Redemption in the Rain

[Nicair Claden]

He'd never really cared where his name came from. It was something he had been given as a young man, something given to him long ago. Something he had been trying to outrun since he'd been given it.

Mandalorians cared about clans, maybe not as much as they used to, there were far more lone wolves amongst the vod than there used to be, but clan was still important. Clan was something Nicair had been avoiding for over ten years.

He had earned his surname in the flaming pits of a fighting arena. His adoptive father taught him all he knew of strategy and killing. What he didn't know, Nicair filled in the blanks of.

The man never asked about any of his clan, he had always assumed he was the last member. A dying breed. He was wrong. Thanks to some digging and no small amount of luck, he knew differently

Clan Claden, was alive, and they were not what he had thought they were. The rumors were vague and far between, some said the Cladens were merciless raiders, others said they were gutter rats living off the scraps of stronger clans. He didn't think he owed much to a dead man, but he acknowledged he wouldn't be where he was, alive that is, without Kiler Claden's help. He was a good man, and it got him killed. Nicair learned quickly.

In any case, he had to be sure.

He had to know whether the lies were true.

He would have to start at the ports, if his clan were in fact raiders they would favor the coming and goings of the planet. It was a backwater planet he'd never heard of, wasn't even on the map. Had to find it by word of mouth. There was some manner of precious stone here, but nothing to really kill over.

 

[Nicair Claden]

The rain pelted his armor, the klinks gave him something to focus on that wasn't the task at hand. It was a lucky thing that he didn't need to focus on much at the moment. The lower end ports were dead. Any raiders with a speck of a brain would know to avoid places like this. No real payoff for their work.

From his understanding the Cladens had no symbol, nothing to identify their clan; it would make finding them more difficult, but not entirely impossible. He used the general cleanliness of his armor to appear more official than he truly was. The Protectors were mostly gone, but there remained rumors they were being brought back. Whether he was an official member wasn't required information.

Nobody would tell him much, nothing but vague ideas of possible Mandalorians living in the mines and outer compounds. They either hadn't been a problem for some time, or when they were, they weren't intimidating enough to leave a memory. Nicair wasn't sure which option he preferred.

The problem was that tracking them grew challenging in the undercity, the mines and compounds below the surface. They were more of a problem down there, none of the citizens would tell him much. All he had was a general direction to work towards. The south.

He couldn't help feeling like a hunting animal, being pointed towards its prey.

"Deal with the problem," they said. "protect us," they said.

"Kill them all."

 

[Nicair Claden]

Word spread fast of Nicair's approach. Mandalorians didn't get to this planet very often, he assumed. One was here now, and it didn't bode well for his targets. He didn't bother with the stealth of his walking, his boots didn't make any sound, both a habit and by design. It was challenging to move quietly in full armor, especially in a dead section of space. Every minor clanging of metal resounded. Better they hear him coming, better to see what a real warrior could do.

The closer he got to the Claden's supposed hideaway, the worse his mood became. Empty vials of different substances littered the ground. He made sure to step on the cheap craftsmanship of the vials. The crunch echoed, he would crush these former Mandalorians underfoot just as easily. The ones that crumpled would be left, those that rose to the challenge and showed merit he would allow to remain. He almost did so on accident, a man wearing the armor of a warrior was unconscious on the ground. It was fitted for someone much larger than the body that was currently resting inside. Once this would have fit him, once. His scowl increased beneath his helmet.

The sound of the unconscious Mandalorian being dragged behind him increased the raucous he was causing. It brought him a sick sense of pleasure. No warrior should allow this to happen, this disgrace had no choice, the shame he should be feeling was diminished by his state.

See how you react when I drag you to your Alor.

Others began to show themselves from the shadows and the side routes. The only difference between they and the man Nicair had in tow was that these ones were aware of what was going on around them. Then again, awareness was debatable. They could see the change, but if they truly understood what was happening was in question. None of them attempted to stop him, if this was once a proper fighting force, they were no longer.

The number of non Mando'a he spotted seemed to increase the closer he got into their den. These were women and some men who found their services needed by those with boredom and money to spare. All had gone soft, like metal he would throw them into the fire. If they survived they would be warriors once more, if they died, then he would have no use for them.

He knew not the Alor's name, but he assumed the figure lying in the middle of sleeping bodies with various needles sticking out of veins was the one he was looking for.

