Post by Dutch on May 14, 2018 16:57:36 GMT -5
 MAND’ALOR THE REGULATOR Full Name • Dral’tranyc Bralor Nickname • Lord Mandalore, Al'Ori'Ramikade, Dral to select few, Gusha Blue to even fewer Race • Feeorin Birthplace • Nar Shadaa, Gorgo the Hutt's District Age • 228 Gender • Male Sexuality • Hetero Faction • Mando’a Concept • Rank 3 Mandalorian Warlord King Languages • Mando’a, Basic, Understanding of Huttese and Signing Assets • The Mandalorian Clans, Mandalorian Dreadnaught; Par'jila, Beskar'gam with crushgaunts and jump-jets Appearance Face Claim • Art by sorahchard4yll9o | Voiced by; Josh Brolin Height & Weight • 7’4” | 333 lbs Overall Looks • Mandalore the Regulator is undeniably feeorin by blood; Tall, broad and thickly muscled, the man is an impressive specimen of his species. His skin is a mottled shade of turquoise, marked by centuries of varying scars. Keen, pale yellow eyes peer out from a heavy brow, and long sensory whiskers are often stroked in contemplation. The sensory tendrils which hang from his head like dreadlocks are adorned with bands of varying precious metals, several of which encrusted with gemstones from worlds both Mandalorian and conquered. When not within his beskar’gam, the man’s thick, calloused fingers are similarly adorned with rings. Dral can be unnervingly still when at rest; capable of long, unreadable stares and statuesque poses; Which can be shocking when the feeorin suddenly animates. Masterful and practiced muscle memory moves the colossal humanoid with surprising ease, whether it be in combat, dance or otherwise. Mandalore walks with the confident, casual gait you would expect from the cockiest of fringer gunslingers complete with strong hands rested upon large belt buckles. His fashion outside of armor usually consists of vests, pants and boots hand-crafted from varying game creatures and artisan Mandalorian cloths. It is not an uncommon sight for him to be seen with a long-stemmed pipe, and even less so for him to be enjoying some sort of drink or snack. How most of the galaxy sees the Regulator, is as the armored golden titan seen within holonet clips across the galaxy. Nearly two and a half meters tall of beskar’gam done in the traditional Ori'ramikade style, and crafted by famed Mandalorian smith Ari Wayland. This second set meant for Mand’alor is an undeniable masterpiece; Each glittering golden plate hand-measured and crafted to fit the feeorin as a second skin. Jump jets can be seen at both the back plate and behind the calves of both grieves, which gives enough of a boost for augmented charges or jumps but nowhere near true flight. The secret and most intricate of pieces would be the gauntlets. A matching set of shuk’orok are among Wayland’s finest achievements, and Dral’s second favorite part of his armor. First would be his helm; The ‘T’ shaped visor is a perfect replica of the mask of Mandalore, but resized to fit his stature. A pair of curved reek horns adorn either side of the gilded helm, swept down to match the iconic look of a mythosaur. A classic rangefinder HUD suite is hidden within both horns, which allows easy and intuitive control over the superb suit of armor. Outside of combat the usual lengths of ceremonial cloth and furs adorn the golden Mandalorian, their style and color depending on the reason for donning the set. Personality Profile Mandalore the Regulator is a simple man, yet one of layers. He knows what he likes and what he dislikes, and his opinions aren’t easily swayed. His general presence is one of undeniable swagger, sauce, and august pride. The Mandalorian speaks simply, yet poetically, his thoughts made clear with a smooth Mando’a accent. In the feeorin’s centuries about the rims, he’s learned as many lessons as bad fringer habits, and both color the man who now speaks for his people. Dral is happiest when chit-chatting, tutoring, smoking, feasting, fighting, and sleeping. Preferably in that order and preferably not alone on the latter. Simply, he is a glutton for decadence, but only when earned. Mandalore does not deal with being bored, nor anyone he considers unworthy of his time. Not for any actual constraints, he has all the time in the galaxy, and prefers to spend it on the good things in life. Dxunese pears, Concordian pipeweed, Mandalorian women, shiny trinkets, armor, blasters, and Shogunese silk sheets are among his favorite things; the finer the better on all fronts. Not that he'd spurn anything between that and middling quality. Everything has a place, after all. That is the Regulator at his most basic, but beneath that beats the heart of a man wholly devoted to the Mandalorians and their ways. He is a believer in the Resol’nare and the manda, and his convictions are as strong as himself tangibly. Dral shows gratitude to those loyal and loving, and returns these in equal, sometimes exceeding measures. He