Circle | Open to Mandos

[Dutch]

Four days after the Liberator's funeral...

---

It had been a busy week. Malak had never mentioned the politics that came with the position of Mandalore. Cyar'ika now understood why at times his posture seemed more slumped, or why he paced when he thought no one was looking. But she was always looking. Always watching. Always learning.

More and more Mandalorians arrived each day. Banners from the clans filled the streets, their sigils hand woven into the tapestries. Every time a new banner was seen, secret pride swelled within her chest. They were heeding the call. It had been many, many years since so many clans were together at once. The streets were alive with the chatter of Mando'a, spattered with Basic, Huttese, Bocci, and other languages. Mandalore enjoyed roaming the streets lately, to see her people mingle and interact. Bartering and trading was seen everywhere, sharing secrets, techniques, gear and weapons with their brothers and sisters. The Mandalorian people welcomed all races, but never before had Cyar truly realized how many different species made up her people. Mostly humanoid like her own Codru-Ji, but there seemed to be just as many that crawled, flew, slithered and hopped. No racism like in the Empire. No segregation like in the Republic. Her people were truly united. No one race stood above the other. It was what made her people strong.

Few presumed to stop their Mandalore as she passed. Some stopped to salute, some cheered "Reclaimer!" and bellowed in approval when she would salute them. Her silver armor gleamed brightly in the mid-day sun, giving the woman an ethereal sheen about her. The gilded silk that hung from her shoulders and kama was the same from Malak's funeral. Still she reminded the people of her intent. Vengeance would be theirs for the crimes against their leaders. Too many Mandalores had fallen too recently. It was time to truly drive the fear of the crusade into their enemies. And the spearhead would soon be fully gathered.

The telltale sounds of beskar scraping beskar was caught, pointed ears twitched beneath her helm at the sound. Codru-Ji ears were far superior to the galactic norm, Cyar'ika able to tell the Mandalorian's general size merely by the sounds that came off their armor. The crowd several meters away was the source of the sound, the backs of many Mandalorians turned away from her. Most in their beskar, many had children perched on their shoulders, and a couple stood up on statues and pillars they had climbed. Cheers and jeers were picked up by the Codru-Ji, though the tones were playful and competitive over spiteful.

It seemed a briirud had formed.

Without announcing herself Mandalore strode into the crowd. Those that did look away and see her would bow to let her through. As she passed, her hands would lay gently on those around her. A soft grip given in greeting, sometimes accompanied by a nod of her helm. The closer her steps led to the center of the circle, the louder the clang of beskar got. Their grunts were loud, and the few words traded made a slow smile creep across Cyar's hidden lips. She reached the line that created the circle around two armored forms. One small and lightly armored, Cyar'ika was unable to tell the race due to the helm. His grunts and gravelly voice did mark him as male. The second was larger, her armor bright red and bulky on the Togorian's frame. Mandalore recognized the armor as Rashabel Fett, one of her clan's proudest warriors. Cyar'ika saw Rashabel's loss well before it happened. Both hands held together to land a haymaker, the smaller Mandalorian could easily sidestep the blow and land his counter attack to her gut.

Her hands were held high. She swung with all her might. He stepped to the side. Her strike went wide. His kick found home within her stomach.

Mandalore narrowed her eyes as Rashabel fell forward, to the Reclaimer's surprise he Togorian's hands were open and waiting to catch her fall. With a grunt and a twist her own kicked sent a boot the size of the male's head into it. Beskar met beskar in a mighty clang, the male sent straight to the ground and his helm sent through the air. It thudded onto the ground and the crowd went wild.

This round of the briirud was over. Rashabel removed her own helm and held it high, the massive feline's roar the loudest in the crowd. The Togorian smiled, fangs protruding as she offered a hand to the man she defeated. The Verpine male clicked his mandibles and let her help. With a shake of her dreadlocked mane Rashabel turned away to see her Mandalore applauding with the rest. She bowed, as did the Verpine. Cyar'ika knew what a briirud meant, and after the days of mostly talking and little action, she felt it was appropriate to be next.

Before anyone else could, she stepped forward. Dust billowed around her boots as she strode forward. The Verpine patted Rashabel's arm and limped to retrieve his helm, and join the circle now. Mandalore stopped just outside of Rashabel's reached, and tilted her head upwards to look at the Togorian. A deep laughter of approval was given by the other woman, who easily stood over a meter above Mandalore. The crowd erupted in cheers as her helm was slowly placed on. The two women began to circle one another, their stances loose but prepared.

Larger opponent. Stronger. Better protected. Armor weaknesses at the joints. Armor top heavy. Pride. Cockiness...

She knew the fight would have to be quick, Rashabel even after the previous fight could out-endure the much smaller Codru-Ji.

Predator, she will strike first. Step forward. Block arms. Strike. Roll to avoid.

