Member
Pen Name
Dyelli Beybi
The Otter
Carlyle
ASDAValueMilk
Bacon
Crimson Flame
Simple Unicycle
ColdAtlasPosted here because because the WIP is a few pages back and I'm a lazy bastard.
| {Full Name} |
| {Age} |
| {Species} |
| {Gender} |
| {Force Sensitive/Alignment} |
| {Appearance} |
| {Equipment and Personal Belongings} |
| {Physical Abilities} |
| {Force Abilities} |
Electric Judgement:
Something that just seems to come naturally to him, Electric Judgement was actually the first force ability Toryn ever discovered; Accidentally. When someone was preparing to kill his adoptive brother. Since that fateful (and slightly crispy) day, Toryn's talent for occasionally cosplaying as a taser has evolved to the point where he can wreathe his own body with emerald— sometimes golden when he really wants to hurt someone— arcs of electricity and control it in outward bursts as if it were an extension of his own will; even able to arc it around people he doesn't want to harm to strike those that he does.
While the Enclaves were... naturally quite skeptical when they discovered he had such a talent after he arrived on Mandalore as a teenager. The support of his new Master, the approval of Mace Windu and some encouragement from Plo-Koon have kept him practicing and improving it even further.
Form VI Variant: Ramikad Niman
Toryn's own, nigh-heretical take on the so-called 'Diplomat's Form', fomented by his decade of hard experiences in the Unknown Regions with the input of not only from his original master who first taught him the form, but his adoptive brother and future sister-in-law— a former Death Watch trooper and Jedi Padawan, respectively— and his adoptive father, a Taung General and then further honed by over a decade in service to Mandalore. The end result? A versatile and incredibly lethal mixture of traditional saber combat, Mandalorian swordplay and opportunistic attacks with the force and his other more... direct armaments, blended together seamlessly through a lifetime of fighting and made all the more terrifying by Toryn's natural proclivity for Electric Judgement.
Other Lightsaber Forms
| {Limitations} |
| {Personality} |
| {Place of Origin} |
| {Background} |
Toryn Dral | "The Hound of Mandalore"
| {Full Name} |
Toryn Dral
| {Age} |
26
| {Species} |
Human
| {Gender} |
Male
| {Force Sensitive/Alignment} |
Yes - Light
| {Appearance} |
"What I do for a living... well, it ain't very conducive to a modelling career."
Standing at a decidedly unremarkable 5'8" and possessing neither the sheer mass of a bodybuilder or the gut of... someone more sedentary than he usually is, the only thing that ever usually makes Toryn stand out in a crowd on any given day is usually his signature bronze-coloured beskar'gam— of an older pattern, before the reforms and standardization of Mandalore the Uniter many centuries before he was even a twinkle in the dad he never met's eyes. Which he'll occasionally cover with a gam'surpan— literally; 'armour cover', a poncho-like garment of Taung origin— during those occasions where a Jedi would usually throw on a fancy, flow-y over-robe and almost never take off in public... save for his helmet when he's doing something like wolfing down a burger at Mando Joe's or getting a drink at the Lucky Lekku.
His family, his doctor and a very, very small circle of friends, however know that what Toryn lacks in size, he makes up for with sheer muscle density. With a body like carved beskar that could only come from living a very, very hard life and with the scars to prove it, too— burn scars up his right arm, marks from some kind of flogging implement across his back and the tell-tale jagged fissure of a Rodian deathblade across his chest, to name a few— interspersed and often crossing through now slightly-fading tattoos of a style that had gone out of fashion on Mandalore millennia ago. Both in their design, and the fact that they were put there by a mallet and chisel, each representing some milestone or action he'll probably never elaborate on and not there for pure aesthetics. Hell, not even his face has been spared from this carnage; with a spackling of what looks almost like shrapnel scars scattered around his left eye and cheek with some down to his chin and a trio of jagged claw marks cutting down through his brow, over a band of Mirialan tattoos that travel from one cheekbone to the other across the bridge of his nose and just past his lips. Relatively fresh when he'd arrived but now faded a bit over the past decade or so, they do portray an obvious story about how something large and unpleasant had managed to shatter his visor, and then immediately followed it up by trying to take his face off when the boy decided it was kinda hard to fight with your head in a bucket full of broken glass.
All this, combined with those sharp grey eyes of his, brown hair usually in a simple high-and-tight crew cut and a propensity to forget to shave sometimes have given Toryn a look that even he'd joke; "Only a Mando could love."
...Which, though he probably actually believes it, ain't entirely true; truth be told, the guy's far more handsome than he thinks, he just hides it well.
Standing at a decidedly unremarkable 5'8" and possessing neither the sheer mass of a bodybuilder or the gut of... someone more sedentary than he usually is, the only thing that ever usually makes Toryn stand out in a crowd on any given day is usually his signature bronze-coloured beskar'gam— of an older pattern, before the reforms and standardization of Mandalore the Uniter many centuries before he was even a twinkle in the dad he never met's eyes. Which he'll occasionally cover with a gam'surpan— literally; 'armour cover', a poncho-like garment of Taung origin— during those occasions where a Jedi would usually throw on a fancy, flow-y over-robe and almost never take off in public... save for his helmet when he's doing something like wolfing down a burger at Mando Joe's or getting a drink at the Lucky Lekku.
His family, his doctor and a very, very small circle of friends, however know that what Toryn lacks in size, he makes up for with sheer muscle density. With a body like carved beskar that could only come from living a very, very hard life and with the scars to prove it, too— burn scars up his right arm, marks from some kind of flogging implement across his back and the tell-tale jagged fissure of a Rodian deathblade across his chest, to name a few— interspersed and often crossing through now slightly-fading tattoos of a style that had gone out of fashion on Mandalore millennia ago. Both in their design, and the fact that they were put there by a mallet and chisel, each representing some milestone or action he'll probably never elaborate on and not there for pure aesthetics. Hell, not even his face has been spared from this carnage; with a spackling of what looks almost like shrapnel scars scattered around his left eye and cheek with some down to his chin and a trio of jagged claw marks cutting down through his brow, over a band of Mirialan tattoos that travel from one cheekbone to the other across the bridge of his nose and just past his lips. Relatively fresh when he'd arrived but now faded a bit over the past decade or so, they do portray an obvious story about how something large and unpleasant had managed to shatter his visor, and then immediately followed it up by trying to take his face off when the boy decided it was kinda hard to fight with your head in a bucket full of broken glass.
All this, combined with those sharp grey eyes of his, brown hair usually in a simple high-and-tight crew cut and a propensity to forget to shave sometimes have given Toryn a look that even he'd joke; "Only a Mando could love."
...Which, though he probably actually believes it, ain't entirely true; truth be told, the guy's far more handsome than he thinks, he just hides it well.
| {Equipment and Personal Belongings} |
- Beskar'gam: An older— downright archaic, some would say— pattern of Beskar'gam Toryn picked up at some indeterminate point during his youth spent voyaging across the Unknown Regions. Resized to fit him as he grew and periodically updated over the years to include (among other things) an enhanced sensor and comms suite in the helmet to both track his prey and keep in contact with The Dog, a new vocabulator to help him with certain words in alien languages his human mouth is ill-equipped for and magnetic pads on the soles of his feet and sewn into the palms of his armourweave to make repairs in EVA just a little bit easier.
- Daggers: Three kals, one hanging off the back of his belt and two smaller ones hidden under his vambraces.
- Configurable Mandalorian vambraces: Usually equipped with a grapple-line on his right and a flamethrower on his left.
- Taung Dueling Pistol: An ancient blaster pistol of Taung design, made specifically for fighting other Mandalorians; Overcoming the strength of beskar armour with enough raw kinetic force to snap bone and hemorrhage organs... and is absolutely devastating when used on plastoid. Part of a set, his older brother having the other one.
- Lightsaber: Bearing a distinctive orange-red blade and a hilt made of beskar. Often does double-duty as an ad-hoc mace.
A downright ancient Dynamic-class freighter hauled out of a scrapyard on Terminus by Toryn's family when he was a boy, with most of the holes hastily patched up, an oversized powerplant aggressively rammed into place and a... creatively acquired Class 0.5 hyperdrive slapped in for good measure. The old girl has served as both his means of getting around and his home in the two decades or so since and has seen it's fair share of misadventures, tough scrapes and a whole helluva lot more close calls than it's designers had probably ever really intended it for, but it has always faithfully failed to let the Drals down even in their darkest of hours.
Probably why Toryn still refuses to part with it in favour of a more modern vessel to this day.
...And kept up the family tradition of adding new shiny bits to it.
Basic Specifications
Armaments
Facilities
Amenities
Probably why Toryn still refuses to part with it in favour of a more modern vessel to this day.