would die for any mando’ade without a second thought, but one hundred percent would prefer to kill the assailant before it was necessary. It has worked so far. Those that know him intimately would describe the feeorin as patient, introspective and giving at his best and blunt, belligerent, or lost in solemn thought at his worst. It took dozens of decades for him hone his mind and the innate aggression which comes with his race, and takes near as long for him to lose control. You don’t want this. Behind all that, is a man who ultimately wants nothing more than a nap. Background Father • Grazk, Prized purebred gladiator: Deceased Mother • Muella, Composer, Songstress, Dancer: Deceased Siblings • Two brothers, Never named: Deceased Other Important Connections • Mando’ad’an Eris Eldar; Personal shaman, priestess (More to be added) Overall History • Smoke hung hazy in the dim torchlight, wisps heady with the scent of Concordian pipeweed as it curled about a conquered hall. Around an ornate and noble chamber stood several members of both the Republic and Empire. None appeared pleased to be there, and their stances spoke of duty, impatience and discomfort. The Jedi in attendance huddled near a portrait of a past Onderonian king, and cast the occasional glance at the Sith whom lounged over expensive furniture. The dignitaries from both governments attempted awkward diplomatic banter, and snacked on offered Mandalorian delicacies passed by comely strangers in their traditional clan garb. A great drum would be beat by a nearby armored sentinel thrice, and heavy wooden doors swung open with a boom. From the darkness strode an imposing figure clad in gleaming gold armor, and the plates glittered with firelight at each powerful step. Claimed Dxunese pelts hung over broad pauldron-plated shoulders, and a mane of jewelry adorned tendrils were draped over the furs. Under one arm a reek-horned helmet with the classic ‘T’ shaped visor was held by a spiked gauntlet, and the other gripped the source of smoky scent. A long stemmed pipe would be held to catlike lips as the feeorin inhaled deeply, and pale yellow eyes regarded guests on passing as the titanic being moved towards what remained of the Onderanian throne. The stone arms had been shattered, and the reason clear as Mandalore turned to sit upon what was now a stone bench. The helm was placed at his side, and a stream of smoke was exhaled with an extrinsic smile. “Olarom, aruetiise. Welcome, and thank you for accepting my generous invitation. I do hope the food and company so far have found you well. You have been brought here to learn, to understand, and to listen. This, is not a negotiation; This, is an introduction. My predecessor was secretive, and it ultimately cost her life and reign. I, am not the Reclaimer. I, will not pay that price. As many of my people, I was not born Mando’ade. My father, Grazk, was the most famous gladiator on Nar Shadaa in his time. My mother, Muella, was owned by the same Hutt; Gorgo, and a prized Diva trained entertainer. Feeorin are rare among the Huttese slave trade, and always carefully bred. Gorgo the Hutt would be lucky to have two of his prized slaves birth triplets, Muella not so much to carry us. Soon as we could leave her side, my brothers and I were thrown with the other chattel children. We survived by being bigger, stronger, and ultimately ate well while others wasted away. We were animals, and as soon as we were strong enough placed where our inherit natures could be used. Gorgo’s gladiatorial pens were far harder to handle, but with three of us it was possible. A brutal gamorrean pit boss drove us through endless exercises and drills, and each night was met with deep sleep on a cold stone floor with only one another for warmth. This was our life for years, until we began to become men, and grew tall and broad. Nothing could separate us three, nothing except a bet between two rival Hutts. I never discovered the terms. What I did learn was how it felt to snap both of my brothers’ necks in combat as thousands leered, jeered and watched. I can still hear it all. Gorgo’s booming laugh as he clapped and celebrated his victory. The roar of the crowd as they cheered. My brothers were never named. I, was dubbed ‘Gusha Blue’ after killing them.; ‘Gusha', meaning 'Lucky’, 'Blue' for the obvious. Savagry ruled from then on. I was angry, bitter, jaded, and all who faced me in the arena would discover this. Not once was a weapon ever handed my way, oh no, Gorgo enjoyed watching me tear limbs from sockets and heads from shoulders too much. I made the creature fat with credits and notoriety. Enough for him to be invited to Nal Hutta for a great tournament, just another ritual for the Hutts to revel at their gains. His property would be shipped first, and unluckily for Gorgo; as the transport was intercepted by masked and armored