Post by Fromikeable on Jun 20, 2013 23:46:24 GMT -5
Faction: Mandalorians
Department: Jendri Clan
Rank: Clanleader
Name: Geronimo Jendri
Race: Zabrak
Age: 36
Height: 6’0”
Weight: 189 lbs.
Birth place: Ishantov's Grave, Rekkiad
Appearance:
Armor
Geronimo’s beskar’garm, being the first many of see of him, is imposing to say the least. The sleek metal, made of the legendary Mandalorian Iron, is entirely composed of both black and crimson red. Originally belonging to his ancestor Ishantov, the colors reflect both a respect for said ancestor as well as a vow may by the Jendri the day that Twin Spears was lost; to reclaim Rekkiad from the Ordo conquerors. As such, the colors were added shortly after Ishantov’s death, and have been maintained for centuries. Overall, the beskar’garm is fairly average armor in its design. It comes with all the Mandalorian staples; advanced HUD, pouches along the waist line, and a built-in comm. Beyond that, the armor has adopted a few custom characteristics, such as the etched Mandalorian symbol on the back of the left hand.
Flesh and Blood
Geronimo himself is the shining example of a fit, physically active Zabrak. Born with horns that were actually rather small, the man’s black hair has never exceeded the length of his shoulders, and is usually put into a small ponytail whenever a helmet isn’t concealing it. His face is fair, with his nose being a little crooked and his eyes an unsettling dark brown, with some likening them to black in their intensity. His ears end in points, his chin as well (albeit a dull point), and his teeth as third. His neck is visible and sturdy, his shoulders of medium width, and even his hands and feet fail to portray any sign of particular weakness.
Geronimo’s body, on the other hand, is at a total lack of fine points and cusps. Toned after a literal lifetime of fighting and training, the only thing keeping the Zabrak out of wandering eyes are the numerous and harsh scars. They cover everything; his arms, his chest, his back, and even his legs. They aren’t numerous enough to mar his skin, but they are great enough in multitude to make it obvious that Geronimo has never quite held a desk job. They cover toned and limber muscles, smooth skin wherever they aren’t, and an overall fine physique.
Truly the only part of Geronimo that fails to impress is a single spot on the back of his left leg; a kind of weak point in which one too many an injury has caused a small hindrance. It fails to bother him daily, but every once in a blue moon the Zabrak will find it slightly difficult to put weight on that point, giving him the smallest inclination of a limp. He is, however, a master at disguising his pain, and so usually he simply sucks it up and walks on unperturbed. It rarely bothers him in battle, as it can usually be fixed with a bit of stretching, but when it isn’t addressed it can prove quite bothersome.
The final trait of Geronimo, and usually the one least noticed, is his small facial tattoo. His parents, being Mandalorian first and Zabrak second, only loosely hung onto and passed on the racial tradition of tattoos, but rather instructed to Geronimo that those taken on should be of vital importance only. As such, Geronimo sports two markings; a set of black, thick lines the width of a candy bar that begin at his shoulders, work up his neck, up to his ears, and then turn to travel to the center of his cheeks, where they turn once again to return back down his neck, parallel to their journey up it, and finally meet in the center of his collar. Initially Geronimo received the first to mourn the passing of his father, and he created the pair with the passing of his mother, symbolizing the completeness of his raising and furthermore the passing on to the family name to him, especially when he became clanleader.
Personality:Geronimo has hardly ever been considered sociable. Quiet most of the time and generally reserved, he speaks, but only when he actually needs to. He isn’t one for chit-chat, nor for discussion in most cases; if an idea needs to be put across, he will speak it and then simply let his words soak in. He isn’t opposed to speaking, but as a rule of thumb, he can be counted on more so for quiet reflection than for idle conversation. He’s excellent for bouncing ideas off of, but not so much for seeking absolute compliance or negation; he has learned that most plans have their pros and cons, and generally he always tries to find a golden balance of both in his stratagem.
With that said, Geronimo is a Mandalorian by heart. He fights, he battles, he combats, and he kills; such is as he was raised to do, and such is as he does. He doesn’t hesitate to fight, but unlike his fellow clanmates and kinsmen, he sees a degree of mysticism in it. As such, he has earned the title “The Poet Jendri” amongst his clanmates, as a hobby of his includes writing ballads or poems revolving around great battles he has participated in. In this regard, he is a bit of a warrior-poet; fighting is his lifestyle, and he will occasionally feel the need to record his thoughts on the matter in artistic swoons.
But thanks to his experience, Geronimo is also excellent on his feet. Used to having to make split-second decisions and choices in the midst of a hellish battle, and furthermore adjusted to having steady hands for field operations and procedures in the same conditions, Geronimo has become resolute and calm in most situations, able to keep his cool. Certain topics, of course, manage to throw off this balance, but for the most part, the clanleader manages to retain a necessary calmness; panic, he has learned, earns nothing but further panic and a worsening of the things around him.
Skills:
Expert Combatant; Experienced Mandalorian
Experienced leader
Expert medic and surgeon
Adept in poetry
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 7
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 5
Leadership: 6
Unarmed: 7
Melee Weapons: 4
Ranged Weapons: 6
Bio:
Our Forefathers’ Forefathers:
Centuries ago, the Clan Jendri settled in a region of Rekkiad known simply as the Twin Spears. The Twin Spears themselves were two great ice pillars, naturally formed, with one said to hold the crypt of an ancient Sith warlord, whom many a Jendri wished to find and discover the secrets of. It was here that a Mandalorian was born, a small Zabrak boy named Ishantov Jendri. Ishantov was raised as per the usual Mandalorian mandate, learning the arts of battle and combat. He grew into a great Mandalorian warrior, and even came to lead his clan from Rekkiad; a title that was generally agreed to be appropriate.
It was years later that Ishantov awoke to the sound of Basilisks battling and the trade-mark sound of beskar’garm deflecting fire. As he donned his own armor and rushed outside, he bore witness to a heinous injustice; the clan Ordo had come to Rekkiad, and they were determined, it seemed, to claim Twin Spears for themselves. After days of fighting, Clan Jendri simply could not bear to hold out further, and the Ordo seized the territory. Settlements burned before the great pieces of ice as the Jendri chose to either stay or go, the clan splitting between those who stayed on Rekkiad and those who left to return to Mandalore. Ishantov fought to the very last man and died, bleeding and shot, in the house of his daughter.
