A good setting with bad characters is an ornate plate with bland food. Good characters with a bad setting are good food eaten found in the bathroom. Make both good.

Since many stories are going to end up being multi-chaptered short stories, should we maybe make a rule about 3-5 chapters or so being the expected "haul"?

Chapter 2: Unforeseen. Inexplicably, Revan found himself kneeling before the Sith Emperor. He did not know how he had arrived, but he knew that he was there. In years to come he was certain that if the same fervor surrounding his victory found him at this moment, inept and incompetent historians would be forced to use conjecture to fill the synapses between his defeat of the Mandalorians and his meeting with the powerful man that now sat before him. To his right Alek also kneeled. Though he desired nothing more than to clutch his lover’s hand and reassure him that all would be well, each had their hands bound behind their backs. This was no act of contrition that they made upon their knees – they had been forced there! Considering that the Sith were believed to have been annihilated quite some time ago, culminating in the impressive defeat of Ulic Qel-Droma at the hands of Nomi Sunrider, he had not even know there was a true Sith empire to discover. Of course, Exar Kun had managed to evade capture but as Revan looked upon the man that sat before him now in the throne, he was certain that it was not the robust Sith that he had heard so much about. No, this man was someone entirely differently; something entirely different. It would behoove him for the moment, he knew, to remain as silent as possible. “It is most impressive that you were able to find our empire,” the Emperor said from atop his mighty throne. He sat, fingers pressed together at the temple, and eyed the morsel that had been brought before him by his guards. Not even he, on the outskirts of space, could have missed news of the charismatic champion of the Republic who beat back the Mandalorians single-handedly. He had been of half a mind to seek the boy out, but as he simply dropped into his lap… well, fortune favored him indeed. “A pity should you not be able to live beyond that discovery.” Life within the shadows was a difficult thing for the Sith Emperor, who had created an entire empire around his mysterious appearance. No one truly knew what to expect of him nor could they properly formulate strategies to overthrow him. He was an enigma that continued to confound even his closest advisers and by forwarding his messages through the Council of Twelve, he had done well to diffuse power over enough underlings to keep them from making serious grabs for power. It was that clever mind of his that had brought the two Jedi under his heel at that moment, and that clever mind that allowed him to consider all the possibility that could come from watching them squirm. A dry chuckle, hollow and desiccated enough to crumble upon its utterance, slipped past the Emperor’s lips and caressed the minds of those before him. “Truth be told, I had expected the revered Revan to be a larger man.” “He’s bigger than you’ll ever be, you coward!” Alek shouted defiantly as he lifted his eyes toward the Emperor. In times past he had seen Revan as small and weak as well, but there was a passion within the man that spoke much louder than any physical grace the Force may have gifted him with. He was his twinkle; a small effect that could be seen from lightyears away. To show his vexation Alek attempted to break the restraints upon his wrist but found them, as always, too powerful to break. His muscles bulged then within the confines of his garments, which made it appear like small rats were scurrying up and down upon his well-conditioned body. In response to Alek’s outburst, the Sith Emperor lifted an eyebrow and waved but a finger in the boy’s direction. Where once he had been a struggling, raging lunatic now did the Jedi become a tormented series of screams and paroxysms as his body was overwhelmed with the dark hand of the Force. His every thought led to a still more painful one and try as he might to free himself he pitched to the ground and rolled about miserably. “I am not in the habit of tolerating childish displays, boy. I fear I am too set in my ways to change now.” “What is it that you want from us?” Revan asked, his mind acutely aware of the power that the Emperor held. When it came to the arts of the galaxy he knew of two intimately – control over the Force and how to properly kiss a man. Considering that the latter skill was probably not going to come in much use when dealing with a stogy fiend like the Emperor, he instead had to focus upon the former. And what was there? Well, he could tell by the man’s command of the Force that he was powerful, perhaps the most powerful being he had ever encountered. The sound of Alek’s screams against his mind were tormenting and try as he might to divorce them from his logical process, he could not. If not for the mask that he wore the grimace that he held would have been easily seen. Of course, emotions were not so easily hidden. “You did not bring us here for simple games.” “Right you are,” the Emperor said as he lowered his finger and Alek’s torment was brought to an end. He turned his hand over, a simple gesture that in turn forced Alek to roll onto his back before with a curling of his fingers he brought him closer. “Then again, I did not intend to bring the two of you anywhere. You are the true champion here, Revan. This boy is nothing more than a