The Profaned Vanguard

Leandros Solus

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Mandalore
Sundari Throne Room Ruins


N I G H T M A R E

Leandros woke with a start, weary eyes scanning his surroundings. It was dark; his eyes adjusted to the lack of light and he could faintly make out the craggy surface of the rocks above him. Slowly, his vision traced over the sleeping figures around him: three shadowy beings lay huddled in thick furs on beds made of straw and stone, and it wasn’t until he looked over the smallest body present that he became acutely aware of how cold the room was. His breath escaped his mouth in a thick haze, and the sound of the howling wind outside alerted him to the nature of where he stood.

The cave seemed familiar, and it took him a moment to realize that he had spent time in it once before long, long ago. When he was a child escaping an attack on his village with his cousin and the slave he affectionately called “Uncle,” he spent quite a while in this frigid cave during the harsh Mandalorian winter in the mountains. Leandros looked down at his arms where the scars of his crucifixion permanently reminded him of his punishment for theft. He raised his head and looked at the bodies, curious.

He approached one and knelt down, gently and cautiously pulling the furs from its face. It was his cousin, a small girl whom he had not seen in… gods, decades, it must be. Her lips were pale with hypothermia, and she shook intensely, but still clung to life. He moved to the second body and did the same, recognizing the face of “Uncle,” and smiled gently, remembering fondly how the man sacrificed everything to keep the younglings with him alive. His face was weathered by time, each crag and scar writing his story for the world to read. Leandros always wondered what it was he did before becoming a slave, but never had the courage to ask.

Leandros approached the third body and apprehensively reached out, worried for what he might find. As the layers of fur were unwrapped, a gauntleted hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat. Surprised by the sudden and tight hold on him, Leandros gripped the hand and pulled against it to no avail. Rising from the furs was a crimson armor he recognized immediately. A wave of confusion shot through him as Raz lifted him into the air with supernatural strength, choking the life from his body. ”You abandoned me,” she growled at him. As his vision began to dim, a fourth figure towered behind her, his immaculate T-visor and ceremonial armor striking Leandros with terror and awe as the Destroyer god Kad Ha’rangir looked on at his servant with indifference as he watched one Mand’alor choke the other to death.

Leandros opened his eyes and gasped for air as the hold was suddenly released and he looked around, coughing and blinking tears away. He unsteadily rose to his feet and took in his surroundings. Imperial corpses lay strewn across the battlefield and explosions rocked him to his core. Mandalorians were engaged in battle with Sith in the streets. The city was being destroyed by a Sith siege, and he immediately recognized this as the death of Mandalore.

His blood ran hot as he noticed a battle occurring right in front of him. Several Sith had Raz surrounded as one other masked Sith insidiously and calmly circled her, ignoring the masses of bodies around them from her final stand. Leandros could do nothing but be a participant in the crowd as the duel went on and, when the Eternal landed that final killing blow that cost him his own life, Leandros could do nothing but scream, though no sound came from his throat.

His legs felt like lead weights and refused to carry him to his wife’s side and his arms were pinned to his body. He glanced to the side in a panic, noticing that there were no more Sith in the crowd. The spiked metal armor and glorious helmet of Kad Ha’rangir replaced robes and masks, and suddenly Leandros felt very afraid. The Destroyer god said nothing to him once more and merely turned his many heads back to the corpses in the center of the crowd. Each one raised its head and looked at the Mand’alor, their bodies cracking and twisting as they slowly rose to their feet as if death and gravity were nonissues.

"Why did you let us die?” Dan asked.

”Why are you so weak?” Dio challenged.

"What kind of Mand’alor would leave his home while it burned?" Wyatt questioned.

”You dishonor the gods,” Rud declared.

Leandros went pale as the corpses of his dead comrades accused him of cowardice, impiety, weakness, and inaction. Before he could retort, Raz’s body turned its head and stared at him for several moments before rasping out a disembodied, ”You’ll face judgment.” His tongue felt swollen and thick, and he could say nothing back to his wife in response, and the Destroyer merely looked on, again, with indifference.

Leandros blinked and now stood in the ruins of his home, his daughter sitting on a duracrete slab across from him. He hurried over and wrapped an arm around her, clutching her tight, shaking with fear from what had just happened. Lily gripped his hand and looked up at him, her face frozen in a rictus of disgust. Her father recoiled slightly from the expression, concerned that he had done something to her.

”I hate you,” she spat venomously, punching her beskad into his heart without warning.



Leandros woke with a start, cold sweat forming on his face. His hands had instinctively reached for his beskad even in his sleep, and he now gripped the weapon intensely, his knuckles quickly beginning to turn white. The nightmare had not been the first of its kind. For the past two decades, his thoughts were plagued with guilt, shame, hatred, and all manner of foul emotion. Where he was once jovial and proud, he was now bitter, spiteful, and paranoid. The dreams began about fifteen years ago, and each night he suffered from fits of these visions and nightmares, each one slightly different than the last. Tonight’s did not bode well, and he quickly inspected his chest for any sign of a beskad wound.