Cue 3637 BBY. In a small house in one of the houses in one of the small villages of the territory Twin Spears on the planet Rekkiad, a Mandalorian woman finally completed childbirth. Her husband stood behind her, cleaning the baby as he threw another log into the fire, the winter weather outside cold and harsh. The baby, stressed with the sudden burden of breathing crisp, cold air, cried loudly, only making its parents smile widely, commenting on its lungs. After checking its sex, they spoke quietly for a while, the father occasionally staring over at both of their sets of armor on racks opposite the bed, one green, the other stark black and red. It was then and only then did they nod in agreement, entitling their new son Geronimo. Geronimo Jendri.
Geronimo’s father, one Tyranus Jendri, married his mother, Kayla Jendri, on the battlefield years ago during a raid on another Outer Rim planet as mercenaries. Neither had been there for the credits; what had drawn them was the life of battle, and what they had left with was the life of love. Both were ample warriors, however their particular family tree was known as somewhat tarnished. Many of the Jendri Clan, upon hearing either of them recount their ancestry, would give a disappointed sigh at the mention of Ishantov being the ancestor of Tyranus. Twin Spears, barren though it was, had been a sort of safe-haven for the Jendri; a home away from home from Mandalore. Its loss was accounted to Ishantov from both sides, Jendri and Ordo alike, and many of the Jendri and their children and their childrens’ children lightly blamed the Mandalorian for having lost it. Initially it had been a harsh blame, but as the years had passed, it had become more of a sighing disappointment, as if wondering what could have been.
Of all the people it had stricken, however, none were so afflicted as the descendants of Ishantov himself, and Tyranus was no exception. His only dream in life was to reclaim Twin Spears and Rekkiad on the whole for his family and his clan, and the only wonder people ever gave about him was that he could live amongst the Ordo that had settled in their conquest. This, of course, had put two clans in one territory; a recipe for eventual disaster that only seemed to bubble, never quite erupting outright. When asked, he would simply state that they were the stronger Mandalorians, and that one day soon the Jendri would reclaim their old strength and reclaim what was theirs. Naturally, just as his forefathers had told their sons, he told the same thing to young Geronimo, practically rambling to the baby. The best part was his beskar’garm; Ishantov’s armor, repainted by the clanleader’s daughter black and red to symbolize both the respect Ishantov owned and the eventual justice that would redeem his loss. It had been passed down through the generations, and one day it would belong to Geronimo.
A Sheep Among Wolves:
Geronimo grew up in that same small cottage, which lay at the peak of the Twin Spears in a settlement known as Ishantov’s Grave, appropriately named considering that the man’s tomb was just as the base of one of the pillars. The village was surely nothing to sneeze at; it was a few thousand people in cottages made of imported materials in the freezing Rekkiad cold at the base of the Twin Spears. The population was almost entirely Mandalorian, and from there it was easily divisible between the merchants, craftsmen, miners, and other workers, and the warriors. Oftentimes, it was easy to tell; if you saw someone for more than half the year, they were a worker of some kind. Businesses were mostly taverns, restaurants, smiths, and mines, and for the most part the town didn’t see much of the galaxy beyond come to them, save for the occasional treasure-hunter, mercenary, Mando’ade coming to visit family, or lunatic come to try and find the Sith tomb. Each was either addressed with a jeer, an exchange of stories, open arms, or a good smack to the face.
Beyond that, the town was further divided into the clans; Jendri and Ordo. Admittedly there were a bit more Jendri on Rekkiad in general than Ordo, but that didn’t stop the Ordos from laying full claim to their conquest. The Jendri didn’t argue, but only because they had already tried and lost; it was a general consensus among the conceding clan that eventually, someday, Twin Spears and the entire planet would be theirs again. Beyond that, larger fish caught the attention of both clans, and as such there was little time for feuding, such as the Mandalorian Wars. As such, both clans intermingled as needed throughout their days, but generally tried to stay with their own clansmates. Jendri children played with other Jendri children, and Ordo with Ordo. Geronimo was no exception.
Geronimo was therefore raised from a young age in a settlement of duality; fight or die, cold weather or warm cottages, Jendri or Ordo. His first word “Jenee” (which was supposed to be “Jendri”) seemed to assure that he was simply in the same line of thinking. As the toddler grew to walk and talk, his father would bring him on regular trips to his ancestors’ graves, outlining their battle time after time after time, especially Ishantov’s. By the time he was 6, Geronimo could practically tell his eleven-times-great grandfather’s battle himself, hindered only by vocabulary and his larger desire for his father or other adults in the room to tell their stories about fights and battles. For the child they, of course, cut out some of the gruel and detailed recounts, but Geronimo still grew up hearing stories of beheading, gutting, and even a few about scalping. Meanwhile, he spent his days wrestling with other Jendri children or listening to the stories of the Mando’ade who passed through or lived in Ishantov’s Grave, recounting great battles or terrible fights of might and skill. He was taught his Resol’nare, slowly but surely being raised as a Mandalorian.
By the age of 8, it was time for Geronimo’s training to begin. Kayla began to stay home more, as culture dictated, and take her son out into the cold, teaching him how to fight. Kayla and Tyranus had actually taken a liking for each other initially because of what Geronimo was being taught; unarmed combat. It was the personal beliefs of both that fighting without a weapon was not only one of the most honor-bound forms of combat, but also one of the most effective. Taking the loving approach, Geronimo learned all of his forms, his strikes, his evasions, and his survival techniques before beginning to spar lightly with his mother, her skills rivaling her husband’s. Growing more and more, eventually Tyrnaus began to aid and eventually take over the training, with him and his son going out into the snow and cold for days at a time to train and fight, eventually simply breaking down into a gamer of Hunter; both would split up for a few hours before trying to hunt each other down, leaving themselves to survive with would could be made from around them. Upon discovering one another, they would jump their target and attempt to wrestle it down, usually creating quite the disturbance in the woods that would leave them sweaty and either laughing or unintentionally bleeding. Both had beacons in case of emergencies, but neither ever used them; by the time it was dark, they had commonly found and proceeded to attack one another. By his twelfth birthday, Geronimo could hoist a record of about 1:4 in terms of wins and losses.
Also for his twelfth birthday, Geronimo received his first rifle and pistol. Having commonly used his parents’ to learn how to shoot, the kid was already a crackshot, hitting targets and suddenly being able to last even longer at Hunter. Still, as his parents' preference had been passed on to him, Geronimo always found his hands to be more satisfying tools than the guns. He, of course, still learned to use them, but they never quite enthralled him. As the tween grew into a teen, he became more and more revered by his father, who held hopes that one day his son could fulfill the justice that needed to be done over Twin Spears. Geronimo himself couldn’t help but be filled with the same desire, however he found his father to be a bit more fanatical about it; obsessive even. Geronimo surely wanted his heritage and what was due to his clan. He simply differed in approach; was it right to slaughter fellow Mando’ade just as the Ordo had done? His father seemed to think so, but alas Geronimo was unsure.
