Mandalorian Legend
T H E
E N C L A V E
Kestri's Moon gleamed violet in the twilight sky.
It was a peculiar phenomenon. As she leaned out on the balcony from Tor Valum's central spire, the cool wind whipping at her furs, the violet light reflected brightly on her bronze-coated helmet. The Quartermaster had not read much on it, only glimpsed files that had been pulled from millennia-old data logs restored by the small yet dedicated team of Mandalorian Splicers that had been working in the server rooms of Tor Valum's central complex. They had been at work for countless lunar orbits, the number of rotations blurring in her mind. There had been so much work to be done, with the Yuuzhan Vong cleared out. And so much more yet to do.
The coloration had something to do with a regular-occurring shift in the chemical composition of Kestri's atmosphere, interacting with how the light from Kestri's moon refracted in the atmosphere. Truth to be told, it was beyond her comprehension. The Quartermaster could instantly choose the perfect metal for a certain armor plate from a thousand choices, and give detailed instructions how to perfectly shape and craft that raw metal into something more than just a piece of armor, but a work of art. But the scientific explanation for why Kestri's moon was a throbbing violet? That was beyond her comprehension. Yet the moon did not wait for her to understand; it just was, whether the Quartermaster understood or not.
The Quartermaster was not a superstitious woman. There were those of her brethren that believed in the old gods of the Mando'ade, who saw dark bodings in every naturally-occurring event and prophecies of valor and glory in the most mundane of occurrences. Yet the Quartermaster could not help but feel an ominous tone from the moon's glow. Even if it meant nothing, it did not make it any less unsettling.
"Amethyst moon tonight, Quartermaster," a gruff voice said behind her. It was Romul Saxon, Master of the Kom'rk. Towering in his bright red-and-gold armor, he held his helmet on the offhand to reveal a dark face with onyx eyes, eyes that were cold, eyes that had seen too much. A matted fur cloak, most likely interwoven with blastweave fibers as to be more practical on a battlefield, fluttered faintly in the face of Kestri's cold winds. He nodded to the Quartermaster and walked to stand beside her, leaning ever so slightly on the railing of the balcony. "Back during. . . well, I can't remember which war, but on some forsaken Outer Rim world, I fought on a planet with a similar colored moon." His eyes turned cold, lost in memory. "We called it the Amethyst moon. I wish I could say it brought us great victories but. . . those were darker times."
The Quartermaster nodded. There were few as old as Saxon and she that could remember the bloody history of their people. So much death. So much destruction. The Mando'ade, a knife that had been whetted on so many wars that it had become a weak spindle that had cracked and splintered. Divided, their people had followed leader after leader. Mand'alor the Carrion, whose foolish attempts to retake Mandalore from the Sith had only ended in an empty victory, followed by abandonment of the homeworld and a waste of precious Mandalorian blood. The fanatical Death Watch Crusaders, whose flame had burned bright and fast, their 'crusade' a faint imitation of the great conquests of Mandalorian past. The Enclave had managed to survive for close to four years now, consolidating in secrecy on Roon, the birthplace of the Mandalorians, before they had grown enough in strength to reclaim the lost world of Kestri from a hibernating remnant of the Yuuzhan Vong. Now it was on Kestri that they stood as construction droids whirled about the ancient, once-great mountain city of Tor Valum. They had been hard at work, building a new life for those who wore beskar and followed the tenets of the Resol'nare. But still, their brethren were scattered across the stars. The Enclave was a mere smattering of the former strength of the Mandalorian Clans, when they had been united.
She could not help but wonder if they would ever return to that former glory again.
"I know you did not come to me from your Kom'rk just to talk about the color of the moon, Saxon," she said after a brief pause.
Saxon nodded, unsmiling. He never smiled - a grim man, but it took grimness to survive these days. "There have been recent Karjr reports of a certain. . . anomaly interfering with hyperspace travel, roughly halfway between Roon and the Rishi System."
"Which is not uncommon," the Quartermaster replied. "Is it of some sort of significance? Many times hyperspace routes have to be adjusted to account for changes in the celestial makeup of the galaxy."
"Would that it were a common disturbance, I would not have brought it to your attention. These are no rogue planets or unknown masses. It seems to be technological stations of a purpose unconfirmed. The Confederate government, at least, has seemed to take quite the interest in it -- and there are rumors that there are more stations like these appearing across the galaxy," Saxon reported. He grabbed a datapad clipped to his belt, turning it over and powering it on and opening a scout readout. He handed it to the Quartermaster for her to read, while he continued. "Those rumors say it that it leads to a. . . dimension. Or at least some call it that. Others call it the afterlife. I'm not sure which is more accurate, or if either is at all."
Another pause, as she read through the report, then re-read. Thoughts flitted through her mind faster than embers in a furnace. It wasn't until long last that she spoke. "I would see what these are for ourselves. Get together a team. Warriors that we can trust. And send them through."