A mildly amused hum left the helm as he treaded ahead, listening to the lengthy response the other provided with as much intent as he had for the rest of the conversation. It was fascinating to him how even those uninitiated could hold so many of the same ideas after so many years apart. As if the Manda itself maintained their connection.
“I was merely curious. For one who hasn’t ‘put too much thought into it,’ you yet hold much insight that others would share in the opinion of.” Came the comment in turn.
As Brent’s thoughts trawled out from his mind, there was one notable nod of his head upon the regrettable fate of those who opposed them.
“There could be no mercy for those who threatened their people. I hope more come to see the error of their ways as we continue our righteous Crusade.”
The matters of governance were a sordid subject among most Mandalorians - even amongst the Crusade. Many of the number who initially started wanted the farthest thing from settling and building up planets, wishing instead to merely raze the places and move on as the original Crusaders did. Alas, the galaxy simply did not allow for that option. Not without eventually driving them to extinction.
And so when the question was turned back to him, the helm tilted—unable to impart the knowing look. The response that came did so for him;
“You understand what must be done well enough. Our survival must be carved out. Into the planets we conquer, into the minds of the people who then become under our rule. We must become harsh caretakers. To do so because it would be a disservice to our people to not. It would be disgusting to take from so many different planets the possibility that they could all defend themselves, all sustain themselves - merely because we wish to play pretend with some vague notion of peace.”
His hand brushed upon a passing tree, his step pausing for a moment as he glanced upwards to the canopy that shadowed their step.
“Dxun is the cornerstone of the vision I seek. I wish to one day see hundreds brought into our culture with each sunrise. Manda’yaim lies in ruin, so we must create something new. But it will not just be for ourselves - we will make all of the stars our home. All shall share in its bounty, and prosper.”
His hand left off, motioning forth again with his poleaxe in tow as it had been.
“...A Mandalorian Golden Age. That was the aspiration, so long ago. For our people to become stewards to the Galaxy, for however long it would last. Bring in whoever we can, and they shall either adapt to our way or serve elsewhere. Those who rebel or interfere with our vision must be dealt with, harshly. I will not tolerate low-lives and brigands infesting our people once again. It might be an impossible task with our expansion, but I must try.”
A brief chuckle, rueful in its temperament, left the helm. Such a thing wouldn’t last. That wasn’t their Way. It would crumble, one day. With nothing left to fight, perhaps they would begin fighting each other. Even
Hakon Fett
had attributed to the simplistic advantage that numbers provided, of diluting their training and culture for the sake of mere cannon fodder. War would rear its head once again, so as to prevent their stagnation, and capitulations for the sake of war must be made. But that would be a day far, far away.
“All this, to say that I can only promise to do my utmost to continue the work I have done. More places like Dxun must be cultivated. More planets, taken. More people, enlightened. And our foes, annihilated.”
Another pause in his step, eyes behind the visor squinting as there was a briefly familiar sight.
“...They will come for this hallowed ground again. I know they will. And when they do…”
His hand parted the shrubbery.
Beyond which was a clearing. The grass was overgrown and untamed. If one looked close enough, they might spot more of the rusted, faded armor that would have succumbed to rot had they not been metal. The center of which was a large, massive tree. The top was obscured, extending past the thick canopy overhead. A single ray of light shined down near the base of it.
“We will stand. As we always have.”
From above, there was a chirrup, piercing through the other noises of the forest as a clear message. There, perched on the tree, was a
large bird adorned in dusky feathers. Light undertones of orange and gold could be glimpsed beneath its wings and threat. Piercing yellow eyes had lingered upon the pair for what seemed like a moment frozen in time.
Then that moment was gone, and with a flutter of its wings, so too was it.
A single dark feather slowly floated down, landing at the base of the tree. And where gaze was drawn, t’was then apparent—the small ray of sunlight reflected from a single narrow T-visor, almost entirely obscured by the roots.
Brent Warnel