With a cackling laugh Rashabel lunged forward. Massive hands outstretched to attack. Mandalore silently darted forward. Her lower arms snapped to her sides to absorb the attack, while her upper hands balled into twin fists. They struck upwards with the Codru-Ji's movement. Normally used with knives, the principal of the blow remained the same. Cyar'ika could feel Rashabel's jaw clack as her fists met the Togorian's neck. A single hard pulse of the feline's jugular felt through the underweave. Her right leg shifted and pushed. With a roll Mandalore avoided the knocked out form of Rashabel. Her lower hands rested on the ground, prone and ready to dodge in case Rashabel wasn't truly down. But by the slow rise and fall of Rashabel's breathing, it seemed the woman in red was down for the count. The roar that rose from the crowd thundered in the street. Cyar'ika rose to her feet and instantly moved to Rashabel's side. A wave of gratefulness was given to the crowd, but her focused remained on the woman at her feet. It didn't take long for Rashabel to regain her conscience. She removed her helm, and purred her gratitude as Mandalore assisted the other woman to her feet.

"Well fought, ad'ika..." Mandalore's voice would be soft as she spoke. The din of the crowd lowered. Rashabel bowed to her leader and stumbled back into the crowd. For the first time the crowd went silent. Cyar'ika understood. To go up against Mandalore was no small thing, and with it came an opportunity for glory. The sun peaked in the sky, its rays making the many forms of beskar shine brightly. The Reclaimer's lower hands went to her hips as her upper arms rose higher in challenge.

"Come ma'ade... who will face their Mandalore? Who will represent their clan in my eye?"

[Meira]

Even with the heat shield, the air around the forge was distorted by the intense temperatures of the forge. His shirt, long since soaked through with sweat, had once been white. Now it was smeared with soot that would never wash out. No matter, he had countless more. His forearms were also stained and carried that soot to his brow each time he wiped his face. Even still, Ari grinned as he swung his hammer. It had been years since he’d worked an open forge such as this one. His parents’ neighbor had one very similar and that was where he’d spent his formative years, stoking the flames and pummeling the metal into that legendary armor. The man he who owned this forge had only become an acquaintance of Ari’s the day after Malak’s funeral when the festivities had really gotten started. Between the feasting, drinking, and fighting, there was more than enough occasion to have armor repaired or touched up.

On base, Ari had very little to do. Supplies were stocked and organized and all was in order. But out here in the chaos and crowds, there was plenty of work to be had if a body wanted it, and it felt good to be behind an anvil. So when his new friend Gorn had asked him for a hand, Ari was quick to offer it. He’d been at the man’s forge from dawn until dusk ever since, practically giddy at the old school styled set up. Gorn was giving him a better than fair share of the profits, for which Ari was grateful. But in all honesty, Ari would have done it all for free. The people he had met and the stories he’d shared were really payment enough, but he wasn’t about to turn down a few extra credits.

The hammer came down, connecting with a shower of sparks against the back plate he was reshaping. The shock of the blow rippled up through the muscles in his arm with a thrill and imposed its rhythm on his heart. Beat after beat, strong and steady, until the metal was as smooth as the first day it had been forged. Ari hoisted it aloft with the tong grips he held and carried it over to a waiting vat of water. Steam rose all around him as the piece of armor was dipped in and cooled. All it needed now was a fresh coat of paint.

A roar of cheers arose not far away and Ari turned to see a helmet flying through the air above the crowd that had compacted around an area just outside of Gorn’s shop. Setting the armor and tools aside, Ari grabbed a rag and wiped his face and neck as he walked toward the open entrance and leaned against the doorframe. He was about to ask a nearby spectator who was fighting, but there was a hush washing over the crowd. A few moments later, the source appeared. Their new Mandalore was moving through the people, hands touching here and there on the shoulders of her comrades. The people parted and the empty space they left behind her allowed Ari to see to the open area where a massive Togorian stood. Then the crowd closed around the space again and all Ari could see was the top of the Togorian’s head.

Another cheer erupted and Ari realized that Mandalore had challenged the Togorian. Wanting to get a better vantage on the action, Ari stepped out of the shop and moved a few paces to the side where a low wall separated Gorn’s business from another. Someone was standing on the wall, but made room as Ari stepped up. He turned and grabbed the lip of the sloping roof, pulling his own frame up easily. With a little maneuvering, Ari hauled himself up onto the roof and sat himself down, now able to see the bout clearly. Not that it lasted long. In one blow, Mandalore sent the Togorian to the dirt, out cold. Along with many others, Ari could be heard shouting a sudden “OH!” and the applauding as Mandalore helped her opponent back to her feet. When she called for a new opponent, Ari wished he hadn’t left his armor behind in his quarters. It’d been some time since he’d sparred, and how often could one say they’d gone toe to toe with Mandalore? But alas, he was not so lucky, and so Ari scooted closer to the edge of the roof, peering around to see who might accept her challenge.

[Fromikeable]

"So then we've got a meeting with some Yolhach-clan traders at 6 about that dispute they've been having Nohannas and his brothers, you know, those Human guys that have been trying to sell to that market on Rekkiad? They've got some long story about how they accidentally sold them malfunctioning rifles. Then at 6:30 we've got to talk to Gibon about the new vows he made for the gai bal manda he's doing for that young Mandallian kid. I think his name was Guntar'aban... wait, no, Guntaban'abar... er... something like that. Anyway..." And so proceeded the endless chatter of a walking suit of orange armor, made brilliant and vibrant by the mid-day sun in a sea of other walking suits of colorful armor, some just as vibrant, some less, some more, and some not at all. Such was the day at hand; a sea of color that would ultimately combine into a masterpiece of epic proportions.