trinket; he provides little usage other than to occupy space.” The words were spoken with such a grim finality and jovial maliciousness that Revan feared the worst for Alek. Seeing the man’s tattooed head against the darkened shadows of the Sith Emperor’s throne was not at all dissimilar from witnessing one’s child in the shadow of a wolf. Alek turned his head away from the shadow and clenched his jaw, his struggling muted though ever active as he fought to find a way out of his manacles. It would be to no avail, he knew, but to simply lie there and take his punishment was never the way he had been. “Without him, I would not have been able to accomplish any of that which I have,” Revan stated without shame. “If you must end one of us, I would rather it be me.” “Of course you would,” the Emperor said. “It would be a simple thing for you to sacrifice yourself for a friend. Do the Jedi not teach these things? Even easier still would it be for you to sacrifice yourself for… something more,” the Emperor drawled with a delighted chuckle. He lifted his hand then, touching against Alek’s jaw and carefully tapping his fingers against his ruggedly handsome features; the same features that Revan’s lips had showered with affections so many times in the past. “But they do not teach you to feel desire, do they? I should rid you of him so that your masters would better accept you for who – what… you are. The Council rarely accepts love, as you well know, and never have they accepted... man-love." There was truth to the Emperor’s words, even if Revan did not want to see them. While he would be justified in sacrificing himself for Alek, they also would have been mollified to know why that he did it. His life had become increasingly complicated when he found that his feelings for Alek went beyond that of friends and try as he might to reconcile it with some just penance he was forced to endure from the Force, he knew that it was simple as his body greatly desiring the man that had been close to him for so long. Of course, there was the realization that the Emperor could end that all. With a flick of his wrist he could kill Alek, whose death would give him reason to fight on, and who would forever be immortalized in the annals of history as a true hero lost at the hands of a tyrant. If he simply did not act he would have been capable of changing both of their entries in history for the better. Revan bowed his head and closed his eyes, his face immeasurably hot due to the fact he wore a mask in the midst of a sweltering chamber. He could simply wait this out and everything would be better. But in the darkness of his mind, Revan knew well that there was to know about Alek. He replayed the look of horror on his face when they were captured; the need to be protected that came from his big, burly friend. He thought of how the Sith Emperor had brought him such pain and torment and even went so far as to think of the man’s hands caressing a face that only he should have touched. These events playing within his head were too much – he could not allow his beloved to become but a statistic in a never ending war. Revan’s head snapped upward as he brought his arms away from one another. Where the restraints should have held instead they slipped apart, granting him a freedom of movement the likes of which not even the Sith Emperor could have prepared for. He held his hand out to the left and willed his lightsaber into his grasp, then sprang into the air with an agility that bespoke a mastery of the Force worthy of being placed into legend. Compressing the activation plate of the weapon, as it sprang to life he turned about sharply and dispatched a succinct slash into an approaching palace guard, effectively ending the man’s life before he had time to ready his weapon. The swiveling of his cloak created a visual illusion that did well to prevent the other from recognizing his movement in his direction, which culminated in his hand extending outward to protect a wall of the Force toward him and repel him into the distance. “So there is fight within the legendary Jedi after all,” the Emperor chuckled as Revan set to dismantling his guards one by one. Each that died was of little value to him – if they were too weak to defend against the Jedi then what purpose did they serve? Instead he watched, bemused, as Revan fought through the throngs toward their position. He knew that he was not the best lightsaber duelist to ever live, but what Revan was certain of was that he could defeat those that were before him. Utilizing the Force he struck one in the abdomen and forced him to double over, then rolled over his back and ripped his lightsaber upward to bisect the man’s chest. Twisting about sharply, he checked an incoming slash and slid to the side only to twirl his wrist and cut low at the back of the guard’s legs, instantly sending him to the ground. Another surged toward him with an intensity that refused to be denied, yet rather than engage him head-on Revan drifted backwards, dodging and weaving out of the way of his flurried slashes before he shoved his lightsaber’s hilt directly into the man’s throat and ripped upward from his lowered position. The carnage continued unabated until finally the last guard fell gurgling to his knees and expired. Revan lowered his clenched fist then, his chest rising and falling as he focused his attention upon the Sith Emperor. As his cloak settled into place once more, the last of the twitching guards surrendered his grasp on life, leaving the Jedi a silent