Sadly his father would never get to see one way or the other. Tyranus was gunned down one fateful battle during Geronimo’s 13th winter, and when his body and armor were returned to Rekkiad, Geronimo took up his father’s black and red beskar’garm as a sign of respect. He and his mother were taken in by others of the Jendri Clan, being adopted by Johanas Jendri, a man who cared little for the feud that had consumed Tyranus. Completing his training under the man, Geronimo’s approach to the conflict strengthened a bit; whereas his father had spoken of spilling blood to reclaim the property of their ancestors, Geronimo determined that land and snow weren’t worth the blood of his brothers and sisters. It wasn’t right to fight his fellow Mando’ade, and even though he still wished to reclaim what belonged to his clan, he was no longer ready to be trigger happy to do it. The rest of the Jendri clan widely held the same opinion; as Kayla put it best, “One day, maybe, but not at the cost of what’s left of our honor.” Still, the desire carried him through his verd’goten, inducting him into Mandalorian society and giving him right to don his ancestor’s black and red armor.
The Poet Jendri
Now a full-fledged Mandalorian, Geronimo began to strike out with his fellow Mando’ade, giving his mother one final hug before leaving her for the life of his culture. Geronimo began to do as the Mandalorians do, initiating raids and fighting in battles. At first he fought only with groups of Mando’ade, where he was commonly fighting, but in easier settings and simpler raids. Though an adult, he simply lacked the experience to do much else, and so his first few teenage years had a tendency to be a bit boring. Still, the young Mandalorian never complained as per his usual character, instead simply nodding and doing what work he found. He stuck with fellow Jendris, who looked after him as what he was; their clanmate.
As he grew older and older, however, Geronimo began to become more and more independent. By the time he was eighteen, he could successfully raid with only a small party, and his experience rivaled a good number of the adults on the Rekkiad. Still mostly raiding with his clan, he occasionally struck out with mixed families if manpower was scarce or the wait for clanmates was too long. Ultimately, however, he became a warrior of the Jendri, becoming treated less as a young fledging and more as a prime warrior. Moving to Mandalore to stay closer to his clan and therefore fight more easily, he took up residence with a surgeon, Victus Jendri, who was known for his expert (if not somewhat brutal) medical expertise and experience as a surgeon, both in rooms and wars. Victus, an older Mando’a who had since retired the fight and focused on patching up his clanmates, was a witty Twi’lek who walked with a cane and never feared to crack his new counterpart on the head with it if he felt the need. Geronimo was initially unimpressed with the man’s trade, but as his host began to recount story after story of his escapades and how his skills had not only saved him, but his clanmates, Geronimo began to take an interest. On the occasions that Geronimo would be home, either recuperating from the last raid or planning a new one, Victus would tutor him casually in medicine, giving him books on drugs and anatomy to read or actually dissecting numerous small creatures and showing said anatomy in the flesh. Some might have found it disgusting, but Geronimo found it fascinating, and soon he was in regular study, even going so far as to bring books to flip through on raids.
Things took a turn for the worse when Geronimo discovered that his mother had died peacefully with Johanas at Ishantov’s Grave one morning. With his biological ancestry deceased, he stuck to Victus a bit closer. Victus, in turn, officially adopted young Geronimo, who happily accepted. As an official family (as far as Mandalorians cared), Victus kept the boy studying, and even approved him to begin applying what he had learned in the field. It started with small things at first; dealing with gashes and gunshots, for example. Still, the best teacher was experience, and by age 20 Geronimo was something of an amateur medic.
Geronimo began to grow even further among his clan, but his reputation quickly became one of mysticism and oddity; it was discovered that he wrote poems! Truly, Geronimo had begun to consider why exactly it was that he fought, and why the Mandalorians fought, and why no one recorded the great battles they held so highly. He had many reasons for doing so; he considered his father’s obsessive quest, his own thoughts about fighting, the thoughts of others, etcetera. He regularly mumbled the Resol’nare, combing through its vow time after time. The young Mando’ade experimented with a few arts, and eventually settled on poetry, a medium easily accessed and created whenever downtime was achieved on the battlefield. He wasn't shunned for his habit, but it tended to make his fellow clan mates shrug with uncertainty. He was a warrior and a medic; why write? Honestly, the only real reason was that he enjoyed it.
Alas, with pen, pill, and a plethora of ways to kill at his disposal, Geronimo began to become a well-spoken name among the Jendri, as many of his tales began to spread. He was known by many as many a thing; he was that brave young Mando’ade who had saved Fingir and Rosha from that pocket of militia that he surprised them, or he was that man from Twin Spears who had helped Hammond keep his arm when he had fished out a few bullets during an assault, or he was even that odd black-armored warrior who had been seen scribbling lightly on some paper on the way back from the Mid-Rim. Finishing his tutelage under Victus, Geronimo was 28 years of age. Thanks to his new-blazed reputations, he began to fall in closer with his clan; the Jendri were slowly getting bigger and bigger, becoming the formidable family they had once been. The clan leader of the Jendri, one Marcus Jendri, even went so far as to call the entire clan together on Mandalore that year, displaying just how well the family had recovered since those many years ago. Tradition for the Jendri dictated that this happen every decade anyway, but the meet was so great and satisfying to all involved that Marcus decided to make it annual. The clanleader came to find a particular liking in Geronimo, who not only had forged a reputation that preceded him, but was also introduced to the clanleader by Victus, who was actually his brother. As they became more acquainted, Marcus began to refer to Geronimo as one of Jendri’s elite; if anything was asked of the clan, Geronimo was among the first called.
Still, Marcus himself was becoming older and older, and as he and Geronimo became closer and closer, he began to show the Mandalorian more and more of his clan; their heritage, their battles, their people, and their services to the their fellow Mando’ade. Victus often helped, but ultimately it would be Marcus who went off on rambles of the actual settling of Twin Spears, as well as, ironically enough, its fall at the hands of Ishantov. Meanwhile, Geronimo was beginning to become extremely respected by his clan mates, who would often gather round their young ones and adopted to hear one of his poems when he would so feel the urge to share, which was admittedly rare and only by request. By his 30th birthday, Geronimo was the great Poet Jendri; figurehead of the Clan, which was once again influential and large under the leadership of Marcus, and somewhat known beyond his surname’s ears as a truly rare breed of Mando’ade. Named one of Marcus’ bodyguards and lieutenants, Geronimo became revered.
