Kotir Te Ruyot

[Fromikeable]

To a man who had grown up in a constant chill on Rekkiad, Haestrom was proving to be quite the shift from the norm. What was a childhood of snow, ice, freezing winds and the occasional avalanche was contrasted by towering trees, glowing vines, rivers and plains as a small corvette cruised over the lower part of the atmosphere, dashing through the air high enough to avoid the canopy but low enough to land quickly as said canopy began to give way to a vast field and a slightly less vast lake. Passing through the ray shields and giving the obligatory slow-down to be scanned by the turrets guarding the perimeter, the corvette finally set down in the city of Voy'a.

And, as the Jendri had discovered that day, Voy'a was truly the city. There weren't any others on the entire planet, and even Twin Spears had looked more residential than this place.

Geronimo walked at a steady pace down the ramp, his armor freshly polished, the black sharp and deep against the surrounding metals and the background of fields and forests. He'd chosen no envoy today; all who would accompany him were four Jendri warriors, each instructed to carry a traditional banner with the symbol of their clan hoisted tall and true. Even then, these warriors were only there as a formality, as they were soon relieved of their escort duty when Geronimo waved a hand. After all, the only reason he'd taken them out at all was because a few of the elders had demanded it. Geronimo understood tradition, but this wasn't really a traditional trip.

It wasn't really a traditional anything.

Except, maybe, a traditional Mando'ad settlement. There were tents everywhere, and the majority of the "streets" were simply paths so often trodden that the grass was gone and the dirt below was showing. The few actual structures that stood were likewise bare of aesthetic and polish; a barracks here, a medic there, and an armory over there. To an outside, a aruteii, it probably wouldn't have even passed for a small city; a giant collection of warriors who appeared to be training, trading, and sparring. To the Mando'ad, however, it was a dream come to the galaxy, and more importantly to Geronimo, a proper place for one to find the Mand'alor.

For what Mandalorian was worth her salt if she wasn't leading the charge?

The kind that Geronimo hoped could help him, at least. By this point, he had seen much of the woman, even if she was still relatively new to her position. She was a leader, a true Mando'ad, and beyond both of those, a tested and formidable warrior. He didn't just believe it; he had proved it when she had compelled him to reveal his face and even inspired him to spar with her in the streets. Had he won? It didn't matter to him; he had secured a relationship and an introduction, and that was all that mattered. Geronimo was by no means a poor Mandalorian, but he was also by no means a poor politician. He was simply a Mandalorian politician, and operated as thus.

But the walk was only so long, and even with the sea of tents and Mando'ad flowing through the settlement, it wasn't exactly difficult to locate a Vevut-symbolized tent more or less at the center of all it. Standing before the cloth for just a moment, Geronimo quickly reviewed everything he needed, everything he was there to do, and everything that could happen as a result of what he needed and was there to do.

The formalities gone, the prose dispensed,
Another suit, ne'tra, hoping old crimes recompensed...

... eh. Close, but... perhaps she could give him something else to help him with his piece. Calmly stepping forward, the black beskar'garm quietly pushed aside the fabric of the tent's opening, the only sound coming from him being the ruffle of the cloth on his armor.

[Dutch]

Haestrom's atmosphere always felt heavier to her. As if the very air of the planet didn't welcome her presence. Each labored breath a fight for survival. It made the Reclaimer smile in appreciation. There was a reason Haestrom was so loved by her people. She looked over to the mirror in her tent, and huffed a laughter at how she appeared. Her skin shone with sweat, occasionally beading to roll down her brow or neck. It soaked the underweave of her armor, making her grateful for the material's moisture transference, keeping her body comfortable enough. Cya'ika's long hair was held in a hastily done bun at the back of her neck. She didn't like leaving it free during her exercises. They were completed though, two hours of constant motion and work within her tent. With that two of her hands moved to undo the bun as the others moved to unzip her under armor. There was no word in Basic, Mando'a, or any other tongue to describe how badly she wanted a shower at that moment.

She stepped away from the training mat at the far left of her tent, the equipment she had just used pristine and in perfect condition. Cyar always used her cool-down period of her workout to clean and maintain the equipment. Next to the mat was the rug that too up the rest of the tent, a deep shade of purple marked with the Mythosaur skull of her people through the center of it. Even through the layer of the underweave, Cyar'ika could feel the texture difference between the mat and the more lush carpet. After unzipping she began to shrug the damp under-armor off.

Until a shot of panic lanced through. Cyar'ika stopped dead in her tracks, blue eyes wide as they snapped towards the tent's flap door. Her pointed ears twitched twice at the sounds. Footsteps. Footsteps getting closer and closer. Footsteps moving right for her. She swallowed the lump in her throat and scampered to the right as fast as she could, hands quickly pulling the underweave back on and zipping it on. Cyar could hear the heavy cloth of her tent breeze against beskar, just as the woman rounded the corner of the opaque curtain that obscured where she slept, showered and changed. The glorified cot was in perfect order, sheets crisply tucked and blankets smoothed. Next to it stood the stand where her armor sat.

"One should always announce their presence before entering, ner'ad. Even more so when stepping into my tent." Cyar laughed lightly, her heart still hammering from almost being caught out of her armor. Appearances needed to be kept up, and none should see the woman under the armor. Cyar'ika Vevut had to take the backseat to Mandalore the Reclaimer after all.

Except Bralor has... more than a few times...

She shook her head of any heady memories that wafted through her mind, stowing such wanton thoughts for later. This was more likely a business visit, Shannon being on Mandalore still last she heard.

"Just a moment..." Mandalore uttered as her hands worked quickly. In practiced, fluid motions the silvery armor was assembled. The clasps audibly clicked and clacked as they were done, the occasional rustle of fabric adding to the staccato. Still she wore the gold lengths that clung to her shoulders and waist, the kama stopping just below her knees, and the ones at her shoulders nearly touching the ground. Cyar'ika took one more breath of difficult, unfiltered air before her helm was slid on. It sealed with a sharp hiss, and the HUD lit up quickly. Her lower right hand pressed a couple keys, and spun a small wheel to minimize and move the HUD elements to the side. Breathing was much easier now, the life support system of her armor taking the burden of humidity and spores instead of her.

With head held high and posture straight, Mandalore the Reclaimer stepped out from behind the curtain. Had her helm not been on, Geronimo Jendri would have seen a warm smile spread across her lips.

"I'm glad you chose to come, Ori'vod. Welcome to Haestrom. I trust your trip here went without incident?"

[Fromikeable]

A flash of movement greeted Geronimo's vision, and for just a hair of a second, he could have sworn that he had seen the lower half of a a distinctly feminine leg being pulled behind a small wall of cloth. Blinking a few times, Geronimo couldn't help but deliver a small snort of laughter, barely audible outside of his helmet.

