Silas Mantis
Destroyer
Durasteel and Beskar overlapped, a patchwork assembly of armor that he’d chosen willingly, and would’ve done so again a hundred thousand times. Cassus was a second chance he’d never expected, and one he’d never deserved. He thought often of his first foundling, how he’d failed the boy, how he’d failed Yasha, failed Preliat, his life was a long sequence of self-induced misfortunes, but Cassus was not. When the boy came of age, and proved himself, the choice had been simple, Silas had taken his own Beskar’gam and split it between the two of them, two bodies, one shell. There was something poetic about it, but Silas didn’t trouble himself with it, he had enough to think about stepping onto Kestri for the first time.
He’d been branded Dar’manda once, and though such bygones were likely forgiven and forgotten in the years that had passed, there was no Mandalorian not within their rights to try and kill him for it. That didn’t worry him, he did not fear the new blood, and more than that, death in battle was the only way suitable anyway. If they were to challenge him, so be it. Cassus could continue Clan Mantis in full kit that way, he was undeterred.
But he’d spent enough time away, beyond the reaches of the galaxy. Mandalore was ash and glass, a memory to be enshrined in legend and one day be forgotten beyond the tales Mando’ade who’d fought and died there across the eons. Kestri was the future, and one he intended to be part of, even in death if it came to it.
Silas Mantis stepped down the landing ramp, and onto Mandalorian soil. Tor Valum was their seat now, and from behind the slit of his visor, he was impressed. They’d done well for themselves here, so far from the home they knew, even with the hold being as old as it was, he’d expected it to be in far worse conditions.
This would be good for the boy, to be out among his people for the first time, to see the culture Silas preached manifested beyond tales and holovids.
“Hurry up, there’s much to see.” He called back into the hold, waiting for Cassus Mantis to join him. Preliat was not here, and the absence of the brother he’d relied upon through the years to guide him stung more than he could say, but for once Silas would need to stand on his own, outside his brother’s shadow.
He’d been branded Dar’manda once, and though such bygones were likely forgiven and forgotten in the years that had passed, there was no Mandalorian not within their rights to try and kill him for it. That didn’t worry him, he did not fear the new blood, and more than that, death in battle was the only way suitable anyway. If they were to challenge him, so be it. Cassus could continue Clan Mantis in full kit that way, he was undeterred.
But he’d spent enough time away, beyond the reaches of the galaxy. Mandalore was ash and glass, a memory to be enshrined in legend and one day be forgotten beyond the tales Mando’ade who’d fought and died there across the eons. Kestri was the future, and one he intended to be part of, even in death if it came to it.
Silas Mantis stepped down the landing ramp, and onto Mandalorian soil. Tor Valum was their seat now, and from behind the slit of his visor, he was impressed. They’d done well for themselves here, so far from the home they knew, even with the hold being as old as it was, he’d expected it to be in far worse conditions.
This would be good for the boy, to be out among his people for the first time, to see the culture Silas preached manifested beyond tales and holovids.
“Hurry up, there’s much to see.” He called back into the hold, waiting for Cassus Mantis to join him. Preliat was not here, and the absence of the brother he’d relied upon through the years to guide him stung more than he could say, but for once Silas would need to stand on his own, outside his brother’s shadow.