It was at age 31 that Geronimo found himself leading his clan. Marcus had died in a final hurrah, alone, in an attempt to raid a settlement on Maridun, and with the clan head position empty, it was up the Jendri to designate a new figure to sit in it. Calling another meeting together on Manda’yaim, the clan debated for days, each of its elders and prestigious figures alike voicing their concerns and feelings towards certain candidates. Geronimo himself nominated one of the more prestigious warriors and eventual friend of his, Yandaf Jendri, to become clan leader thanks to the man’s impeccable record as a warrior and likewise odd hobby of cooking, thanks in part to his Zeltron biology (a fact that Geronimo liked, considering his own odd hobby). Ultimately, after much deliberation however, a single Mandalorian was agreed upon to lead the clan.
Him.
Geronimo took over the clan leader’s chair with more ease than he’d expected. Truly, it was all Marcus had showed him it was; be a model Mandalorian, never be afraid to dip your boots in blood, keep your beskar’garm clean, report to the Mand’alor when requested, and keep the clan together. Beyond that, it was as simple as keeping clan mates from tearing each other to pieces over disagreements, directing them all when there was something they all needed to do, and generally overseeing the family. Things were a bit shaky to begin with, but Geronimo quickly adopted a technique that he had long loved and used in most of the things he did; “Speak softly and carry a big stick”. With such in hand and a bit of help from the elders of the clan, Geronimo soon proved an effective leader, finally solidifying Clan Jendri as an influential presence in Mandalore’s society and himself as it’s oddly revered leader. Most in the clan approved of his appointment, with many accepting his moderation in arguments or his scant calls to arms. It was a strange comeback led by a strong and strange Mandalorian, but it was a comeback led by a strong Mandalorian all the same. Jendri was once more strong and on the upswing, Geronimo, his dream still vaguely in tow, wielded a title no one in the clan could have imagined a successor of Ishantov’s lineage could have imagined having, and together both were becoming better known to Mandalorian societies, returning to the general talks of the Mando’ade.
It was in 3602 that everything changed. The Mand’alor raised his cry for his people, singing a tune all too familiar to Geronimo; the reclaiming of lands originally belonging to the Mando’ade. The Republic had outstayed its welcome, and it was time that they faced a true opponent. Geronimo personally had never cared for the Republic or the Sith. The Republic he found a mess of a people, caught up in politics and clouding what was right or honorable with what was political. The Sith he found worse however; a bunch of elitists striving to procure power under the banner of freedom and equality for the Mid and Outer Rims. He didn't hold a particular animosity to either, but he certainly didn’t like them either. Were it up to him, the Mandalorians would plot to eventually turn on the Sith; as he wrote it best, “The galaxy is a sword, and the Mando’ade are the third edge, not the second.”
Alas, the Mandal’or had called, and the battles had begun. Clan Jendri heeded the call as all good Mando’ade did, and Geronimo soon found himself with his brothers and sisters engaging the Republic in numerous skirmishes, on the frontlines but never quite in the heat of the battles. Jendri, still expanding thanks to Geronimo carrying on the practices of his predecessor, began to blaze out a trail as not only numerous, but mighty as well; the start of repairs to their name since their loss those many years ago. Geronimo soon decided to seek out Mand’alor the Reclaimer in a bid to see them deployed at the head of Mando’ade forces, as well as finally attain a particular justice.
Password: %&#! IT
RP Sample:
In the middle of a small, snow-covered town stood a man in black armor, contrasting the pure white snow as it slowly dusted him. The snow crystals fell silently, and the man mimicked them as he stood resolute, looking out at a small, worn cottage. It was once a home; a well-kept structure of safety and warmth, giving both to those who so sought it out. Now it was decrepit and beaten; a haven for the cold and snow it once repelled.
The man could remember all of the memories that cottage kept. He remembered sitting by the small stone fireplace it had contained whilst in his mother's arms, her singing softly to him as she rocked him to sleep in her chair. He remembered his father and him wrestling playfully as her mother chastised them both to cut it out, lest they knock into the table where dinner was being prepared. He even remembered his father's many rants, the sight of him in a fury banging on the table with his fists as he recounted, for the thousandth time, the day Twin Spears had fallen, as if he had seen it with his own two eyes.
Geronimo had sort of begun to suspect that, as far as his father had been concerned, he had. That gave him the slightest grin under his helmet, his armored hands aimlessly playing with a small piece of charred wood.
It had been accident, and he wasn't inclined to disbelieve it. Since his mother's death, he had given his home to one of the poorer Mando'ade in the village, and apparently in their experience with the fireplace they had unintentionally burnt down the house. It was hardly the first time someone in Ishantov's Grave had unintentionally decimated a building, and in all honesty it wouldn't be the last.
Even still, Geronimo had felt the need to give it one last visit, as if to say goodbye. Beside him, another Mando'ade in orange armor viewed the wreckage with a shaking head, his hands on his hips. "I'm sorry alor," the man spoke in thick Mando'a, his voice full of a degree of true sympathy. "That or'dinii deserves a nice slap."
"No he doesn't." Geronimo tossed the wood onto the ground, gazing once more and turning around, his belt clinking a little. "This happens all the time around here."
The orange armor just shrugged, turning with him as they began to walk off. "I'm just saying, what sort of moron does it take to burn down a house after three days?"
"When was the last time you used a fireplace?"
The orange armor paused, tapping his helmet. "... even still, how hard can it be?"
That coaxed another smile under Geronimo's helmet, giving a few shakes of his own head, causing a little snow to drift off the ebony beskar'garm. "It's more meticulous and demanding of finesse than you might think." The orange armor simply shrugged, and for a while, there was silence. The two verds walked through the center of town, with the black one nodding in the direction of certain vhetts, who waved and called out in greetings. He didn't speak, but rather acknowledged. Finally, the came upon a third set of beskar'garm, green and blue, leaning on the wall of a tavern. As they approached, a small bit of laughter was produced from under the dual-colored helmet. "Hey cyar'ika, alor."
The orange armor punched the blue and green in the shoulder, his voice annoyed. "Oh cut it out Gamn." The recipient of the punch laughed a little more, shrugging. "Of course, sweetcheeks. See what you need to, Geronimo?"
The black armor merely nodded. "I have. Now you two akiid, on to the ship." The two Mando'ade both punched each other in laughing protest, insisting that the other was the akiid as they walked in front of their clanleader, the black armor walking silently behind them, thinking one last time of the black remains of his childhood home and how soon there would be little but snow...