...And kept up the family tradition of adding new shiny bits to it.
Basic Specifications
- Length: 27.24 Meters
- Width: 25.94 Meters
- Maximum Atmospheric Speed: 1300 Km/h
- Hyperdrive Rating: Class 0.5
- Navigation: Droidcore-Assisted Navicomputer
Armaments
- 2x revolving laser cannon turrets, mounted dorsal and ventral.
- 4x forward-facing laser cannon turrets, mounted on the starboard and port sides of the hull and on either side of the cockpit.
- 2x 24-shot concussion missile racks, mounted on the starbord and port sections of the front of the hull.
- 4x Forward-facing deployable laser cannon hard points, one mounted above and below both missile racks.
- 'Teeth': The ancient droidcore— an old T3 unit— integrated into the ship's systems long before the Drals ever got their hands on it, it's dish-like head poking out of the thick console partitioning the pilot and co-pilot seats. Outside of navigation, can take over some of the ships weapons to assist Toryn in a firefight or even operate the ship independently, running off of data supplied by Toryn's IFF while he's on the ground. Also... just a liiiiittle bit unhinged after going a few millennia without a memory wipe.
Facilities
- Cockpit, equipped with a quartet of stupidly comfortable reclining chairs, comms and navigation suites, a droidcore mainframe built out of a very old, very talkative and very possibly insane T3-series utility droid and all the other bells and whistles you'd expect to find there. And a Mandalore the Paladin bobblehead. Plus a pair of fuzzy dice Solace bought him one year for his birthday.
- Garage/Workshop/Forge, in the starboard-aft section of the ship.
- Medical Bay aft of the ship.
- Cargo Hold/Brig, port-aft of the ship.
- Magnetically-sealable, beskar-plated storage compartment, center-port of ship.
Amenities
- Captain's Quarters, just aft of the cockpit. Formerly the comms room.
- Guest quarters, port and starboard of the ship.
- Common Area, equipped with kitchen, secured dining table with magnetically-anchorable chairs, holo-entertainment suite in the center of the room and a very comfortable couch. Located centrally in the ship.
- Washroom with dual-function ablution system; working as both a sonic shower for those times when Toryn's on those long treks that require some measure of water conservation (or if he's just running late for work) and an old-fashioned H2O bath/shower, for when he just wants to relax. Mandalorian-helmeted rubber duckie included.
- A jury-rigged deployable hydroscoop on the bottom and slightly to the rear of the ship. Allowing Toryn to cheekily stock up on water by flying through a comet's tail if he really needs to.
- An old BARC speeder with detachable sidecar; Useful for getting around planetside. And groceries.
- A Z-6 Rotary Blaster.
- A JT-12 Jetpack equipped with an MM9 Missile Launcher
- An Amban Sniper rifle.
- A pack of Sabacc cards from the club he grew up in as a little boy. Never actually uses them, but will take them out and shuffle them once in a while when he needs to relax.
- An old Pazaak deck Toryn found under his bed when his family first acquired the ship.
- The Thumper MK I— A pneumatically-powered, breech-loaded projectile launcher, built by Toryn when he was a boy. Heavy, a little underpowered, yet surprisingly versatile, it operates on a simple concept; There's a hole in the back. If you can fit it in there, you can fire it accurately up to a hundred meters away. Mostly just used to amuse his niece these days.
- The Thumper MK II— A more serious attempt at the original concept Toryn took on in his teenage years; a light weight, breech-loaded, break-action coilgun designed to launch grenades (or anything metal that will fit in the breech) up to seven hundred meters away with impressive accuracy.
- "The Answer"— The result of that time Solace commissioned Toryn to construct a pair of wheellock, revolver blasters for her. Namely, when he cast his gaze down upon the finished product, extremely potent, but extremely fragile and decided one thing— "It's not finished.". This led to a solid month of gathering materials for a far more rugged adaptation of a crystal primed blaster utilizing individual cartridges of tibanna gas for every shot. The end result? A straight pull bolt-action rifle fed via en bloc into a ten-round internal magazine, with a barrel made of beskar to keep the damned thing from melting and furniture made of wroshyr wood just in case it feels the sudden urge to explode in his face. And one hell of an anti-material rifle.
It should be noted, that though he's gotten more than his money's worth out of this particular fruit of Solace-given inspiration in the years since... he hasn't actually told her about it. Partly because he's not sure if she'd be offended by his misgivings about her original design and partly because one way or another, he'd never hear the end of it. - Tionese Boarding Gun— A crude and primitive cycler weapon, the TBG fires a scattering of energy sheathed projectiles in a cone of absolute fury with enough force to turn most sentients and some droids to mulch in the tight confines of a ship's corridors. The downside being that it has to be loaded and fed like a slugthrower... though with a capacity of six rounds in the tube, plus one in the chamber and the ability to just keep blasting with every pump so long as you're squeezing the trigger, that's often enough. Nevermind the bayonet lug.
- Various other, more standard arms and munitions
| {Physical Abilities} |
Jetii'ramikad
An unusual, and rather informal colloquialism used to describe people like Toryn, roughly translated from Mando'a as "Jedi Commando", it means... well, almost exactly what it says on the tin— What happens when you mix a Jedi Knight with a Mandalorian Supercommando.
Immersed in both cultures from a young age and enduring two solid decades of brutal training and even harsher experiences has left Toryn with a very particular skill-set; As lethal with a blaster, kal or even his bare hands as he is with a lightsaber and the force and being extremely (some would say freakishly) physically and mentally tough to boot. It's no small wonder that the council usually reserves the armoured Jedi and those like him for a very certain kind of work.
Self-Sufficient
As a consequence of both his life before arriving on Mandalore and his career afterward, Toryn has— by sheer necessity— become remarkably self-sufficient. Intimately familiar with his gear, his ship and how best to effectively operate and keep both in working order as well as how to survive in the wider Galaxy on his lonesome for extended periods of time.
Expert Armourer
Starting as just a way to bond with his mum when he was still knee-high to a womprat— taking apart her blasters, scrubbing the scoring out of the chambers, realigning the focusing lenses and the like— the events of the next two decades of voyaging through the Unknown Regions and then becoming a Jedi Knight would only mould the boy's talent with his hands into a force all of it's own as he became a man.
Son of a Taung
Being raised by a legendary Taung General who made life particularly difficult for both the Old Republic and Jedi several thousand years ago has had it's subtle effects here and there on the man. Namely in his possession of a much sharper intellect than he ever really lets on and an immense talent for strategy and tactics that only ever really bubbles up to the surface while on the job and fades back into obscurity the moment it's done.
...Also, an extensive vocabulary of expletives and phrases that would sound old-fashioned or downright archaic to most other Mandalorians.
Polyglot
Having spent his early years on Nar Shaddaa and much the rest of his life among the stars, Toryn's picked up more than a few languages along the way. Speaking Huttese and Ryl just as easily as he would Basic or Mando'a and even being able to understand Lekku-Speak. Having a diplomat as his best friend has only helped this along further, allowing him to pick up conversational Shyriiwook and Dosh along the way (assisted by his helmet in speaking, of course) as well as High Galactic and several more... obscure dead languages. If only because he realized rather early on that if he was going to occasionally be sent headlong into ancient ruins from time to time to kill some big ol' spooky thing or save someone from some big ol' spooky thing, then it'd behoove him to be able to read any warning labels he might find within.
Can Cook
If you spent as much time as Toryn has in the Space Boonies, you'd learn how to make a meal out of damn near anything you could find, too.
Card Shark
Though he's not a gambling man, it is distinctly ill-advised to put money on a pazaak game when you're sitting across from Toryn.
"Tor-Torism"
A phrase coined by a certain diplomat— often accompanied by a little snort— Toryn is... weirdly, and uniquely gifted in dealing with both kids and animals. And perhaps more amusingly, doesn't realize it at all.
An unusual, and rather informal colloquialism used to describe people like Toryn, roughly translated from Mando'a as "Jedi Commando", it means... well, almost exactly what it says on the tin— What happens when you mix a Jedi Knight with a Mandalorian Supercommando.
Immersed in both cultures from a young age and enduring two solid decades of brutal training and even harsher experiences has left Toryn with a very particular skill-set; As lethal with a blaster, kal or even his bare hands as he is with a lightsaber and the force and being extremely (some would say freakishly) physically and mentally tough to boot. It's no small wonder that the council usually reserves the armoured Jedi and those like him for a very certain kind of work.
Self-Sufficient
As a consequence of both his life before arriving on Mandalore and his career afterward, Toryn has— by sheer necessity— become remarkably self-sufficient. Intimately familiar with his gear, his ship and how best to effectively operate and keep both in working order as well as how to survive in the wider Galaxy on his lonesome for extended periods of time.