It wasn't everyday that one could claim to have caught the Mand'alor with her pants down. And even less so when one could say it literally.

"I'm sorry to have intruded, ner'buir." Judging by a slightly ripe smell coming from behind the cloth wall, he could only guess as to what exactly she had been doing prior to his arrival. "I hadn't imagined to have caught you so..." well, he'd let that sentence fill itself.

Standing just a few steps in from the entrance, the black suit of armor gently flicked a piece of mud off his glove as the Mand'alor dressed, maintaining his silence as she requested a moment in what sounded to be rather excited breath. Not inclined in any sense to deny her of it, the poet casually looked around. The tent was what would be expected; bare-bones, military furniture with little in the way of frivolity or excess. Maps, weapons, banners, logs; it looked like the entire war was being run out of a single tent, and that was because it was, more or less. Shuffling just a little to his side, Geronimo reviewed a map of Haestrom itself, marked in a few places here and there by some such wondering mind. It seemed that the conversations he'd overheard on the trip were correct; aside from Voy'a, there was nothing but wild nature and dangerous terrain.

Plastered with armor and din'kartay,
plans and actions, blasters and blades...

...

... and exposed to all, her everglades."

Even poets could be perverted. Luckily for her, Geronimo wasn't the type to do be so often, or squawk considering that he barely even chirped.

Finally, however, the great set of four-armed armor emerged from behind the cloth wall. Looking upon it, Geronimo remembered just how easy it was to forget that he was, in fact, taller than his leader, who stood a few inches shorter than him. Even then, however, she was imposing; he could see his very own reflection in that sheen of metal, and he knew first-hand that she was not one to be underestimated in any regard. Wishing to express his respect, Geronimo balled his right fist and softly hammered it to his chest, bowing his head briefly; another old sign of Jendri compliment demanded of him by the elders. He made a small note to stop appeasing them so often.

"It was seamless, burc'ya. I thank you again for sending the ship." Offering a small smile beneath his helmet, he adopted a slightly more relaxed pose; he'd established his respect, and now that they had reaffirmed their positions, he felt no need to maintain any sort of stance. Devoid of formality, he offered up a bit of honest sympathy. "I wouldn't be troubled to observe Voy'a a bit more if b'Mand'alor would like a few moments to... polish her armor." He felt bad that he had cut her actions short; negotiations of any kind could be laborious, and he certainly didn't want to pressure her further with her needs unmet (whatever exactly they had been. He tried his best not to imagine them). Beyond that, he truly did wish to see more of the camp. The influx of Mando'ad he had seen flying in by various means was capturing his imagination in a way that he wanted to affirm. Seas of beskar'gam had a way of making words flow from him like a river to an ocean.

[Dutch]

Her smile widened beneath the helm. She hadn't smiled so in several days. Cyar balled up her lower right fist, and did the same salute back to the Jendri. As time went on, the clan leader only endeared himself to her more. Mandalore loved all of her people, but the more she came to interact with certain individuals the more she saw in each Mandalorian's value. Some stood out more than others. Geronimo Jendri was one of those.

"No need to thank me, Ori'vod." One of her free hands waved as she spoke. She didn't need to mention that the ship was sent in the express concern that Haestrom's location remain as secret as possible. The system's asteroid belt alone made navigating to it difficult, but extra caution never hurt. Not that she didn't trust Geronimo. It was that she didn't trust anyone.

"I wouldn't be troubled to observe Voy'a a bit more if b'Mand'alor would like a few moments to... polish her armor."

She blinked. Unseen by the black armor, as was the total look of confusion on her face. Cyar narrowed her eyes and was about to comment on the fact that her armor was always meticulously maintained and polished and that there was no reason for her to polish it further. Then the tone of his words hit her, and Cyar'ika was suddenly very grateful for her helm. For she suddenly felt her face flush, making her ears burn lightly. She knew what that meant, her normally fair skin would be a deep shade of red. Oh... oh no... he thinks I was...

In silent horror her mind raced for some sort of response. Anything than standing there in complete silence. Instead she took in a couple deep, steadying breaths before a light laughter bubbled from her lips.

"There is... no need for that, Ori'vod. I've been in my armor in worse states than my current one." Mandalore finally replied. She moved around the makeshift holotable that stood between her and Geronimo, her upper right hand waving for him to follow her. Anything to move on from the tent.

"Time for the afternoon rounds... should follow, could learn something." There wasn't anything in particular she had in mind. Working alongside those that had taken the pilgrimage allowed her to meet all sorts of Mandalorians from many different clans. Some even she thought had been lost to the stars.

"Also... there are matters to be discussed." Cyar moved her upper left hand to tap the side of her helmet twice. Her armor's harcomp wired a private line to his armor's. None but Geronimo would hear her words on it. "Matters such as our next strike. There's a reason I've called upon the clans, more than ever..."

[Fromikeable]

To quote an old wise man, the silence was deafening as Geronimo waited for a response. It only took a couple seconds, but it was one of those scenarios where even a second could be akin to a lifetime. Gently clearing his throat, he did his best to find a totally separate topic; it seemed that he had been a tad too forward. To be sure, he felt as though his speech skills could use a little work; they were rusty and ill-used, even in normal conversation. Usually he listened, spoke a sentence or two, and let the other person piece it together.

Today, however, he had no such luxury. At least, not in his usual volume.

Luckily the Mandalore managed to break the silence, and he offered a simple nod in response. At the same time, he began to follow her after she had beckoned, holding the flap of the tent open for her before walking solemnly beside her, his hands casually grasped behind him, walking with a soft step and a scanning eye. Beskar'gam was everywhere; it reminded him a lot of those days on Manda'yaim, only with fewer people out of their armor and far, far more weapons.

Honestly, it was a bit stunning that so many had followed their leader out into such a wilderness. Haestrom was practically uninhabited, and even for a garden planet, it was terrifyingly populated and hazardous. Just about anyone, Mando or not, could heed a call to a settled, inhabited, established world like Manda'yaim. There were hospitals, restaurants, houses, and all of the aspects of civilized living. But to heed a call in such numbers to a planet so far out of the way and so perilous?

Mando'ad of strength, even admired by their vod,
Sharpen blade, aim rifle, take no pause.
By the simple suggestion of their alor,
they rise up, fight back, take cause.

But a small flash on his HUD signaled Geronimo to open a private channel with the brilliant silver armor walking beside him, and the words she spoke brought him back down to the ground on which they tread, reminding him of one of the reasons he had ordained to speak with her in the first place. "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind on calling on mine a bit more." He spoke calmly, his voice deep and almost soothing. Some said it sounded so due to it being abnormally deep, though he rather thought it was simply because it was heard so often and his aliit tended to forget the exact sound of it.

