“`ansi [2;34m[1;34m[1;31mGM:[0m[1;34m [0m[2;34m[0m [2;34mThe year is 43 ABY. It has been two years since the assault on the Telgorn Corporation Repair Yard [1;34mRespite[0m[2;34m at the heart of Clan Vizsla space and the loss of its Consul, the Praetorian Mandalorian [1;34mKorvis Manda'vod ad Vizsla[0m[2;34m. Although rescue efforts have been attempted, the hull of the Respite is badly damaged and she has an unstable orbit; drifting in and out of orbit from the nearby planet Kalus, undergoing heavy gravitational stresses that threaten to rip her apart. All attempts to retrieve the Consul’s body thus far had failed, causing fractures and ripples that still affect those closest to him today.
The Mandalorians Zxyl Bes'uliik and Siorc both felt it hard; as one of the MandoBros, the [1;34mIron Beast of Mandalore[0m[2;34m and [1;34mPraetorian Mandalorian[0m[2;34m had formed a strong bond that transcended clans and followed the former to The Council. The Mandalorian Foundling Siorc had been recruited to the Mandalorian Creed by Manda'vod, instructed in Mandaorian Codes. The failure of retrieval of their comrade’s body rubbed them the wrong way, but neither of them could do anything about it alone…
We start on Zsoldos, in the [1;34mBlackspire Expanse Spaceport[0m[2;34m.[0m ”`
Local Drinking Hole Blackspire Expanse Spacesport Zsoldos, 44 ABY
The heavily armored Mandalorian sat at the bar without much fanfare, his Mandalorian Assault Rifle leaning up against the bar - butt against the ground, barrel assembly resting peacefully against the polished wood. Though once Regent of the Brotherhood, Zxyl Bes'uliik over the last year had slowly slid into obscurity, going back to the game that got him started; bounty hunting. The Dathomirian-Mandalorian General, an enigma amongst his culture, still required replenishment and refreshments like everyone else. This trip had been a long one; a bounty had popped up on the Vizsla Bounty Board - a recent staple for reliable work - that took him to the other side of the galaxy, necessitating a bit of extra time to recharge.
His most recent acquisition, Manda'lor’s Skira was sitting peacefully in the hangar bay the bar was overlooking, with Blackspire Expanse Spaceport starship techs going about their work refilling her fuel and basic checks. Not that she needed it… the Revenge was essentially an autonomous wrecking ball.
Lowering a straw into the drink that was just presented to him, the Mandalorian scanned the bar. Not many familiar faces in here. The bartender, a slender Devaronian named Cri'st, serviced a few other patrons but the pace seemed slow. Perhaps it was just the Blackspire Expanse… not his usual drop-off, but the one the bounty board had requested this time. It mattered not, as long as he got the job done - and the Dathomirian usually did.
Being in this system, the General’s mind began to wander. Drifting back to a time where his vod, probably one of the fiercest and direct Mandalorians he knew, heralded the Clan whose space he occupied. The Praetorian Mandalorian. Korvis himself was enigmatic, a devout follower of the Mandalorian Creed. As Bes'uliik sipped on his drink from the straw beneath his helm, he wondered what state the man’s body was in.
It wasn’t much of a bar, but Siorc preferred the drinking hole in the Blackspire Spaceport more than most. While he would attend Saga, the clan’s drinking hall, for bigger events and mandatory meetings, he preferred to be closer to his ship and away from most people. He rarely stayed on Zsoldos, long preferring his ship and the galaxy to being tied down to one place. He had always been a loner to begin with, and with the death of his mentor two years ago, hunting bounties and travel kept him busy.
He was not one to be missed as he entered the space. More of a hole in the wall than a proper bar, it did the trick. He didn’t have Korvis’ proclivity for drinking, but this was a tradition he had no intention of stopping. He propped his Munit'kad up against the bar as the bartender Cri’st made his way over to him. He reached up and hit the release of his helmet and pulled it off. His black and red hair fell back into place as he removed it and set it on the bar top next to him.
“The usual,” he said curtly to Cri’st
“Waste of good Correlian Whiskey,” the bartender stated as he set two glasses down in front of the Evereni. Cri’st poured a generous portion into each glass. “But it’s your credits.”
Producing two credit chips, Siorc placed them down on the countertop and looked around the bar. A couple of workers and a person he didn’t recognize. Wearing that armor on Zsoldos meant he was either a Mandalorian or stupid, and he didn’t look stupid enough to impersonate a Mando’ad here. The armor itself was unique and reminded Siorc of the special nature of Korvis armor. Korvis never disclosed where he got it, other than it was made by his vod, his brother. Suddenly, he remembered why he rarely came to Zsoldos; his thoughts always ended up on the former Consul.
“To the Manda’vod, Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la.” Siorc said out loud as he raised his glass and downed the whiskey in one large gulp. He grabbed the second glass and poured it out onto the floor.