There had been a trend, though, and that was the Destroyer Kad Ha’rangir watching him each time. He interpreted this as a sign of the god’s watchful gaze taking a more tangible presence in his life. Leandros would spend hours daily meditating and praying, pondering the nature of the dreams, before concluding a few years ago that it had to be his selection by the god to be his mortal vessel. For his entire life he’d been searching for death in battle, only to emerge a survivor in each one. Someone who could not be killed so readily despite throwing their bodies into battle with reckless abandon had to have the blood of the divines running through their veins, and Mand’alor the Crusader knew this to be true for him.

The Mask helped calm his mind. It offered soothing anonymity, turning him into the faceless warmonger the galaxy knew him to be, just like the Destroyer. It gave him power, and he was never seen in public without it on, even among what few family and friends he had left. Even Lily would go years without seeing her father’s face, but it had been a long time since he spoke to the girl. Her duties as the Forgemaster kept her busy, and his duties as the Mand’alor kept him distant. He hoped she still loved him, but tonight’s dream made him doubt that possibility as likely.

He rose from bed and gathered himself, spending a few minutes staring into the mirror at his weathered face. Around his neck was Raz’s wedding band, reclaimed from the temple on Korriban twenty years ago. The pale glint of the light from it twinkled dully in his eyes briefly before he shut them and put on the mask, closing him off from the world. Leandros died whenever he put the mask on, but Mand’alor the Crusader arose from the grave and took control. Leandros was a paranoid old man, but the Mand’alor was a symbol for the people that now whispered behind closed doors of their ruler’s apparent insanity. He was a wrathful man now, and the worlds under his control often experienced some measure of that wrath as he forced his culture on their people.

His eyes studied the mask for a few moments before they were drawn to just over his shoulder at the two figures who now stood there. Raz, in her crimson armor, stood over one shoulder behind him, while Kad Ha’rangir stood over the other. Both looked on in silence, as still as gargoyles, but it said enough to Leandros. He turned around to face the empty room, shaking his head and leaving for the meeting, his fingers twitching over his beskad. One day, he prayed, the god would speak to him again, just as he did on that mountainside when he was a kid.

He summoned the clan Alors back to their home on Mandalore to discuss the future of their people and to shut down dissent. His sand-gold armor stood in stark contrast with the rest of the destroyed throne room he selected as the meeting ground. His four honor guard stood in solemn silence around the room. It seemed fitting for this gathering of his people’s leaders to occur in the ruins of their civilization. Despite there being a table with chairs in front of him, Leandros stood and waited, deep in thought. Ash and dust had long since settled within these destroyed halls, and it felt like disturbing a grave by merely being here.

But being on Mandalore meant he could speak to the Destroyer more easily, and he would need the god’s guidance for what was to come.

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The Storyteller

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It's seems like forever when Orsen Vizsla was more-or-less forced to resign Vizsla's status as a House to the then-up and coming Clan Solus. The Vizsla leader remembers that day he met with Raz Solus. He felt great shame then. Although Raz Solus did lead the Mandalorian people to great success against the vile Sith Empire. the shame could he could never wash away, but he was still the A'lor of Clan Vizsla.

In the twenty years that has passed since the invasion of Yavin IV, even though the Mandalorians grew and driven the Sith to scatter to the wind, it seems to have gotten to the Crusader's mind and think's the avatar of Kad Ha’rangir himself. He's delusional to be frank. That's why Orsen has driving Clan Vizsla to oppose him. Perhaps he can regain his honor that way, to regain prestige for his clan. He's not alone though, as there are other clans who feel the same way although it's tricky to openly oppose the Manda'lor, a Solusian at that.

The old Orsen was prompt for the gathering at the Sundari Throne Room Ruins, still as ruined as it was when the Sith showed up years ago. He didn't like this setting, but Leandros arranged this meeting with the other A'lors. He said to discuss the future of the Mandalorians, to end the fracturing inside the Mandalorians. Orsen was wearing his armor, clad in the colors of his clan. He brought a Strill pistol, a sharpened beskad, his jetpack among other things. He didn't know what to expect with Manda'lor the Mad here. For all he knows this could be some sort of trap or some other ploy.

Once more in the present The Clan Vizsla A'lor didn't sit at the table either, he crossed his arms and gazed into the Mand'alor, looking him through the eyes of his ancient mask. Orsen's helmet doesn't show his expression, but underneath it was stern, distrustful, unamused expression at the Mand'alor and you could probably tell as much by the tone of his voice when he speaks "Mand'alor" he said.

Once the other Clan A'lors gather he'd glance at them. :: This will be interesting :: he thought, to say the least.

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Ameryn Wren grimaced under her helmet, her wounds causing a twinge of pain as they tended to these days. She also stood by her seat, following the trend by the other men in the room. She was the A'lor of Clan Wren, a position she had fought hard to reach over the last twenty years, though now that was one of the least things on her mind. She'd led the Mandalorians into battle on Dromund Kaas, fought with honor and glory through the streets of Kaas City, all until the Sith were either dead or fled. She'd raised her hand in victory, only to pass out moments later from her wounds. She was lucky, many of her clan had perished on that damned planet. It would claim her too, eventually, the wounds she took deep inside where kolto couldn't heal fully. That imminent mortality and forced convalescence made Ameryn really think about her people and their path. That was one reason she was opposing Leandros, following Clan Viszla's lead, though she had her heart set on more, if needed.