saboteurs. Out of a misplaced sense of duty, we gladiators fought back. We prized fighters, lost. Most were disabled, and only the foolish died. Beaten and frankly, impressed, I listened to their offer; remain in bondage, or join the Mandalorians. I didn’t know what that was then, but they were mighty, skilled, and honestly… I really liked their armor.” *** A golden gauntlet would have the wooden pipe tapped against it, and remnants of ash littered the conquered throne. A deep chuckle reverberated from the feeorin’s wide chest, and he set the pipe aside to receive a wide-rimmed Onderonian vase from a young Mandalorian serf. Filled with a rich titian juice, it would be held and swirled like a massive chalice by Mandalore. He brought it to his lips, and drank deep as a single sensory tendril twitched in delight. A low reverent sigh escaped the warlord after, and his free hand rose to stroke the mentioned tendril thoughtfully. “I found myself on an alien world. Mandalore. You’ve heard of it. The great ancestral home of my people. It was beautiful, unlike anything I had ever seen on the Smuggler’s Moon. Rich rivers, endless fields of crops, mighty and towering woodlands full of game and impossibly high mountain peaks. That’s where I was sent. To Clan Bralor. The people lived, worked, and grew, together. They fought, but in audited circles as trials or training. A hardy people with strong arms, hearts and minds. Doubt any other clan could have tempered me. A pair of humans took me in, and taught me the Resol’Nare. The way. I was stubborn, foolish, and fought them often. They always fought back, and always showed me the lesson to be learned after defeating me. Eventually, I was humbled by their support, and for a time my heart and thoughts were calmed. They returned to their humble jobs at the local beskar mine and refinery, with me in tow. Turns out I was quite good at smashing stone and moving heavy objects. More than that, they began to show me art. Ner’buire- my ‘parents’, were both bohemian spirits. Dad spent much of his free time creating sculptures from metals unworthy to send to the smiths, and Mum turns out was a songstress. Like my birth mother. He taught me to appraise and work metal, and she taught me to sing. Never had any real talent for either, but both remain favorite hobbies. I learned to, and grew to love them both dearly. Then the people, and the culture not long after. It took them a decade, but when they felt I was ready gave me my name. Dral’tranyc. Powerful Star-Burn. They guided me in crafting my first beskar'gam, a simple but well crafted suit, which they painted blue as a gift. It was beautiful. I literally cried. Married a miner’s daughter soon after, and raised an adoptive daughter. We both worked the refinery, I showed them the love ner’buire showed me, and in return they taught me a love I had not known existed. It was nice while it lasted, but once time took them both, I left the grandkids- then adults- to their pursuits and began to itch one of mine. I needed a fight. Not a spar nor trial, but the real deal. Looked up the same Bralor raiding party which had rescued me, and went starside.” *** The chalice was drained, and a great, deep sigh of satisfaction escaped the feeorin. Another servant would replace the large cup with a bowl of bright purple pickled eggs, and one would be tossed hedonistically high before Mandalore caught and swallowed it whole. The motioned caused the bejeweled tendrils behind his head to clink together lightly, and again as he ate a second, then a third before inhaling deeply. With a slight shift the warlord placed the bowl upon the bench to his left, and popped another egg. His pale yellow eyes watched the group of outsiders before him as he chewed it, and gestured towards the bowl with a large gauntlet. “You’ll have to excuse me, arutiise. Conquering is hungry work. So was raiding. We operated through the Outer Rim, far from your Republic and before your Empire even existed. We explored, hunted wild game and megafauna, and sabotaged ships from any of the big slavers. Hutts. Exchange. Even crazy Jedi cults. Those were always fun, if dangerous. As much as I enjoyed the homeworld, this was where I began to feel most at home. I even had ner’aliit, family, along for the ride. The great grand-nephew of my Mum. He was small, but gifted with his beska’d, and I thank him for laying the fundamentals for facing your jetiise and darjetiise. Sparring with him was to spar the storm itself. In the quiet between times, I would find myself alone and reflective. Thought of my bride, and my first daughter often. I missed them, and it began to consume me. Always there were nightmares in the quiet between, with only a good fight followed by some rough nuhoy’han on-world ever granting rest. It was all a balm, but nothing a cure. Nothing could stop the steady drip of