"Clan Jendri is strong, ori'vod, and it is large. Yet all we've been dealt in a war for our honor and our homes as Mando'ad are roles as cannon-fodder and support positions." He glanced over at her, raising an eyebrow under his helmet as somewhere to their right, a song began around a campfire. "My clan is skilled, b'Mand'alor. One of the things I must request is the chance for them to prove it." He hoped that she knew what that meant. He wasn't just saying it because of a personal vendetta; he wasn't his father. But the history of the Jendri followed them all to that very day, and the entire clan had made it clear as crystal that they would revel at the chance to let it end. Four centuries had been long enough; it was time to shed the old badge of shame and pin on a new one of glory the only way true Mando'ad knew how.

[Dutch]

Mandalore listened to the Jendri. Her lips formed a soft smile. Geronimo was a willing crusader, something she was grateful for. Their walk took them deeper into the camp. Familiar music wafted from the right, one of several songs of Clan Zerimar. Another recent addition to those who had heeded the Reclaimer's call. Very fond of vibro-axes, that lot. Cyar's thoughts were brought back by Geronimo's last sentence. Her helm turn to face him for a brief moment before another sight caught her eye. A group of teenagers were at a makeshift range, blaster rifles around in the process of being maintained. One young male stood at the range, his black helm at his feet as he lined up his shot.

Poorly.

She chuckled softly before picking up her pace to move towards them. The small group saw her immediately, and all nodded their respect. Cyar'ika returned their nod wordlessly as she stepped into their group.

"Your clan does have much to offer, Geronimo." Mandalore spoke over their private line. Her lower hand gently touched the young man's back, pressing with three fingers to straighten his spine. "More than I think even you realize." Upper arms moved to adjust the boy's hold, tightening his balancing arm with one hand while the other tucked his trigger arm's elbow tighter. Her free hand switched to her helm's broadcast channel.

"The steadier your stance, the steadier your shot adiik'ad." Mandalore's words would be softly spoken, but her tone stern. The boy appeared no older than seventeen. Young, but in her culture he was considered a man. He had chosen to answer the call. They all had. Even Cyar'ika Vevut. Her free hand again switched to the private channel, another hand patted the boy's shoulder before she turned away to continue the walk.

"Let me ask you. What can I humbly offer your clan to show my gratitude? I grow weary of political bickering and games for my people to get what they desire. We earn what we receive, that is our way."

[Fromikeable]

Geronimo had learned many things about politics in his time as clan-leader. He'd learned how to speak softly and carry a big stick, just as he'd learned that many people employed the opposite. He'd learned how the biggest disputes could be fueled by the smallest of problems, and how the biggest of problems could be solved with the shortest of conversations. But most of all? He'd learned that politics in the sense that aruetiise knew them wasn't Mandalorian politics.

Because at what meetings did senators wear full beskar and never remove their helms?

The Mandalore turned toward him for a moment as she seemed to consider his words. He was perfectly content to let her think for as long as she could possibly want; he'd said the honest truth of the matter and anything else tacked on would just be words. That was both the blessing and the curse of the Mando'ad; they were defined by their actions, not their sayings. The Jendri had been defined by their actions, as had the Ordo, and history had forgotten either definition.

Therefore, history in the making would demand nothing more than an action of equal substance. Geronimo simply wished for it to be of different bloodshed.

But his thoughts were interrupted when his silver companion walked over to a shooting range and gently began guiding a young adiik'ad into a good shooting pose. Pausing for a moment, he eventually followed, observing from a few steps back. The young warrior was clearly straight out of childhood, at least as far as his fellow Mando'ad was concerned. Without his helm, the Jendri could easily see his face; unscarred, smooth and plush, and almost a little naive in its confusion.

But beyond that? Excited. Driven. Ambitious. Ready to learn from those that had come before (not to mention his teacher was his Mandalore, so...).

As the Mandalore turned away and kept walking, Geronimo observed just long enough to see the young vod apply what he'd learned, zipping a bolt down range and smacking the ring just outside the bull's-eye. That earned a small nod of approval from the older black armor before turning to walk beside the silver beskar'gam again, the sound of the adiik'ad's friends bursting into excited conversation and congratulations.

"... then what I seek to earn is this." Glancing his helm toward her, he raised one of his gauntlets up to eye-level, his other hand pointing at the crimson mythosaur skull placed upon it. According to the old family story, Ishantov himself had just finished impressing the symbol on his gauntlet the night before the Ordo had invaded, and in solemn memory his son had done the same thing to the other.

"I wish for my aliit to lead their brothers and sisters in the battles to come, so that they might earn the right to challenge the Ordo for their home." He lowered his hands, adjusting his gauntlet slightly. "I don't mean for war among Mando'ad, b'Mand'alor. I mean to issue a challenge that simply that can be settled honorably, and yet cannot be ignored."

[Dutch]

" I mean to issue a challenge that simply that can be settled honorably, and yet cannot be ignored."

Mandalore did not break her pace as Geronimo spoke. She mulled over his words, eyes gazing at the mark upon the black armor's gauntlet. Cyar'ika had studied the feud between Ordo and Jendri before calling upon them. Both were essential clans to her designs, and both were staking claims. Such was Mandalorian politics.

"I am glad to hear you don't share Ordo's thirst for blood. The coming crusade ahead of us will draw enough as is. I have forbidden Ordo from taking any actions, and sated them for now with... a gift." She paused and turned her helm to look up at the Jendri.

"A gift that you too shall receive." She added. Her gaze was caught by the sound of scuffling feet and grunts. Two large males wrestled in a dusty circle, their clan mates forming a half circle around them cheering. The banners and marks on their armor marked them as Clan Varad. The Reclaimer paused, her lower hands rested at her hips while her upper crossed beneath her chestplate. One of the more savage clans, the Varad prided themselves on physical brutality, and taming even more savage beasts.

"The beast-masters of Varad. Easily one of my better alliances. All they asked for was to fight. Nothing more." She said, still over their private channel. "With them come salkie hounds, gundarks, reeks, and some I don't even recognize. Even a male rancor I hear. Shame they couldn't tame a female. Those are the ones to truly fear. A head taller than the males, and fiercely protective of their young."

One of the wrestler's suddenly howled as he lifted the equally large man off his feet, and slammed him to the ground with a cry of victory. Their clan mates bellowed in approval and applauded. Mandalore's upper arms uncrossed, and she too applauded the move. "As soon as they heard of the Aru'e here on Haestrom, they arrived. From what I understand, they're now the only clan to have captured one. Alive." She turned away and gestured for Geronimo to follow.

"I am doing my best to sate every clan. We as a people have so much to offer one another. For the most part, we all do our part. Though sometimes... there are special circumstances." Mandalore paused and looked up at Geronimo. "Your clan is a special circumstance, Geronimo. Believe it or not, Jendri and Ordo have something in common. Something that may prove crucial to the crusade."

