Some time ago...
Present Day...
Droz wondered to himself as he laid buried in the rubble of a destroyed building in Eshan, what it really was that he sought. Was it women? Fame? Power? No... Why did he pursue such extreme actions like the false-flag attack on Umbara, slaughtering civilians and taking hostages with so little regard for any life? The bomb collars and headless bodies that littered the streets when he announced to the entire Galaxy that he would so freely and indiscriminantly kill in the name of Mandalore. Was it because he was thirsty for blood? A little, but not entirely...
It was because he dreamed of a future where Mandalorians could all walk tall and be proud of the warrior heritage that they belonged to. To seize the past that they had struggled through, shed blood and lost lives in, and still continued to stand tall. But that future was obscured and kept from his brethren by the would be Mand'alor who would trade their livelihoods for peace...and with the Sith of all people, completely ignorant to how they would one day rely on them as if they were a crutch...Yasha Cadera made the Mandalorians weak. Like sheep they were raised under the belief that they could peacefully rule under the heel of the Sith Empire, but it was not in a warrior's place to be in the shadow of a greater power, especially a Mandalorian. They should have fought them; every man, woman and child, tooth and nail to claim their place as the apex warriors of the Galaxy...But no...They settled to be the footrest of the Sith.
The battered and bruised warrior groaned as his fingers twitched, light seeping through the rubble as he stared to the sky through his cracked visor. He was thought to be dead, left behind as his fellow clan had concluded their task in goading the Galaxy into turning on the Mandalorian Empire. But it did not suit him to die - Not yet, and certainly not in a pile of rubble. He would die on the field of battle, where his ancestors fought and died. Only then would he truly ever be satisfied. A ruined building made for a poor warrior's grave anyways. He'd muster what strength he could to dig himself from the stone and rebar, clawing his way to freedom and into the light of Eshan's sun, covered in dents and dust, but not broken.
Present Day...
Droz's heel tapped against the ground as he waited. Having spent the past few months on Eshan without resources or any means of being able to contact his clan he was stuck stranded on the planet. He could have gone to one of the cities and coerced his way off world, but he chose instead to lament over the past and give himself some time to himself. News had come that the Sith Empire had finally turned on the Mandalorian Empire. In the ensuing battle they were completely and utterly defeated. Did it come to any surprise to Droz? Not at all. He was angry that it did happen though, and how unprepared his people were for it. They should have been ready, should have expected the day to come, should have fought and won on their own turf...But they lost. Sundari was besieged and later occupied, as was Concord Dawn. Of course he blamed it on the weak Mand'alor, but in the end after deliberation he mostly blamed himself.
He had unleashed wrath upon his own people. The false-flag attack on the Silver Jedi prompted a response and retaliation from both the Jedi and the Confederacy. His actions in shooting the daughter of the Core Imperial Confederation on Eshan only further instigated another retaliatory response. Perhaps it was after all that the Sith had finally decided to cut their losses and finally turn on the Mandalorians. Their defeat was all but assured. But something in Droz still believed his people were not broken despite all the strife and turmoil they endured. Whether or not he and the other Munins were responsible for the downfall of the Mandalorian Empire was no longer relevant to him. What mattered was that their spirit had been tested. They were scattered but not broken. He held onto the hope that his people would rally, under a new and stronger Mand'alor who could bring together the scattered clans and truly unite them. It was just a matter of who was worthy enough to bear the burden of the title and the responsibility that comes with it.
His thoughts would be interrupted by a transport flying down and touching down as he stood up and grabbed his helmet off the bench he sat on. He'd lift it to his chest as a glint of his reflection was seen off the T-visor before he lifted it to his head and placed it snuggly over. It was time to see what was left of his people, and whether or not they had the spirit to persevere and rise.