horror fed to me by my own mind nightly. I would see them; my brothers, my parents, my bride, my lovers, my child, being cornered within the arena I was reared in, by the same megafauna and the jetii I hunted, before being brutally murdered. Back then, I’d only confide in my nephew. It was he who suggested I had yet to fulfill my contribution to the clan; not on their end, but on mine. While I aided the clan, I needed to aid myself as well. I needed to face the pits. On his advice, on our next trip through Nar Shadaa, I stayed behind to face my demons. Turns out Gorgo the Hutt still ruled his district. An easy in. I went up to that Hutt, and made a wager. I would fight anything, anyone, he wished. If his chosen was victorious he could keep my armor, but if I did, I could choose one of his slaves to free. His first challenge was literally a gundark. I let the kid keep the ears as a souvenir after shepherding them to Mandalore. It was the best I had felt for years, and kept making the same wager over the next couple decades. Gorgo rarely seemed angry when his champion would lose, and just liked to watch Gusha Blue fight again. Would almost say we became friends, for I never turned away an invitation to his parties. If you’ve never experienced a Cartel orgy, you haven’t experienced the fringes. Here I gained many credits, many prizes, but most importantly, an eye for talent. Only the most promising slave children were chosen as my prize, and each sent to the planet I held dear. If possible, I would’ve freed them all then. Luckily for me, that opportunity would present itself. There was a dire price. Gusha. Lucky me.” *** The great armored titan would sigh, and a hand patted at the plates over his abdomen. He gestured to the now empty egg bowl where a serf quickly collected it, while a second serf entered the chamber carrying a portable holoprojector. The device would be placed on a table near the diplomatic parties, and a queued clip projected bright within the firelit chamber. A Mandalorian; undeniably the feeorin himself in a different set of beskar’gam, blue with fresh splashes of gold paint across every plate, charged down the streets of Nar Shadaa while Dha Werda Verda played. Cartel gangsters attempted to stop him, but would be literally run over if they stood in his way, and their bones crunched audibly with every step. As the war chant reached its climax, the blue and gold warrior would ram himself shoulder first into a grand Huttese styled door. Both great fists would pummel the weakened plasteel steadily until a final powerful shove would tear the door from frame. It collapsed back into the antechamber, and Mandalore was greeted by a hail of blaster fire all but ignored as he strode cockily into the stronghold. The Onderonian palace doors across the hall from where the warlord king now sat were still splayed out across the floor, an almost perfect mirror to what the Imperials and Republicans had just witnessed. “You see, I couldn’t work in the shadows if I wanted. I’m already famous across the holonet. ‘The Goldalorian’ they called me after my crusade against the Hutt Cartel on Nar Shadaa. Might be asking yourself how I went from an acquaintance, someone who ultimately benefited from the Hutts, to what you saw. The answer, was my second bride, and a pair of sons. She was a Mandalorian freelancer, a bounty killer who took jobs from the highest bidder; including the Cartel. Fiery, passionate, quick witted and even quicker with her slugthrower. An exotic twi’lek beauty, with two kind hearted boys who she insisted on training personally. I respected it. I respected her. For living on the fringes, we had it good. I fought for and freed more children, and she hunted Nar Shadaa’s most dangerous game. Even losing an arm to a jetii couldn’t stop her, so when I went off-world to guide my chosen to Mandalore, I never worried for her safety. Or my boys. I didn’t realize the Hutt’s were growing tired of my successes until it was too late. After defeating an acklay using one of its own claws, I chose a most special young man as my prize. A besalisk meant to be traded with a particularly nasty, but friendly rival Hutt of Gorgo. The boy reminded me of myself before the Mandalorians, and felt such hope, pride, and joy knowing that the lad would soon learn what I had. That he would be saved, as I was. Our trip to Mandalore was routine, and I spent an extra few days visiting family on-world. The return trip to Nar Shadaa was spent excited at the news of yet another grandchild on the way, and couldn’t wait to tell my sweet, spirited wife and kids. The first thing I saw when arriving home, was her. Broken, beaten, bare and hung from the ceiling by her lekku. She was raped, murdered, and put on display for me to find. Our home was raided, ransacked, and our children nowhere to be seen. The few dead gamorreans, each