Just like the others, Ameryn wore her armor in Clan Wren's colors with her sharpened beskad at her side. She'd made sure all her equipment was repaired and in prime condition, jetpack and wrist flamethrower included, as with the Mand'alor falling more and more into madness she couldn't let her guard down even among peers. Especially among peers. Her helmeted gaze focused on him, the sight of him made her wounds ache. She grimaced at the sight of the man's mask as she refused to speak at the moment, her distrust and disgust at what he had become filling her. She still had a strong will, though, so she pushed the pain to the side to focus on the here and now. Ameryn had no idea why he had suddenly called this meeting, though if he wanted more fighters for his crusade, this would be her turn to refuse. Enough with his madness, he was going to destroy everything they had done for his revenge. Their people were at the breaking point, she hoped he wouldn't push them over the edge. If she still had the strength, she'd do what she could to prevent him from taking that plunge.


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Koil Solus

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♠ THEME ♠

It had been a long time since Koil had entered these halls. It had been less time since he had directly interacted with many of the people present. The man had left the War Council over a decade ago. But Narir and Drace were not here. This was a meeting between the leaders of the Clans and the Mand'alor.

Koil was the Alor of House Solus and technically had seniority over the other clan leaders that made up the contents of House Solus. But the House and the respective clans tended to run themselves well enough. The Echani Mandalorian had been able to devote more time to his personal life in his aging year. His three children and Keira were his world in the wake of so much tragedy but the dark days had not passed completely. Even in times of peace, his marriage to Keria and their two sons and daughter had been kept under wraps.

The warrior made his way into the meeting room. His quiet footsteps barely audible except by someone perhaps listening for them specifically. His form entered a beam of light, revealing his black armor to the other clan leaders and the Mand'alor. On his back he had his echani-vibrosword. The same weapon he had taken from a Sith on Nubia a life time ago. But as an Echani it felt right to keep it rather than use a beskad. On his belt he had the Fallen Blade along with the same saber that Arda Breaux had used. In his hand he held a signal tracer. Like with all meetings, he did not like being listened to or observed unless he allowed it.

So many years had passed and the Silent Badger had fought less with each year. The times had changed. Relative peace had come to the galaxy. But that was the problem for Leandros. Koil remembered what he had told him that day in the ruins of his home. Lily had been crying and Koil had revealed his face to his comrade for the first time. In more recent days the old man began to contemplate if he could have prevented things from coming to this. What awaited the Mand'alor was not something the Silent Badger would take pleasure in. Far from it.

He was a man that had made a vow to bring justice down on the Empire and their remnants. The Echani could understand how Leandros had felt. But he was dangerous for both their own people and everyone else. The other leaders of the clans had felt the same and now things were unfolding. He wished he could go back and change things so that this might have not have to happen. But that was like yelling at the wind.

Leandros and Koil had their fair share of history. They had both loved the same woman. But whereas Koil had moved on, finding another light in his life, Leandros had wallowed in darkness far longer and it seemed he was stuck in a mindset that was not right for the current state of things. Lily had grown up and was the renown Forgemaster and was doing well. Koil could not imagine how she felt, how she could feel given her father's state. The Silent Badger still held onto the knives he had taken from their home that day to remember Raz. His personal quest against the Sith had been satiated so perhaps after this he would go to see the woman. But it would be hard all things considered. Today was more than just personal feelings though. It was about the future of all Mandalorians.


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Victor Kryze

The son of fabled Oyakar Kryze. Oyakar was one of the first clan alors to part from the Empire and had been a staunch supporter of House Solus' rising since the early days of the rebellion. His son, was just as tenacious and vigilant as his father was. An embodiment of everything the galaxy holds that true Mandalorians would be: Strong, cunning, fearsome, and blood thirsty. Much like Oyakar's thirst was not quenched when the Mandalorians began claiming planets, his son too is not fulfilled with the dissolution of the Empire and the reduction of Jedi.
Victor wanted more, though like the others, had grown distasteful with the current state of their mighty Empire and the significant concerns they all held about their current reigning Warlord.

Victor was an impressive specimen, his stature placing other men at shame while making those who opposed him second guess with fear. Thundering footsteps could be heard outside the room they gathered, the Alor of House Kryze entering without ushering any formal greetings to the others. Clad in the black and gold beskar'gam, he had his jetpack as well as Pneumatic Fist charged on his left hand. The polished beskad strapped to his right thigh while two golden clad Assassin slugthrower pistols were at his waist line. He came to stand a few feet away from Orsen Viszla and also did not claim a seat at the table for himself. Arms crossing across his chest, as his gaze finally rested on their current leader. No facial visage could be seen underneath the concealment of his T-visor, but Victor nodded towards Leandros with a respectful tone, "Manda'lor" He said.

He grew up on tales revering both Leandros and Koil, he was there at the parades after they had been successful at Corellia and after then War Councilor Leandros had dueled with Darth Victress. But the last words of his father rang through his ears, telling him of a time when he would have to make a hard decision. Perhaps that would be today; no matter the path,
Victor wondered to himself how the remainder of this meeting would turn.