Department: Jendri Clan
Rank: Clanleader
Name: Geronimo Jendri
Race: Zabrak
Age: 36
Height: 6’0”
Weight: 189 lbs.
Birth place: Ishantov's Grave, Rekkiad
Appearance:
Armor
Geronimo’s beskar’garm, being the first many of see of him, is imposing to say the least. The sleek metal, made of the legendary Mandalorian Iron, is entirely composed of both black and crimson red. Originally belonging to his ancestor Ishantov, the colors reflect both a respect for said ancestor as well as a vow may by the Jendri the day that Twin Spears was lost; to reclaim Rekkiad from the Ordo conquerors. As such, the colors were added shortly after Ishantov’s death, and have been maintained for centuries. Overall, the beskar’garm is fairly average armor in its design. It comes with all the Mandalorian staples; advanced HUD, pouches along the waist line, and a built-in comm. Beyond that, the armor has adopted a few custom characteristics, such as the etched Mandalorian symbol on the back of the left hand.
Flesh and Blood
Geronimo himself is the shining example of a fit, physically active Zabrak. Born with horns that were actually rather small, the man’s black hair has never exceeded the length of his shoulders, and is usually put into a small ponytail whenever a helmet isn’t concealing it. His face is fair, with his nose being a little crooked and his eyes an unsettling dark brown, with some likening them to black in their intensity. His ears end in points, his chin as well (albeit a dull point), and his teeth as third. His neck is visible and sturdy, his shoulders of medium width, and even his hands and feet fail to portray any sign of particular weakness.
Geronimo’s body, on the other hand, is at a total lack of fine points and cusps. Toned after a literal lifetime of fighting and training, the only thing keeping the Zabrak out of wandering eyes are the numerous and harsh scars. They cover everything; his arms, his chest, his back, and even his legs. They aren’t numerous enough to mar his skin, but they are great enough in multitude to make it obvious that Geronimo has never quite held a desk job. They cover toned and limber muscles, smooth skin wherever they aren’t, and an overall fine physique.
Truly the only part of Geronimo that fails to impress is a single spot on the back of his left leg; a kind of weak point in which one too many an injury has caused a small hindrance. It fails to bother him daily, but every once in a blue moon the Zabrak will find it slightly difficult to put weight on that point, giving him the smallest inclination of a limp. He is, however, a master at disguising his pain, and so usually he simply sucks it up and walks on unperturbed. It rarely bothers him in battle, as it can usually be fixed with a bit of stretching, but when it isn’t addressed it can prove quite bothersome.
The final trait of Geronimo, and usually the one least noticed, is his small facial tattoo. His parents, being Mandalorian first and Zabrak second, only loosely hung onto and passed on the racial tradition of tattoos, but rather instructed to Geronimo that those taken on should be of vital importance only. As such, Geronimo sports two markings; a set of black, thick lines the width of a candy bar that begin at his shoulders, work up his neck, up to his ears, and then turn to travel to the center of his cheeks, where they turn once again to return back down his neck, parallel to their journey up it, and finally meet in the center of his collar. Initially Geronimo received the first to mourn the passing of his father, and he created the pair with the passing of his mother, symbolizing the completeness of his raising and furthermore the passing on to the family name to him, especially when he became clanleader.
Personality:Geronimo has hardly ever been considered sociable. Quiet most of the time and generally reserved, he speaks, but only when he actually needs to. He isn’t one for chit-chat, nor for discussion in most cases; if an idea needs to be put across, he will speak it and then simply let his words soak in. He isn’t opposed to speaking, but as a rule of thumb, he can be counted on more so for quiet reflection than for idle conversation. He’s excellent for bouncing ideas off of, but not so much for seeking absolute compliance or negation; he has learned that most plans have their pros and cons, and generally he always tries to find a golden balance of both in his stratagem.
With that said, Geronimo is a Mandalorian by heart. He fights, he battles, he combats, and he kills; such is as he was raised to do, and such is as he does. He doesn’t hesitate to fight, but unlike his fellow clanmates and kinsmen, he sees a degree of mysticism in it. As such, he has earned the title “The Poet Jendri” amongst his clanmates, as a hobby of his includes writing ballads or poems revolving around great battles he has participated in. In this regard, he is a bit of a warrior-poet; fighting is his lifestyle, and he will occasionally feel the need to record his thoughts on the matter in artistic swoons.
But thanks to his experience, Geronimo is also excellent on his feet. Used to having to make split-second decisions and choices in the midst of a hellish battle, and furthermore adjusted to having steady hands for field operations and procedures in the same conditions, Geronimo has become resolute and calm in most situations, able to keep his cool. Certain topics, of course, manage to throw off this balance, but for the most part, the clanleader manages to retain a necessary calmness; panic, he has learned, earns nothing but further panic and a worsening of the things around him.
Skills:
Expert Combatant; Experienced Mandalorian
Experienced leader
Expert medic and surgeon
Adept in poetry
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 7
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 5
Leadership: 6
Unarmed: 7
Melee Weapons: 4
Ranged Weapons: 6
Bio:
Our Forefathers’ Forefathers:
Centuries ago, the Clan Jendri settled in a region of Rekkiad known simply as the Twin Spears. The Twin Spears themselves were two great ice pillars, naturally formed, with one said to hold the crypt of an ancient Sith warlord, whom many a Jendri wished to find and discover the secrets of. It was here that a Mandalorian was born, a small Zabrak boy named Ishantov Jendri. Ishantov was raised as per the usual Mandalorian mandate, learning the arts of battle and combat. He grew into a great Mandalorian warrior, and even came to lead his clan from Rekkiad; a title that was generally agreed to be appropriate.
It was years later that Ishantov awoke to the sound of Basilisks battling and the trade-mark sound of beskar’garm deflecting fire. As he donned his own armor and rushed outside, he bore witness to a heinous injustice; the clan Ordo had come to Rekkiad, and they were determined, it seemed, to claim Twin Spears for themselves. After days of fighting, Clan Jendri simply could not bear to hold out further, and the Ordo seized the territory. Settlements burned before the great pieces of ice as the Jendri chose to either stay or go, the clan splitting between those who stayed on Rekkiad and those who left to return to Mandalore. Ishantov fought to the very last man and died, bleeding and shot, in the house of his daughter.
