Korda Six, they named this planet, but there were so many names for the mountain and the forest, the rock and the stick, as much as all of them were nameless. Perhaps that was reflected in the ‘Six’ of its designation. Meaningless. Just a number. ‘Korda’, however, was much and more.
It was here where the Kordans were born, where they were raised, where they lived and survived, and a Kordan knew the difference before a Mandalorian ever told him. The Kordans knew war and strife, conflict, life and death, weapons and fists.
Today, it was the same, nothing had changed, except in the Valley of Thenn, in a narrow passage, where life and death was decided between two tribes who knew only conquest.
Between walls of rock, monuments of stone, the group of Kordans walked, never rode. On the grass and on the dirt, on the land they both shared and claimed, they came to their meeting point, faced with a choice, and no choice.
“I see him,” spoke a brother of Dornon’s tribe, a warrior, a soldier, and a friend. “The prince arrives.” He snorted.
Disrespect? Yes. But deserved where respect was conversely earned. The speaker wore his armor, black and grey, charcoal and ashen, yet it glinted in the sunlight, silver-banded. Burok was proven, had the scars to prove it, and was a wise advisor to Chief Dornon as much as a fighter.
“He does indeed,” spoke another warrior, no less proven, only he was no son of the Chief. Rather, he was the tribe’s War Chief, and his armor, helmet held at hip, was black and brilliant. “And he brings his rabble to battle.”
Ahead of them, coming from the other end of the valley, were the Kordans of Latek’s tribe, with Latek’s son in the lead. Tall, fiercely furred, muscular, as expected of their kind, but he had bulging eyes.
They match his ambition. Thought the War Chief, though he did not grin. Vatar just stood there, watching, as both parties of their respective tribes got into position.
First to arrive, a Dornon skewered the prize, lit the cookfire, as it brandished the shadowcat over the roasting spit; but the Dornons kept their distance as they waited for their opponents.
“Smells like shit,” spoke a prince.
“Did you hunt this or poison it?”
That made his tribesman laugh.
The Dornons just stared back.
“I killed it.” Yet it wasn’t some brag.
He raised his fists. “With my hands.”
His voice had gotten their attention.
“As your hands burned our caravan.”
It was here where the Kordans were born, where they were raised, where they lived and survived, and a Kordan knew the difference before a Mandalorian ever told him. The Kordans knew war and strife, conflict, life and death, weapons and fists.
Today, it was the same, nothing had changed, except in the Valley of Thenn, in a narrow passage, where life and death was decided between two tribes who knew only conquest.
Between walls of rock, monuments of stone, the group of Kordans walked, never rode. On the grass and on the dirt, on the land they both shared and claimed, they came to their meeting point, faced with a choice, and no choice.
“I see him,” spoke a brother of Dornon’s tribe, a warrior, a soldier, and a friend. “The prince arrives.” He snorted.
Disrespect? Yes. But deserved where respect was conversely earned. The speaker wore his armor, black and grey, charcoal and ashen, yet it glinted in the sunlight, silver-banded. Burok was proven, had the scars to prove it, and was a wise advisor to Chief Dornon as much as a fighter.
“He does indeed,” spoke another warrior, no less proven, only he was no son of the Chief. Rather, he was the tribe’s War Chief, and his armor, helmet held at hip, was black and brilliant. “And he brings his rabble to battle.”
Ahead of them, coming from the other end of the valley, were the Kordans of Latek’s tribe, with Latek’s son in the lead. Tall, fiercely furred, muscular, as expected of their kind, but he had bulging eyes.
They match his ambition. Thought the War Chief, though he did not grin. Vatar just stood there, watching, as both parties of their respective tribes got into position.
First to arrive, a Dornon skewered the prize, lit the cookfire, as it brandished the shadowcat over the roasting spit; but the Dornons kept their distance as they waited for their opponents.
“Smells like shit,” spoke a prince.
“Did you hunt this or poison it?”
That made his tribesman laugh.
The Dornons just stared back.
“I killed it.” Yet it wasn’t some brag.
He raised his fists. “With my hands.”
His voice had gotten their attention.
“As your hands burned our caravan.”