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There was little in the galaxy that could pull Aza Ordo from her duties as A'lor, but a specific request for her presence from the Mand'alor was one of those things. All of Aza's focus, her determination, her drive was currently funneled entirely into being what Ordo needed her to be.

Her father, Kartz Ordo, had died three years ago. Aza took up his role without hesitation and none in Ordo had been willing to challenge her. Unlike her father, who many outside and even inside Ordo considered a coward, Aza was ruthless. Almost as if it was chiseled from stone, Aza's body, her scars, were as hard as her heart. In her Ordo, dissent was as likely to remove one's body from their own head as it was anything else.

But even still, she heeded the Manda'lor's call. Even Aza was no fool as to ignore something so important, so vital to the continued success of the Mandalorian people. Things were in motion that could not be undone

She had arrived last, it seemed. The a'lors from the other clans of reputation had already gathered. She knew none of them really, save for Koil. And even then, only the stories. The legends. By comparison she was merely a whelping, but Aza Ordo intended to stand as equal to anyone else gathered here. Except the Mand'alor, of course.

Choosing to stand like the others, Aza leaned idly against one of the pillars that flanked the table. The flames flickering in their braziers reflected dully off her battle worn armor, the colors of Ordo not lending themselves to shininess to begin with. A beskad hung at her hip, an old and reliable quickdraw on her other. Aza instinctively flexed the hand her pneumatic fist was attached to, cracking her knuckles menacingly.

From beneath her t-visor, Aza stared intently at Leandros. Only time would tell if the sunrise would bring new dawn for the Mandalorians, or if it would only shine a harsh light on their failures. Aza knew one thing for certain, though - that she loved the name of honor more than she feared death.


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Leandros Solus

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The even rise and fall of his chest was in time with his fingers drumming rhythmically against his breastplate as he waited. His eyelids were like heavy curtains for his eyes, and his mind was a mountain with clouds drifting lazily by snow-capped peaks. Few idle thoughts ran through his mind and he quickly found himself in a state of meditation as he communed with the gods. The imagined whispers of Kad Ha’rangir filled his ears with promises of blood and glory, and a cold chill ran through his body, rousing him from his communion. The first of the clan leaders had arrived.

First came Vizsla, once proud and powerful, now reduced to a dissentious worm writhing in the filth of his clan’s disloyalty. The Mand’alor heard the reports, the rumors; he heard the whispers in the darkness that Clan Vizsla held no more faith in their ruler. It disgusted him. Even his tone held no respect for the warlord, but this defiance would soon be rectified.

Next came the Wren, and The Mand’alor simply stared at her with indifference. Her clan had always meant nothing to him, even less in these modern days. Their Alor fought well, though she was little more than a small flame compared to the roaring blaze of the Crusader’s might. What few clan members she had left would rally to his cause – he would brook no other answer.

Koil followed as the third. Quietly, he moved with a graceful fluidity that none of the others would ever possess. Of those who would be gathered here today, he was the one The Mand’alor truly knew and cared for as a brother. Once, in a past life, they had loved the same woman, though Koil did not emerge victorious on that battlefield, and the animosity shared between them would go unaired until her death. In the years that followed, he overcame his grief and retired from the War Council. The Mand’alor respected the man and his wishes, hoping he would find some measure of happiness in this cruel, bleak reality, for he knew he would personally never know any emotion but vengeance for the rest of his days. He knew he would answer the call – he was always a loyal ally.

The Kryze followed in Koil’s silent footsteps. He was a large man, though stupid, and often relied on his brute strength to win where cunning would not help him. His father had been a strong man and close comrade. He halted alongside his peers and bowed respectfully to his superior, though The Mand’alor did not return the gesture.

Finally, the Ordo arrived. She was a predictable, if ruthless, hound, and he knew she would never refuse his summons. She was no fool, though she was young and horribly inexperienced. Perhaps, in time, she would grow to be a fine warrior and leader, though the reports of her open rebellion against The Mand’alor alongside Vizsla meant she would need to be reined in swiftly and harshly. She did not mirror the sycophantic gesture of the Kryze and instead stood silently with her comrades, awaiting the words The Mand’alor had to share.

The Mand’alor stood silently while the others gathered, arms folded across his chest, fingers continuing to drum rhythmically to the sounds of war in his head. When they had gathered – and none took a seat, as he had expected – he let his eyes trace over each gathered member in turn, scrutinizing them. A stern expression made itself present on his face, and he wondered which of those gathered here also gathered in the shadows of their clans to discuss revolting against his rule. They were marionettes, wood riddled with rot, and he needed to purge any dissent among his people. Hatred, he found, was a powerful tool to unite others beneath, and he would need to direct their hate against a new foe.

”Brave,” he said, his voice like gravel dragged across a skull, ”Brave of you to show when your worlds, your people, openly speak against our rule.” Beside him stood the Destroyer, though only he saw the god, and only ever in his periphery. He could never look upon him directly, but the divine being’s omnipresent status in his life quickly became an afterthought in these recent years. ”We will brook no insult, accept no defiance; not from Vizsla, nor from Ordo, nor from any of the clans. You will reaffirm your loyalties to your Mand’alor and your gods here, in the ashes of our once-great home world,” he continued, panning his weary gaze across the Alors, ”Or all that you cherish will burn just as our enemies have. Our reach is limitless, our power absolute.”

