The Reclaimed

[Dutch]

The Onderonian sniper and his spotter were both swept off the ledge of the roof by a single sweep of a great golden arm, and exquisitely crafted plates hissed gently over one another with every motion made by the titanic attacker. As he recoiled the gilded set of armor would block a pair of blaster bolts with that same arm, not even bothering to retaliate as more beskar’gam glinted from behind the shooter. The massive Mandalorian let his stance fall, and turned a great horned helm to size up his destination; the resplendent Iziz Royal Palace now but a few city blocks away. From his high vantage point atop a Merchant Quarter communications depot, the latest to take the mantle of Mand’alor took a moment to savor the castle’s sight. Pillars of thick smoke rose in a regular concentric pattern behind him throughout the city, where there once stood sector famous turret towers; now famous piles of rubble thanks to Par’jila’s opening notes of the blitz. Without them the Crusaders were free to unleash themselves into Iziz from astride war droids, raiding skiffs, and some (including Mandalore himself) from orbital freefall. Mandalore's Crusaders flooded the streets and trampled nearly every Republic line in hordes of whooping overwhelming force, their enemy retreating in visible droves down the Quarter’s streets towards the Sky Ramp.

Par’jila still dominated the space above between Onderon and Dxun, along with the rest of the Crusade fleet as the mighty dreadnought now hammered the last surviving Republic cruiser. It was trying to fight back, but between the swarm of war droids systematically taking apart its weapons and the dreadnought's superior shields it wasn't much of a fight. The Republic fleet, weakened by the surprise attack, continued to dwindle as they fought to breach the pillar-like blockade the Mandalorians had formed between the Demon Moon and the capital. It was only a matter of time before they would retreat, or suffer annihilation. The city’s defenses had crumbled similarly under the weight of the Mandalorian assault, unprepared for a fight of this scale. Each clan had shown up in spades for their retribution, ready to avenge their freshly slain Reclaimer. Dral’tranyc Bralor himself was no exception to this, but had to remember his role in this wasn’t just to crack skulls. He had grown tired of watching his people struggle, of watching mand’alore die over and over, of watching his children and grandchildren mourn all this through the centuries.

“No more.” The Feeorin said lowly in his reverberating baritone; repeating the very words spoken when he first heard of the Reclaimer’s assassination. Words he had spoken before even deciding to take the mantle. Words the manda had prophesied through him. Now  fate brought him to stare down a seat of Republic power from behind the Mask of Mandalore, and it sank in that this was happening. That he could do this. They could do this. He breathed the heat of emotion and exertion built up from beneath his new set of golden beskar’gam, and exhaled into each bone and chord of musculature buzzing for more. As if Kad Ha’rangir himself stood before the Royal Palace, watching the last stand of the Republic form, and he knew they were watching him back.

A massive explosion from orbit suddenly bloomed, and Mandalore turned his visor from the Palace to the last Republic cruiser as it cracked in half to spill out across the horizon. Par’jila ceased fire, and hung lazily above as a cloud of basilisk war droids descended upon the dying cruiser to finish it off. It was then that the enemy fleet began to adjust course away, some already jumping to hyperspace as Mandalorian rounds chased them off. The golden armor applauded his fleet in wide approval, the massive gauntlets turned their way so everyone knew who he cheered for. He felt his pulse quicken when he realized what came next; and toggled his HUD to the prompt gifted by Clan Vevut; his locator beacon and comms snapped on to broadcast across all frequencies, friendly or foe, and he turned back to face the Royal Palace. Mandalore raised his arms at either side palms upwards, the silvery lengths of his kama and similar lengths at each pauldron- same as the Reclaimer used to don - billowed lazily in the hazy breeze of the battle’s air. Open arms for his kin, and an open challenge to the Palace.

"Bic ca'nara.”

He proclaimed, and the sound of his voice boomed across every holonet device throughout the city, which visibly gave a start to many a fleeing Republican. And it was, as he said, time. With arms still held wide in easy confidence, he smiled from behind the mask when his HUD began to blip with friendlies arriving from across the city. The wind shifted, and began to pick up; with it a massive stormfront of dark clouds which crept ominously over the mountains surrounding Iziz to the east opposite of the Royal Palace from them. A web of lightning flashed across the thunderhead, and Mandalore felt a fresh surge of adrenaline pump through his heart. Almost as if Onderon itself was speaking to them, but he would have to contemplate the deeper poetic meaning of this sign later; for now, he had a Sky Way filled with desperate men between him and destiny.

It would be rude to keep destiny waiting much longer.

