It was night. It was day. Out in space, day or night were much the same. Whether today or tonight.
In the expanse, all was black, all was dark, save for those stars so far apart, each one casting the light.
Bright arcs, but pinpricks from afar, merely beacons to guide the way, there where the minds aligned.
When the stars were wrong, they could not go on; but when the stars were right, they could fly the sky.
‘They’ were the remnants of a bygone era, of a time when theirs were the leaders of their own kind.
A time when they did not survive but thrived, for the voyage was true and they carried a great tide.
Their people were on the move, not as an army but as a force, embalming their creed in their might.
It was an age where the hunt ruled supreme, not the king, for every hunter was a king, dead or alive.
Then came the age of peace, but not all bent the knee to the new democracy, neither to the new beliefs.
Where their own kind had put down the bow and the blaster, the blade and the dagger, unless in need.
The need deemed to no longer be for sport but to benefit the clan, the planet, alliance, whatever it be.
Not all listened, so their heads were taken, but not all were broken, with some taking their own leave.
To these ones, to the faithful and to the true, hunting was never some simple sport and not merely a game.
It was the creed, it was their people’s destiny, to go out and track and challenge and combat and to slay.
It was their orbit of purpose in life and death to fight their best, discover and butcher their greatest prey.
For these ones, where even the creeds of Mandalorians were no extension, theirs was the only way.
There, between the stars, in the blackness of space, a starship came, lingering and resting all alone.
Never alone, though, for those folk within it were the remnants of the golden age of their very own.
The successors of their ancestors and the betters of their predecessors that saw their culture choke.
They were few, they were far, but they were true in arms, the weight of tradition carried like a yoke.
A lone vessel, out in the middle of nowhere, whether the Unknown Regions or Wild Space, or close.
Hunters like them were yet ever hunted, but if captured by their false king they would still be known.
They would become martyrs in death; in life, they would give their best, fighting or defying the throne.
They were hunters, they were predators, and they lived for the hunt, died for the hunt, even as ghosts.
They were scouts and warriors, they were man and woman, they were Yautkan, and they were true.
In their starship, they returned from their hunts, their missions, their battles and their journeys too.
They gathered as one, there were eight of them, but they were a fraction of the others who didn’t go.
Kindred clansmen, those distant Yautkan, whether mercenary or Mandalorian, the hunt was the code.
There they stood as brethren, a fraction, Clan Nazzat, in a ship named in defiance of their emperor.
But he was not theirs, that coward, having forsaken, forgotten and abandoned his history, the traitor.
No, he would not be named, for only the names of the worthy would be uttered by these here warriors.
They formed a circle, a traditional council, and even with their leader all were equal aboard the Predator.
In the bridge, and with purpose, there was darkness, given the absence of light from those terminals.
One voice penetrated the silence; feminine, and powerful. “All other bodies are now empty vessels.”
She spoke, the speaker, the leader, the chieftain of Clan Nazzat, with a pyre blazing in the middle.
A little green fire bound by iron, illuminating the visages of Yautkan around; towering, not brittle.
That -clang!- as Chieftain Jur-Resh sent the butt of her staff upon the floor. It rang with the sound of beskar.
“Each one of you has returned to us, earned and deserved, having gathered skulls and the spines from afar.”
They listened, silent, the other seven remnants, for the speaker had the floor, the leader, between their arms.
"You have tracked and you have hunted, you have attacked one or one hundred...and Kar-Vul shall now start.”
Opposite the spear-wielder stood a taller figure than all the others, his arms crossed, speaking.
“Trandoshan pirates. Known for their violence. I raided them. I flayed them. I bring their heads.”
Jur-Resh nodded her own in approval and paused, shifting her gaze from one soul to the next.
Marok followed with his tale, Ortikan, Kratle, Lorf with hers, N’mea, with only one remaining.
“Bo’roth,” Jur-Resh looked on. “What have you brought?”
“The spine of one Mandalorian warrior, as he so fought.”
Mandalorians, proven opponents. It was a worthy hunt.
“We shall feast, for we have won, and we spilled blood.”
“We are not done.”
A voice then joined.
Outcast. A broken son.
Appearing from a void.
Arakh Nazzat, the Outcast at last, even among their own exiled kin.
He all but strolled in, looking between his brothers, sisters, children.
Yet you have forsaken our ways.... You lay and wait...in a pale existence...
He had his place, Jur-Resh would say, but Bo’roth saw him as defiant.
“You have no permission to speak,” Jur-Resh interjected. “Leave.”
“I can, I will,” Arakh brushed back his long and dreadlocked quills.
He spoke Basic against their Yautkanian clicks. No right to breathe.
“But let this lightsaber first prove my worth as my own claimed kill.”
A -cling!- but not the kind that a beskar spear brings.
The silver thing landed by the pyre in its dying ring.
A proven liar, but the hilt left little for any doubting.