with a slug in their brains, were all I needed to see to know who was responsible. I brought her body down, and dressed her with her beskar'gam to wait for me. Not for long. A hasty paint job and a couple inquiring calls later, and I became ‘The Goldalorian’. I tore down door after door, and killed Hutt after Hutt until finding that Gorgo himself- tired of losing expensive slaves- had organized this betrayal. I rolled him from the top of his tower, and watched him become a puddle upon the promenade. My justice was fast, furious, and very public. One good thing about Nar Shadaa, the people know to stay out of the way of a man on a quest for vengeance. And I did avenge my poor bride, and in her name freed every slave from every palace I hit. But I never found our boys. Not even after a week of searching. While I tracked them, some of my clan answered my call and aided in the escorting of dozens of freed children to Mandalore, where they could build the life they wanted. I personally returned my wife to her homeworld, where she had been raised. Concord Dawn." *** Smoke filled the hall once more, and the bowl of Mandalore’s long-stemmed pipe glowed with orange embers as he inhaled. The light would be reflected in the feeorin’s pale eyes as they seemed to stare off into space above his guests, and a single traitorous tear rolled down his cheek. For a long moment he held his silent reverie, and with a great exhale of smoke his eyes seemed to return to the present. He wiped away the tear with the back of a single hand, no shame in his expression as the warlord regarded his guests once more, and took another drag from his pipe. A trio of smoke rings would be puffed into the air, and he turned his gaze to watch them hover lazily overhead. “I carried her from the shuttle, to the grain fields where she spent her childhood. My bride’s family welcomed me, and helped with the funeral ceremony. We scattered her ashes over their land, reunited her beskar’gam with those of her parents, and celebrated her life and accomplishments. It was bittersweet, but her siblings were generous and giving in our mutual time of mourning. My brother in-law swore he would find our sons, and offered a place for me at their farm. I declined his offer, but went with him to Concord Dawn’s largest spaceport. He took a shuttle off-world to hunt for his nephews, and I decided to stay. For a long while, I did nothing but live off my earnings from Nar Shadaa. Haunted a local cantina, and watched a curvy theelin perform most nights. That little bard sang me to slow peace, and clearly had noted my near nightly presence. She eventually began to join me after her performances, and we talked through many a cool Concordian night. After a session of Mandallian Narcolethe and pipeweed on a hot summer night, our friendship changed. Let me tell you, friends, everything you hear about the theelin is true. Exquisite. It was she who got me working again, bless her, and introduced me to her sister who helped find homes for those new to our culture. Mostly children, as it were, I helped keep them in line- and began their education early. I still mourned for my last lost loves, but my little bard was gracious and gentle, and the young ones endearing. I found myself falling for my people once more, and the unfailing love and support they showed as they saved me. Again. So when a great fire broke out from a sudden crashed ship, it was easy to step up and save as many lives as I could. For days we came together to fight the spreading inferno, and while some were lost to the disaster; many more were saved. I put my head down and worked, and didn’t realize the attention I had gathered. The people began to follow me, out of all the others who fought for our city. We rallied, together, and the fires were calmed. The feast after is still talked about to this day. More importantly, the people elected me as chief of our emergency response team. Volunteers only, our group was small, efficient, and blessedly rarely called upon. My bard and I wedded, and we eventually adopted and raised three kids. Life was good. The children and grandchildren from my past would come to visit, and we as a family feasted and celebrated life, together. It was wonderful, and when my latest lovely wife suddenly collapsed during such an occasion, it was a terrible shock. Our healers explained after that she had succumbed to a hereditary illness, and had days left before joining the manda. We spent them as a family, and all were at her bedside as she passed. By then our three children had started new families of their own, and none argued when I chose to pass my duties to my son as a successor. I was literally bartering with a Mandalorian freighter to go off-world when I heard the call. The call to crusade, the call to war; the call… of Mand'alor.” *** The hand-crafted wooden pipe would be