[Ysmir]

---

3595 BBY: Iziz Spaceport, Onderon

"For Mand'alor," Hal spoke.

There was a mechanical buzz to his voice from behind the helm of his blue and white Beskar'gam as he cut down a distracted attacker, firing hopelessly at the back of the gleaming golden armor that Hal followed. The Tehk'la blade and its vibrating edge cut clean through the soldier's combat armor and dropped him to the floor, where a well-placed blaster bolt to the helm put him out of his misery for good. A century of combat experience made Hal numb to the thoughts and dreams swiftly put to an end by their actions this day. It wasn't about forgiveness or compassion. This was the time that he had waited all of his life for, the time he had wished so desperately his father would be alive to witness. The Reclaimer's name had become legend among the Mando'ade, but just as quickly as that fire roared to life, it was snuffed out in a single instant by the work of some politcian's razor tongue; no more.

This would not go unanswered.

Luckily, where before they had to wait years for another brave leader to rise and claim the mantle, their retribution came swiftly in the form of the massive Feeorin that Hal now followed into battle personally. Hal knew little of the man; his past was as mysterious as his sudden and charismatic overtaking of the Mandalorian people, garnering the support of near-every clan from the Galaxy over to partake in his crusade of vengeance. At rallies on their collected worlds, the Regulator echoed the same words over and over; "No more." It was as much a battle cry as it was a reflection on the abuse suffered at the hands of the Republic and the Sith over the course of decades. In a way, the phrase had become something of a slogan for the co-affiliated clans that worked side by side in a way never before seen by the Galaxy at large. The Regulator had successfully brought together every able-bodied man and woman, ready to lay their life on the line and die for a cause that was greater than any individual. It was freedom, or death. Nothing more, nothing less. And Hal was ready.

His mechanical arm whirred with interlocking servos as he sheathed his Tehk'la and holstered his blaster. Retrieving the almost comically oversized heavy blaster from his back, Hal stood alongside Mandalore on top of the communications depot and stared down the scope. Behind them, a squad of commandos field stripped the fallen Republic soldiers for whatever equipment they could muster. They'd need it.

Through the scope, Hal saw the destruction as though he were in the fray himself. The destruction of the last Republic cruiser may as well have been the dinner bell for the rallying Mandalorian troops on ground; bolstered by the Regulator's voice booming over ever holonet device in the sector and the almost poetic CRACK of thunder from the stormy skies above, they began a forward push that sent the crumbling Republic line toppling over itself to fall back to the Sky Ramp, the last bastion of sanctuary that was left for them to conquer. Once the Palace was taken, this battle was won. After decades, the Mandalorians would have delivered a decisive and critical blow to the Republic's foothold on this part of the Galaxy. It was within their grasp. As his scope hovered over a squad of fleeing Republic soldiers, Hal let fly a volley of blue blaster bolts; the heavy assault rifle thumped against the armored shoulder of his Beskar'gam, and one could feel the weight and power behind each shot as they distorted the air around them. Two of the fleeing soldiers fell from the well-placed shot, and Hal lowered his weapon. He looked to his leader.

"The line is pushed. They've fallen back," Hal observed. Then, he looked back toward the Sky Ramp, a visible line barely holding out against the oncoming rush of commandos. He cocked back the catch on his blaster. "Lord Mand'alor, it would be my honor to go and knock on that front door by your side. Only common courtesy."

[Fromikeable]

"No more." The words rang through Genthus's head like a gong as he seemed to snap back into reality, panting heavily. He found himself frozen in pose, his huge beskad raised and ready to swipe downward, bloody and grime and mud dripping from his new beskar'gam. The armor was only days old; a gift from his grandfather, the black paint still new and crisp, no yellow thunderbolts yet to be found. When Genthus had told the old man that he was off to help the Crusade, his grandfather's response had been half-heartedly. Reluctant. Genthus had stormed away, calling him crazy.

Now here he stood after days of fighting, his sword raised above a shaking Republic soldier. The man at his feet couldn't have even been his age, 19 at most. Blaster wounds peppered his legs, his hands and face a pale, sickly shade. His face hid beneath his arms, palms up, throat visibly retching as he awaited death.

He deserves it. Inhaling sharply, Genthus raised the sword higher, running through the swing in his head. He'd killed dozens today with no issue. What was this one to give him pause? Indeed, this morning, he had been all too eager to prove himself, to outdo his brothers and sisters, to make the Deshra clan proud. And as the morning had turned to midday, he'd continued, the smile gone from his face. And as midday had turned to afternoon, he'd continued, a small frown forming. And now here he stood, his mouth a decidedly downward crescent.