"Alor!" His shout was coupled by the slamming down of the dragged form as it was tossed in front of Nicair.

One was already broken. The rest of the clan was next. He would see if they could rebuild themselves

 

[Nicair Claden]

The mass of bodies seemed to combine groans as it spasmed and pulsed. A once well muscled arm thrust itself out of the congregation and cleared the way for the other. Soon enough an entire body was birthed out of the grouping. The foundation of muscle was present on the human, but all that was left was slightly loose skin and a wiry physique. Nicair had to doubts that there was still strength to be had, but nothing near what used to be present. The man's head was completely bald and his facial hair was patchy and unkempt. His legs shook like they were going to collapse under him. How long had he been off his feet?

"Who- who're you. Where'd you get that armor!" His voice fluctuated, groggy from sleep or vices Nicair couldn't tell.

"I earned my beskar'gam as a warrior should. Do you even remember what that word means?" The man's face was contorted in different shapes, part confusion, part insulted, part hazed. The Sociph felt something he hadn't felt since he was a teenager. Disgust, plain and bitter disgust. Not with Hutts, with Mandalorians. No, not Mandalorians. These things hadn't been vod for many years.

"Whish one?" Nicair's scowl grew.

"Any of them, utreekov." The confused look contorted the thing's face even more. Nicair weighed the options of getting away with insulting someone directly to their face, or making sure they knew they had been insulted.

"What's your name boy?" The clarity was beginning to ease itself back into his voice and face.

"Nicair. Nicair Claden." Those gathered in the room began to laugh, a sharp, hacking laugh that some would find concerning. Even the supposed Alor put his hands on his now steady legs to keep himself upright. Nicair's scowl doubled in anger.

"If you think you're a Claden then you are the utreekov! Hahaha, we are a clan of warriors, with steel eyes and bodies forged in war. Upstarts like you are left behind." The Sociph's inhale felt strong enough to suck the air out of a planet. His hands reached for his helmet and broke the seal holding it to the rest of his 'gam. He raised it up slowly, so that they could see the scars on his face and the gaze of his eyes.

"This. This is the face of a true Claden! Forged in the fiery pits of slavery, tempered by war, with a heart of beskar. What I see before me are nothing but worms, maggots, parasites feasting on the carcass of the Empire's kills. Seeping the life from the very thing that sustains you. You are all nothing to me! You are no Mandalorians, you are no vod, you aren't even people to me. You are the gore on the bottom of my boot! You are worse than the things that killed Kiler, the only Claden that mattered before I was made."

Their laughter stopped. An inquisitive look gave over the Alor.

"Kiler? You knew Kiler?" Nicair's face twisted in revulsion that they would utter his true father's name.

"Kiler made me what I am. Forged me into a Mandalorian. A true warrior. A killer of worlds. Keep his name from your lips." The Alor began to chuckle, a small, mocking chuckle. His face was knowing, like a predator waiting to pounce.

"Oh, son. He was in Groppu's pits right? I assume you were the one I heard about killing his entire entourage. Respect for doing so, Groppu was a vile worm. Do you know why Kiler was there? If you hate all of us now, oh, if only you knew Kiler. Really known him. I had to fight my way to unseat him. He was worse than all of us, worse than even me now. He was dar'manda."

 

[Nicair Claden]

Something was wiggling its way free from Nicair's mind, something old, sensation of such a degree that it threatened to consume him.

"Liar. Kiler spoke of the Claden's as warriors, honorable, fierce warriors. Allies celebrated their opportunity to fight by their side and enemies ran from their standard!" His words were met with laughter, he couldn't help but feel he was being made the fool. It was not something he enjoyed.

"Then everything he told you were lies. The Cladens were never anyone's favored allies or feared enemies. Kiler was the one slaughtering families and killing indiscriminately! You may look down on us for what we've become, but you'll notice there are no young men here. We lived through Kiler's reign as Alor, we saw what he did, and we did it too. You said that you are what Kiler made you? Well this is what he made us!" Once he concluded his sentence he spread his arms out wide to better take in the squalor they in which they lived. Broken vials and bottles littered the ground, old food and vomit, sometimes in the same places. It was time for Nicair's face to contort in confusion.

