Born Killer
Mandalore, Unknown Dead City
Southern Hemisphere
Local time: 1547 (Night-time)
Mandalore.
The very word, the very idea of it, was foreign to most Mandalorians present in the galaxy. Long-standing feuds and foolish Empires and actions of traitors and enemies alike had largely turned Mandalore into something once pristine, once proud, into only a partially realized hellscape in some parts, a barren wasteland in others, and bustling metropolises and modernized infrastructure in others. But, it was a mixed bag of thinks, failed, realized, and oft-not materialized ideas.
And so, Fenn, in a fit of perhaps clarity and sanity, or the inverse, decided to walk among the tombstones of the past. Iron City, domed cities. Turbolaser scars, mining from the Sith, deep tracks from wars gone by. Civil Wars ten over, ancient dead lying feet below him. The recent Mandalorian Empire issued a rallying call, the Crusaders did the same. But they all felt empty promises. Temporary and not-lasting. He himself had seen it. The Enclave, the Protectors-
All failures, forgotten and empty vassals. Nation-states that promised unity and brotherhood, a finality, but in the end, they all shared the same fate: Being forgotten, fading away. He had no doubt in his mind that in time, this so-called Empire would suffer the fate. Just as the Crusaders did, and all those before in the entire time Fenn had been alive. Since the end of the Republic, Mandalorians came and went, promising this, promising that. Sole Rulers coming and Sole Rulers going, fading away or even being ignored. Claims to the throne that were righteous to some and false to others.
In the end, Fenn had a sinking feeling that he could not escape, that he could not shake from his tattered, fracturing mind:
That there would never be a return of his people. That they would forever be scattered to the wind. Each statement from the new iteration of the ones who lay claim to the Mandalore sector was largely the same. Come home, be together, fight under one banner, live, flourish. And yet, Fenn stood under the darkness of night on a forgotten city. It was lost to time, maps and navigational data useless on a planet bombarded every decade or so. The magnetic polarization was also thrown off with the volcanic eruption, causing no shortage of problems this side of the planet.
If he had to guess, the tomb that he found himself in that was once a small city, was subjected to Mia Monroe's devastation, one of their great many shames and acts of desperation. He was not yet alive for that, but it was hard not to feel compelled to be angry about it. He did not understand the plight of their people from such a length away. He had not been back to Mandalore in quite some time. Aether Verd was now leading the charge- what charge there was. He felt a sickening sadness coming over him, realizing how utterly, painfully alone he was. He tried to think of a single warrior he fought along with in the Enclave, the Protectors, whomever else that remembered his name, remembered that he was even alive. He could not think of a single one that he knew for a fact was alive and well.
And the feeling was largely mutual on their end, if they were in fact, alive. Even those he quarreled with, ideological differences of opinion, lay thrown to the winds of the galaxy. Scattered like sand on a beach- no longer united. Fenn crouched near a large pile of rubble and ash, a tell-tale rounded shape sticking out. The glass from the visor was long-gone, and only the shell of the helmet lay on the ground. Ash and volcanic material covered the helmet. But no skull inside, no body to be found near it, despite his efforts to reunite the long-dead brother with his helmet. Just another forgotten warrior, dead from eons ago. Forgotten.
Eventually, there would be another Mandalorian, combing through the tombs and forgotten cities of Mandalore or wherever Fenn was to meet his end. They'd hopefully take his armor back to the people, give it to those in need of it. But the thought, while comforting, made him sad. He did not think, even in a happy way, that he was to meet his end surrounded by brothers. He felt that he was to die alone, scattered away from the Mando'ade.
He stood tall, the winds going across the plains, valleys, and crystal structures jutting from the ground in every direction. A chorus of sounds, then silence. No joy, no laughter, no sharing of drinks and stories. No heating units from families gathered in warm homes, no ships darting to and fro this side of the planet. Only a handful nearer to where the Empire had finished their reclamation efforts. But not this far. Even some places on Mandalore were deemed not worth the effort... with how little of them remained. Perhaps one day, this place would be rebuilt. But as it stood, it was Fenn alone.
He took off his helmet, feeling the winds of Mandalore blow through his hair, caress his face. He sought comfort here, in the graveyard of his people, some semblance of belonging and an end to a great internal strife. And as Fenn stood alone underneath the stars, the blanket of night descended upon the graveyard of the Mandalorian people, Mandalore- he found no comfort. No solace. Just a great deal of sorrow, regret. He did not want to lose hope, he did not want to forgo the idea that one day, his people would return, old quarrels gone and forever etched into memory and not the present. But he felt it now-
The hate ran too deep, the Mandalorian people forever subject to the deadliest foes they could ever face:
Themselves.
So, Fenn walked more, through the dead city. Hoping to find something, or discover something to lighten his mood, to ease his troubled mind.
The silence was broken by Fenn's boots crunching along volcanic ash and rubble.
