I arrived on Ord Mantell with three things: my sword, my rifle, and Birikad--the only one not to leave me over the years. Droid though he be, all know that the bes'uliik are different. Whenever they fell in battle, we would give them a funeral as if they were one of us. Even now that I am dar'manda, exiled and forfeit of my heritage, that bond remains. His name was a joke, but one that now rings bittersweet.
For once, my search was not entirely in vain... if the young jetii spoke truly. I sensed no deception in her, though I hardly dare let myself hope. Reality soon set in. Even if not a dead end, this backwater might as well be. I used the last of my resources to book passage here, and will not accumulate enough to leave anytime soon.
To earn those credits I must work, and exile or no, I know but one craft. Akaan. I have been a bounty hunter, security for paranoid senators, an enforcer, an assassin... Kote lo'shebs'ul narit, right? Whatever put the food on the table. I have done it before, and I can do it again.
This time, I do not work alone. Of all the unexpected things to discover on this planet: evaar'la Verad. It has been twenty years, and he has changed greatly... but then, so have I. And I will take the oppurtunity. I have worked for many like this Syndicate; I do not care what I will have to do, only that they pay.
For I will need the money. Ret'lini.
I don't think I've ever met a person I disliked as much as this Tyron Ravein.
Burc'ya vaal burk'yc, burc'ya veman, as I said to him, and doubtless I will have to work alongside him in the coming months, but I will not enjoy it.
He is hut'uun, a coward. This is what I and my fellows were taught all our lives was the worst thing we could be, and the prejudice dies hard. No... better to say I will not allow it to die. I understand the selfishness; I have no illusions about my own. But I can say this much: I would not abandon my buir to the Sith and walk away.
We were told clan was the most important thing, and I have lost mine--but because I found something that meant more not because I was afraid. I do not know his reasons, nor do I care. He disgusts me.
The girl Sera, though, is nehutyc. I suspect there is far more to her than she admits, given how easily she overcame the prison's security, but I will not be asking. She has earned that courtesy, at least.
A note on my beskar'gam--my armor.
In my prime, I had it dyed crimson. I wanted to stand out on the battlefield, to draw the attention of our enemies. To bring them so close that their blood, when they fell to my blade, would mix and mingle with what I wore until I could no longer tell if it was theirs, mine, or simply the armor.
And to win glory, as we all wished to. For that reason there were many colors in our ranks, each more vibrant than the last. Our aim was not to disappear into the ranks but to stand apart: individual champions, proud and defiant.
Today? I wear the same armor, but the dye has been washed out. It is dull, lifeless, and anonymous. That has been a necessity. I am not exactly welcome among Mandalorians any longer, many of whom would recognize me simply by the color.
I wished to have it back, though, when I met one Jeos Dinas. His hatred for my people is as blatant as it is foolish, for I have done him no actual harm. He fought for the Republic, though, and seems unable to forgive the other side.
Di'kut. War is war.
I am dar'manda, but I do not intend to tell him that. I can still be proud of where I come from--and throw it in his face.