He frowned beneath his ancient mask, his gaze lingering over Koil for a few moments before he continued down the line. ”Our war is with the outsiders. Not between the Mando’ade. We will not see all that we have built be torn down by defiant children and heretics.”

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The Storyteller

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Aza listened intently to the words that Leandros was choosing to use and couldn't help herself from rolling her eyes beneath her helmet. She let out a heavy sigh, like the kind your dad would do when he was suppressing disappointment and getting ready to explain why you were such an absolute dumbass. Pushing off of the pillar she'd been leaning on Aza couldn't help but shake her head in apparent defiance.

[color=LightSlateGrey ]"The only thing I will reaffirm today is that the rumors of you are truer than I thought."[/color] Aza said, her voice sharp and clear even from beneath her helmet. [color=LightSlateGrey ]"The words you speak are not words of the Mand'alor. You sound like the Sith."[/color] She would let the insult hang for a moment. Aza was young enough that the Sith were always an afterthought, an enemy that years ago shriveled and shrank back int the darkness where they belonged. But she knew that Leandros had been on the forefront of those battles, a leader and beacon of light to follow in the face of darkness. But now.. well, not so much.

"The Mandalorians that you built began crumbling the moment our true Mand'alor died. The first crack in the foundation, spreading like disease throughout. Not unlike what has happened to your mind, my Manda'lor." The last words came out with sarcasm so thick, so venomous that even the clouded, insanity addled mind of Leandros should be able to interpret it for what it was and what it meant. "And just like with her, you failed to be what we need you to be. You're a rotting branch that needed pruning many cycles ago. A plague." If Aza could take her helmet off in this moment, she would spit at the feet of Leandros.

Aza was unsure of what the ramifications of her words would be, but she would be ready to fight if that's what it came down to. There was a strong chance Vizsla would be there to back her up, but then again, you couldn't trust most Viszla anymore than you could trust a Hutt. But she had to think that even the Solus had to see that the current situation was no longer tenable. The Mandalorian people were going to collapse underneath the weight of their failed ruler, his delusions and inability to confront a true reality would be their own doing. The others had to see that.. right?

It didn't matter. Aza was a Mandalorian, and as such, she was willing to die for what she believed in. And today, standing in the ruins of their once great home, she knew what she believed: That Leandros Solus was a clear and present danger to the continued prosperity of his people and probably had been for some time. Aza of clan Ordo was willing to take a stand against Manda'lor the Mad. Only time would tell if the others held similar virtues, or if they would follow Leandros all the way into the dark.


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The Storyteller

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The tension in the air was palpable even before Leandros spoke. Orsen Vizsla glanced at the other A'lors and lamented how much has changed in the past few decades. Kryze, Ordo, and Wren have new A'lors, their predecessors died, either peacefully or in battle against the Sith. The legendary Koil Solus stands as A'lor for House Solus, he wondered how he would play into this. The other A'lors didn't say anything, cept for that of Kryze's who had a respectful tone of voice for the mad Mand'alor to which Vizsla rolled his eyes.

Vizsla dropped his arms as Leandros spoke. He spoke of threats if people didn't practically kneel before him. The Manda'lor the Mad is someone who would make good on those threats. He could re-pledge himself to the Manda'lor... but he won't. He already felt the shame of surrendering House Vizsla's rich prestige to Raz instead of engaging her in a duel with his Clan's pride on the line. Not again... He will not bow to Leandros. Orsen won't stand idle to him like he did with the Sith. Not this time.

He heard Aza Ordo speak and compared him to a Sith. That woman is a true Mandalorian no doubt. Her words spoke true as well. "She's right. You've been running us down to the ground. You're hopelessly delusional." he said. "In order to deal with a rotting branch..." he would look at the other a'lors before turning his gaze to the Mand'alor's mask, and nod at Koil "...We must cut it off."

With that, with his right hand he would put his right hand on the grip of his sheathed beskad and then draw it out. His other hand would be resting on his holstered blaster pistol. With that, he would be in a battle stance and his blade would be ready for Leandros.

This is what they are here for. Talking down Leandros would be a hopeless endeavor. He didn't earn the nickname 'Mandalore the Mad' for being rational. There is only one way this will end...

By blood.
 
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Ameryn narrowed her eyes at Leandros' words, her eyes looking at her fellow A'lors to see their reactions. Aza spoke first, echoing many sentiments that she herself felt. It was Orson that the Wren looked to closest, having spoken with the man at length about the threat that the madman posed to their people, to their very future. She knew she didn't have much time left, her wounds slowly spreading to her internal organs, so originally she had thought to try to cut the rot from within even if it cost her what was left of her life. The man had talked her down from the surely suicidal confrontation, saying that he had some ideas of what may happen soon with dealing with Leandros. She hadn't been quite sure what he had meant, though now she could see. Where one of their number would be most likely outmatched, all of their number united could bring the mad Mand'alore down. If one of them should die so the others could end him, she would gladly lay down her life for the future of their people.