Cue 3637 BBY. In a small house in one of the houses in one of the small villages of the territory Twin Spears on the planet Rekkiad, a Mandalorian woman finally completed childbirth. Her husband stood behind her, cleaning the baby as he threw another log into the fire, the winter weather outside cold and harsh. The baby, stressed with the sudden burden of breathing crisp, cold air, cried loudly, only making its parents smile widely, commenting on its lungs. After checking its sex, they spoke quietly for a while, the father occasionally staring over at both of their sets of armor on racks opposite the bed, one green, the other stark black and red. It was then and only then did they nod in agreement, entitling their new son Geronimo. Geronimo Jendri.
Geronimo’s father, one Tyranus Jendri, married his mother, Kayla Jendri, on the battlefield years ago during a raid on another Outer Rim planet as mercenaries. Neither had been there for the credits; what had drawn them was the life of battle, and what they had left with was the life of love. Both were ample warriors, however their particular family tree was known as somewhat tarnished. Many of the Jendri Clan, upon hearing either of them recount their ancestry, would give a disappointed sigh at the mention of Ishantov being the ancestor of Tyranus. Twin Spears, barren though it was, had been a sort of safe-haven for the Jendri; a home away from home from Mandalore. Its loss was accounted to Ishantov from both sides, Jendri and Ordo alike, and many of the Jendri and their children and their childrens’ children lightly blamed the Mandalorian for having lost it. Initially it had been a harsh blame, but as the years had passed, it had become more of a sighing disappointment, as if wondering what could have been.
Of all the people it had stricken, however, none were so afflicted as the descendants of Ishantov himself, and Tyranus was no exception. His only dream in life was to reclaim Twin Spears and Rekkiad on the whole for his family and his clan, and the only wonder people ever gave about him was that he could live amongst the Ordo that had settled in their conquest. This, of course, had put two clans in one territory; a recipe for eventual disaster that only seemed to bubble, never quite erupting outright. When asked, he would simply state that they were the stronger Mandalorians, and that one day soon the Jendri would reclaim their old strength and reclaim what was theirs. Naturally, just as his forefathers had told their sons, he told the same thing to young Geronimo, practically rambling to the baby. The best part was his beskar’garm; Ishantov’s armor, repainted by the clanleader’s daughter black and red to symbolize both the respect Ishantov owned and the eventual justice that would redeem his loss. It had been passed down through the generations, and one day it would belong to Geronimo.
A Sheep Among Wolves:
Geronimo grew up in that same small cottage, which lay at the peak of the Twin Spears in a settlement known as Ishantov’s Grave, appropriately named considering that the man’s tomb was just as the base of one of the pillars. The village was surely nothing to sneeze at; it was a few thousand people in cottages made of imported materials in the freezing Rekkiad cold at the base of the Twin Spears. The population was almost entirely Mandalorian, and from there it was easily divisible between the merchants, craftsmen, miners, and other workers, and the warriors. Oftentimes, it was easy to tell; if you saw someone for more than half the year, they were a worker of some kind. Businesses were mostly taverns, restaurants, smiths, and mines, and for the most part the town didn’t see much of the galaxy beyond come to them, save for the occasional treasure-hunter, mercenary, Mando’ade coming to visit family, or lunatic come to try and find the Sith tomb. Each was either addressed with a jeer, an exchange of stories, open arms, or a good smack to the face.
Beyond that, the town was further divided into the clans; Jendri and Ordo. Admittedly there were a bit more Jendri on Rekkiad in general than Ordo, but that didn’t stop the Ordos from laying full claim to their conquest. The Jendri didn’t argue, but only because they had already tried and lost; it was a general consensus among the conceding clan that eventually, someday, Twin Spears and the entire planet would be theirs again. Beyond that, larger fish caught the attention of both clans, and as such there was little time for feuding, such as the Mandalorian Wars. As such, both clans intermingled as needed throughout their days, but generally tried to stay with their own clansmates. Jendri children played with other Jendri children, and Ordo with Ordo. Geronimo was no exception.
Geronimo was therefore raised from a young age in a settlement of duality; fight or die, cold weather or warm cottages, Jendri or Ordo. His first word “Jenee” (which was supposed to be “Jendri”) seemed to assure that he was simply in the same line of thinking. As the toddler grew to walk and talk, his father would bring him on regular trips to his ancestors’ graves, outlining their battle time after time after time, especially Ishantov’s. By the time he was 6, Geronimo could practically tell his eleven-times-great grandfather’s battle himself, hindered only by vocabulary and his larger desire for his father or other adults in the room to tell their stories about fights and battles. For the child they, of course, cut out some of the gruel and detailed recounts, but Geronimo still grew up hearing stories of beheading, gutting, and even a few about scalping. Meanwhile, he spent his days wrestling with other Jendri children or listening to the stories of the Mando’ade who passed through or lived in Ishantov’s Grave, recounting great battles or terrible fights of might and skill. He was taught his Resol’nare, slowly but surely being raised as a Mandalorian.
By the age of 8, it was time for Geronimo’s training to begin. Kayla began to stay home more, as culture dictated, and take her son out into the cold, teaching him how to fight. Kayla and Tyranus had actually taken a liking for each other initially because of what Geronimo was being taught; unarmed combat. It was the personal beliefs of both that fighting without a weapon was not only one of the most honor-bound forms of combat, but also one of the most effective. Taking the loving approach, Geronimo learned all of his forms, his strikes, his evasions, and his survival techniques before beginning to spar lightly with his mother, her skills rivaling her husband’s. Growing more and more, eventually Tyrnaus began to aid and eventually take over the training, with him and his son going out into the snow and cold for days at a time to train and fight, eventually simply breaking down into a gamer of Hunter; both would split up for a few hours before trying to hunt each other down, leaving themselves to survive with would could be made from around them. Upon discovering one another, they would jump their target and attempt to wrestle it down, usually creating quite the disturbance in the woods that would leave them sweaty and either laughing or unintentionally bleeding. Both had beacons in case of emergencies, but neither ever used them; by the time it was dark, they had commonly found and proceeded to attack one another. By his twelfth birthday, Geronimo could hoist a record of about 1:4 in terms of wins and losses.
Also for his twelfth birthday, Geronimo received his first rifle and pistol. Having commonly used his parents’ to learn how to shoot, the kid was already a crackshot, hitting targets and suddenly being able to last even longer at Hunter. Still, as his parents' preference had been passed on to him, Geronimo always found his hands to be more satisfying tools than the guns. He, of course, still learned to use them, but they never quite enthralled him. As the tween grew into a teen, he became more and more revered by his father, who held hopes that one day his son could fulfill the justice that needed to be done over Twin Spears. Geronimo himself couldn’t help but be filled with the same desire, however he found his father to be a bit more fanatical about it; obsessive even. Geronimo surely wanted his heritage and what was due to his clan. He simply differed in approach; was it right to slaughter fellow Mando’ade just as the Ordo had done? His father seemed to think so, but alas Geronimo was unsure.