[Fromikeable]

Mand'alor's remark about the Ordo's attitude toward the feud granted her a small nod from the black beskar'gam walking beside her. He'd only been clan-leader for a few years, and yet he could attest to the fact that most violent solutions to the problem at hand between the clans had come from the Ordo. Surely the Jendri had their collection of blood-drinkers and battle-criers (what clan didn't?), but the difference had simply been that Geronimo had made sure to shut down every loud mouth in his own clan who demanded a fight.

Some called him a coward. Most, luckily, called him wise not to pick an old fight still undecided until such a time as it could be.

Still, Geronimo had that burning desire to have his home. Most of the Jendri, even those native to Manda'yaim, shared it with him. Rekkiad may have just been a frozen rock, but it was their frozen rock, and the fact of the matter was that it had been wrenched from them in a battle to be debated for the ages. Whether his aliit believed it to have been a dastardly and uncouth ambush between brethren Mando'ad, or a brilliant sneak attack by a superior force (an opinion that, while not popular, was extant), the consensus was there, so it almost wasn't up to the alor whether or not he wanted to settle it.

He had to. Simple as that.

But the Mand'alor was right, sadly. Geronimo was sure that every clan and their speeders wanted something from her; it was the one aspect of Mandalorian society that outsiders could understand without trouble. A gift here, a pardon there, a special right or title here, and oh, while you're at it, how about you settle a centuries-old dispute over the sovereignty of an ice planet?

Nothing so makes warriors into children such as the spoils of war.

Meanwhile, the renowned Varad clan-mates settled their match, setting Geronimo to give a few absent-minded claps; his mind was elsewhere, caught up in the words of the silver armor as they began to move again. The Varad had come all the way to Haestrom, the challenge that it was to find and inhabit, simply for what? A chance to fight and to tame a new kind of beast? It was baffling to a degree; inexplicably mad and incomprehensible. And yet so very, very Mando'ad. Geronimo was almost jealous of it, truly. The Jendri had come to fight, surely, but they had arrived with an aim; they wanted a planet. The Varad, however, had merely come to shoulder the battle and the insurmountable glory that would come with it. The Varad had come bearing their history, their honor, and their identities as an unmatched people. Their needs were settled in simple combat. What had the Jendri brought beside a request and besmirched name? Were they children for having done so?

... and yet even the Varad have yaim'la. And indeed, perhaps, that was something worth more than glory to fight for. After all, even the mightiest of warriors needed a place to rest his body and sharpen his sword. No vod could use his name if he didn't know where it came from.

"Your clan is a special circumstance, Geronimo. Believe it or not, Jendri and Ordo have something in common. Something that may prove crucial to the crusade."

As they walked, banners flapped in the air. The Varad banners slowly passed by as they did, giving way to those of the Hanod, the great axe-men, and then the Gret, the mighty dagger clan, and finally a familiar banner far off down the path that, despite it's old name, hadn't carried a reputation for centuries. Not since Ishantov had lost it to the history of the galaxy and the willing forgetfulness of his aliit.

"And what would that be, b'Mand'alor?"

[Dutch]

Mandalore smiled to herself as they approached the Jendri banners. Her pace remained the same, though she had to fight to do so. The excitement of the past few months still gripped the young woman at times. If Ordo and Jendri could work together in the next year, it would lead to a renaissance for their people. She had to be careful though. Cyar'ika didn't enjoy politicking so with Geronimo, but with a matter as sensitive as their rivalry she had to do the dance.

"You may not like to hear this, but your clans are very similar, ori'vod. Both clans focus so much on the skirmish on Rekkiad. It came down to one simple fact: Ordo brought more muscle into the fight than Jendri. But that wasn't Jendri's fault. You could only save four, while Ordo was able to save six. Simple numbers burc'ya..."

She moved around Geronimo with a swift pace to block his path now. Lower arms returned to her hips while her upper right pressed into Geronimo's chest plate.

"You need to know I do not pity your clan. We earn what we receive. They earned Rekkiad. You ask for me to help you settle the feud between your clans. You ask me to deny what Ordo had rightfully taken. They want you to take up arms against them again ori'vod. Why not take the chance to gain more territory? They defeated Jendri once, they believe they can do it again. They believe they can defeat you."

Cyar'ika paused to let her words digest. She didn't enjoy saying it, but she needed to see how the man would react. Would pride take over? Would he take insult to her words? Her stance relaxed and she let her hand fall from Geronimo's chest. It slid to his right arm's gauntlet. She gripped it lightly with a light tug.

"Geronimo. The clans are desperate. All of them. Yes they thirst for blood: but not as the conquerors they are... they thirst for it as desperate savages do. Any fight will do, and I am doing my best to keep that pointed at the Republic." Again Mandalore tugged, followed by a half step closer. Her tone lowered to near a whisper. It would almost sound desperate as she continued. "The clans need hope. They need something to stir the conqueror within. Something to remind them of who they are. To reclaim what really makes them Mandalorian. Clans, beskar and blasters can only go so far in the crusade..."

[Fromikeable]

Geronimo took a small recess from his thinking as the Jendri banners began to pass beside them, his clan busy at work setting up their tents and commodities. The first members of his clan had only arrived a couple of days ago, but their actions had opened the floodgates. By the time he'd arrived that day, there were quite literally thousands of Jendri flooding the entire section of the camp settling in. Brethren aided each other in hoisting a large mess tent in one direction, the rainbow of beskar'gam working in unison like a gorgeous mosaic. In another spot, a few Mando'ad sparred, and there a few were being taught, and there a few were laughing around a campfire. But no matter where one looked, an interesting atmosphere arose; the atmosphere of excited tension. No one was sure what they would be called for first, knowing simply that they had been called for what could only be described as a shot at redemption. Finally. A chance to wipe the slate and rebuild.

That made Geronimo slow his step just a tad, looking at a few individuals he recognized, a great few he didn't, and a greater few who recognized him.

But his Mand'alor's words were blunt; he hadn't expected them to be anything but. She wasn't a politician, and he didn't expect her to be. He expected her to be honest and direct, and he was certainly not disappointed. To anyone else, her perspective on the Conquest of Rekkiad might have seemed biased, or skewed, or even down-right disrespectful. After all, the Jendri had lost their home to bumbling demons who had no claim to it, hadn't they? The Ordo had been underhanded and kiniving in their dealings, right? She even went so far as to stop him; to physically block his path and reinforce her points with, of all things, numbers! Four to six! Who could not be utterly infuriated, especially when this one talked of hope and savagery in the context of a true debt?! A man could have been downright aghast...

... just as he couldn't be had he been the Poet Jendri.

"You speak the truth." His tone, normally rather deep and melodious, also took on a rather warm quality. Pausing for a moment to gently grip her forearm with his own right hand, he too lowered his voice to accent his seriousness.