"He's been dead, what? Ten years? Even with his death we can't escape him. You see the man you threw? He hasn't moved, because he can't. He's too deep up here," he points to his temple, "to ever allow himself to come back out. At one point he was a lot like you, all principles and virtue. Kiler took all those away from him, and this is what he is now. A piece of the filth of this place, just like me." A weariness took over his entire form. His legs began to shake again, his face slackened and his shoulders drooped. He breathed a heavy sigh before continuing.

"What do you want?" The eyes that stared back at Nicair were eyes he'd seen before. They were the same eyes that stared back at him in the mirror when he was a young man. Eyes of one wanting to die.

"I think you know." A twinkle started up behind the grey orbs, and the smallest of smiles broke the tired mask.

"Trial by combat?" There was a pitiful hope in the voice and face of the broken man that looked back at Nicair.

"In keeping with tradition, though, I doubt I will be well liked upon taking my place. I expect my challengers to be many. I'll have you know I weary quickly." He didn't, and the Alor knew that. All he could do was hope that the rest of the clan gathered knew it as well and understood what he had planned.

There would be death this night.

 

[Nicair Claden]

The two squared off, each of them settling into their stances. For all the muscle degradation the Alor had experienced, he was solid in his movements. Some things never leave you, it was a shame Nicair had to do this, such a man could be useful if convinced to remain living.

By now the rest of the clan had formed, or what Nicair assumed to be the rest of them. All gathered to watch their mercy-bringer cut through their leader, down to each one in kind. Nicair began simply walking forward, everyone knew how this would end. It could have been over with a flick of the man's wrist, but he would give his Alor the honor of a proper bout, and the courtesy of the first blow.

The first strike, a right hook, was blocked and countered with a palm strike to the chest. Nicair swiftly followed with a left hand spinning backfist, landing with enough force to knock his opponent to the ground and break his jaw. No Mandalorian would want to be fought lightly in such a situation.

The man recovered quickly and attempted a double leg takedown but was too disoriented and gave Nicair the time he needed to lift up his knee in a strike. The weaker man fell onto his back, one elbow keeping him angled upward. Pain was etched on his face, but something else was making its way onto his features. A fire behind his eyes, a fight Nicair was sure he hadn't felt in some while, and a smile on his face. Good, the man may have strayed from the path, but he was still a warrior.

"There's your spirit. Come then, Alor, let us finish this as proper warriors."

A new energy entered the older man who sprang to his feet. The strikes were controlled and targeted, granted Nicair was at a disadvantage wearing the armor, but it showed him something about his Alor, it showed him the man would break himself rather than suffer a defeat without fighting. The blows to his head he would parry or outright block, soon enough the room was filled with the sound of cracking bones. The drug use wasn't kind to the human body.

Nicair stayed on the defensive, letting the man tire himself out. It wasn't long until he was barely standing and dropped to a knee. His breath came in ragged gasps and his body seemed to quiver. He didn't have much left, and Nicair knew that, but he wouldn't let him die on his knees. Nicair motioned with his hands for one last push, one final effort. His Alor responded and rushed forward to be caught in Nicair's arms, his hands ready to snap the man's neck. The man's body began to give out before he had fully died.

"What is your name?" Nicair asked, his mouth near the man's ear.

"Kear. Kear Claden." Nicair nodded.

"Udes, Kear, ruug'la verd (Rest, Kear, old warrior)." With the ending of his sentence so too ended the life of Kear, Alor of Clan Claden. As the body dropped Nicair readied his proper weapons. He turned to address the crowd before him, a memory flashed before his eyes. The memory of a young boy, barely an adolescent, with nothing but his adoptive father, and a woman he would soon make his wife, standing in a pit of sand and blood, with a crowd gathered before him. Nicair had come home.

"Remnants of Clan Claden! Who would challenge your new Alor?!" His voice projected along the halls and the corridors, all gathered heard his words, all gathered readied their arms.

They were relatively few in number, but fought with a ferocity of younger men. Kiler's legacy would end here. The slate wiped clean.

And as Nicair stood amongst the bodies, blood dripping off of his tomahawk and beskad, freshly bruised and cut, he yelled. Yelled to the heavens, yelled to his wife and his father, yelled to the very manda itself. A fierce, animalistic cry. The Cladens had a proper Alor, and they would rise again, just as he had. Forged in the fires of suffering and despair, to be borne once more with hearts of iron.