was riding Junya, the Tauntaun steed she'd kept since she was a child. It was her faithful companion in life. As Inga marched to her Tauntaun, Captain Car'i hurried to catch up with her. "Mistress Kelborn!" he cried. She pretended not to hear him. "Chief Kelborn! I beg a moment of your time," he continued. Inga sharply breathed out and stopped walking. "Speak quickly, then," she said. Her voice was harsh and official. It was as if she had decided to give in to the title of chieftain in her very soul.
"Chief Kelborn, this Renolo character. Can he be trusted?"
"Few people can, Captain. I would have thought you realized that by now."
"Then why put yourself in danger? Why put the clan in danger? Over... curiosity?"
"I'm not putting the clan in danger. I am travelling alone to see if this Renolo character is sincere."
"That still doesn't answer the first question. Chieftain, this could be a trap. You may not come back from this."
"Every journey has the possibility of being a one way trip, Captain."
"You're dodging the issue."
"This Renolo. If what he says is true and the Mandalorians truly recognize the error of their ways in the Second Mandalorian Civil War, the Mandalorians need my help. Our help. It's time we put the civil war behind us. I am travelling to this place he mentions to see whether or not I should help these people. Kelborn and her people will remain undisclosed for the time being. If this man does not seem honorable they will not see me again. Plain and simple."

Inga began to quickly march to the Tauntaun pens again. Captain Car'i began to run to catch up. He said, "Chief, shouldn't you wait until morning? The blizzard conditions are getting worse." Inga ignored him and opened the stall door to her Tauntaun. She placed her helmet on a bench near the stall door and retrieved a saddle for the Tauntaun. The lizard creature emitted a content noise as Inga placed a saddle on the Tauntaun. Once the saddle was secure and the reigns were in place, Inga put her helmet on. The massive door to the Tauntaun pens opened as a gust of cold air and snow blew into the pens. Wind howled as a few Tauntauns shrieked. Car'i continued to awkwardly move around Inga. "Chief, your tauntaun will freeze before it reaches the hangar bay!"
Inga mounted the animal and said, "Then I'll see you in dar'yaim!" She kicked the Tauntaun with her boots and the Tauntaun ran off into the winding, snowy trails leading away from Fort Kelborn.

 

[Arisalin]

Elias Kane Renelo, Mandalorian Protector, father of a murdered son, and husband of a murdered wife. His ragged unkempt hair spilled down to his shoulders, a stark change from the military cut clean shaven man he once had been. Out of contact with Renelo, out of contact with civilization, and alone on a ship floating dead through the darkness of space. Running at the lowest power settings possible, the now bounty hunter worked alone. The only time he interacted with his people was to deliver the funds. No talking, just money transfers. He ignored all messages coming to him, didn't even read them, and scrambled his position using his long practiced technological skills learned over the years. He killed, transferred credits, and killed some more. Clan Renelo knew not where he was, and had not known for quiet a good amount of time. Sometimes he felt the urge to go back, but there wasn't anything there for him. Nothing he could think of worth the attempt. He hadn't given up on his people. In Elias' eyes he still gave everything he had for them. Hundreds of thousands of credits had flowed from his work to the Clan over the months he had been gone. He had only kept enough of them to keep travelling.

Yet now here the Protector was. Adrift, coated with the grime of continuous weeks of uncleanliness. He opened his eyes, awakening at the sound of another incoming transmission. Eyes meandered across the screen, noting that it was the exact time as the day before when he had received another one. Elias stared at the coding that streaked across his own hybrid datapad set up that was hooked to the ships radio. Again, just like the day before, it was the very code he himself had written years before. The code he had written for the Protectors. For Sisk.

'The Empire..?'

The same thought had gone through his head the day before. One that the tired man could not resist. The very thought of them made his blood boil, opposite of his cold as ice composure that hid this fact. The Empire who had taken everything. Elias felt himself drawn to the transmission strangely, as he stared intently at the screen.

'Answer it... This once.'

Now this new urge had not been present before. Yet there it was...

Elias slowly activated his systems, and let the transmission come though. Eyes distant, he froze at the sound of the voice that echoed through the empty seemingly cavernous ship.