Expert Armourer
Starting as just a way to bond with his mum when he was still knee-high to a womprat— taking apart her blasters, scrubbing the scoring out of the chambers, realigning the focusing lenses and the like— the events of the next two decades of voyaging through the Unknown Regions and then becoming a Jedi Knight would only mould the boy's talent with his hands into a force all of it's own as he became a man.
Son of a Taung
Being raised by a legendary Taung General who made life particularly difficult for both the Old Republic and Jedi several thousand years ago has had it's subtle effects here and there on the man. Namely in his possession of a much sharper intellect than he ever really lets on and an immense talent for strategy and tactics that only ever really bubbles up to the surface while on the job and fades back into obscurity the moment it's done.
...Also, an extensive vocabulary of expletives and phrases that would sound old-fashioned or downright archaic to most other Mandalorians.
Polyglot
Having spent his early years on Nar Shaddaa and much the rest of his life among the stars, Toryn's picked up more than a few languages along the way. Speaking Huttese and Ryl just as easily as he would Basic or Mando'a and even being able to understand Lekku-Speak. Having a diplomat as his best friend has only helped this along further, allowing him to pick up conversational Shyriiwook and Dosh along the way (assisted by his helmet in speaking, of course) as well as High Galactic and several more... obscure dead languages. If only because he realized rather early on that if he was going to occasionally be sent headlong into ancient ruins from time to time to kill some big ol' spooky thing or save someone from some big ol' spooky thing, then it'd behoove him to be able to read any warning labels he might find within.
Can Cook
If you spent as much time as Toryn has in the Space Boonies, you'd learn how to make a meal out of damn near anything you could find, too.
Card Shark
Though he's not a gambling man, it is distinctly ill-advised to put money on a pazaak game when you're sitting across from Toryn.
"Tor-Torism"
A phrase coined by a certain diplomat— often accompanied by a little snort— Toryn is... weirdly, and uniquely gifted in dealing with both kids and animals. And perhaps more amusingly, doesn't realize it at all.
| {Force Abilities} |
- The Basics
- Force Speed
- Force Jump
- Telekinesis (Force Push, Pull, etc...)
- Force Sense
More Advanced - Thought Shield
- Clear Mind
- Force Valor
Electric Judgement:
Something that just seems to come naturally to him, Electric Judgement was actually the first force ability Toryn ever discovered; Accidentally. When someone was preparing to kill his adoptive brother. Since that fateful (and slightly crispy) day, Toryn's talent for occasionally cosplaying as a taser has evolved to the point where he can wreathe his own body with emerald— sometimes golden when he really wants to hurt someone— arcs of electricity and control it in outward bursts as if it were an extension of his own will; even able to arc it around people he doesn't want to harm to strike those that he does.
While the Enclaves were... naturally quite skeptical when they discovered he had such a talent after he arrived on Mandalore as a teenager. The support of his new Master, the approval of Mace Windu and some encouragement from Plo-Koon have kept him practicing and improving it even further.
Form VI Variant: Ramikad Niman
Toryn's own, nigh-heretical take on the so-called 'Diplomat's Form', fomented by his decade of hard experiences in the Unknown Regions with the input of not only from his original master who first taught him the form, but his adoptive brother and future sister-in-law— a former Death Watch trooper and Jedi Padawan, respectively— and his adoptive father, a Taung General and then further honed by over a decade in service to Mandalore. The end result? A versatile and incredibly lethal mixture of traditional saber combat, Mandalorian swordplay and opportunistic attacks with the force and his other more... direct armaments, blended together seamlessly through a lifetime of fighting and made all the more terrifying by Toryn's natural proclivity for Electric Judgement.
Other Lightsaber Forms
- Form VII: Vaapad
- Form III: Soresu
| {Limitations} |
Not a Diplomat
Toryn, though far from being an antisocial miser, has absolutely no head for the labyrinthine world of actual diplomacy. Combined with his reputation and that of those like him, it may in fact be actively detrimental to send the Mando on diplomatic missions as anything other than the spooky guy standing behind the person who is actually talking.
Jetii'ramikad
Strictly speaking, when Toryn is sent somewhere on an assignment, it's generally assumed that the Enclaves, Mandalore or the Paladin himself are done talking, and a peaceful solution will not be coming forthwith. This can make his job (and his life)... decidedly more difficult than it needs to be; Specifically because of the generally accepted notion that if it's him that's been sent somewhere, it's because it's been decided by either the Mandalore or the Enclaves that something has gone very wrong or that someone has to die.
Toryn, though far from being an antisocial miser, has absolutely no head for the labyrinthine world of actual diplomacy. Combined with his reputation and that of those like him, it may in fact be actively detrimental to send the Mando on diplomatic missions as anything other than the spooky guy standing behind the person who is actually talking.
Jetii'ramikad
Strictly speaking, when Toryn is sent somewhere on an assignment, it's generally assumed that the Enclaves, Mandalore or the Paladin himself are done talking, and a peaceful solution will not be coming forthwith. This can make his job (and his life)... decidedly more difficult than it needs to be; Specifically because of the generally accepted notion that if it's him that's been sent somewhere, it's because it's been decided by either the Mandalore or the Enclaves that something has gone very wrong or that someone has to die.
| {Personality} |
Level-headed, straightforward, easygoing and far, far more clever than he ever actually lets on, Toryn is an oddity amongst Mandalorians— especially those with a reputation like his— in that he rarely ever talks about himself; keeping a pointed silence about his life, his work, or what he's thinking or feeling at any given time. Partly due to the often clandestine nature of his profession, partly due to being satisfied enough with his life that he doesn't particularly want or need fame or glory and partly due to his extraordinarily private nature. Which makes it so damned surprising how well-adjusted he is, with what little is known about his life; having a generally friendly nature, meeting most offenses with a sharp verbal barb first and a fist second (a rarity among Mandalorians) and not at all being so self-important and serious as to be above spending time with and being the purveyor of impromptu piggy-back rides to his niece or any of the other kids in his clan.
There is... something else there, though.
Like his unique talent for sometimes laughing at things he probably shouldn't, not showing fear to things he probably should and how he looks visibly tired almost all the damned time; only seeming to come fully alive when the chips are down and the time for talking is thoroughly done. This all... speaks to a life so acclimated such a levels of stress, danger and violence that should have broken him a long time ago. With unsettling implications about what the kinds of triumphs, tragedies and traumas required to make such a man would do if left to fester unspoken, unaddressed and unmended in the back of his mind.
Implications he of course, denies and doesn't pay much mind. But there is an unspoken understanding among his family and friends that Toryn is... a very different person when he stops gracing friend and foe alike with his sense of humour and starts taking things seriously.
There is... something else there, though.
Like his unique talent for sometimes laughing at things he probably shouldn't, not showing fear to things he probably should and how he looks visibly tired almost all the damned time; only seeming to come fully alive when the chips are down and the time for talking is thoroughly done. This all... speaks to a life so acclimated such a levels of stress, danger and violence that should have broken him a long time ago. With unsettling implications about what the kinds of triumphs, tragedies and traumas required to make such a man would do if left to fester unspoken, unaddressed and unmended in the back of his mind.
Implications he of course, denies and doesn't pay much mind. But there is an unspoken understanding among his family and friends that Toryn is... a very different person when he stops gracing friend and foe alike with his sense of humour and starts taking things seriously.
| {Place of Origin} |
Once an orphan, Toryn's earliest memories are of his short four years as the adoptive son of a Tionese mercenary captain— one Daesha Vao— in the employ of a Hutt information broker on Nar Shaddaa. A time he spent learning all the need-to-knows from that side of life; from blaster maintenance, to pick-pocketing and swindling drunken Coreward tourists out of all their credits with a shell game or a pack of cards and a cheeky smile. And a time he rarely speaks of, though he often looks back on it all with a sort of sad nostalgia, even as the passing years make the finer details harder to recall.
| {Background} |
Toryn's origins, to milk that tired old cliche, are shrouded in mystery... and that's not him just trying to sound cool, enigmatic or anything remotely interesting, the guy honestly has no idea just where the hell he came from. What he does know, however, is that he was barely dry from the womb before he was handed off to a mercenary named Daesha Vao and her outfit working out of the Red Light Sector on Nar Shaddaa for safe keeping. Which admittedly, does kinda sound like a terrible idea at first, if you didn't know one tiny little detail—
That Daesha Vao was considered one of, if not the most lethal merc on that whole damned moon.