Death to the Republic. Glory to Mandalore! Genthus swung his sword down, but had to close his eyes as it made fleshfall. The shriek of death that came from the soldier elicited a mighty bout of shivering that took seconds to stop, the black beskar'gam visibly moving. By the time he opened his eyes, he was already nauseous. When he saw the young soldier's face split open like a melon, his hands abandoned the sword to pluck off his own helmet.

For the next minute, Genthus retched.

Pulling himself together, Genthus plucked his sword free and took a final look at the dead soldier, his compatriots already moving over to strip the body of ammo and weapons. Why had this disturbed him unlike every other kill? Why would this, some soft, pale-faced child of a man, make his stomach twist? Genthus had killed dozens, and no small number of those dozens had been racked up today alone.

Confused and unsettled, Genthus wiped his mouth on his gauntlet before putting his helmet back on. Too weak for glory, Sigurd? The thought made him huff, stoking his own temper. Looking over to the Mandalore and his ally, he raised his sword and shouted.

"Let me charge it, my mand'alor!" He tried to fake his way through the quiver in his voice by shouting louder; surely a man borderline yelling couldn't be seen as too weak to kill a man without puking.

"I will slay them to the last!"

[Dutch]

Thunder rolled even louder as the stormfront moved over the Royal Palace, and the mountains blocking the horizon behind it began to darken with rain. The smell of it washed through the air filters of Mandalore’s helmet, and cut through the scent of dismantled bodies and burning architecture beautifully sweet. Many of his warriors called out to their sole ruler, crying out pledges in adrenaline soaked ecstasy, others only able to articulate a whoop or passionate Oya! in anticipation. The massive set of golden armor let his arms fall to his side, and turned to peer back at the horde growing through the streets and rooftops at his back. His gaze swept the collection of T-visors and multicolored beskar’gam, the spirit of his people palpable even through the Mask of Mandalore. He nodded to all, and placed a single gauntlet upon his breastplate over where one of his hearts lay. Another gust of wind whipped the lengths of silvery cloth which hung from the great golden armor, and the sky darkened with clouds at a rapid pace.

With an open palm the hand which had rest upon his chest rose high, as if Mandalore himself was calling the storm closer to them. The rain reached the Sky Ramp, and the last stand of Iziz. They were close enough for him to hear the patter of drops over plasteel plates behind him. His arm would still be raised to the skies as he turned to face the last stand again. One by one the fingers of the gold gauntlet rolled smoothly into a solid fist before the warlord king thrust it higher.

“TOME!”

The Mandalorian’s voice boomed across the city again, and was answered by a mixture of his horde crying “Together!” in their native tongue back, with more thunder at their coattails. He bellowed it a second time, and was answered a second time, same with the third time he cried out his promise to them. One didn’t need to be sensitive to the Force to feel the energy among the throng of armored, screaming warriors, and Mandalore reveled in the way every nerve in his body buzzed with the moment. The man swallowed the growing lump in his throat, wrestling internally with his passionate nature to not become lost in it. So distracted by that struggle, that he didn’t see the glint of a sniper’s scope from the Royal Palace.

A blue bolt pierced the stormy skies in a blur to slam into Mandalore’s horned helm a second before the rain hit him, and the rest of his suddenly silenced Clans. The rain drummed over their beskar’gam much louder than when it fell over the Republicans before them...

*

Present day…

A great burst of steam would unfurl from the fresher door as it slid open with a light hush, and a large, bare turquoise foot would step from it. Music came with it from a speaker perched upon the sink, a funky, plucky tune accompanied by shimmering notes and the soulful sound of a Mandalorian vocalist. With a satisfied sigh Dral’tranyc would walk from his personal fresher aboard Par’jila, both his hands knotting together the ends of a bright purple towel around his waist. Still nostalgic from his shower time reverie, he couldn’t help but say “Tome!” to himself with a grand sweep of an arm to the emptiness of his private chamber. His pale yellow eyes moved around the exquisitely crafted furniture and fabrics gifted to him from various celebrities and artisans across the galaxy, but couldn’t help but notice the lack of any other presence nearby- except for his suit of armor which hung from its stand nearby. From this particular angle it would look as if the Mask of Mandalore stared back at him with unnerving stillness, like it needed to have an important talk with Dral.