"Our people bleed and die needlessly, for a crusade that should have ended years ago. The fires of your revenge and hatred will burn everything we love to the ground. If you won't see reason and stop, then you must be forced to do so." Ameryn drew her own Beskad, shifting to a combat stance in solidarity with anyone else who would join them. There was no turning back: either they would assassinate Leandros or they would die trying. If his madness gave him the right to bring the galaxy to ruin then he would have to do so over their corpses. Her mind went back to that battle in Kaas City, watching her clanmates fall one by one, taking six Sith for every one of their number. They had fought and bled for what they believed in, a future that she knew Leandros didn't share. She would not let him dishonor their memory and efforts by destroying everything they had fought for. Her face and heart were set. She would bear this stain on her honor for the greater good.
 

Koil Solus

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There could have been a dozen clan leaders and their aids present. But Koil felt Leandros just standing there like a bright flaring fire in the darkness. He had always had that sort of presence. Even in his current state he still had that aura about him.

The others spoke first, as they often did. The Silent Badger had little to say that the others did not already voice. Leandros made it clear what he had brought them here for. Reaffirming their allegiance. It was unnecessary but it gave a clue as to how paranoid he was these days. The fear of insurrection, of betrayal, the fear, Koil smelled it.

The Echani still saw so much of his comrade standing before him. Aged and worn down by the galaxy. More than anything it was sad. Parts of him remained and he was not some wholely monstrous being. Koil could not help but feel guilty for this. For all of it. It had been his words. ...You're the Crusader. Give them a crusade. That was what he had done. But it was no longer the era for crusades.


Ameryn was the first to draw her weapon. And so the end begins. Koil's hand reached over his shoulder, but it was the Silent Badger that pulled the vibro-blade from its scabbard. The dampened thrum of the finely crafted weapon heard by those nearby. He knew that Leandros would not go down quietly. The others present were from different clans. They did not know how ferocious a true Solus Badger could be. As long as they had a breath on their lips they would rip and tear right up until the end.

"You're the champion of Kad Ha'rangir, brother. But the other gods are here today. Hod Ha'ran stands over my shoulder. Arasuum above us all." Perhaps in his mad state he would not understand. But the way Koil saw it, the way he believed it was there was no end to this conflict. Not really. There was always going to be bloodshed, sacrifice and loss. The god of destruction was just a facet of the cycle. The rubble beneath his feet shifted as he slid his feet into a fighting stance. "We are, forever at war, and that's the real trick." The only thing that would end here, were lives.


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The Storyteller

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Victor had his doubts, who wouldn't?

This was the man that his father had sworn allegiance to, one that had been instrumental in creating the crusades that led to their current massive Empire. House Kryze followed with loyalty though the A'lor had his reservations. He said nothing at first, eyes shifting in between those that spoke and then finally towards Koil as the legendary badger drew his weapon. No amount of mental preparation had made him ready to take the decision he ought to, his mind playing tricks on him with every fraction of a second. However, as Koil finished speaking his words, Victor returned his gaze upon Leandros.

"House Kryze followed you into fury and fire, because it was right... But...No more. You are not the Manda'lor, you are an old man who has outlived his purpose.." His words were harsh and while carried no excitement in his voice, it was clear that he had re-affirmed his decision to side with the others. Armored hand went for the hilt of his beskad, brandishing the weapon while he simultaneously activated his jetpack into combat mode. "It is time to usher in a new era of Mandalorian Rule..."

He spoke, heart racing and its beat escalating with each passing moment. Eyes widened as the adrenaline pumped through his veins...


Let it begin...

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Leandros Solus

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The Mand’alor’s stern gaze fell over the Ordo first as she shook her head and pushed off the pillar. As she spoke, his brow furrowed, and his teeth pressed against each other as his frown deepened. He figured the traitor would be the first to speak against his rule, and every word that left her mouth deserved a dozen bolts in response. When that word left her mouth, he took a step forward, wrapping his fingers around the hilt of his beskad, but he stayed his hand for now. He expected one of the others to cut short her miserable existence. She continued to speak, and his ire rose.

Their people began to crumble when Raz died? He brought his people from the brink of disaster to hold dominion over the stars the likes of which their people had never seen before. He united the broken and scattered clans under a banner of hate and vengeance and used that hate to utterly wipe out their foes. He was the bedrock their people needed, and he would not brook the insult of this whelp who had never seen a day of true battle in her life. He had led the charge on scores of worlds, and in five decades of combat, hundreds of worlds fell under his banner. He was no mere branch; he was the tree, and this child was the rot.

Next came the Vizsla, and his words did not surprise The Mand’alor at all. They were both cowards and traitors, too weak to challenge him in single combat. It amused him that the aging man needed a young hound to lead the resistance against his rule, and it only spoke of how weak a warrior this man was. He was a pitiful, feeble man compared to his master. His life was forfeit the moment he stood against The Mand’alor.

Ameryn felt the need to speak up now, joining the side of the traitors. He expected the Wren to side with him, to fight against these idiots, but she made her decision here. What remained of her clan would be brought to its knees, The Mand’alor promised himself that, once her head sat squarely on a spike outside this ruined keep.