handed off to another serf as they moved by to collect it, a small smile shared with Mandalore as he shot them a reassuring wink. A reverent grin still curled catlike lips as the feeorin rested a hand upon one knee, and the other rose to pinch a tendril where it met his chin. With a smooth, slow roll between pointer finger and thumb, the Mandalorian stroked the sensory organ as pale eyes slowly looked each Jedi over. They stilled piercingly upon a single Master, and the golden warrior’s smile grew with recognition. “I know you remember me, jetii. From the crusades. Not the Betrayer’s failed attempt, but the true war. Saw you on Ordo, yeah? Around when our revolution gained traction. Proud to say Clan Bralor answered every call, even after being reduced to our humble mining trade for a few decades. We forged new armors and weapons in secret, and when the time came waged war as only the Mandalorians can. I was brought into the Ori’ramikade; The Supercommandos. Champions of the Canons of Honor- Mandalore’s chosen and most capable warriors, after a single battle. Can’t say I blamed the Mand’alor, as Clan Bralor sent me off to war with a new suit of heavy gold-plated beskar’gam, and heavier weaponry to compliment my tempered, focused fury. Never felt more alive than when I waded into the fray, gatling blaster in one hand, grenade launcher in the other, and traditional battle chants on repeat broadcast through our HUD’s. I know for a fact, that I was not alone among our people to learn why our ancestors worshiped war. The ultimate fight for survival, for betterment, for your future and that of the Mandalorians. You all might not understand it, but that is why you stand down there while we populate the worlds war has brought us. I protected those around me. Fought side by side with my people, for my people. We stood together, and showed both of your cultures that ours is worthy, noble, and as I hope you’re beginning to learn; honest and merciful. So when our last Mand’alor was dishonorably killed in her sleep, lightsaber wound through her chest, I personally rallied the ori’ramikade. When both of your Orders refused to answer our outrage, and hid their truths, you left me no choice. We knew of the Reclaimer’s next plan of attack, and it was sound. She was young, idealistic, and at times her sight narrow; but she was a tactician. You now know what that plan was. Our best smith crafted this armor for me, and when it was ready we went through with our lost Mandalore’s attack. My Supercommandos seized control of Roche from your Empire, and the Mandalorian clans rained down with our newly commissioned bes’uliik’e to conquer this world. Onderon, finally reunited with Dxun; the Demon Moon. Whether it was the Empire, the Republic or some other faction that assassinated her, it does not matter; Both your governments have committed crimes against our people, and this is our declaration of strength and sovereignty. We are not the token nation, nor the attack dogs you made us to be. We are Mando’ade, the true Mandalorian people. Our way of life has been reclaimed, and none shall ever take that from us again; unless you wish for our crusades to continue. Which trust me, many Clans are calling for. You’re lucky. Many more are calling for something new. An offer. A pact. And it is this; We will not crusade into your territories, nor you into ours. We retain a sovereign ruled right to hunt both jetii and darjetii in ritualistic combat to appease our manda and our way. For it is in our culture to better ourselves through combat, and there is no finer fight than against your wizards. We seek not to conquer your worlds, but to discover and uncover ours, and indeed ourselves. A time to rebuild and redefine, for everyone in the galaxy. An era where no child should fear oppression nor attack, and no parent worry for their lives. Your civilians will remain safe, and your greatest warriors will have a chance to prove their mettle. Feel safer with this pact, for my people respect and follow my word. Feel safer, knowing that it will last past most of your eventual deaths. That is not a threat, but a matter of longevity, for my species live long, and I am a patient man. The Mandalorians will keep their word, and I, shall regulate this agreement. There, that’s a good title. Call me the Regulator. It’s what I am, and it’s what I will do. Haat, ijaa, haa’it. This is our deepest verbal guarantee, and you will have to trust it. If not, know that Onderon and Roche were only an example of what we’re capable of. Now, all true Mandalorian agreements, are sealed with a feast. I hope you’re hungry for the new age, arutiise.” Over the years, Mandalore the Regulator so far has kept his word, with no signs of breaking it. His people have settled into their new territories, and are experiencing a cultural, financial and spiritual renaissance. |