“Like what you see, Goldie boy?” Mandalore asked tauntingly, and walked by it with a laugh as he thought ’That's what I thought, punk’. He punched the breastplate with a satisfying thunk! on passing. The brawny Feeorin sauntered to the music towards a thick, gold plated refrigerator and hummed happily to himself as he perused an overstocked stash. His hand had to brush away a wayward tendril as it tickled the left side of his thick neck, but quickly found a swath of vines before two fingers pinched and twisted off a large bunch. He purred and pursed extrinsic lips at his prize, a length of blue and red mottled grapes as long as his forearm. A loud rumbling from under his sculpted musculature reminded him to get to the snack, and did so by plucking a few grapes with just his teeth. They popped with joyous sweet and sour juices, and Mandalore’s eyes involuntarily closed at how damn good they were at that moment.

Without further hesitation he began to sing along with the song, and waltzed gracefully over towards his favorite lounger. It was one of those designs you saw Sith Lords drape themselves over in bad holosoaps, with the holotable built right into the arm for the Sith to better explain their exposition, and expensive black velvet. When Dral saw it in the previous owner’s lair (a Sith who thought he could gain respect by tricking and killing the Regulator), he knew he needed to take it with him after ending the adept's aspirations, and did exactly that. Now it welcomed him in decadence as he rolled himself out across it, and spread out as much as he could with a big stretch before being settled.

He flipped on the attached holotable, and held his grapes high to pluck off a few more as it booted up. Once on the Feeorin flipped through his usual feed, but paid more attention to what a great bunch of grapes he had. It took a hololoop of a tiny nexu kitten which struggled to wrestle a big fish onto a riverbed to distract him, and the massive Mandalorian took a moment to watch it.

“Ha! That fishy is too big for you, little man” Mandalore laughed as he swiped past it to the next thing, and paused again as the Clan Crush of the Day popped up. From catlike lips he let out a low whistle, and leaned a bit closer to see the armored Nautolan female as she seductively swung a leg around her sleek basilisk war droid before it bucked with defiance from beneath- but you better believe she still held on.

“And this one is probably too big for you.” Dral added with a suggestive chuckle and a pat of his stomach before he leaned back against his lounger. He had swiped through a few more pages, and mowed through half his vine of grapes before finally resigning to check his ‘Priorities’ feed. It was Mandalore’s least favorite part of his morning, for these days it was usually filled with business regarding the Archeri and their former reign of terror, or whatever squabble the Empire or Republic were currently embroiled in. Today would bring something different though as a small bright red eagle flashed next to his most recent message. Eris wouldn’t have flagged this for him if it wasn’t important.

“A Message for Me? Interesting...” He rumbled as it opened, and paused for a long moment. His eyes moved silently as he read, then reread it, then once more with a tilt of his head.

“...Well, shit.” The Regulator finally said to himself in reply, noting the serendipitous timing.

[Ysmir]

Every death mattered -- every sacrifice mattered. Each and every soldier who died on this battlefield, no matter the side, knew what they had signed up for.

So, Hal held no sympathy for these poor souls.

The thunder began to grow stronger and closer, such that each and every boom thumped within the walls of Hal's helmet and replaced the sound of his own heartbeat. An electrifying excitement was abuzz in the air as the Mando'ade hastened their advance on the palace. Pride swelled within Hal's chest; pride for his people, pride for how far they'd come, and pride for how the Galaxy might view this as something more than just a passing fancy. Their actions here today would be a statement to all of their unification, their stubborn defiance in the face of extinction. Nothing would give Hal more satisfaction than to be feared once more when seen in his Beskar'gam, rather than looked upon with deridement and disgust. Feared? Respected? The distinction between the two was a moot point, now. Their fate was in their hands. The Galaxy watched. The Gods watched.

As Mandalore's voice boomed with bravado and confidence, a rallying cry to their cause which the Clans answered, Hal turned his helmeted face up to the skies that began to cry for their achievements. He could smell the rain approaching through his helmet, a wet and balmy sensation that was reminiscent of his extensive time spent on their homeworld. His eyes closed beneath the visor as the unified chants filled the air...

THWOOM

Hal's eyes opened, his face snapped forward. He made note of the Regulator as he recoiled from the hit -- but nothing more. Idiots, Hal quipped within his head, you just stoked the flames. Beskar wasn't so easily breached.

Hoisting his heavy blaster up once more, Hal was the first to strike as he followed the shot's trajectory back to its origin with his own retributitive counter-attack. A single, powerful blue bolt was let loose from the barrel, a practiced and near-impossible shot through the rainy air that struck true. It pierced the scope of the sniper, breaking through the transparisteel lense like a krayt fang through flesh. The sniper was dead before he hit the floor in the Royal Palace's high towers, his spotter watching on with a look of horror, both for his fallen comrade and the sudden eerie silence that pervaded the Merchant Quarter. Legions of commandos stood resolute, staring ahead stoically toward their goal. The Onderonian military stared back equally silent, but with an underlying fear for what was to come.

