Honor of the Clan

The singular moon of Zsoldos cast its silvery glow over the arid surface of the Mandalorian stronghold. Clan Vizsla’s great hall loomed, its timber spires lit by ceremonial torches. Inside the great hall, warriors clad in beskar, their helmets polished and emblazoned with the Vizsla sigil, stood shoulder to shoulder with mercenaries, gamblers, and anyone willing to accept the creed. For those scattered across the galaxy, shimmering holoprojections allowed them to witness the occasion.

At the dais, Declan Roark, founder of Clan Vizsla, stood tall in dark armor that gleamed like a starless void. His voice carried weight beyond the years, a testament to the creed he had carved into Vizsla’s heart: Credits, not words.

Two figures knelt before him. Ikarri Itinen’s pale Epicanthix features seemed otherworldly under the flickering light. His helmet, resting at his side, bore marks of countless victories. Mako Henymory knelt beside him, his emerald green eyes sharp and calculating beneath his weathered brow. His hand never strayed far from the hilt of his blade, a testament to his life lived in vigilance.

Declan raised his gauntleted hands. “Ikarri Itinen, your daring spirit has led our Clan to victories and riches. Your skill in the cockpit has no equal, and your leadership inspires all who fight beside you. Mako Henymory, your blade is swift, your will unyielding. You’ve carved out your destiny as the Demon of Vizsla. Both of you have earned the Clan’s highest accolade.”

Two ornate boxes were brought forth, their silver filigree glinting under the hall’s dim light. Kenath Zoron, Vynn Salm, and Rulvak Qurroc—each bearing the title Ad Vizsla—stepped forward to present them. Declan opened the first box with reverence, revealing a clan coin engraved with intricate Mandalorian script.

“These coins,” Declan began, “are worthless to outsiders but priceless to us. They symbolize your loyalty, your achievements, and your place among us.” He placed a coin in Ikarri’s outstretched palm, then Mako’s.

“From this day forward, you are Ad Vizsla.” Declan’s voice rang out, echoed by the cheers of the assembled warriors and the static-laden affirmations of the holoprojectors.

Ikarri stood first, sliding the coin into a hidden compartment in his gauntlet. “For the Clan,” he said, his tone steady.

Mako followed, bowing his head before tucking the coin into a pouch at his belt. “For the Clan,” he echoed, though his voice carried the edge of someone who trusted few—even those he fought for.

The ceremony ended with a chorus of rallying cries, Oya Vizsla! shaking the hall to its foundations. Outside, Zsoldos’ moon continued its vigil, watching as two more warriors joined the eternal legacy of Clan Vizsla.