An absolute mountain of a Twi'lek, and the daughter of both an infamous Tionese pirate and a slave-turned-assassin that could've built a bridge from the Smuggler's Moon straight down to the surface of Nal Hutta with all the bodies she'd left in her wake, Toryn's 'Mum' had lived up to her pedigree long before she was changing the boy's diapers or tucking him into bed with a Ryl lullaby and a little kiss goodnight. Having earned her epithet as 'The Reaver' (though she never really cared for the name) via an absolutely jaw-dropping bodycount tallied up over a decade-long career throughout Hutt Space and the Outer Rim— Something she rarely brought up in casual conversation, as she'd always fancied herself to be something of a people person and folks tended to become... a whole lot less talkative the moment they figured out exactly who it was they were talking to. And that's not even getting into the company she kept—
Jarohn Dax (affectionately called 'The Brute' by Daesha), a giant, even among his fellow Devaronians; Built like a brick wall and about as clever as one, too. A nice guy, all things considered— Strong enough to rip a man limb from limb like a wet tissue, but a nice guy.
Zara Tuul ('The Brat'), a Falleen slicer and pilot with brains and sass in equal measure. An adept at getting whatever she wanted from anyone, droid or organic and an absolute master of the pithy one-liner... and absolutely schooling Toryn (her 'little brother') in old holo-games if he remembers right.
Ruusad Vass ('The Kid'), a lad barely old enough to shave and certainly not old enough to buy a drink in most places outside of Hutt Space. Born and raised to live and breathe all things 'Deathwatch', but had a... slight falling out with his clan and glorified death cult over the whole 'Killing other Mandalorians' thing and was very likely considered dead or Dar'manda— possibly both— to his entire extended family. Daesha never once doubted the boy's loyalty though— she had always had a soft spot for strays, especially ones that could peg a fly off a piece of bantha dung from a mile away without disturbing the pile.
Then there was Narkuul ('Pops'), a Hutt information broker and the crew's employer and Tavor, his Muun bookkeeper. The former keeping Daesha and her mercenary pseudo-family on the payroll partly because he'd employed both of the Twi'lek's parents in the past and even officiated at their wedding, partly because as a slug in his particular trade, he often came across the odd lead he felt too juicy not to cash in on himself and partly because on Nar Shaddaa, a Hutt wasn't really a Hutt until they had their own personal death squad. And the latter? well, the less said about him the better— there was always something... wrong... behind his sunken, beady little eyes and Daesha had always made a point of keeping him as far away from her crew and kid as possible.
And last but certainly not least; 'Sunny'. Narkuul's substantially sized and substantially ancient war droid of a type Toryn would never see the like of in all his years afterward. Narkuul's personal bodyguard, named for his... way with words and baritone delivery.
And so it was that, against any and all convention, our boy Toryn was raised in perhaps the safest, out-of-the-way place imaginable— amongst a happy family of some of the galaxy's most notorious killers.
Ever the precocious little shit, the kid picked up on Ryl, Huttese and even some Mando'a alongside Basic via sheer osmosis from being exposed to so many languages at such a young age. And from the time he could walk, talk and be relied upon not to put shiny things in his mouth, Daesha had him sat down learning how to pull apart and maintain damn near every blaster in her considerable arsenal and how to get a vibroknife so sharp you could drop it on a bantha steak and watch it fall through the table before you even heard a sound— Something the boy seemed to have a natural gift for.
Another thing the kid had a gift for? Counting cards, shell games, magic tricks and all the other basic scams, shams and hustles Pops could cram into his puny little head ('Investing in a future employee', the Hutt would always reason it if asked), being good enough to set up his own stand on the main strip of the Red Light with a fold-out table and a little plasteel crate on which to stand and make a killing absolutely robbing naive and/or drunk tourists from the Inner Rim blind with a little slight of hand and a beaming smile. And a fully armed and armoured Mandalorian leaning on the wall behind him and watching at all times, mind you, but that was more for the off-worlders than any of the local scum and villainy in all honesty, as they all knew better than to go after Daesha's boy.
And Toryn's life probably would've just kept on going like that; learning to work all the angles of the Smuggler's Moon to his and his family's gain, chatting up off-duty dancers with all his precocious little charm to give 'em a much-needed laugh and to get the occasional fat tip when Narkuul had him tending bar and generally being on the fast track to becoming just another scoundrel from Nar Shaddaa, far away from the complications of the wider Galaxy and the horrors of the Clone Wars.
It was, however, not to be. As, at just four years old, Toryn's life would take a sharp turn as Tavor finally made his move; patiently waiting for Narkuul— and more importantly, his giant kill-bot— to be away on business on Nar Kaaga before dialing up his own contacts— Mandalorian mercs and expats dissatisfied with the rise of the new Mandalore— for a raid on Narkuul's club. Knowing that Daesha's crew couldn't be bought off and would have to be removed if he wanted to secure his hold on Narkuul's assets, network and fortune... and with with his in-depth knowledge of the layout and security systems of the place and his own extensive notes about the persons in question, it seemed to him that it'd all go off without a hitch.
And it may well have, had Ruusad, Zara and Toryn not burst through the front door, the elder two gasping for air and the younger off his feet and bodily held up under the Mando kid's shoulder but looking just as tired. All three of them back way ahead of schedule from their daily round of swindling tourists and all three wild-eyed in panic trying to think up a way to explain to their 'Mom' exactly who the youngest in their trio had decided to pick-pocket. Just as a rather angry and unladylike voice called out from behind to remind them of their error;
"WHERE'S MY DAMN LIGHTSABER YA IDJITS?"
That being the voice of Arlia Vohn; Pantoran, Alsakani and Veteran Padawan.
...Also, kind of pissed.
This wasn't going how Tavor planned it— Daesha and Jarohn had suddenly left earlier without saying a word, the kids were back early and they'd apparently brought the single angriest Jedi he'd ever heard of back with them who stormed towards the building riding the winds of an endless stream of Alsakani invective and brandishing what appeared to be her other lightsaber.
So, being a Muun of typical Muun temperament, he did the Muun thing—
He panicked. And signaled his trap too soon, turning what was meant to be a swift and efficient execution into a roaming gunfight through the streets of Nar Shaddaa. Which only became more vicious when they met up with Daesha and Jarohn, who as it turns out had been meeting with Rena Thyran— Arlia's Master, who had a bit of an unconventional reputation herself— who'd come to Nar Shaddaa on Council business and had found her Mirialan self in need of a word with the Twi'lek murdermachine.
Truly an absolute shitshow by any conceivable measure. As they all fought block by block, street by street, room by room until finally, they'd reached the port... just in time to watch Daesha's gunship detonate on the pad where it sat. With their foes seizing control of the Port Master's office to lock down any other chance of escape.
Rena's shuttle, however. Remained intact, for all the good it would do them, with the port's tractor beam ready to snatch and tear apart anything trying to leave.
A thunderous, doomed silence followed for a few heartbeats that seemed to last hours. Before Daesha pulled Jarohn into a hug. Then Zara and Ruusad, before removing her red scarf, tying it around Toryn's neck and giving him a peck on the forehead and holding him as tight as she could.
"You. Jedi." She hissed Rena's way through clenched teeth, struggling against herself to let go of her youngest. "Do what you have to, but swear to me you'll keep them safe. I'll take care of the rest."
This would be the last time Toryn would ever see his mum— as he was soon after hauled up and bodily carried off by Jarohn— the sight of her sad half-smile and little wave as she shrank into the distance buried into his psyche for the rest of his life.
As would the series of explosions that rocked the port not long after they'd made it to Rena's ship, letting them all know that it was time to leave.
Their destination? Coruscant. The plan? Well, the Republic's original mission of enlisting The Reaver's aid in the war effort had now quite thoroughly failed. But Rena had given Daesha her word, and she'd see it through, regardless.
...That, and there were now other "Complications" to figure out she added quietly, fixing the now very exhausted and distraught boy in Jarohn's arms an uncomfortable stare before going back to flying the ship.
Unfortunately, 'Seeing it through' would turn out to be much more complicated than first thought. As, after a few days in hyperspace, Arlia, Rena and oddly enough even Toryn were abruptly struck with an overwhelming sense of dread; the cause of which would only become apparent when they exited hyperspace soon afterward and their motley crew quickly with front row seats to the opening stages of The Shattering of Coruscant. Something they could all only stare at in awe and horror as the burning light of the Galaxy's heart filtered through the cockpit and bathed the ship's interior with an ominous off-orange glow.
...For a moment, anyway. Before the ship's proximity klaxons began to scream out the approach of droid fighters and Arlia found the presence of mind to slam a few buttons on the console and jump them the hell out of there.