 

[Bantha]

Ayona sat in the helm of the Blessed Wind, stationed on Terminus, near the intersection of the Hydian Way and the Corellian Trade Spine. She once carried the seals of Mandalorian Clan Renelo, but that was promptly painted over in a matte gray and replaced with The Heir of Dreams in stark black letters. Her time since finding the Rebels had mostly been spent pulling long shifts in the medbay aboard the Rebel Dawn. After meeting with the former commander of the Imperial Army, she began a cyclical pattern of medbay duty for a while, completing a mission, then returning to do another round at playing nurse. Rinse and repeat. She was in the middle of rotations now, taking a short break while her ship was being refueled. While the Pha got a kick from “fixin' up” people, the severely cramped insides of the ship set her on edge and it wasn't long before she looked forward to leaving and loathed returning.

She used her chopsticks to shovel instant noodles into her mouth, idly waiting for the ship's engines to finish heating up before she could lift-off. Her journey back to the Rebel base would take a series of seemingly-random hyperspace jumps to ensure she wasn't tracked. Not that anyone would have much interest in following a crappy rustbucket freighter without cargo. She laughed out loud at that thought. A rustbucket it may be, but it was fast and built solidly, and simple enough to fix that she could manage simple repairs with help from her sassy astromech Red.

The comm systems chimed with an incoming message, prompting Ayona to slap the button to accept the transmission. What she was about to hear made her almost choke. It was the voice of her Alor, Sisk Renelo. She'd heard he had been successfully rescued by Rebellion and Jedi forces, yet at the time did not give much thought to it because her life was the never-ending whirlwind of eat, sleep, med bay, repeat. Furthermore, what was she supposed to do? Care? Most of her clan had been massacred anyway and it was darn clear she didn't get along well with other Mandalorians. The Rebellion wasn't a wonderland by any stretch either, but at least she could be of use and was well-tolerated so long as her nose was to the grindstone and her mouth was kept shut.

She sat still, listening to the broadcast. Once it ended the gears in her head set to analyzing everything. He was full of conviction and clearly desired revenge on the empire. She shared his setiment in some capacity, but it was the way he wished to go about it that she did not agree with. Even if all the Mandalorians in the galaxy joined forces, it would be impossible to win a war against the largest military force in the galaxy. Indeed, it was a suicide mission, a sure bloodbath, and a fool's errand. And Ayona did not suffer fools.

But he was her Alor and honor demanded she heeded his call. Her heart was torn. Follow his lead and trust the man who in her mind was indirectly responsible for prompting the Empire's wrath? She hadn't even met him, so how could she put her faith in him? That didn't even consider how she was a black sheep among Mandalorians. While she followed the six tenants and believed in them, the culture of the people didn't ever mesh well with her. She didn't brawl, she didn't buy into the “gung-ho” mentality, she wasn't boisterous, and she didn't drink alcohol. Battle didn't make her heart sing, and she loathed to kill except in necessity. How could one separate creed from culture? One couldn't. It was like marrying. An individual was forced to take both the family and the spouse, or neither.

Angrily getting up from her seat, she stalked to the galley and dumped the bowl in her sink before heading to the captain's quarters. She stood facing the locker that held her armor. Taking a deep breath, she opened the container with a voice command and gazed upon the relic from her home world. The insignia of the Filimisi graced the right pauldron. Below it on her arm plate was the infamous blue hawk of the Death Watch, used by Clan Ookes of Ipany Iskia. The Clan Renelo symbol was emblazoned on the center of her breastplate. Most importantly, and most tellingly, the armor plating from left shoulder to fingertips was painted black in the style of all Renelo warriors. It was to remember all those that had fought and died for the Clan. When it was devised, however long ago and by who she didn't know, she bet the person had no idea that it would be especially appropriate after the Mandalorian Genocide.

That thought tugged at her heartstrings. No one asked for that fate. Even her Alor, for all the mistakes he made and would probably continue making. Not everyone would likely support him, so at least she wouldn't be alone in that. So she wouldn’t go for him. She would go because honor demanded she heed the call of her Alor. She wold go for the people needing to be remembered. Her people. Yes, she would dare claim them as her own. It was her duty to carry the torch and bring justice for the countless millions that lost their lives.

Ayona only hoped Sisk Renelo was not seriously considering launching a war with the Imperium with how bad the odds were. Just in case he was, she would pray with everything she had that he would be open to seeing the truth.