Hal leapt from the building's roof to the ground level of the Merchant Quarter once the first war cry was sounded. The assault had begun, and he intended to be part of it.

---

Present day...

"Well, no shit. Cannoks'll eat anything. Next time, think before you bring your kid on a hunt," Hal said despondently. The Mandalorian stood near a bar within the Par'jila, spending a bit of rare leisure time at the Lodge. Shaking his head at the drunken excuse for a Hunter, Hal downed the rest of his drink and walked from the bar to the viewport.

Many called this place a "home away from home", but Hal never quite understood what they meant. The Regulator's philosophy was plain enough for all to follow, Hal thought; Home is wherever the Hunt is. He could spend his days wasting away on Manda'yaim, a conquest he had pursued and mastered time and time again, or he could strike out and seek greater challenge on the fringes of the known Galaxy. Truth be told, Hal had become worried in recent days. He felt complacent, comfortable... dare he say it, content. All these "C" words were horrifying realities for a Mandalorian Commando to confront. Near every day of his life had been a constant struggle for recognition and survival. Now, recognized as a people, their survival was all but guaranteed, and recognition was part and parcel wherever one deigned to adventure. To truly live to the tenets of the Resol'nare, a Mandalorian needed to search harder than ever before.

Hal stared down to his hands through the visor of his helm; the micronized beskar of his crushgaunts whirred as he tightened them into fists. He thought of his father -- a fondness arose within him that he seldom felt. Would Averic of Clan Kelborn become complacent in this Galaxy? No, Hal thought to himself. Never. He sighed. Wallowing in self-pity and reflection would get him nowhere.

Intent on departing the dreadnought to seek out fortune and glory on a nearby world to shake himself from his rut, Hal's attention was stolen away by a sudden and widespread change of energy throughout the lodge. The various commandos and hunters whispered in unison, hushed tones exchanging words of disbelief and even excitement as Hal walked by each table. Then, he became privvy to why; his eyes flicked upward through his visor to a HoloNet News broadcast that had become the center of conversation between each patron.

Hal could hardly believe his eyes.

The Unifar Temple lay in disarray as its occupants were wheeled out by the dozen, each afflicted by some form of weaponized virus. Cowardly, to hide in the shadows and attack the innocent as some form of imagine recompense. Hal's fists tightened even harder. This is it. The chance I've been waiting for.

Amidst the upheaval and outrage in the lodge, Hal's armored feet thudded along the floor as he made way toward Mandalore's suite. If the Regulator didn't know already, he had to be informed as soon as possible.

[Fromikeable]

The shot that pierced the air hit Mandalore with far more spiritual force than physical. The sniper had not struck a man, as he might have fighting another enemy. He had hit a suit of beskar'gam, a spirit of battle itself, and the silence ringing from the clans afterward made the severity of the insult clear. To land a shot in battle was courage. To land one mid-roar was fury.

And so the fury came, the charge starting on cue. Genthus's voice joined those of his brothers and sisters, his sword held at the ready to slash.

Beskar boots trampled asphalt and rubble as the sounds of battle exploded. The Onderonians fought with the ferocity of a cornered foe; they had nowhere to go, and even if they did, it would mean abandoning their last home. The Mandalorians returned the ferocity in kind, as they always did. To be Mando'a was to find ferocity in even the smallest things, to fight like every battle was their last. But as Genthus charged, that ferocity slipped with every step. As it fit like armor for his kin, it chaffed on his voice as he roared, dragging on his sword.

The Mandalorian charge hit the Onderonian line like a giant beskar fist. Genthus came sprinting into his first opponent, eyes closed as his sword carved across the woman's center. Bolts rang off of his armor as he advanced, tackling another soldier and beating him until he stopped moving. As the rain picked up, Genthus didn't notice the wetness under his armor as his eyes began to water, his vision blurring. He only thought to blink back into focus when a simple shout cut through.

"Tank!"

The explosion came before Genthus could turn to see, the world kicking sideways. Landing meters away with a grunt, Genthus scrambled for his sword as a trio of Onderonians trained their rifles on him, opening fire. By the time he was armed, shots peppered his beskar, the black paint giving way to singe, dent, and, finally, fault. When a shot penetrated between the plates at his hips and knees, he toppled to the ground, swearing heavily.

Arms shaking, he tried to crawl to cover as they reloaded. As the shots returned, he found sanctuary behind a piece of a fallen building, hands on his helmet, body trembling anew. He didn't even notice as the soldiers advanced, their cries simple and brusque.

"For Gargon!"