His eyes turned to Koil, expecting his brother and comrade to stand at his side to put down this little insurrection. For decades, they had fought side by side, bled together, for their people. He knew that, no matter their differences, he would stand with his clansman. In a way, he loved the man, for he stood beside him through the worst either of them had witnessed and emerged stronger for it. Perhaps he would talk sense into these whelps, then execute them for The Mand’alor. Together, the two would end this little coup and they would return to conquering the galaxy.

But Koil drew his blade. He did not stand with his brother.

Leandros recoiled a bit, taken aback by the betrayal. Koil’s words echoed in his mind, but it was his actions that stood out. He would not stand at his side as a friend. He would stand across from him as a traitor, as the very thing that would bring ruin to their people. His surprise was replaced by hatred, and the whispers of the Destroyer incensed him further. He was followed by the Kryze, who stood with the traitors. He believed The Mand’alor to be an old man, one whose purpose had ended. A pity he would not live to see another sunrise.

None of them could see it. None of them knew what would come without a Mand’alor. But none of them cared. They thought to strike against The Mand’alor as a group, rather than adhere to the Old Ways. None of them were fit to rule their people. ”Traitor!” he shouted out, his voice echoing with pain in the destroyed chamber. His eyes fell on Koil, his gaze burning a hole through his helmet. He stared where the man’s eyes would be, and, though neither man’s eyes were visible, he would know he was the one these words were directed towards. ”You would spit on our legacy?!” he spat, referring to more than just himself, though he doubted anyone knew – or cared, at this point.


Where the others drew their blades with some dignity or finesse, The Mand’alor drew his with malice. Metal screamed against metal as his beskad was ripped from its scabbard. His heart began pumping quickly and adrenaline coursed through his body. His hairs stood on end and his muscles tensed as his mind emptied itself of all thought unrelated to war. Before him were mere whelps, and, apart from Koil, none of them had seen more than a decade or two of battle. The Mand’alor had lived through fifty years of bloodshed, and every battle was etched into his skin with each wrinkle and scar. He was old, but he was not feeble. Far from it. His was the blood of the divines, and his was the rage of the Manda.

”This blade has tasted the blood of ten thousand beings,” he growled, dropping into a savage combat stance his body knew all too well, ”And today, it will taste the blood of five more.” His free hand deftly reached for, primed, and threw in one fluid motion an impact-detonated frag at the center of the group to scatter them. Simultaneously, he leaped backwards, letting his jetpack carry him away from the group several meters. His boots crunched against the stone and dust as he landed, and he would shout out with a grim chuckle to the traitors, ”Come then, and let this world be your grave!”

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Vizsla was ready for offense from the Mand'alor the Mad. Predictable as a rock, Orsen was prepared. When Leandros was in the process of throwing the grenade, Vizsla would have leapt in the air and his own jetpack would take him diagonally backwards a few meters as well. Leandros is too skilled of a fighter, but Vizsla was getting old and wasn't nearly as skilled as Leandros was, he only barely got out of the grenade in time. Orsen is old, but he still trains as any Mandalorian should inspite.

With his feet now on the ground a few meters from his first position, he would raise his blaster and then fire three fast-pace shots at Leandros, center of mass.

After the three shots are fired, the old Vizsla would then with his jetpack activating once more, send him flying at Leandros, taking a high arc up to get to him so to make sure he wouldn't get in the way of his co-conspirator's attacks.

As he's flying at Leandros in his arc, his beskad would be ready to strike at Leandros. Clan Vizsla will regain it's honor by cutting through the insane Mandalore... or die trying.
 
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Koil Solus

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Koil had made a hope, against all other desires, that this might and quickly. Perhaps in an act of lucidity Leandros would realize his errors and redeem himself by submitting to the execution. But that was the kind of desire that went against what the man stood for. It went against what their clan stood for. It was a selfish want, and it did not come to pass.

An accusation rang out in the hall. The Silent Badger had no response. The Mand'alor had made up his mind and the time for words was over. His soul was set on bloodshed, that much was clear.

An explosion erupted in front of Koil. He brought his arm up to the side and took a step bake to protect from any shrapnel. The Echani had been out of the blast zone well enough. Rock and dust had been thrown into the air and now he was the furthest away from Leandros. He should be closer. I should be the one to do it. His gauntlet bulwark shield came on with the common vzzm sound. I'm sorry.


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Ameryn may not have been close to Leandros' level of skill, but that didn't mean she was going to be a pushover. Recognizing the grenade for what it was, she activated her jetpack at nearly the same time Orson did, though her trajectory was different. She evaded towards her left, angling to circle around to the Madman's flank. She may have her internal wounds, but despite pain they didn't slow her down at the moment. She was still the A'lor of her clan and a seasoned veteran. Still, her face was grim beneath her helmet. Even with all of them there, they would be hard pressed. Except, perhaps, for Koil. He would have the best chance of ending Leandros, so her thoughts led her to do what she could to help his fight. She knew she wasn't as strong as some of the others.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Koil be forced back slightly by the grenade. In his madness, perhaps Leandros could be herded like livestock to the slaughter. She landed, now on the Manda'lor's right flank still several meters away as the man had backed up himself. Noting that Orson was coming from a different angle, she tried to jet further around towards Leandros' blind spot towards his back right. She would close in and attempt to strike with her Beskad as close to Orson's attack as she could, not wanting to get in his way or the way of any other attacks from her allies. Shew as still as on her guard as she could be, knowing how dangerous the Madman was, though her goal was to force him closer to the group and Koil. She'd grapple and hold him still if she had to.