“Red! Reset the coordinates of our destination! We're taking a detour.”

 

[Tristar]

There was a certain testiness in the way the mandalorian sharpened his blade against his gauntleted forearm, a long dull white streak as the paint chipped off; Calico was in the notion that a knight in shining armor was one who had not had his mettle tested- an ornament. Tassadar had the benefit of being much more than an ornament; it had been his entire life, hopping from one organisation to another, pulling the trigger. Not that he was a war-monger, but despite his passion for all things new and unseen, it was disheartening at best with each new planet, a new oppressive ruler that chomped down on their populace for the sake of dominance.

Was he a bad man for supporting the war between the revolutionists and the government? He was paid in blood for services, and often left with more guilt than he had before; even now, under the torn and tattered banner of the Makuran Rebellion, his heart was bleeding with conscience. The world was not so black and white in morality, and Calico was unsure of his position in life- his actions had more than earned him damnation in hell several lifetimes over. Yet the thought of doing good, no matter the cost was there. Did that count?

Calico was an atheist, yet always wondered if he was wrong. It was easy for a soldier to think that there was a higher authority somewhere with a clipboard, listing down their every actions. He liked to think that even if there was one, God would get the message clear enough.

Whatever it was anyway.

Regardless, there was no room in the universe for each individual's conscience; they'd all have drowned in it a long time ago. The walls of his room echoed his thoughts, his hunched back muttering arguments back and forth- had there been someone within the room, they would've long thought him mad and demanded to be released. Thankfully, Calico was mostly a reserved person (Drunk-self not counted.). His helmet was the only thing that could stare back at him without cringing, soulless transparisteel its eyes. Someone had made a faint indentation of a mythosaurus right smack dab in the middle- perhaps the only thing that showed his Mandalorian heritage. His beskar'gam was ruined, and all that remained had to be assimilated with the Commonwealth's exo-armor; it was a step up, yes.

But it didn't feel right. Calico snorted, that particular thought amusing him. Nothing was right in the world. "It's a giant amalgamation of sh*tstorms and utreekov." was all that he mumbled as he played the message in his mind once more.

-This is Sisk Renelo with a message for all true Mando’ade. I know that many of you think me dead, but even the iron grip of the Imperials could not hold me. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes I have returned, as shall all of you. The Empire took everything from us. They reduced our worlds to ash and killed billions. Our families, our Aliit, are gone. Those voices demand justice. Those voices demand Vengeance. I will not allow this blow against our people to go unpunished.-​

Sisk Renelo; a new name for sure in Calico's directory. The Protector's Network had been silent for the longest time and according to Derklyn, probably would never air anything again after the Purge. Funny how absolutes tend to have a deeper sense of irony in them. The message was attempting to inspire Tassadar, and really it was starting to sound like a cliche speech- something you'd hear as a voice of defiance in the darkest hours of a corny action movie.

Did the ghost of millions really cry out for vengeance though? Or were they pushing for the survivors to live their lives free of the burden long chained to their necks? "Sisk Renelo." He had to say it again. The name sounded so foreign (He wasn't one to talk about it either.), the concept even more. Mando's coming back from the dead? It took him the better of 2 years to find another mandalorian, and his companion Gris was more or less sheltered from the harsh reality of the world.

For those of you who feel the warrior’s call singing in your veins, the need to spill the blood of those who attacked us like hut’uun in ambush, unwilling to face the true Mandalorian spirit, you can find me at the Heart of the Shadow. In one weeks time all loyal Mando’ade who wish to regain their legacy shall meet at the Shadow, where all will be revealed.

We shall walk the path again soon, ner vode. Together as one people. Steel your hearts and prepare your arm for the war that is to come. The ground will run red with the blood of the guilty, and our boots will march anew on fresh battlefields. Oya Manda!​

"Takes a fool to call tactics dishonorable. Stand on the grave of a million souls and ask them if honor even matters at this point. Cad olyay nayc sto ijaa o'r ta'dbarju'anr, va ti cuun sarnr. Cuyir bic a tomad na otada'ye kebise at narir?" Calico sighed and sheath his weapon back, picking up his helmet as the last expression of disdain left him. A fighter could grow tired of fighting, even a Mandalorian. Tassadar was teetering on the edge, but his own loyalty to his fatherly figure was all that kept him.