Where they wound up wasn't much better. With a Corellian captain of the House of Halcyon they had managed to contact and rendezvous with being both aware of the bounty Tavor had by this time placed on all their heads out of spite and aware that there was no longer a central government to stop him from collecting on it. Forcing the lot of them to fight their way off of his ship and to subsequently be charged with High Treason.
This would set the tone for the following months; with them arriving at some new supposed 'safe' harbour, only to find themselves found and immediately pursued by either Grievous' Jedi-Hunting squads, bounty-hunters from Nar Shaddaa, or forces from what would become the Corellian Hegemony. Constantly hunted, constantly running, constantly driven further and further to the Galactic South.
In that time, Zara would be lost; suddenly dragged off, screaming via a Mandalorian grapple-line punched through her thigh and never seen again. Ruusad would lose an arm to a particularly sadistic with a vibroblade and Toryn would lose his innocence; leaping onto that same mercenary's back before he could finish the job and unknowingly cooking him alive in his armour with gouts of green electricity, his first real use of the force. And his first kill.
This would continue until they reached —or rather, crashed into— the port of Terminus, far in the galactic south. The end of the Known Galaxy and the end of the line. It is here, while hiding out in an old boneyard essentially waiting to die, their ship too broken to ever fly again that they finally caught wind of the Republic in Exile far to the Galactic North. On Mandalore, of all places. Some distant shore where, hypothetically, they could've been safe, if they weren't trapped on the other side of the galaxy, hiding out from Tavor's bounty-hunters who they knew were already planetside and hunting them down.
Which is about when they encountered a strange... red-eyed Pantoran, who was also hiding out in that boneyard for reasons she would not elaborate on. Who suggested a novel solution to their problem; going around the long way. Through the Unknown Regions.
Thus, with no better options. They found the most intact ship they could in that yard— a downright ancient Dynamic-Class, as it turned out— and hastily got to work making her space-worthy again, pulling parts off of nearby ships as necessary.
It was close, and Jarohn— himself already wounded from the crash— had to pick up his gun and go out and buy them time in one last furious stand against the advancing mercs, but they made it out by the very skin of their teeth. Slipping past the various ships in orbit meant to cut off any potential escape, and into the unknown.
That Daesha Vao was considered one of, if not the most lethal merc on that whole damned moon.
An absolute mountain of a Twi'lek, and the daughter of both an infamous Tionese pirate and a slave-turned-assassin that could've built a bridge from the Smuggler's Moon straight down to the surface of Nal Hutta with all the bodies she'd left in her wake, Toryn's 'Mum' had lived up to her pedigree long before she was changing the boy's diapers or tucking him into bed with a Ryl lullaby and a little kiss goodnight. Having earned her epithet as 'The Reaver' (though she never really cared for the name) via an absolutely jaw-dropping bodycount tallied up over a decade-long career throughout Hutt Space and the Outer Rim— Something she rarely brought up in casual conversation, as she'd always fancied herself to be something of a people person and folks tended to become... a whole lot less talkative the moment they figured out exactly who it was they were talking to. And that's not even getting into the company she kept—
Jarohn Dax (affectionately called 'The Brute' by Daesha), a giant, even among his fellow Devaronians; Built like a brick wall and about as clever as one, too. A nice guy, all things considered— Strong enough to rip a man limb from limb like a wet tissue, but a nice guy.
Zara Tuul ('The Brat'), a Falleen slicer and pilot with brains and sass in equal measure. An adept at getting whatever she wanted from anyone, droid or organic and an absolute master of the pithy one-liner... and absolutely schooling Toryn (her 'little brother') in old holo-games if he remembers right.
Ruusad Vass ('The Kid'), a lad barely old enough to shave and certainly not old enough to buy a drink in most places outside of Hutt Space. Born and raised to live and breathe all things 'Deathwatch', but had a... slight falling out with his clan and glorified death cult over the whole 'Killing other Mandalorians' thing and was very likely considered dead or Dar'manda— possibly both— to his entire extended family. Daesha never once doubted the boy's loyalty though— she had always had a soft spot for strays, especially ones that could peg a fly off a piece of bantha dung from a mile away without disturbing the pile.
Then there was Narkuul ('Pops'), a Hutt information broker and the crew's employer and Tavor, his Muun bookkeeper. The former keeping Daesha and her mercenary pseudo-family on the payroll partly because he'd employed both of the Twi'lek's parents in the past and even officiated at their wedding, partly because as a slug in his particular trade, he often came across the odd lead he felt too juicy not to cash in on himself and partly because on Nar Shaddaa, a Hutt wasn't really a Hutt until they had their own personal death squad. And the latter? well, the less said about him the better— there was always something... wrong... behind his sunken, beady little eyes and Daesha had always made a point of keeping him as far away from her crew and kid as possible.
And last but certainly not least; 'Sunny'. Narkuul's substantially sized and substantially ancient war droid of a type Toryn would never see the like of in all his years afterward. Narkuul's personal bodyguard, named for his... way with words and baritone delivery.
And so it was that, against any and all convention, our boy Toryn was raised in perhaps the safest, out-of-the-way place imaginable— amongst a happy family of some of the galaxy's most notorious killers.
Ever the precocious little shit, the kid picked up on Ryl, Huttese and even some Mando'a alongside Basic via sheer osmosis from being exposed to so many languages at such a young age. And from the time he could walk, talk and be relied upon not to put shiny things in his mouth, Daesha had him sat down learning how to pull apart and maintain damn near every blaster in her considerable arsenal and how to get a vibroknife so sharp you could drop it on a bantha steak and watch it fall through the table before you even heard a sound— Something the boy seemed to have a natural gift for.
Another thing the kid had a gift for? Counting cards, shell games, magic tricks and all the other basic scams, shams and hustles Pops could cram into his puny little head ('Investing in a future employee', the Hutt would always reason it if asked), being good enough to set up his own stand on the main strip of the Red Light with a fold-out table and a little plasteel crate on which to stand and make a killing absolutely robbing naive and/or drunk tourists from the Inner Rim blind with a little slight of hand and a beaming smile. And a fully armed and armoured Mandalorian leaning on the wall behind him and watching at all times, mind you, but that was more for the off-worlders than any of the local scum and villainy in all honesty, as they all knew better than to go after Daesha's boy.
And Toryn's life probably would've just kept on going like that; learning to work all the angles of the Smuggler's Moon to his and his family's gain, chatting up off-duty dancers with all his precocious little charm to give 'em a much-needed laugh and to get the occasional fat tip when Narkuul had him tending bar and generally being on the fast track to becoming just another scoundrel from Nar Shaddaa, far away from the complications of the wider Galaxy and the horrors of the Clone Wars.
It was, however, not to be. As, at just four years old, Toryn's life would take a sharp turn as Tavor finally made his move; patiently waiting for Narkuul— and more importantly, his giant kill-bot— to be away on business on Nar Kaaga before dialing up his own contacts— Mandalorian mercs and expats dissatisfied with the rise of the new Mandalore— for a raid on Narkuul's club. Knowing that Daesha's crew couldn't be bought off and would have to be removed if he wanted to secure his hold on Narkuul's assets, network and fortune... and with with his in-depth knowledge of the layout and security systems of the place and his own extensive notes about the persons in question, it seemed to him that it'd all go off without a hitch.
And it may well have, had Ruusad, Zara and Toryn not burst through the front door, the elder two gasping for air and the younger off his feet and bodily held up under the Mando kid's shoulder but looking just as tired. All three of them back way ahead of schedule from their daily round of swindling tourists and all three wild-eyed in panic trying to think up a way to explain to their 'Mom' exactly who the youngest in their trio had decided to pick-pocket. Just as a rather angry and unladylike voice called out from behind to remind them of their error;
"WHERE'S MY DAMN LIGHTSABER YA IDJITS?"
That being the voice of Arlia Vohn; Pantoran, Alsakani and Veteran Padawan.
...Also, kind of pissed.
This wasn't going how Tavor planned it— Daesha and Jarohn had suddenly left earlier without saying a word, the kids were back early and they'd apparently brought the single angriest Jedi he'd ever heard of back with them who stormed towards the building riding the winds of an endless stream of Alsakani invective and brandishing what appeared to be her other lightsaber.
So, being a Muun of typical Muun temperament, he did the Muun thing—
He panicked. And signaled his trap too soon, turning what was meant to be a swift and efficient execution into a roaming gunfight through the streets of Nar Shaddaa. Which only became more vicious when they met up with Daesha and Jarohn, who as it turns out had been meeting with Rena Thyran— Arlia's Master, who had a bit of an unconventional reputation herself— who'd come to Nar Shaddaa on Council business and had found her Mirialan self in need of a word with the Twi'lek murdermachine.