The Outcast offered a prize—with eyes surrounding.
In the expanse, all was black, all was dark, save for those stars so far apart, each one casting the light.
Bright arcs, but pinpricks from afar, merely beacons to guide the way, there where the minds aligned.
When the stars were wrong, they could not go on; but when the stars were right, they could fly the sky.
‘They’ were the remnants of a bygone era, of a time when theirs were the leaders of their own kind.
A time when they did not survive but thrived, for the voyage was true and they carried a great tide.
Their people were on the move, not as an army but as a force, embalming their creed in their might.
It was an age where the hunt ruled supreme, not the king, for every hunter was a king, dead or alive.
Then came the age of peace, but not all bent the knee to the new democracy, neither to the new beliefs.
Where their own kind had put down the bow and the blaster, the blade and the dagger, unless in need.
The need deemed to no longer be for sport but to benefit the clan, the planet, alliance, whatever it be.
Not all listened, so their heads were taken, but not all were broken, with some taking their own leave.
To these ones, to the faithful and to the true, hunting was never some simple sport and not merely a game.
It was the creed, it was their people’s destiny, to go out and track and challenge and combat and to slay.
It was their orbit of purpose in life and death to fight their best, discover and butcher their greatest prey.
For these ones, where even the creeds of Mandalorians were no extension, theirs was the only way.
There, between the stars, in the blackness of space, a starship came, lingering and resting all alone.
Never alone, though, for those folk within it were the remnants of the golden age of their very own.
The successors of their ancestors and the betters of their predecessors that saw their culture choke.
They were few, they were far, but they were true in arms, the weight of tradition carried like a yoke.
A lone vessel, out in the middle of nowhere, whether the Unknown Regions or Wild Space, or close.
Hunters like them were yet ever hunted, but if captured by their false king they would still be known.
They would become martyrs in death; in life, they would give their best, fighting or defying the throne.
They were hunters, they were predators, and they lived for the hunt, died for the hunt, even as ghosts.
They were scouts and warriors, they were man and woman, they were Yautkan, and they were true.
In their starship, they returned from their hunts, their missions, their battles and their journeys too.
They gathered as one, there were eight of them, but they were a fraction of the others who didn’t go.
Kindred clansmen, those distant Yautkan, whether mercenary or Mandalorian, the hunt was the code.
There they stood as brethren, a fraction, Clan Nazzat, in a ship named in defiance of their emperor.
But he was not theirs, that coward, having forsaken, forgotten and abandoned his history, the traitor.
No, he would not be named, for only the names of the worthy would be uttered by these here warriors.
They formed a circle, a traditional council, and even with their leader all were equal aboard the Predator.
In the bridge, and with purpose, there was darkness, given the absence of light from those terminals.
One voice penetrated the silence; feminine, and powerful. “All other bodies are now empty vessels.”
She spoke, the speaker, the leader, the chieftain of Clan Nazzat, with a pyre blazing in the middle.
A little green fire bound by iron, illuminating the visages of Yautkan around; towering, not brittle.
That -clang!- as Chieftain Jur-Resh sent the butt of her staff upon the floor. It rang with the sound of beskar.
“Each one of you has returned to us, earned and deserved, having gathered skulls and the spines from afar.”
They listened, silent, the other seven remnants, for the speaker had the floor, the leader, between their arms.
"You have tracked and you have hunted, you have attacked one or one hundred...and Kar-Vul shall now start.”
Opposite the spear-wielder stood a taller figure than all the others, his arms crossed, speaking.
“Trandoshan pirates. Known for their violence. I raided them. I flayed them. I bring their heads.”
Jur-Resh nodded her own in approval and paused, shifting her gaze from one soul to the next.
Marok followed with his tale, Ortikan, Kratle, Lorf with hers, N’mea, with only one remaining.
“Bo’roth,” Jur-Resh looked on. “What have you brought?”
“The spine of one Mandalorian warrior, as he so fought.”
Mandalorians, proven opponents. It was a worthy hunt.
“We shall feast, for we have won, and we spilled blood.”
“We are not done.”
A voice then joined.
Outcast. A broken son.
Appearing from a void.
Arakh Nazzat, the Outcast at last, even among their own exiled kin.
He all but strolled in, looking between his brothers, sisters, children.
Yet you have forsaken our ways.... You lay and wait...in a pale existence...
He had his place, Jur-Resh would say, but Bo’roth saw him as defiant.
“You have no permission to speak,” Jur-Resh interjected. “Leave.”
“I can, I will,” Arakh brushed back his long and dreadlocked quills.
He spoke Basic against their Yautkanian clicks. No right to breathe.
“But let this lightsaber first prove my worth as my own claimed kill.”
A -cling!- but not the kind that a beskar spear brings.
The silver thing landed by the pyre in its dying ring.
A proven liar, but the hilt left little for any doubting.
The Outcast offered a prize—with eyes surrounding.