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Victor saw the Warlord hurl the grenade towards their epicenter, intending to scatter the Alors into separate angle. It was a wise strategy that seemingly worked for the time being. With his jetpack in combat mode, he leaped into the air and propelled to his own right several meters, watching as the explosion of shrapnel and fire occurred outside of any immediate lethality to his armored figure. He took a single step onto the ground before leaping once more forwards with the propulsion of his jetpack; turbine roared as the champion of Kryze advanced against Leandros' left flank.

Right hand kept the Beskad ready while his left drew the Assassin slugthrower from its holster and fired off two trigger pulls at his enemy; he was sure the Manda'Lor would find a way to avoid damage though it would perhaps enable an opening for one of the others to sneak in an attack. For now
Victor did not engage into melee range with his opponent, preferring to keep his adversary at firing distance until the opportune moment arrived.

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The grenade was a good opening move and Aza found herself impressed that the mad old man still had good instincts about him. Her mind immediately entered fight or flight mode the moment her eye caught the sight of the familiar dull metal orb flying towards the center of them all and it seemed Aza's instincts were as sharp as the Mand'alor's beskad as well.

With a quick kick of her foot, Aza knocked the table that they had all been meant to gather round at the beginning of this gathering. It was old and it was thick and incredibly heavy, but leverage was on her side and once it started going it went with ease. Aza ducked behind it while the shrapnel from the grenade scattered, embedding itself into the old wood but leaving the young Ordo quite intact.

Grabbing her quickdraw, Aza peered over the top of the table and spotted Leandros in all of his carnal glory, shouting at the clouds as old men often did. Figuring taking Leandros by surprise would be the best way to get him on the back foot, Aza clenched her fist tightly and punched the center of the table as hard as she could.

Under normal circumstances, she'd probably have just broken her hand. But with the pneumatic aid of her beskar'gam, Aza instead sent the massive wooden disc hurling towards Leandros. If the mongrel had lost any of the pep in his step, perhaps it would simply smash him into a pancake and they could all be done with this. S
he hadn't really been aware the Wren had closed into melee distance as well, although Aza was more than willing to pay that price. She figured the main goal of today was to end the reign of Mand'alor the Mad, so you'd have to do what you had to do. If she crushed a few birds along the way Aza figured the others wouldn't be too upset with her.

One could hope, anyway.


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Leandros Solus

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The Mand’alor gripped his beskad with murderous intent, his trained eyes scanning the battlefield as everything unfolded. His grenade scattered the Alors and gave him both room for maneuver and time to plan his attack out. Knuckles turned white with the savage grip he maintained on the weapon while his stance took a feral, almost beastlike form. He was an animal backed against the corner by the very people he expected to follow him into the jaws of hell. He would fight for his survival with a ferocity he had never felt before. The pain of Koil’s betrayal fueled him, made him focus his anger and hate against these new foes. Never before had he killed one of the mando’ade, but these were new and frightening times for their people.

Orsen was the first to fire. After he had avoided the grenade, he sent three bolts screaming through the air towards The Mand’alor. Shortly thereafter, Victor fired two shots of his own towards his foe. The Wren attempted to flank and go around his right flank while Victor took the left and Orsen took to the skies to attack him head on. While the three Alors advanced with hostile intent, Aza punched the table at him, sending the wooden disc sliding across the floor his way. Time seemed to slow down as he took in everything as it happened, his muscles tensing to act.

The Mand’alor sprang into action. Orsen’s three bolts whistled past as he deftly twisted his body. To avoid the table, he leapt into the air with his jetpack with the same fluid motion, letting it slide past and slam into whatever would stop it. Victor’s two slugs slammed into his shin plating as he was taking flight, and, thankfully, his armor attenuated most of the damage. They still would leave their mark, but it wouldn’t be enough to put him down; not yet.

He continued in his flight towards Orsen, leaving Ameryn to avoid the table. As he approached the Vizsla man flying towards him, he raised his free right hand and activated his flamethrower, both to conceal his approach as well as pressure his foe into reacting to the gout of fire that would quickly engulf him were he not able to move in time. He kept his beskad close, wary for a counter from Orsen, provided the man didn’t get consumed by the flames and engaged him in melee. Even if he didn’t feel the call of the Force, he was still a master combatant, and he kept his senses alert for the actions of the other traitors.

If they wanted a fight, then they’d get one.

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Ameryn had been prepared for any surprises, though the table suddenly coming at her wasn't quite what she expected. Still, it was easy enough to dodge considering she had wanted to follow Leandros into the air anyway. With her preference for melee combat, she had to be close to strike. Activating her jetpack, she flew into the air, following the Madman's trajectory and thus evading the table. The Wren A'lor saw him use his armor's flamethrower on Orson, hoping the man could dodge or counter. Still on Leandros' flank she tried to stab into the armpit of the arm raised for the shower of flame, wanting to try to wound it enough to be useless for the fight. Against such a strong foe, perhaps the best way to slay him would be by a thousand cuts.


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