Truly an absolute shitshow by any conceivable measure. As they all fought block by block, street by street, room by room until finally, they'd reached the port... just in time to watch Daesha's gunship detonate on the pad where it sat. With their foes seizing control of the Port Master's office to lock down any other chance of escape.
Rena's shuttle, however. Remained intact, for all the good it would do them, with the port's tractor beam ready to snatch and tear apart anything trying to leave.
A thunderous, doomed silence followed for a few heartbeats that seemed to last hours. Before Daesha pulled Jarohn into a hug. Then Zara and Ruusad, before removing her red scarf, tying it around Toryn's neck and giving him a peck on the forehead and holding him as tight as she could.
"You. Jedi." She hissed Rena's way through clenched teeth, struggling against herself to let go of her youngest. "Do what you have to, but swear to me you'll keep them safe. I'll take care of the rest."
This would be the last time Toryn would ever see his mum— as he was soon after hauled up and bodily carried off by Jarohn— the sight of her sad half-smile and little wave as she shrank into the distance buried into his psyche for the rest of his life.
As would the series of explosions that rocked the port not long after they'd made it to Rena's ship, letting them all know that it was time to leave.
Their destination? Coruscant. The plan? Well, the Republic's original mission of enlisting The Reaver's aid in the war effort had now quite thoroughly failed. But Rena had given Daesha her word, and she'd see it through, regardless.
...That, and there were now other "Complications" to figure out she added quietly, fixing the now very exhausted and distraught boy in Jarohn's arms an uncomfortable stare before going back to flying the ship.
Unfortunately, 'Seeing it through' would turn out to be much more complicated than first thought. As, after a few days in hyperspace, Arlia, Rena and oddly enough even Toryn were abruptly struck with an overwhelming sense of dread; the cause of which would only become apparent when they exited hyperspace soon afterward and their motley crew quickly with front row seats to the opening stages of The Shattering of Coruscant. Something they could all only stare at in awe and horror as the burning light of the Galaxy's heart filtered through the cockpit and bathed the ship's interior with an ominous off-orange glow.
...For a moment, anyway. Before the ship's proximity klaxons began to scream out the approach of droid fighters and Arlia found the presence of mind to slam a few buttons on the console and jump them the hell out of there.
Where they wound up wasn't much better. With a Corellian captain of the House of Halcyon they had managed to contact and rendezvous with being both aware of the bounty Tavor had by this time placed on all their heads out of spite and aware that there was no longer a central government to stop him from collecting on it. Forcing the lot of them to fight their way off of his ship and to subsequently be charged with High Treason.
This would set the tone for the following months; with them arriving at some new supposed 'safe' harbour, only to find themselves found and immediately pursued by either Grievous' Jedi-Hunting squads, bounty-hunters from Nar Shaddaa, or forces from what would become the Corellian Hegemony. Constantly hunted, constantly running, constantly driven further and further to the Galactic South.
In that time, Zara would be lost; suddenly dragged off, screaming via a Mandalorian grapple-line punched through her thigh and never seen again. Ruusad would lose an arm to a particularly sadistic with a vibroblade and Toryn would lose his innocence; leaping onto that same mercenary's back before he could finish the job and unknowingly cooking him alive in his armour with gouts of green electricity, his first real use of the force. And his first kill.
This would continue until they reached —or rather, crashed into— the port of Terminus, far in the galactic south. The end of the Known Galaxy and the end of the line. It is here, while hiding out in an old boneyard essentially waiting to die, their ship too broken to ever fly again that they finally caught wind of the Republic in Exile far to the Galactic North. On Mandalore, of all places. Some distant shore where, hypothetically, they could've been safe, if they weren't trapped on the other side of the galaxy, hiding out from Tavor's bounty-hunters who they knew were already planetside and hunting them down.
Which is about when they encountered a strange... red-eyed Pantoran, who was also hiding out in that boneyard for reasons she would not elaborate on. Who suggested a novel solution to their problem; going around the long way. Through the Unknown Regions.
Thus, with no better options. They found the most intact ship they could in that yard— a downright ancient Dynamic-Class, as it turned out— and hastily got to work making her space-worthy again, pulling parts off of nearby ships as necessary.
It was close, and Jarohn— himself already wounded from the crash— had to pick up his gun and go out and buy them time in one last furious stand against the advancing mercs, but they made it out by the very skin of their teeth. Slipping past the various ships in orbit meant to cut off any potential escape, and into the unknown.
Eleven years after that harrowing escape from Terminus, the Jedi Enclaves on Mandalore were paid a visit by a... most unusual guest. One Toryn Dral, the apparent foundling son of Atin Dral, a Taung General from the Mandalorian Wars who had curiously reemerged in the present day. Making port in Keldabe and the day before and apparently quite surprised to almost immediately be met by the Paladin himself, who he'd been touring the planet with since.
Unusual not only for his old-fashioned, bronze-coloured armour, not just for the carefully wrapped bundle of cloth in his hands but also for the lightsaber dangling at his hip, and how he walked, talked and generally carried himself in a fashion more befitting a veteran several times his age and not all that dissimilar from a Jedi. The idea of Taung calling a kid like this 'son' was, well... a little strange, from what they had on record.
Though when Roka Alleron, the Jedi who had gone out to meet him, asked the boy what the Jedi Enclaves could do for him, things started to make a little more sense as he unwrapped the cloth in his hands and produced Rena Thyran's lightsaber... before throwing another curveball her way and apologizing that Arlia— Rena's Padawan— couldn't be here to return the blade herself; She had gone into labour that morning and wouldn't be in any condition to go anywhere anytime soon.
Roka, to her credit, just looked the boy up and down as if he were a colour from space before saying;
"...Kid, you're throwing an awful lotta shit at me right now. Why don'cha come inside and we'll have a talk?"
And talk they did. Admittedly, a bit awkwardly at first on the kid's part; clearly being unused to being around people. But balanced out by Roka's frank... Roka-ness, which seemed to put the lad more at ease. Their meandering eventually leading to the training halls of the Council of Swords where he would lay eyes upon the four-foot-and-nine-inches of terror that was Miravera Alleron for the first time in his life. Who was currently busying herself with dismantling everyone and everything that got on that mat with her with an almost... bored indifference bordering on contempt for her fellow pupils.
Toryn decided that as... entertaining as this girl was to watch work, it was probably in his best interest to avoid her. Partly, because she seemed to have the mother of all sticks up her arse and partly because he had no idea that she was going to become his best friend one day.
Though to be fair regarding that last one, nothing seemed further from the truth after the scoff the pale girl threw his way after somebody (Roka) surreptitiously stuck a training saber into his hand while he wasn't paying attention and gave the lad a firm shove forward. Nor the two quick thwacks he got upside the head before his guard was even up, cutting off his protests about being voluntold.
Nor the glare the younger girl gave him after he intercepted what was meant to be the third smack to his dome with his training saber... and immediately shoved her to the ground by bracing his own blade against his beskar vambrace. Which she quickly recovered from, bounding back to make space and immediately, flawlessly, going into the opening flourishing kata and stance for Makashi, with one arm folded behind her back and her saber pointed directly at him in the other. Something the Mandalorian met by calmly slipping into a relaxed, wide stance with his left foot forward and his saber held loosely to his side and slightly behind him in both hands, pointing away from his foe— something that didn't really exist in Jedi manuals.
Something that brought the kind of smug smirk to Roka's face that only comes when you're proven right as Miravera— prodigy of the blade who had been rapidly becoming one of the foremost duelists in the whole Council of Swords, her own niece, for the first time squared off with... an actual warrior. An opponent with absolutely no concept of dueling etiquette or propriety and who'd actually give her the kind of fight she needed to truly grow.
...Though to be fair, she wasn't exactly expecting the two to take it so far that it'd spill out into the hallways, corridors, other classrooms, one of the kitchens and even Zatli's greenhouse before they'd managed to launch themselves off the side of the damned Citadel and splash down in the courtyard's fountain. Where she and an uncharacteristically amused Dooku would find them soggy, bruised and... actually laughing their asses off about the whole thing now that they'd cooled down (manually).
This chance encounter would earn Toryn the life-long friendship of the girl who'd come to be known as "Solace". And put the kid on the Enclaves' radar, which would lead Roka to approach him about a month later— after the Paladin had granted his father the right to properly refound and settle Clan Dral in the Forge of Kad Ha'rangir; a river valley in the forested highlands far to the north of Keldabe where the old Taung had actually grown up and where they would found the settlement of Atin'yaim— to recruit him as her Padawan. Reasoning that it'd be best to extend that offer to him herself some other, more... orthodox Knight or Master got to him first, after having met the kid.