As long as Derklyn smiled back at him, there was nothing Calico could do- there was supposedly a new Mandalor. And it was time they had a heart to heart.

 

[Slamdingo]

The Mandalorian doctor was caught by surprise when he heard a series of notifying tones from his buy’ce, tucked away like it was under one of the consoles in the cockpit of his ship. It wasn't even the sound of an incoming message itself that caught Terras off-guard. It was the source of that sound. The 'Clean Hands' had a perfectly good and functional communications suite aboard in case somebody needed to contact the travelling doctor for personal or professional reasons in relation to his practice and one-man "organization". But in that headgear, that seemingly seldom worn symbol of his past?

There was a series of carefully coded subroutines. The kind that was well hidden in the 1s and 0s of the software, tucked away from prying eyes, and known only to a select few individuals. Terras had buried everybody he'd known had access to that system but he'd heard rumors floating about. Names. Or more appropriately in that moment, a name.

Sisk Renelo.

Terras didn't know why it was that name first came to mind in that moment. He had never met or known the man personally, even if he'd known of him as the reputation far preceded the man just like the clan's. A price one paid when you stood as the last member of your clan and with no desire to make his heritage known. Terras sat there in his cockpit chair with a datapad manifest of recently acquired medical supplies, staring at the headpiece, looking straight into its empty black visor. When he heard the heavy foot-steps of a familiar droid approach the cabin door.

"There seems to be a message for you, Dr. Sarza." Dr. Shakes chirped from the cabin doorway.

Terras's frown deepened, "I hear it, Shakes. Do me a favor, and go feed the goldies."

"At once, Dr. Sarza!" The droid dentist snapped off a ridiculously crisp salute before performing a rigid about-face tat would have made a boot soldier turn away in shame before marching off to his newly assigned responsibility.

When he finally retrieved his buy’ce, he didn't bother to slip it on. Instead he reached inside and activated the external speakers and the holo-display. The figure clad in weathered Beskar’gam? The tone of the voice? Even the message itself. It was Mando'a to the very core. It was simultaneously everything that Terras expected from such a message and inferred nothing that he wanted to hear. It was as if his people, though calling them that would likely warrant more than just Imperial ire if half of them knew his stances, never learned. As if they were so set on the idea of war that they saw no other answer. No option for change. Yet there was something else about the message that stirred conflict in the old doctor. Something of the warrior he had been, that spark of fire, hadn't been snuffed out in the last few years.

This wasn't just any sort of enemy he spoke of rising against. This wasn't just any war he spoke of meeting to wage. This was the enemy. The war. And could Terras honestly say that his loved ones would approve of his ignoring the message if they were still alive today? They had fought as bravely as any other against their enemies. In fact they likely wouldn't have bothered listening to the message a second time - a third - before spooling up their engines to head for the described meeting point. Terras had been a lucky one, he knew. Even with a clan lost, there were many of his people who'd lost much of the same, and hadn't been as fortunate to escape Imperial clutches. Many he might have called his brother or sister had spent long periods of time locked away in Imperial cells, some even facing the firing squad. And now? Now they faced that risk again.

In the end he came to a realization. Even if he felt they needed to change, Terras still saw himself as a Mandalorian. He still saw himself as the last member of a now decimated clan. And the message? It was a call. A call to the clans that still survived to rally. Even if he didn't have his whole heart in the specific cause, Clan Sarza had never backed away from its challenges. And even now down to just one soul, it wouldn't do it. He would go. He would not promise that he would fight yet, but he would go.

As he finally stopped the message and began powering up his freighter to leave Tatooine behind, he came to the decision. He would go. He would see what this new leader had to say. Perhaps the man would prove reasonable and would listen to counsel of restraint. Perhaps he would be a wiser soul than to blindly throw everything under his power at the Imperials without thoughtful planning and a mind for restraint.

Perhaps the others who came would convince the doctor of an error in his ways, even while he saw none. Or perhaps they would simply exile and cast him out of the fold for good once they'd heard the slightest scraps of his recent past. A pacifist Mandalorian? Perish the thought of one avoiding a fight.

Or perhaps he would be a fool. And Terras Sarza would watch the Mandalorians, as a people, be razed to ash once again. If he was lucky then perhaps this time the Imperials would get their hands on him. And he wouldn't be forced to watch for long.