"I will never claim that the Ordo took our home from us unfairly. I do not reserve the fact that Ishantov had the duty of defending Rekkiad as the resting-place of his aliit with all that he had, and in that duty, he failed." He motioned at the Jendri surrounding them both discreetly with his other arm, taking just a second to take in the image of his clan once again. "I also do not reserve the fact that we, I, seek to grow through the battles coming to us. We will, I predict, expand in ways that we don't even plan."

"BUT. We will never forget Rekkiad, and if the Ordo seek to keep it, just as we did those centuries ago, then they will have to prove once more that it is theirs to keep." He gently clapped her upper shoulder with his hand, gazing through his visor and into hers as if he could see her eyes within, his own steady and solid with a determination as strong as the metal he was clad in.

Her hushed words, however, made him stop again to meditate. He also wouldn't deny that from what he had seen over the time he had kept watch, the Mando people had... changed. Not in such a way as their customs, or their ideology, or even their ability. They were still the people the galaxy admired and feared in equal and deserved measure; that much was true, and he suspected that it would not cease being so until far, far, far after this war was said and done (if ever).

And yet... they thought differently. Clans once honored and proud were now simply proud. Battles that would have been fought fiercely and nobly were now simply fought fiercely. There was a degree of something distinctly un-Mando'ad; a discreet factor that could be found paper thin under all of the layers. Something uncharacteristic. Something that shouldn't be. Something...

"desperate." She'd said it perfectly.

... "B'Mand'alor, you will never hear me claim to be wise." He shook his helm slightly. "It is not my place to claim. But I would say that we need a symbol. A thing so undoubtedly and honorably Mando'ad that none could mistake it."

"A... Vencuyanir'be'runi."

A keeper of soul.

[Dutch]

"You speak the truth."

Vor entye...

Cyar'ika sighed in relief. She was grateful that the man held true to his reputation, and took her words with tact. As Geronimo continued to speak she realized exactly why he lead his clan so well. Though calm, his presence demanded full attention. And his words were rhythmic and smooth. Poetic. Mandalore huffed a silent laugh at herself and peered up through her visor at the black helm. She didn't fight his touch as he grasped her shoulder. It was warm, brotherly. Another reason he lead his people so well.

Her breath caught as he finished his thought. It was almost as if the Jendri was on the same wavelength as she. A trait Mandalore was finding more and more with the clans that chose to join her. Geronimo was indeed proving himself more and more worthy to have caught her gaze. The woman's mind reflected back to when they had both been on Mandalore, days after the Liberator's funeral. The Jendri had fought well. That alone garnered her attention at first. But in the time that had passed since then, her research into his past had revealed much about the man. And he only continued to match her dossier point for point.

"Vencuyanir'be'runi..." The words purred off her lips fluidly. A grin slid over her lips, and a hand moved up to pat the side of Geronimo's helm. "The Poet Jendri... does suite you well ori'vod."

She noticed some of the Jendri around them were taking noticed of her and their Clan Leader. Mandalore patted the black helm once more before she gestured for him to follow again. He had spoken the perfect phrase for exactly what she had in mind. A keeper of soul. Again Cyar chuckled lightly and turned her helm back to see Clan Jendri go about their business. She then turned to look up at Geronimo.

"I've thought similarly. Many of our people are young, and have only known life under the Republic's boot. Myself included...They've only seen our people in that light." Mandalore turned down towards Clan Bralor. One of the first clans to answer her call, and one of her strongest supporters. Also the clan of her lover. It was within the camp of Bralor that many of Mandalore's more dire secrets lay. They were loyal, and she counted on them to defend her interests.

Mandalore spotted one of the few true buildings in the area. A large storage hangar deep into Clan Bralor's camp. The building lacked windows except for directly below the roof. She placed a hand on Geronimo's elbow to guide them towards it.

"The Mandalore before the Liberator, Bane Haseful, used his 'special operations' group to plant many seeds for us. He took the title more as a rank, than as a calling. They worked in secret, quietly working in the shadows against the Republic. It was through them that we reclaimed the planet Ordo. And it is through them that we will begin to reclaim other planets." Cyar'ika brought one gauntlet up, and one of her hands began to key in a serial number. The passcodes that would allow the hangar doors to open.

"The Liberator we can thank for releasing the Republic's grasp on us. It is not in our nature to be demure and complacent, Malak knew this, and made the alliance with the Sith." An alliance that she looked forward to ridding themselves of. She distrusted and disliked the creatures. Every bit as arrogant as the Jedi, but with a sick, dishonorable twist. "And through our conquering of Ordo under him, we were able to maneuver elsewhere with little regard. Reclaiming the planet was just a bonus..." Mandalore paused as they reached the hangar, a group of Bralor sat around a campfire directly in front of the massive metal doors. All were fully clad in their beskar, thought a few had their helms off. Each and every one was armed still. They stood to salute her and Geronimo, which she returned.

"Geronimo, what I'm about to show you is game changing. It is the single most important event in recent history, ori'vod... I want you to realize what it means for me to show you this." Cyar'ika flipped a couple switches and pressed a button on her gauntlet, and the massive hangar door slid open just enough to allow them through. "Follow me, and do not put a hand near any weapon."

[Fromikeable]

The pats to the side of his helm made Geronimo shake it a little, grinning beneath. He still wasn't sure what to think of that old nickname. He'd received it years ago in his raiding days when his fellow vod had figured out that he'd spent his time in transit writing, and ever since then it had stuck. He didn't mind the binomer, though he didn't endorse it either; he didn't write for others so much as he did for himself. Should others wish to hear, he usually obliged them, but as a rule he didn't share unless it was requested. Poetry wasn't exactly a team sport, after all.

But his clan began to take notice as they started to depart. A few whispers there, a few discretely pointing fingers here, and by the time the banners of his clan were behind them, Geronimo could glance and see the majority return to what they were doing (albeit with a bit more chatter) as well as a few particularly excited Mando'ad dashing off to tell the others. He got the feeling that by the time his talk with te Mand'alor was over, the every Jendri on Haestrom would know.

Heck, by the time this was over, the every Jendri on Haestrom, Manda'yaim, and Rekkiad would know. The whole damn clan.

As his Mand'alor began to speak, Geronimo listened intently as she recounted a short history of the actions of her predecessors. The Jendri couldn't say that he particularly knew the last two Mandalore's or of their policies. The position wasn't like one that would be observed in the Senate; no one cared if you sat around babbling and hissing and whining like some ad who had stubbed his toe because his boots were too big. Mandalores went into the history books thanks to pure, unadulterated action; a reason the silver armor strolling beside him would surely be written of, and the Liberator, and Bane.