Which took a bit more poking than she thought it would, honestly; the boy apparently having his own plans of opening his own tool shop and living a quiet life. The two of them quickly forming a relationship that was less the traditional Jedi teacher-and-student dynamic and more of a partnership; As, though he was indeed learning from the Arkanian, it became quite clear rather early on that this wasn't Toryn's first rodeo. And though he'd never fully elaborate on where it all came from, she did find herself picking things up from him almost as much as he did her— even taking to donning a suit of beskar'gam he'd made for her at some point, after she'd sufficiently started cracking him out of his socially-awkward shell.
And for two years, the two of them made for a helluva team, even if they were somewhat on the outs with the more formal core of the Council of Swords; Roka, for her actions during the Clone wars that had earned her the epithet "The Red-Stained" and a lack of decorum and protocol most unbecoming of a proper Jedi and Toryn for... well, being too damned Mandalorian for many of the more conservative sections of the Enclaves. But they did manage to carve out a niche for themselves as an unconventional pair to be sent to deal with things that more orthodox Jedi might have trouble with; like saving archeologists who'd poked something they probably shouldn't have, playing bounty hunter to deal with wanted criminals directly, or— as became their hallmark— seeking out other Jedi who'd been left unaccounted for after Knightfall and either making sure they were alright, extricating them from bad situations or, as was sometimes the case, putting them down if the trauma of the Clone Wars and the Shattering of Coruscant had made them a threat to the people of the Galaxy.
It was often grisly work. And more often than not, largely unappreciated by the Council of Swords, but it did quickly earn Toryn a reputation amongst the Enclaves as someone who could be relied upon to get the job done, damn the odds and damn the unpleasantness. Though he did begin to notice more and more the way some in their order talked about his Master, despite all the work they'd done and started finding it harder and harder to bite his tongue; never mind the one Knight who had thought it a good idea to say something particularly unkind about previous Master, and who very quickly found Toryn's hand on their throat in an uncharacteristic slip in composure Solace would have to talk him down from.
Until, one night. Roka called her Padawan out to the woods near Atin'yaim— by then a decently-sized town in it's own right made up of modular pre-fabs and parked starships— to ask a personal favour, far from the eyes of the Council of Swords.
She had found Pong Krell. Her former Master who had betrayed her, the Grand Army and the whole of the Republic, leading to the deaths of thousands on Umbara and beyond, combatants and civilians alike and dragging her name through mud stained with the blood of all of her friends to that very day.
She had found the fucker, camped out in the old Jedi Temple on Telos. And the Council of Swords refused to let her go after him. Citing a lack of resources to be devoted to her rather obvious thirst for revenge. But if she let him slip away again, it could be another decade before she got another cha—
"Fuck 'em." Came the boy's flat response as he picked himself up off the rock he'd been sitting on and headed back towards his ship/home at an easy pace. "Let's go kick his ass."
No questions, no doubts, no misgivings. Just affirmation and purpose, damn the consequences. Truth be told, as much time as she'd spent with her Padawan over the past two years, that had still caught her way the hell off guard.
"This man hurt you, so I am going to feed him his own hands and the Council can fuckin' like it." He added over his shoulder, as if sensing her confusion. "...Now are we doing this thing or not?"
...And while few really know for sure the exact specifics of what happened on Telos— where the two apparently disembarked about a mile out from their target in the middle of an arctic snowstorm, snuck in through an old sewage pipe and then set about causing as much mayhem inside that old facility as physically possible; destroying the gears that controlled the hangar bay with an arm-full of jury-rigged explosives to prevent any means of escape, carving their way through the small army of hired guns Krell had surrounded himself with, detonating their ammo-dump just to add to the chaos before outright jumping the traitorous Besalisk before he could figure what was going on— it is a matter of record that when they returned home about a week later and presented a dumbstruck Council of Swords with about two-dozen force-sensitive kids the bastard had kidnapped over the years and a carbonite block that looked an awful like the man himself... that said block had a curious absence of his grabby-bits.
They then both immediately resigned. And went to find a bar.
...Or, more accurately, were grabbed and bodily dragged into a local dive on the Citadel Grounds almost as soon as they were out the door by a bunch of old clones who'd seen what they'd come in with. Where two shots of something called "Lethan Lovelies" were placed in front of them and a crowd of old warriors gathered 'round, eager to hear the story and many of them making impromptu holo-calls. The staff very pointedly going into overdrive to get as much alcohol and food ready as possible.
Things got... rather loud after that. In a happy, Mandalorian kind of way.
And they'd soon be joined by others; like the children of clones whose fathers had survived the hell of Umbara, Mandalorians who'd heard what they'd done and came to celebrate, other Jedi— either those personally affected by Krell's treachery or who had become disillusioned with the oft-dogmatic traditionalism and bureacratic nature of the Council of Swords— and, perhaps most prominently, Mace Friggin' Windu. Who— himself an outlier on the Council of Swords and still living with the shame of Coruscant's burning during his tenure as Master of the Order— took in all the merrymaking, comradery and general togetherness between Jedi, Clones, Mandalorian warriors and those that they existed to protect.
And suddenly, he had an epiphany. And pointedly sat down next to the two Jedi-turned-folk-heroes to share it with them.
And it was on that night, in that bar cobbled together from scraps of starship and durasteel plate in the midst of celebrating one of few real big wins the Enclaves had had since their founding, that a new order would be forged; one unshackled by millennia of Jedi tradition, whose doors would remain always open to those they served and whose Knights would never shy away from doing what was right.
The Council of Iron.
And it was here that Toryn— knighted on the spot via a Commando Cocktail; a Mandalorian tradition involving a big beskar goblet passed around the bar until near-overflowing with a little bit of everyone else's drinks, something that'd become a set tradition to the Iron— would start to find his true calling in life.
...Which, as it turns out. Was much the same as what he was doing before, but now with much more freedom to act, and often being sent out into the galaxy on his lonesome more often than not; in the early days, because Mace and Roka had their hands full building up a new council of the Enclaves from scratch— buying out that bar and converting it into a sort of Warrior's Lodge where, true to their mission statement, anyone would be welcome to walk in, petition for aid, learn a skill or... just get a hot meal— and much later because, frankly, the boy who was rapidly becoming a man started getting really, really good at hunting down bad people and preventing bad things from happening. To the point where by the time he was in his twenties, it wasn't uncommon for him to receive requests directly from Secretary Suard or The Mandalore Himself whenever they encountered a problem that required a very specific kind of solution. Which in turn, would earn him the nickname: "The Hound of Mandalore". And a reputation for ferocity and sheer tenacity that would begin to spread even beyond the borders of Mandalorian Space more and more with every pirate or crimelord brought to justice, every person saved and every weird old spooky thing dealt with.
Hell, it even earned him a saying;
That "Every second you aren't running, he's only getting closer."
Unusual not only for his old-fashioned, bronze-coloured armour, not just for the carefully wrapped bundle of cloth in his hands but also for the lightsaber dangling at his hip, and how he walked, talked and generally carried himself in a fashion more befitting a veteran several times his age and not all that dissimilar from a Jedi. The idea of Taung calling a kid like this 'son' was, well... a little strange, from what they had on record.
Though when Roka Alleron, the Jedi who had gone out to meet him, asked the boy what the Jedi Enclaves could do for him, things started to make a little more sense as he unwrapped the cloth in his hands and produced Rena Thyran's lightsaber... before throwing another curveball her way and apologizing that Arlia— Rena's Padawan— couldn't be here to return the blade herself; She had gone into labour that morning and wouldn't be in any condition to go anywhere anytime soon.
Roka, to her credit, just looked the boy up and down as if he were a colour from space before saying;
"...Kid, you're throwing an awful lotta shit at me right now. Why don'cha come inside and we'll have a talk?"
And talk they did. Admittedly, a bit awkwardly at first on the kid's part; clearly being unused to being around people. But balanced out by Roka's frank... Roka-ness, which seemed to put the lad more at ease. Their meandering eventually leading to the training halls of the Council of Swords where he would lay eyes upon the four-foot-and-nine-inches of terror that was Miravera Alleron for the first time in his life. Who was currently busying herself with dismantling everyone and everything that got on that mat with her with an almost... bored indifference bordering on contempt for her fellow pupils.
Toryn decided that as... entertaining as this girl was to watch work, it was probably in his best interest to avoid her. Partly, because she seemed to have the mother of all sticks up her arse and partly because he had no idea that she was going to become his best friend one day.
Though to be fair regarding that last one, nothing seemed further from the truth after the scoff the pale girl threw his way after somebody (Roka) surreptitiously stuck a training saber into his hand while he wasn't paying attention and gave the lad a firm shove forward. Nor the two quick thwacks he got upside the head before his guard was even up, cutting off his protests about being voluntold.