Life offered nothing if not possibilities.

 

[Pureblood-Sin]

A strong herbal smell was present within the confines of the small shuttle. It came not from the cockpit or the cabins, but from the cargo bay. Hunched within the shadows sat a figure adorned within a red suit of Beskar'gam swathed in a white and red robe. However, his head remained completely unbound; his long, black hair remained unbound and his rectangular tattoos stood out from his coppery, worn face. A wooden pipe jutted from his lips; a thick smoke poured from its confines. Tudao Isiiq Renelo pulled his songsteel blade from its scabbard and proceeded to sharpen its blade with a whetstone. The Kiffar had chosen to sit in the cargo bay simply because he felt more...comfortable within the confines of the darkness. It remained him of the thick forests of Dathomir, for the canopy was such that very little sunlight touched their depths; plus he knew his fellow Mando'ade would complain that his pipe smoke was too strong. Inhaling another draught od the herbal substances, the sound of footsteps stirred the former Nightbrother's awareness. The source then entered, and Tudao knew the being before him. The being before him was the total opposite of the Kiffar. At first glance, he seemed to be a Human of 6ft1 in height...except his pointed ears and pale skin marked him as being of Nagai blood (his mother being Human). His black hair was fashioned in a more military haircut and his eyes were pale compared to Tudao's own Dark eyes. The lad of 21 years spoke.

"Hey Tudao, you might wanna come and hear this transmission."

As soon as the younger Mandalorian, named Topheph, was done speaking he swiftly raced back to the cockpit. Unlike the Kiffar, the Half-Nagai was born Mandalorian...and gods did he show it. Youth and honour make for an interesting chemistry...yet there was much potential there. Extinguishing his pipe, Tudao swiftly rose to his feet and dashed towards where his fellow survivor went to. His armour more considerably light-weight, the former Nightbrother made little sound as he made his way to the cockpit; as he drew closer, he could hear talk of the comms network used by the Mandalorian Protectors. Then came the debates about whether or not it could be a trap. When the electric cackle came, a voice that Tudao knew all to well came forth.

-This is Sisk Renelo with a message for all true Mando’ade. I know that many of you think me dead, but even the iron grip of the Imperials could not hold me. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes I have returned, as shall all of you. The Empire took everything from us. They reduced our worlds to ash and killed billions. Our families, our Aliit, are gone. Those voices demand justice. Those voices demand Vengeance. I will not allow this blow against our people to go unpunished.-

In that moment, the Kiffar's heart fluttered with a joy he rarely felt these days; his Alor was alive and well, and spoke of something that all Mando'ade should rightfully desire. The transmission then continued.

For those of you who feel the warrior’s call singing in your veins, the need to spill the blood of those who attacked us like hut’uun in ambush, unwilling to face the true Mandalorian spirit, you can find me at the Heart of the Shadow. In one weeks time all loyal Mando’ade who wish to regain their legacy shall meet at the Shadow, where all will be revealed.

We shall walk the path again soon, ner vode. Together as one people. Steel your hearts and prepare your arm for the war that is to come. The ground will run red with the blood of the guilty, and our boots will march anew on fresh battlefields. Oya Manda!

Tudao then turned to his eyes to his fellow Mandalorians; all of them have came from different clans and it was more than likely that their Alors were dead too. There was no need to debate, even they did suspect that this could be a trap. As he was the eldest of the four, the Kiffar gave a nod and the co-ordinates were set; to the Heart of the Shadow they would go.

 

[Silverface]

Echoylir sat and listened. He was in the cockpit of his battered, ancient gunship, the Krayt's Claw, listening to the none too subtle delcaration that crackled through his communications suite. It was the voice of someone who should be dead. The fact that he wasn't didn't fill Echoylir with joy, or righteous rage, or whatever other osik emotion it was meant to stirr in the young and foolish and the dead.

No, he was simply filled with resignation. Resignation that everything he was working towards was going to fade away like smoke. He checked the cargo manifest of the Claw, noting the heavy, throbbing presence of the ordnance he had secured with the aid of a handful of brave Kushari and mercenaries from a shattered Star Destroyer. He checked the timetables the sharper, younger minds in Bralor had formed up to accomodate his plans.

Revenge.