Sadly his father would never get to see one way or the other. Tyranus was gunned down one fateful battle during Geronimo’s 13th winter, and when his body and armor were returned to Rekkiad, Geronimo took up his father’s black and red beskar’garm as a sign of respect. He and his mother were taken in by others of the Jendri Clan, being adopted by Johanas Jendri, a man who cared little for the feud that had consumed Tyranus. Completing his training under the man, Geronimo’s approach to the conflict strengthened a bit; whereas his father had spoken of spilling blood to reclaim the property of their ancestors, Geronimo determined that land and snow weren’t worth the blood of his brothers and sisters. It wasn’t right to fight his fellow Mando’ade, and even though he still wished to reclaim what belonged to his clan, he was no longer ready to be trigger happy to do it. The rest of the Jendri clan widely held the same opinion; as Kayla put it best, “One day, maybe, but not at the cost of what’s left of our honor.” Still, the desire carried him through his verd’goten, inducting him into Mandalorian society and giving him right to don his ancestor’s black and red armor.
The Poet Jendri
Now a full-fledged Mandalorian, Geronimo began to strike out with his fellow Mando’ade, giving his mother one final hug before leaving her for the life of his culture. Geronimo began to do as the Mandalorians do, initiating raids and fighting in battles. At first he fought only with groups of Mando’ade, where he was commonly fighting, but in easier settings and simpler raids. Though an adult, he simply lacked the experience to do much else, and so his first few teenage years had a tendency to be a bit boring. Still, the young Mandalorian never complained as per his usual character, instead simply nodding and doing what work he found. He stuck with fellow Jendris, who looked after him as what he was; their clanmate.
As he grew older and older, however, Geronimo began to become more and more independent. By the time he was eighteen, he could successfully raid with only a small party, and his experience rivaled a good number of the adults on the Rekkiad. Still mostly raiding with his clan, he occasionally struck out with mixed families if manpower was scarce or the wait for clanmates was too long. Ultimately, however, he became a warrior of the Jendri, becoming treated less as a young fledging and more as a prime warrior. Moving to Mandalore to stay closer to his clan and therefore fight more easily, he took up residence with a surgeon, Victus Jendri, who was known for his expert (if not somewhat brutal) medical expertise and experience as a surgeon, both in rooms and wars. Victus, an older Mando’a who had since retired the fight and focused on patching up his clanmates, was a witty Twi’lek who walked with a cane and never feared to crack his new counterpart on the head with it if he felt the need. Geronimo was initially unimpressed with the man’s trade, but as his host began to recount story after story of his escapades and how his skills had not only saved him, but his clanmates, Geronimo began to take an interest. On the occasions that Geronimo would be home, either recuperating from the last raid or planning a new one, Victus would tutor him casually in medicine, giving him books on drugs and anatomy to read or actually dissecting numerous small creatures and showing said anatomy in the flesh. Some might have found it disgusting, but Geronimo found it fascinating, and soon he was in regular study, even going so far as to bring books to flip through on raids.
Things took a turn for the worse when Geronimo discovered that his mother had died peacefully with Johanas at Ishantov’s Grave one morning. With his biological ancestry deceased, he stuck to Victus a bit closer. Victus, in turn, officially adopted young Geronimo, who happily accepted. As an official family (as far as Mandalorians cared), Victus kept the boy studying, and even approved him to begin applying what he had learned in the field. It started with small things at first; dealing with gashes and gunshots, for example. Still, the best teacher was experience, and by age 20 Geronimo was something of an amateur medic.
Geronimo began to grow even further among his clan, but his reputation quickly became one of mysticism and oddity; it was discovered that he wrote poems! Truly, Geronimo had begun to consider why exactly it was that he fought, and why the Mandalorians fought, and why no one recorded the great battles they held so highly. He had many reasons for doing so; he considered his father’s obsessive quest, his own thoughts about fighting, the thoughts of others, etcetera. He regularly mumbled the Resol’nare, combing through its vow time after time. The young Mando’ade experimented with a few arts, and eventually settled on poetry, a medium easily accessed and created whenever downtime was achieved on the battlefield. He wasn't shunned for his habit, but it tended to make his fellow clan mates shrug with uncertainty. He was a warrior and a medic; why write? Honestly, the only real reason was that he enjoyed it.
Alas, with pen, pill, and a plethora of ways to kill at his disposal, Geronimo began to become a well-spoken name among the Jendri, as many of his tales began to spread. He was known by many as many a thing; he was that brave young Mando’ade who had saved Fingir and Rosha from that pocket of militia that he surprised them, or he was that man from Twin Spears who had helped Hammond keep his arm when he had fished out a few bullets during an assault, or he was even that odd black-armored warrior who had been seen scribbling lightly on some paper on the way back from the Mid-Rim. Finishing his tutelage under Victus, Geronimo was 28 years of age. Thanks to his new-blazed reputations, he began to fall in closer with his clan; the Jendri were slowly getting bigger and bigger, becoming the formidable family they had once been. The clan leader of the Jendri, one Marcus Jendri, even went so far as to call the entire clan together on Mandalore that year, displaying just how well the family had recovered since those many years ago. Tradition for the Jendri dictated that this happen every decade anyway, but the meet was so great and satisfying to all involved that Marcus decided to make it annual. The clanleader came to find a particular liking in Geronimo, who not only had forged a reputation that preceded him, but was also introduced to the clanleader by Victus, who was actually his brother. As they became more acquainted, Marcus began to refer to Geronimo as one of Jendri’s elite; if anything was asked of the clan, Geronimo was among the first called.
Still, Marcus himself was becoming older and older, and as he and Geronimo became closer and closer, he began to show the Mandalorian more and more of his clan; their heritage, their battles, their people, and their services to the their fellow Mando’ade. Victus often helped, but ultimately it would be Marcus who went off on rambles of the actual settling of Twin Spears, as well as, ironically enough, its fall at the hands of Ishantov. Meanwhile, Geronimo was beginning to become extremely respected by his clan mates, who would often gather round their young ones and adopted to hear one of his poems when he would so feel the urge to share, which was admittedly rare and only by request. By his 30th birthday, Geronimo was the great Poet Jendri; figurehead of the Clan, which was once again influential and large under the leadership of Marcus, and somewhat known beyond his surname’s ears as a truly rare breed of Mando’ade. Named one of Marcus’ bodyguards and lieutenants, Geronimo became revered.
