Sithbane
M A R S H A L
Tag:
Nova Dragr
Concord Dawn.
It had been nigh a year since the Mandalorian Union, led by self-proclaimed Mand'alor the Reclaimer Kreslin Westwind, had 'freed' the Mandalorian homeworld from the oppressive rule of the Sith. Siv had been part of that fight -- he'd lead the charge on Mandalore, assaulting a Sith beskar foundry utterly by himself and making it out alive only through his ingenuity and good luck. For a time it looked like the Mandalorian Union would be the future for the Mandalorian people; that the Enclave, a last safe haven for the Mando'ade, would no longer be needed. They could return home.
But as Siv stared at the bleakness that was Concord Dawn, he finally realized why, if the rumors were true, the tattered remnants of the Mandalorian Union were voluntarily giving up Mandalore. Perhaps they had once been strong, their forces whittled away by time and bloodshed. Or perhaps they had always been weak at their core, or their leader -- called the Reclaimer by some, the Carrion by others -- had given himself a responsibility that he had not been up for.
Or maybe Mandalore simply could not be held, and anyone who went there would end up facing death.
There were no Mandalorian banners on Concord Dawn, at least not where Siv now stood, in the shadows. The Sith were still here. Their legionaries patrolling the streets. Their colonists, sent to stamp out Mandalorian culture, his culture, roaming freely on ground where only inches under were the bodies of thousands, maybe millions who had been murdered by the Sith. In his spot, concealed thanks to shadow and nightfall, Siv's veins coursed with a rage thought gone, only to have been suppressed and now awakened. His hand curled around the grip of his blaster. He could make them feel the pain he'd felt, the day he realized his entire Clan was gone.
Like a wave rolling across the beach, the moment of heated passion crashed and dispersed. It had passed by, and Siv's grip loosened. He was not here for terrorism, though such a term was be ironic in comparison to the crimes of the Sith Empire. But he had a higher purpose to be here, indiscreet, and there were those counting on him to fulfil this mission. He would not let them down.
Several rotations ago, the Enclave had picked up on several distress calls in Sith space. Distress calls from Sith Space were no novelty. Ever since their purge, the Sith had employed every measure to hunt down the last remnants of the Mandalorian people, and faked distress calls had been just one of their deceptive tactics. The routine calls for help, crude imitations of basic Mando'a phrases that even a three-year-old foundling could say but were somehow still bungled; the Enclave knew them all, though they always hadn't. Price had been paid in precious blood before the Enclave had learned from its mistakes. But this time? The call had been different. Spoken in fluent Mando'a, and one that was transmitted across old Mandalorian frequencies that the Sith wouldn't have access too most likely.
But there was still considerable doubt among Enclave leadership, especially coming from the Quartermaster herself. And so Siv had been sent out to scout and see if this was another trap designed to kill more Mandalorians. Or, if it was a covert of Mandalorians in hiding, lost brothers and sisters that could be rescued and brought to safety. If it was the later. . .
Then no matter how small, that meant there was still some hope left for the Mando'ade.