Even still, as they walked into the camp of a clan Geronimo seemed to recall as Clan Bralor, the duo headed toward one of the only structures with a solid foundation on the planet, Geronimo couldn't help but notice that the Mand'alor called the Liberator by name. He was sure that some people knew it, and that now that he had been put to rest, it was no longer such an immense secret, but even still, it had only been a few weeks since the ceremony on Manda'yaim; far too early, at least among usual Mando'ad, to shed the past Mandalore's given title. That she used it either signified a disrepct, a disregard, or, more likely in the clanleader's opinion, a personal connection.

... carrying on in spirit, in life, in aim,
laying to rest gebi ori'vod, te r'alor bat Manda'yaim...

Still, even in his thought, her disdain for the Sith did not go unnoticed. Her tone about summed up Geronimo's opinion of the "ally" they had in the Sith. He had been into Sith space before; he had seen the very stirrings of the new government and its mottos and mantras and customs and ideas.

In his opinion? Geronimo wasn't one to hate or detest, but truly, if he did either to anything in the galaxy, it was the Sith Empire. Everything about them rubbed him the wrong way. The entire Empire was founded on such an unstable fervor, it seemed to him, that frankly he was surprised that it still stood. He could commend people for wish to throw off the shackles of a debunk and inept Republic, itself so caught up in laws and bureaucracy that it forgot even how to fight, but his commendation was just as easily stripped away when the thing to follow was dishonorable, paltry, and very clearly and purposefully murky.

Then there was the "Order" of the Sith. The poet summed up his feelings for them by scratching his chin as the giant doors of the hangar opened, his fingers flicking outward as he finished, signifying his... "disapproval" (and oh, so much more).

But he managed to push his thoughts aside and hear the simple instruction he was given as they entered. Not touch any weapon? Surely his Mand'alor had more faith in him than that; he hadn't come to lead his clan by never touching a weapon, or never learning proper trigger discipline, or even never riding in a war machine of multiple kinds. What exactly was being stored in this hangar, this lone building that must have taken longer to build than every tent outside combined? And what weaponry must it carry to warrant a deterring warning to an experienced Mando'ad?

Geronimo followed her through the door, and even before his feet were in the door, his jaw dropped in wonder. He was, for a good handful of seconds, speechlessly, motionlessly shocked.

"... So you aim to build a few new epics b'Mand'alor?" Underneath that black helm was one of the biggest smiles that would ever grace Geronimo's usually-neutral face.

[Dutch]

Mandalore led the Jendri into the hangar, her lips a wide smile hidden beneath the helm. Her hand returned to the gauntlet where new commands were prompted. The blast shields of the hangar's windows began to slide upwards, cutting the light within the hangar. Bathed in darkness for but a moment, a few spotlights mounted on the high ceiling snapped on to wash over the only structure within. Its mirrored armor shone brilliantly in the light, clean and elegant in the gloom.

"... So you aim to build a few new epics b'Mand'alor?"

Her hand entered another prompt, this one widened her smile as the telltale sound of power coming to the droid was heard. The Basilisk war droid went from statuesque to suddenly rounding on the pair. A deep, primal warning in the form of the bellow of a Gundark sounded. All near four thousand kilos stomped forward, the claws on the droid's larger front legs scratched into the duracrete floor.

"Udesiir... udesiir ad'ika..." Cyar purred as she strode forward to meet the hulking droid. One hand of hers rose up to rest at the nose of the droid, the machine dipping low to be touched. A Nexu's purr rumbled from it, making the woman chuckle in endearment.

"Kaysh'davaab'skira... She who brings vengeance... Beautiful, isn't she ori'vod? I call her Skira for short..." Mandalore's voice would be soft with affection, another hand moved to rest at the side of the droid to pet it. "The first of a new generation of Bes'uliik. Her chassis, circuitry, and droid brain are all of the bes'uliik Bane and his team had taken from Coruscant..." Cyar'ika paused and turned her helm to face Geronimo. "Skira remembers everything... she has not had a memory wipe since the crusades of old. And she is ready to share her secrets to the Clans..."

Another pat was given to Skira before Mandalore turned to face him further. With the droid looming over the woman, she placed all her hands on her hips. Mandalore began to walk back to Geronimo, Skira moving to circle around the her master. The massive droid reached him before Mandalore, it loomed down with the rumbling growl of an Nexu.

"You asked if I aim to build a few new epics?" Mandalore paused and she tilted her helm upwards to look at him. Seconds of silence followed as Cyar weighed her next move. Her upper hands moved upwards from her hips, releasing the seals of her helm and unclasping it. Slowly Cyar'ika lifted the helm off before it was shifted into one arm where it too rest at her hip. Ice blue eyes peered up at Geronimo, and a couple locks of hair that escaped the hastily put together bun at the back of her head fell down her face. She exhaled slowly, nervous at the gesture of trust she had just shown the man. "I aim to bring in a new era for our people ori'vod... To reclaim our place in the galaxy as glorious conquerors... and as a sovereign nation..."

[Fromikeable]

It was a moving dream. Its sound filled the ears with the growl of thunder. Its movements flowed together like the dance of a river. It was mighty and stronger; mightier and stronger than any old tale or dusty story could relay. Mighty beskar, hefty cannons, enormous stature, and the behavior of the world's most loyal, intelligent, and unbreakable steed.

To its enemies, it was terrifying; a pure embodiment of doom designed and trained for the specific purpose of ending their lives through raw, unadulterated strength. To its allies, to the Mando'ad...

"Te maan Vecuyanir'be'runi..." In an amazed breath, Geronimo was so awe-struck as to laugh, right under his breath. He'd read about bes'uliik many a time; depending on what time period Mando art was from, there were numerous pieces about them, or involving them, or even simply focusing on individuals (usually written about by their riders). All of the art, however, seemed to fail the real thing; Geronimo never could have imagined such ferocity and yet elegance packed so neatly into one single machine.

And, for that matter, a machine that could growl like a Nexu. That was just damn cool.

And that she could remember the old crusades? Geronimo almost wished that the machine spoke Mando'a. Again, the epics could only paint such a picture, and if they failed in the same capacity in describing those battles as they had describing these incredible machines, well... he was hoping that in the future, he could do a better job. Because both clearly deserved only the crispest, most stunning grabbing art.

And to cap it all, as the great steed settled down beside its master, that stunning, shining set of silver beskar'gam, a pair of the hands came up to hold the helmet, and with a slow motion upward, lifted the helm off of the head. Below, suddenly uncovered, was the face of a young woman, fair and actually rather beautiful with striking hair and with-

Dear spirits, the eyes. Geronimo couldn't believe them almost as much as he couldn't believe the bes'uliik. They weren't mutant in any way; perfectly healthy blue eyes. It was the sheer look they carried; a piercing blue, a gaze that could topple buildings. They were backed by a sense of absolute confidence and determination untouchable by mortal hands. They almost didn't look real, as if someone had painted the most unbelievable picture of intensity and held it up before the Mandalore's eyes in an attempt to accent her point. Geronimo actually waited just a second to make sure he didn't see a hand, the artist to her side, ready to remove the picture.