It was at age 31 that Geronimo found himself leading his clan. Marcus had died in a final hurrah, alone, in an attempt to raid a settlement on Maridun, and with the clan head position empty, it was up the Jendri to designate a new figure to sit in it. Calling another meeting together on Manda’yaim, the clan debated for days, each of its elders and prestigious figures alike voicing their concerns and feelings towards certain candidates. Geronimo himself nominated one of the more prestigious warriors and eventual friend of his, Yandaf Jendri, to become clan leader thanks to the man’s impeccable record as a warrior and likewise odd hobby of cooking, thanks in part to his Zeltron biology (a fact that Geronimo liked, considering his own odd hobby). Ultimately, after much deliberation however, a single Mandalorian was agreed upon to lead the clan.
Him.
Geronimo took over the clan leader’s chair with more ease than he’d expected. Truly, it was all Marcus had showed him it was; be a model Mandalorian, never be afraid to dip your boots in blood, keep your beskar’garm clean, report to the Mand’alor when requested, and keep the clan together. Beyond that, it was as simple as keeping clan mates from tearing each other to pieces over disagreements, directing them all when there was something they all needed to do, and generally overseeing the family. Things were a bit shaky to begin with, but Geronimo quickly adopted a technique that he had long loved and used in most of the things he did; “Speak softly and carry a big stick”. With such in hand and a bit of help from the elders of the clan, Geronimo soon proved an effective leader, finally solidifying Clan Jendri as an influential presence in Mandalore’s society and himself as it’s oddly revered leader. Most in the clan approved of his appointment, with many accepting his moderation in arguments or his scant calls to arms. It was a strange comeback led by a strong and strange Mandalorian, but it was a comeback led by a strong Mandalorian all the same. Jendri was once more strong and on the upswing, Geronimo, his dream still vaguely in tow, wielded a title no one in the clan could have imagined a successor of Ishantov’s lineage could have imagined having, and together both were becoming better known to Mandalorian societies, returning to the general talks of the Mando’ade.
It was in 3602 that everything changed. The Mand’alor raised his cry for his people, singing a tune all too familiar to Geronimo; the reclaiming of lands originally belonging to the Mando’ade. The Republic had outstayed its welcome, and it was time that they faced a true opponent. Geronimo personally had never cared for the Republic or the Sith. The Republic he found a mess of a people, caught up in politics and clouding what was right or honorable with what was political. The Sith he found worse however; a bunch of elitists striving to procure power under the banner of freedom and equality for the Mid and Outer Rims. He didn't hold a particular animosity to either, but he certainly didn’t like them either. Were it up to him, the Mandalorians would plot to eventually turn on the Sith; as he wrote it best, “The galaxy is a sword, and the Mando’ade are the third edge, not the second.”
Alas, the Mandal’or had called, and the battles had begun. Clan Jendri heeded the call as all good Mando’ade did, and Geronimo soon found himself with his brothers and sisters engaging the Republic in numerous skirmishes, on the frontlines but never quite in the heat of the battles. Jendri, still expanding thanks to Geronimo carrying on the practices of his predecessor, began to blaze out a trail as not only numerous, but mighty as well; the start of repairs to their name since their loss those many years ago. Geronimo soon decided to seek out Mand’alor the Reclaimer in a bid to see them deployed at the head of Mando’ade forces, as well as finally attain a particular justice.
Password: %&#! IT
RP Sample:
In the middle of a small, snow-covered town stood a man in black armor, contrasting the pure white snow as it slowly dusted him. The snow crystals fell silently, and the man mimicked them as he stood resolute, looking out at a small, worn cottage. It was once a home; a well-kept structure of safety and warmth, giving both to those who so sought it out. Now it was decrepit and beaten; a haven for the cold and snow it once repelled.
The man could remember all of the memories that cottage kept. He remembered sitting by the small stone fireplace it had contained whilst in his mother's arms, her singing softly to him as she rocked him to sleep in her chair. He remembered his father and him wrestling playfully as her mother chastised them both to cut it out, lest they knock into the table where dinner was being prepared. He even remembered his father's many rants, the sight of him in a fury banging on the table with his fists as he recounted, for the thousandth time, the day Twin Spears had fallen, as if he had seen it with his own two eyes.
Geronimo had sort of begun to suspect that, as far as his father had been concerned, he had. That gave him the slightest grin under his helmet, his armored hands aimlessly playing with a small piece of charred wood.
It had been accident, and he wasn't inclined to disbelieve it. Since his mother's death, he had given his home to one of the poorer Mando'ade in the village, and apparently in their experience with the fireplace they had unintentionally burnt down the house. It was hardly the first time someone in Ishantov's Grave had unintentionally decimated a building, and in all honesty it wouldn't be the last.
Even still, Geronimo had felt the need to give it one last visit, as if to say goodbye. Beside him, another Mando'ade in orange armor viewed the wreckage with a shaking head, his hands on his hips. "I'm sorry alor," the man spoke in thick Mando'a, his voice full of a degree of true sympathy. "That or'dinii deserves a nice slap."
"No he doesn't." Geronimo tossed the wood onto the ground, gazing once more and turning around, his belt clinking a little. "This happens all the time around here."
The orange armor just shrugged, turning with him as they began to walk off. "I'm just saying, what sort of moron does it take to burn down a house after three days?"
"When was the last time you used a fireplace?"
The orange armor paused, tapping his helmet. "... even still, how hard can it be?"
That coaxed another smile under Geronimo's helmet, giving a few shakes of his own head, causing a little snow to drift off the ebony beskar'garm. "It's more meticulous and demanding of finesse than you might think." The orange armor simply shrugged, and for a while, there was silence. The two verds walked through the center of town, with the black one nodding in the direction of certain vhetts, who waved and called out in greetings. He didn't speak, but rather acknowledged. Finally, the came upon a third set of beskar'garm, green and blue, leaning on the wall of a tavern. As they approached, a small bit of laughter was produced from under the dual-colored helmet. "Hey cyar'ika, alor."
The orange armor punched the blue and green in the shoulder, his voice annoyed. "Oh cut it out Gamn." The recipient of the punch laughed a little more, shrugging. "Of course, sweetcheeks. See what you need to, Geronimo?"
The black armor merely nodded. "I have. Now you two akiid, on to the ship." The two Mando'ade both punched each other in laughing protest, insisting that the other was the akiid as they walked in front of their clanleader, the black armor walking silently behind them, thinking one last time of the black remains of his childhood home and how soon there would be little but snow...