It was a dull, dry ache in his chest. He had considered using these powerful devices for his revenge. But what would that bring him? Nothing, not even satisfaction at this point. He leaned back in the faded and worn pilots chair as the transmission ended and stayed like that for some time.

Eventually, he reached out to the communications console again, keying in a recipient he'd not spoken to for ten years.

"Amaya, it's Echoylir. I will need your help with a pressing matter.."​

 

[Crim]

The tauntaun took Inga through the dark snowstorm, the elements battering both the tauntaun and its rider. Inga was wearing a thermal bodysuit and insulating armor. The outfit was designed to brave harsh conditions. Whether she was on fire or on the north pole of the ice planet Hoth, the suit was supposed to keep Inga safe. All these modifications and she was still getting cold. Thick snowflakes accumulated on her scarf and helmet. The howling wind blasted the audio receptors in her helmet so harshly that she had to turn the headset off. Wind pushed Inga and her tauntaun hard, making it seem as if the planet itself didn't want Inga to leave for the Shadow Veil. The tauntaun's breath condensed in front of it as it quickly marched through the alpine hills on her way to Kurzbesk. Snow markers illuminated the trail to Kurzbesk, which had disappeared under the snow. Without those markers, Inga and any person braving that road had a large chance of getting stranded in the snow with no help. No backup. Those markers were the only thing short of cutting her tauntaun open and sleeping in it keeping her from freezing to death.

As the tauntaun rode over a hilltop, the lights of Kurzbesk beckoned to Inga. She rode the haired lizard into the city. The inhabitants of the city had largely battened down the hatches to prepare for the blizzard. Landspeeders were kept in their garages, droids were kept inside, and anything too large to be put in a shed was tied down. A miserable patrol was the only movement Inga saw. They marched through the streets as always, keeping the people of Kurzbesk safe. It was an honorable job, if not massively uncomfortable at times. Inga rode further into the city, slowing her tauntaun down to avoid hitting anything in the snow. The tauntaun shrieked as a large blast of wind hit it. Inga pet the tauntaun as it rode on to the hangar.

The hangar of Kurzbesk was carved into a massive cliff that overlooked a nearby lake. It hid what ships weren't converted into buildings after Clan Kelborn came to the planet. From fighters to frigates to battlecruisers. Notable Loyalist ships like the Jorvik and the Gamma-1 sat in the hangar collecting dust. Inga pulled her tauntaun to the northern entrance of the hangar and dismounted it, reaching into her pocket to produce her ID chip. Two armed guards awaited her arrival. They checked her ID and silently waved their guns in a 'move along' direction. Inga pulled the tauntaun into the hangar by the reins. The tauntaun seemed to emit a warble of relief as it entered the warm hangar. Inga removed her helmet and basked in the heated building. She and the tauntaun stood in the loading room. She looked at the tauntaun and said, "I'm going to be gone awhile. Be good for me while I'm gone." A guard walked up to Inga and said, "We'll keep the tauntaun overnight and take it to Fort Kelborn in the morning, Chief." Inga nodded and thanked the guard as the beast was pulled into another room. She then flipped a switch on the wall and the floor began to rise.

The mechanisms in the floor clicked and whined. They hadn't been used in over a decade. The floor vibrated as it rose. The ceiling slowly opened up as the floor raised higher and higher. Finally, the floor stopped when it was level with the hangar floors above it. Mechanisms locked it into place. Inga walked to a fighter; a StarViper. The fighter was ugly and had many sharp edges. Characteristic of Mandalorian design, though it worked well and it was easily serviceable if anything within the ship were to break or otherwise go awry. A team of droids had just finished pumping the fighter full of fuel for its journey to the Shadow Veil. An overseer stood there in the hangar with a cart. Judging by his face, he obviously didn't want to be there. "This StarViper is ready for your departure, ma'am. All systems are responding and the pre-flight check reported green across the board. Your weapons and other equipment, other than your armor of course, should be in this crate. As you probably know, StarVipers have hyperdrives, so you won't need a hyperspace ring to travel to the Veil," he said.