But no. Those eyes simply pierced through reality ever more.

And yet, a nervous sigh... even with those eyes, she was mortal too. A strong mortal, with a strong mount, but a mortal. That was no limit, surely, but... she would need others. Many others. Many others with those same piercing eyes; that same piercing spirit that could never be touched by another mortal. Only crafted.

Pausing in silent wonder, staring through his visor and helm, Geronimo was dead silent. Someone might have believed him to be dead, in fact, and simply having his body held up by strong armor. His breathing was deep and slow, and the only movement, ever so slight, was a very small adjustment of his head, gazing at his Mandalor, then at the great beast-machine behind her, and then at her once again. Finally, after a small eternity of consideration, the Jendri's hands slid to his own helm and slid it upward. His own hair, a bit matted thanks to the helmet, dropped down to his shoulders, pitch black and sheen. His eyes, dark brown, glowed with not only their own normal intensity, but a small quiver of excitement. Holding his helm under his left arm, his right hand slowly raised back up to his chest, right above his heart, displaying the Mythosaur skull carved on its back as it saluted. He bowed his head, his black hair freeing itself from its form and draping around his head like a black curtain.

"Te kotir cuye kry'adyc... bal teh b'ad gotal'u." He raised his head. "Ti gar as b'maan."

The past has passed away... and from its children creates.

With you as its origin.

And for the first (and possibly the last) time ever, Geronimo genuinely smiled at his Mand'alor. "And so amazed was the I, for I could not speak but in riddles."

[Dutch]

Not once did she look away as Geronimo stood in silence. She watched and waited, the tips of her pointed ears occasionally twitching in anticipation. Eternity passed, and still the man didn't speak. Was the revelation of his Mandalore truly worth such silence? Perhaps she appeared too young to him, perhaps she didn't fit what most people would imagine a Mandalore to appear. Men like Malak... like Bane... like Solus'ad...

Her heart fluttered within her chest plate as he finally moved. Geronimo too removed his helm, making the corners of her lips curl into a small smile. She met his gaze, a small nod given in gratitude. The salute the man gave caused Cyar to tilt her chin upwards slightly, the wave of pride that rose within her warmed her skin beneath the armor. With it was relief, as Geronimo spoke she did her best to hide how she felt. With Ordo and now Jendri both rallied under her... the path ahead seemed so much clearer.

"And so amazed was the I, for I could not speak but in riddles."

Cyar'ika turned her head to peer up at Skira as she loomed over the pair, her smile knowing as a hand reached out to hook over one of Skira's armored plates. She too had been speechless when the group assigned to retrofitting Skira had unveiled the bes'uliik. Except she had also shed tears, with the Basilisk war droid she was certain that she could give her people what they wanted. Truly unite and bind them as one.

"I know... she's breathtaking..." With an almost coy look one of her hands gripped at Geronimo to tug him closer to the droid. Another hand rested softly on the back of his free one to lift it. Gently she pressed Geronimo's hand against the cool metal of Skira's plating. The vibration of the droid's inner mechanics could be felt reverberating through the beskar of his armor, almost as if the beast was truly alive. She grinned up at him, a child-like joy lighting up the woman's face as she patted the back of his hand.

"And you are now the first Jendri to have laid hands on a bes'uliik since those you kept after the Mandalorian Wars..." Mandalore paused to let those words sink in. She didn't know exactly how long it had been since Jendri lost their last Basilisk. She knew at least one had perished when Ordo attacked with their six, and the other three were lost to time. That didn't stop them from being one of the clans known for their skill and utilization of the bes'uliik. "... And if you continue to pledge Jendri to me... to the Mandalorians... then the galaxy will once again see a Mandalorian people at full strength. United."

[Fromikeable]

The beskar was frigidly cold to the touch. Beskar, Geronimo found, was always cold. Science could tell them that the metal was actually a terribly non-conductive material (one of the reasons beskar'gam tended to work in extreme temperatures on top of all of its other traits), but Geronimo personally thought that it was more than that; beskar was cold simply because that which it contained made enough heat for the metal to not need to. Mando'ad were such unrestrained flames on the battlefield, such natural elements, that the armor was, more than anything, a shell to keep them in to make sure that they simply didn't lose their corporeal forms and ascend to a higher form of battle.

And yet... Geronimo had the same feeling about this machine. He wasn't sure what sort of temperature was beneath the armor, but even through the heavy plating, vibrations could be felt leaping through his hand, into his armor, into his being, as if the machinery in the mount cried out to the machinery in the man. It was almost a smooth rhythm to stoke the flames of the man to; a pattern, eloquent and steady, by which the flame of the rider could keep track of itself by. It was a rhythm that could keep a flame tethered to the ground, to the body that it composed, and yet still grow bright enough to be Mando'ad.

And to think that such a thing had been lost for centuries... closing his eyes for a moment to focus on the sensation, Geronimo slowly rubbed the metal as if it was the smoothest of silks.

The Mand'alor's words made him smile one of his more normal smiles; the small, concise type that he usually flashed under his helm. No Jendri had so much as seen any resemblance of a bes'uliik since Rekkiad had fallen. Ishantov had indeed used them to fight the Ordo, but when he had lost and his people had been forced to capitulate, the conquering clan took the three remaining Jendri mounts that had survived the ordeal as a spoil of war. No Jendri had ever seen one ever again; a shame considering that much of the clan's might had been built upon their steeds. Truly, between that and an old, vague reputation for accuracy (or precision, depending on who you asked; the clan had long since forgotten their old brags when most could be shut down at the mention of their frosty home), the Jendri had been nearly infamous among aruetiise.

"... And if you continue to pledge Jendri to me... to the Mandalorians... then the galaxy will once again see a Mandalorian people at full strength. United."

"B'Mand'alor, the Jendri are yours and yours alone." He glanced over at her, his hand still rubbing the bes'uliik softly. He couldn't help it; it was like the dog he'd always wanted, except that it signified his entire culture, philosophy, and belief system all in one (plus most dogs couldn't kill by the dozen via laser cannon).

"Never doubt that so long as you might deem us Mando'ad."

[Apillis]

"How many I wonder can we reclaim... and how many more will we have to build. If we're to rise again to our former glory.", Shannon as she entered the scene clad in her unique customized light Mandalorian battle armor, helm and all. Her grey kama waving gently behind her as she walked with every step, the clicking of her armor's heavy boots distinctive sound easily heard. She was on Haestrom after all, it was severely dangerous place even on its most mild of days, donning ones full armor on that planet was not being cautionary--it was simply avoiding winning the Darwin award.