Nor the glare the younger girl gave him after he intercepted what was meant to be the third smack to his dome with his training saber... and immediately shoved her to the ground by bracing his own blade against his beskar vambrace. Which she quickly recovered from, bounding back to make space and immediately, flawlessly, going into the opening flourishing kata and stance for Makashi, with one arm folded behind her back and her saber pointed directly at him in the other. Something the Mandalorian met by calmly slipping into a relaxed, wide stance with his left foot forward and his saber held loosely to his side and slightly behind him in both hands, pointing away from his foe— something that didn't really exist in Jedi manuals.
Something that brought the kind of smug smirk to Roka's face that only comes when you're proven right as Miravera— prodigy of the blade who had been rapidly becoming one of the foremost duelists in the whole Council of Swords, her own niece, for the first time squared off with... an actual warrior. An opponent with absolutely no concept of dueling etiquette or propriety and who'd actually give her the kind of fight she needed to truly grow.
...Though to be fair, she wasn't exactly expecting the two to take it so far that it'd spill out into the hallways, corridors, other classrooms, one of the kitchens and even Zatli's greenhouse before they'd managed to launch themselves off the side of the damned Citadel and splash down in the courtyard's fountain. Where she and an uncharacteristically amused Dooku would find them soggy, bruised and... actually laughing their asses off about the whole thing now that they'd cooled down (manually).
This chance encounter would earn Toryn the life-long friendship of the girl who'd come to be known as "Solace". And put the kid on the Enclaves' radar, which would lead Roka to approach him about a month later— after the Paladin had granted his father the right to properly refound and settle Clan Dral in the Forge of Kad Ha'rangir; a river valley in the forested highlands far to the north of Keldabe where the old Taung had actually grown up and where they would found the settlement of Atin'yaim— to recruit him as her Padawan. Reasoning that it'd be best to extend that offer to him herself some other, more... orthodox Knight or Master got to him first, after having met the kid.
Which took a bit more poking than she thought it would, honestly; the boy apparently having his own plans of opening his own tool shop and living a quiet life. The two of them quickly forming a relationship that was less the traditional Jedi teacher-and-student dynamic and more of a partnership; As, though he was indeed learning from the Arkanian, it became quite clear rather early on that this wasn't Toryn's first rodeo. And though he'd never fully elaborate on where it all came from, she did find herself picking things up from him almost as much as he did her— even taking to donning a suit of beskar'gam he'd made for her at some point, after she'd sufficiently started cracking him out of his socially-awkward shell.
And for two years, the two of them made for a helluva team, even if they were somewhat on the outs with the more formal core of the Council of Swords; Roka, for her actions during the Clone wars that had earned her the epithet "The Red-Stained" and a lack of decorum and protocol most unbecoming of a proper Jedi and Toryn for... well, being too damned Mandalorian for many of the more conservative sections of the Enclaves. But they did manage to carve out a niche for themselves as an unconventional pair to be sent to deal with things that more orthodox Jedi might have trouble with; like saving archeologists who'd poked something they probably shouldn't have, playing bounty hunter to deal with wanted criminals directly, or— as became their hallmark— seeking out other Jedi who'd been left unaccounted for after Knightfall and either making sure they were alright, extricating them from bad situations or, as was sometimes the case, putting them down if the trauma of the Clone Wars and the Shattering of Coruscant had made them a threat to the people of the Galaxy.
It was often grisly work. And more often than not, largely unappreciated by the Council of Swords, but it did quickly earn Toryn a reputation amongst the Enclaves as someone who could be relied upon to get the job done, damn the odds and damn the unpleasantness. Though he did begin to notice more and more the way some in their order talked about his Master, despite all the work they'd done and started finding it harder and harder to bite his tongue; never mind the one Knight who had thought it a good idea to say something particularly unkind about previous Master, and who very quickly found Toryn's hand on their throat in an uncharacteristic slip in composure Solace would have to talk him down from.
Until, one night. Roka called her Padawan out to the woods near Atin'yaim— by then a decently-sized town in it's own right made up of modular pre-fabs and parked starships— to ask a personal favour, far from the eyes of the Council of Swords.
She had found Pong Krell. Her former Master who had betrayed her, the Grand Army and the whole of the Republic, leading to the deaths of thousands on Umbara and beyond, combatants and civilians alike and dragging her name through mud stained with the blood of all of her friends to that very day.
She had found the fucker, camped out in the old Jedi Temple on Telos. And the Council of Swords refused to let her go after him. Citing a lack of resources to be devoted to her rather obvious thirst for revenge. But if she let him slip away again, it could be another decade before she got another cha—
"Fuck 'em." Came the boy's flat response as he picked himself up off the rock he'd been sitting on and headed back towards his ship/home at an easy pace. "Let's go kick his ass."
No questions, no doubts, no misgivings. Just affirmation and purpose, damn the consequences. Truth be told, as much time as she'd spent with her Padawan over the past two years, that had still caught her way the hell off guard.
"This man hurt you, so I am going to feed him his own hands and the Council can fuckin' like it." He added over his shoulder, as if sensing her confusion. "...Now are we doing this thing or not?"
...And while few really know for sure the exact specifics of what happened on Telos— where the two apparently disembarked about a mile out from their target in the middle of an arctic snowstorm, snuck in through an old sewage pipe and then set about causing as much mayhem inside that old facility as physically possible; destroying the gears that controlled the hangar bay with an arm-full of jury-rigged explosives to prevent any means of escape, carving their way through the small army of hired guns Krell had surrounded himself with, detonating their ammo-dump just to add to the chaos before outright jumping the traitorous Besalisk before he could figure what was going on— it is a matter of record that when they returned home about a week later and presented a dumbstruck Council of Swords with about two-dozen force-sensitive kids the bastard had kidnapped over the years and a carbonite block that looked an awful like the man himself... that said block had a curious absence of his grabby-bits.
They then both immediately resigned. And went to find a bar.
...Or, more accurately, were grabbed and bodily dragged into a local dive on the Citadel Grounds almost as soon as they were out the door by a bunch of old clones who'd seen what they'd come in with. Where two shots of something called "Lethan Lovelies" were placed in front of them and a crowd of old warriors gathered 'round, eager to hear the story and many of them making impromptu holo-calls. The staff very pointedly going into overdrive to get as much alcohol and food ready as possible.
Things got... rather loud after that. In a happy, Mandalorian kind of way.
And they'd soon be joined by others; like the children of clones whose fathers had survived the hell of Umbara, Mandalorians who'd heard what they'd done and came to celebrate, other Jedi— either those personally affected by Krell's treachery or who had become disillusioned with the oft-dogmatic traditionalism and bureacratic nature of the Council of Swords— and, perhaps most prominently, Mace Friggin' Windu. Who— himself an outlier on the Council of Swords and still living with the shame of Coruscant's burning during his tenure as Master of the Order— took in all the merrymaking, comradery and general togetherness between Jedi, Clones, Mandalorian warriors and those that they existed to protect.
And suddenly, he had an epiphany. And pointedly sat down next to the two Jedi-turned-folk-heroes to share it with them.
And it was on that night, in that bar cobbled together from scraps of starship and durasteel plate in the midst of celebrating one of few real big wins the Enclaves had had since their founding, that a new order would be forged; one unshackled by millennia of Jedi tradition, whose doors would remain always open to those they served and whose Knights would never shy away from doing what was right.
The Council of Iron.
And it was here that Toryn— knighted on the spot via a Commando Cocktail; a Mandalorian tradition involving a big beskar goblet passed around the bar until near-overflowing with a little bit of everyone else's drinks, something that'd become a set tradition to the Iron— would start to find his true calling in life.
...Which, as it turns out. Was much the same as what he was doing before, but now with much more freedom to act, and often being sent out into the galaxy on his lonesome more often than not; in the early days, because Mace and Roka had their hands full building up a new council of the Enclaves from scratch— buying out that bar and converting it into a sort of Warrior's Lodge where, true to their mission statement, anyone would be welcome to walk in, petition for aid, learn a skill or... just get a hot meal— and much later because, frankly, the boy who was rapidly becoming a man started getting really, really good at hunting down bad people and preventing bad things from happening. To the point where by the time he was in his twenties, it wasn't uncommon for him to receive requests directly from Secretary Suard or The Mandalore Himself whenever they encountered a problem that required a very specific kind of solution. Which in turn, would earn him the nickname: "The Hound of Mandalore". And a reputation for ferocity and sheer tenacity that would begin to spread even beyond the borders of Mandalorian Space more and more with every pirate or crimelord brought to justice, every person saved and every weird old spooky thing dealt with.
Hell, it even earned him a saying;
That "Every second you aren't running, he's only getting closer."