Or at least Geronimo thought so. Clan-meetings, and most meetings of such caliber for that matter, had great potential, and with so many banners, so many clans of tried, tested, and true Mando'ad about, he doubted severely that the event would end without something important being established. He'd made sure that Clan Jendri was present, and present in force. Hundreds upon even thousands of his clan had accepted an invitation to the circle; fathers, mothers, smiths, traders like Nohannas and his brothers, mercenaries, guardsmen, everyone that could put what affairs they had on hold at a few day's notice. The Republic had Life Day, and in much the same way the Mando'ad, it seemed, had this.

Though even despite the grandeur of it, Geronimo couldn't claim that it had been a time devoid of conflict. Clan Jendri was hardly a pack of dissidents or trouble-makers, though there were always a few naive young warriors or crotchety elders who butted heads with their brothers and sisters. A few fights here and there, not to mention one particularly irritated elder spitting in another's face, but for the most part, the clan was showing just how well bound it was as not only a clan, but a family, and a mighty and respectable one at that. That same elder had later laughed, claiming that this is what the "good old days" must have been like.

Truly the only problem had been with the Ordo. Even with the healing of old wounds over time, a barrier of disagreement persisted with them and the Jendri, and was most certainly returned. Geronimo had already had to mitigate a dozen fights since the clan had begun pouring in, and he fully expected a few more. Most of his clan-members, while finding the feud justified, failed to directly confront their fellow Mando'ad; the fights were usually thanks to a bit of alcohol and a few particularly fervent young warriors losing their cool.

Fortunately for them, their clan-leader had cool to spare.

But finally enough problems had been put to rest for the Poet Jendri to spend the day out and about. The black suit of armor was almost a bit dead in the sunlight, reflecting nothing back save for a bit of red where the stripes ran. The only reflections of the other colors came from the black visor, which was polished enough to practically be a deep, dark mirror. The orange armor beside him that was rambling on (by that point, he was on a meeting down the week with someone from the Bahriva-clan) was a young Mando'ad named Trike, a Duros just out of his verd'goten, who had volunteered to keep Geronimo's schedule on track, as it had filled up considerably. He was a motor-mouth to put it lightly, but that simply made Geronimo shake his head, tune him out now and then, and enjoy the atmosphere around him.

A fallen verd gives rise to others, shaking off their tears.
They gather, many strong, one as strong as many others.
On a morut, a home and hall of many years,
They shake old hands, see old faces, vod and broth-

"Oh wow! Look alor!" The black suit of armor blinked under it's helmet as the orange one shouted and pointed forward, motioning at a huge circle of spectators that had gathered and was gathering still. Whatever the commotion was, it was clearly a spectacle; every clan and Mando'ad in the area was swarming over, suits of beskar lining up and trying to peer past each other, all excitedly viewing or trying to view what was in the center. As the street filled up, even more people took to the roofs and the walls, and just like that the street had turned into a make-shift stadium of enormous noise and cheer, not to mention the distinct sound of beskar striking beskar; a sound that pierced the cheering like a knife, strong and smooth yet metallic and sharp.

"Let's see!" The orange suit was already dashing forward, trying to muscle his way through the other suits. Geronimo shook his head once before scanning the rooftops and walls; they were filling up quickly, but if they were quicker, he and the young verd could find a spot to watch. Tapping his comm once to get Trike's attention, his clan-leader nodded toward the roofs. Nodding back in understanding, he shouldered his way back out before they both jumped up onto one of the lower roofs, one helping the other, and navigating up to a prime spot two stories up, just beside the fight.

And what a fight it was. Silver flashed brilliantly as none other than the Mand'alor herself took on what Geronimo could only consider to be a Togorian or some other such giant. The opponent clearly had strength on her side, but the Mand'alor proved herself worthy of her title with her skillful execution, and the fight was over almost before they could see anything. The Togorian fell, defeated, and even her state of triumph, the Mand'alor was met by a shocked, awed state of hush.

Her question was met with silence and wandering eyes and visors; a sea of armor wondering which suit would step up next.

Geronimo took a moment to breath deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth. He had met the Mand'alor those days ago at the memorial. He had shown her his face. He had shown her his writing. Now it was only right that he showed her his beskar.

"I shall."

Standing up and undoing his kama, the insignia of the Jendri ruffling a little, he placed it in Trike's lap as he expertly slipped off the edge of the building, tucking and rolling as he hit the ground. Brushing off a bit of dust, he silently pushed past the wondering Mando'ad before he stood at the the very inner-most ring of the briirud, standing tall.

"Meh te'buir be te'ad would fight, then I would fight her."

Meanwhile, up on the roof, an orange suit of armor was ecstatically jumping up in down where he sat waving a kama in barely contained excitement.