While for many of the younger generations the basilisks droids were an old tradition that had been lost to the Mando'ade people in their last battles with the Republic. But Shannon was among the few that had not only seen them but even used them. The Mandalorian raiders she was once among in her youth had a couple, and as one of their pilots, she had been trained to pilot them. However, those couple basilisks droids they had were destroyed along with her Mando'ade raider brothers and sisters when they were overtaken by the immense numbers of the pirate outfit they faced down. Albeit, it was a good battle regardless of the heavy losses--a battle worthy of their people, one worth remembering.

Though because that past, it made the site of the basilisk droid before her, less something inspiring wonderment, and more a feeling of nostalgia. Remembering a time when her idealism for her people was filled with naivete and hope, and not the cautionary cynicism mixed with the quiet burning embers of hatred ready to be stoked into a raging blaze of vengeance smoking with sadism toward her enemies granted the opportunity. And for the all the humility the Mandalorians have had to suffer for too long now, there was much hatred and even more vengeance that needed to be dealt out. Regaining the basilisks to that end would be a much larger and needed step into making it happen.

Crossing her arms under her chest she looked upon the basilisk with eyes filled nostalgia behind her full helms visor. Flooded with memories of family--of learning true triumph in battle--even memories of first love. In pensive moments she had questioned if she would ever see basilisks droids be utilized by the Mandalorians once more. But now... she need not question any longer. While her Mandalore was focused on unification, yet Shannon was more focused on vengeance than unity. For in Shannon's eyes the two concepts were not mutually exclusive, they were one in the same. Albeit, Shannon tended to believe that perhaps in her own way Mandalore felt the same.

[Dutch]

"How many I wonder can we reclaim... and how many more will we have to build. If we're to rise again to our former glory."

The tips of Cyar'ika's ears perked upwards as the sound of Shannon's voice echoed into the hangar. Her head turned as a knowing smirk slid over her lips to look the Bralor's way. Fully clad in her beskar, she let her eyes look the other woman over in appreciation. Shannon always did wear her armor gracefully, and Cyar appreciated how it accented the other woman's perfect stride.

"Shannon..." She whispered in what could almost be awe and admiration. Mandalore's eyes cautiously slid to look back at Geronimo before she realized her hand that was resting on the back of his was gripping tighter. Cyar'ika tried and failed to restrain the flush that came to her cheeks, her fair skin tinged in pink. Hoping to move on she gave a small cough before her posture was straightened.

"... Bralor." Mandalore's voice stronger sounding now. "Shannon Bralor. Fleet Commander and Emissary of Clan Bralor." One of her free hands gestured to the new arrival before it did the same to the Jendri. "Shannon, this is Geronimo Jendri, Clan Leader of Jendri." Cyar patted the back of Geronimo's hand before she stepped away. Skira loomed closer to Shannon with the rumbling purr of a Nexu, almost as if it was asking to be petted by her. Cyar'ika did her best to hide her inner delight at the droid taking to the Bralor, but still she smirked.

"Skira may be the only reclaimed of her era. Too many of our people out in the galaxy keep reporting the same thing. 'Dismantled, decommissioned, with the droid brain far too degraded to be salvaged... the Republic's fear and hatred of our beloved mounts is all too apparent even to this day..."

Mandalore's eyes betrayed her shifting emotions, from fondness to disappointment only to slide into cold anger. That anger only shifted into an almost predatory gaze, the inner fire within flickered within her frosted blue eyes. "Which is why Skira and I will spearhead our next raid... to remind them what it was to fight back a true Mandalorian Crusade. We will avenge our bes'uliik... and with the taking of Gargon, let them rise anew from the ashes."

She looked from the Bralor to the Jenri. "Already we have factories on Mandalore, Concord Dawn, and Shogun. Coalitions of Clans uniting to provide manpower await the metals needed from Gargon. In as little as a year, we could see a full return of the bes'uliik. With every clan that has joined us being given the knowledge and skill to craft, program and bond with them. Their reward for uniting." Mandalore looked up at Skira, pride barely restrained in her expression. "We are nearing a renaissance for our people... ma'vode..."

[Fromikeable]

A new voice prompted Geronimo to quickly duck his head down a bit. Sliding his helmet back on, the Jendri gave the living war machine before him a last few pats and scratches before recalling his other hand to activate his HUD. Finally looking up, a suit of lighter beskar'gam graced his sight as it entered the scene. He meant no offense to the newcomer by covering his face, but he wasn't one to show it lightly. To communicate such, he pounded his hand to his chest briefly, nodding a small nod in greetings.

His Mand'alor's introduction of the figure revealed it to be none other than the talk of the clan leaders; Shannon Bralor. Geronimo recognized the name instantly; she'd caused quite the stir with her insistence to lead all of the fleets as one rather than the more traditional separation via clan. Some alor had liked it, some hadn't, and some, like Geronimo, had decided to hold judgement until results were present. He, at least, had been convinced by the past few battles that it was a move for the better. Those that still resented the shift (mostly the more traditional alor that took to stricter straits) were simply unwilling to accept a modernization, in his opinion; a shift in tactics to make the Mando'ad a thing worth fearing even more-so.

"A renaissance carried on the backs of bes'uliik." Geronimo couldn't help but notice the look of utter grandeur his Mand'alor's face carried as she looked up at her droid once more. Truly, their hope, all three of them and every Mando'ad outside and beyond Haestrom, was being placed on the mighty gears and armor of these nigh-extinct war machines. It was as their parents had done, just as their grandparents had done, just as their ancestors had done. If history would dictate the result, then they had little to fear.

Only they did. Any good warrior knew that a lack of fear, while effective, was reckless. Fear could be the deciding factor between life and death; the motivation needed to move your hand fast enough to pull a trigger, or avoid a shell, or block a blade. Fear, in the right quantities, kept the vod equipped, alert, and poised for bravery. Fear reminded the vod of battles lost, of secrets stowed away, of-

... wait... secrets stowed away? Gar serim!

"... perhaps the Jendri have something more to offer then." Geronimo folded his arms before him, silently recounting everything he could. "The elders on Manda'yaim told me some time ago that through the generations, vital knowledge has survived. Holos. Tactics. Documents. Instructions. The very poems and epics that tell us of bes'uliik from ages past." He motioned his chin at Skira.

"B'aliit were once fierce partners of bes'uliik, b'Mand'alor. They recorded much of them; their make, their birth, their use, and their death. Everything one might need to learn how to use them." He paused for a moment, a hand raised to his chin as he thought. He hadn't seen all of the tapes and text, but from those few snippets he had, they had covered quite a bit; the basics of riding, the basics of fighting and manufacturing. He actually seemed to recall one that included instruction as to a proper bes'uliik funeral; a piece he'd watched in interest. "The test of time may have claimed such tools of learning, but if they have survived, we should gather them and replicate them also. They may teach us much, and the vode much more."