"Good. You've done well, technician," Inga said. The man nodded and walked out of the hangar. Inga put her helmet on the crate and placed the crate in the cockpit. The droids cleared the launch area as Inga stepped into the cockpit herself and closed the canopy. She pressed a button in the cockpit and the thrusters lit up. "All hands, clear the hangar for launch," a voice said on the intercom as the ship slowly rose. "Pilot, you are cleared for launch," the voice said. Inga's StarViper raced forth and left the hangar. Snow hit the cockpit as the StarViper shot through the skies above Kurzbesk. This was the first time in over a decade that someone from that planet had left. The first time anyone took to the skies to leave the planet behind.

After reaching a steady cruise speed, the StarViper left the atmosphere. Circ'yaim stood proudly in the distance. Inga looked at the planet from orbit and smiled. She felt accomplished having left the planet. She looked at the controls and said, "Okay. Nothing I don't know how to do." She hovered her hand over the buttons before carefully typing in the hyperspace coordinates. The stars in front of her became white streaks as the StarViper shot into hyperspace.

 

[Hiro]

Of all the days to lounge about, of all times to be lazy. This was not today. A day in space is a day wasted, but a day without a comm. Oh ho, that could change a man's fate.

The comms went off, beeping alarmingly. This time, it was important. Kliff urghed, naturally, reaching for his blaster. A few shots missed the comm, and ended up frying some pretty LED's. "I'm busy!" He yelled slash muttered, rubbing his face. One hell of a hangover, and one hell of a way to be woken from a cat nap. Lazily, he struggled to get out of the couch and stumbled further, clicking the comm on. "Who in Mandalore wants to talk to me." That's when he realized this was a one way signal from a signal he did not recognize. It looked ominous, and yet, it felt hopeful. "-This is Sisk Renelo with a message for all true Mando’ade."
"This is certainly new." but even the iron grip of the Imperials could not hold me. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes I have returned, as shall all of you." Kliff fell onto his control chair, hmmphing. "I've never heard of you."
"-our worlds to ash and killed billions. Our families, our Aliit, are gone. Those voices demand justice. Those voices demand Vengeance. I will not allow this blow against our people to go unpunished.-" That hit hard, leaving Kliff spinning idly in his chair. Perhaps it's time to stop hiding.

"For those of you who feel the warrior’s call singing in your veins, the need to spill the blood of those who attacked us like hut’uun in ambush, unwilling to face the true Mandalorian spirit, you can find me at the Heart of the Shadow. In one weeks time all loyal Mando’ade who wish to regain their legacy shall meet at the Shadow, where all will be revealed.

We shall walk the path again soon, ner vode. Together as one people. Steel your hearts and prepare your arm for the war that is to come. The ground will run red with the blood of the guilty, and our boots will march anew on fresh battlefields. Oya Manda!" One week's time..

A button was pressed, and a console opened up. In front of Kliff, a Mandalorian visor. "Seems like it's finally time to show myself again."

 

[Hasanna Everglade]

The red headed blades woman sat at the Oracles controls, operating and plotting the course for her firesprsy to follow, all the while thought after thought running through her head, all becaude of one message, and its power. The impact it could have.

Vencuyot

Purpose-a reason to exist. Vix owed her life to the Mandalorian people. The Fetts namely gave her purpose and reason in her otherwise empty life. Maria was gone... their was no way for her to bring her back, no escaping the fact-nothing could change it.

The Mandos were different.... they wearnt dead, not yet. It meant she could do something about their current state. She had never personally met the man that claimed the title of leader, but she had heard of him here and there.

His words hit her hard, ignited a drive- it was the whole reason she now wandered space in the Oracle, heading towards the location. but HK seemed to think different.

"Statement:Master, their is little point in you dying for a rag tag bunch of sew together organics-their numbers are few, and thus they will be crushed, statistics say so, and in fact the old master...."

"Maria is NOT your old master HK"

The words carried a great deal of spite behind them, to which the droid simply staired at her, unfeeling towards Vix's 'illogical' view.

"She made you, you were her beskar'ad, she treasured you, and her spirit lives on in any case.... you will not refer to her in that manner again, OK?"

"Exaggerated Sigh:As you wish master"


The droids tone matched his choice of statement a fact that only annoyed the girl more. That didn't matter though. What mattered was her purpose, she owed much to these people... her people....

"My adate....."

HK was important to her, but he was wrong this time-she owed it to them, everything. If that meant her life? So be it... she didn't need it anyway.

Laar be verd, Laar be verd

And she was on her way.