sentinel in the midst of the viscera he had opened to the throne room. Only the tapping of blood escaping the hilt of his weapon sounded against the walls of the enclosure, until finally the Sith Emperor drew his hands together with a steady clap. “Well done,” he said good-humoredly. “I have not seen fighting like that in well over a millennia, which says quite a bit as I am an innumerably old and wise fellow.” “Enough pleasantries,” Revan growled. “Give me Alek and get out of my way.” “I see that when you’ve had a bit of fighting you become a little less controllable,” the Emperor chided. “I like it. Willfull; powerful. Are you so certain that the path of the Jedi is one meant for you? Look around you, those men you fought could have slain 10 Mandalorians on their own and yet you defeated them single-handedly. Is that not something to be proud of?” “Give me Alek,” Revan repeated, his voice almost a hiss as the acrimony and malice in his body came to a boiling point. The Emperor sat back within his throne. “I am afraid that we Sith do not give ¬anything, my boy. If you desire your precious Alek back, then earn him.” Given that he had just dispatched the man’s elite guard, Revan was hardly in the mood to be played with any longer. He growled and began to progress toward the Emperor, only to find that his advance was suddenly checked. Gasping he took a step backward and looked on in disbelief; never before had he felt so helpless, so weak, so pathetic, as he did at that moment. For the Sith Emperor’s grasp upon the Force was indeed a powerful thing. So powerful, in fact, that it had done well to strike Revan in a manner that he had not imagined. It did not act directly upon him as a storm of lightning or painful strike to the solar plexus. No, that would have been too pedestrian for the grandiose emperor. Instead, it presented him with an eventuality the likes of which not even he, the Great Revan, could have planned for. Before him stood Alek. His lightsaber was activated.

Chapter Two: Indecent Explosion The information cube that she had been given contained far more than she had expected to find. While Master Doris may have informed her that the Council had prepared for her a history, she did not expect it to be so thorough or quite so convincing. True to his word, he and the others had endeavored to keep her cover as close to her person as possible. Of course, it would be better if she did not have to lie, but something told her that no matter how stealthy she was she was going to run into a Sith eventually. The best she could hope for was that the situation did not need to end in the loss of a life – at least, not hers. The holo-cube idled on the latest image that had been selected, one that Verra had never been given much time to study until that moment: herself. Although the color of the projection was more blue than lifelike, she knew well enough her attributes to at the very least fill in those details. Throughout life she had always identified herself as simply “me”, and never attached an image to it beyond that. Vanity, after all, was a trait that the Jedi never placed much value in. Nevertheless, actually seeing herself as others must have was in itself a surprising and intriguing find. She could understand why it was that people were drawn to her; the Jedi lifestyle had treated her well and created a woman that was physical and emotionally developed. Her hair, rendered near white by the projection, was in reality a platinum blonde and fell to her shoulders. She increased the scaling on her face to zoom the picture in further and found that her cheekbones were elegantly defined and created a near heart-shape appearance if one were to trace from her cheekbones to her delicate, yet well set jaw-line. As with most people from Laebus that she knew, her lips were full and presented a near pouted look to them. When matched with her eyes, noticeably feline and remarkably bright in their green nature, a look that some had referred to as “exotic” was created. The simple admiration of her features caused her to blush, and she touched a hand to her cheek wondering how that must have looked as well. Rather than give into the temptation of looking into a mirror, she zoomed the picture out further and took her entire body into account. There was still a quality to her appearance that bespoke youth – could it have been the way her bangs naturally rested when not tucked behind an ear? In any event, it contrasted with how “mature” she felt she had become over the years, perhaps it was her close affinity with the Force that delayed the process by which she aged. In truth, she hardly looked over the age of eighteen and that was just a little unsettling! Neverminding her youthful countenance, she was vaguely more familiar with her body’s proportions. A Jedi needed to be constantly aware of their person, and more importantly how to improve it. Rigorous training had trimmed her into a slender person, and although biology seemed to favor her maintaining the modestly curvaceous physique of a woman not quite as physically active as she was, she nevertheless fought to slim and tone as much as she could. Having to ask Master Doseir if there was a way to keep certain parts of her body from interfering with her training had been one of the most awkward and embarrassing moments of her life, but by the same token as she looked back on the incident and recalled just how flustered he had been as well, she could not help but laugh. It was a sound that she noticed she had been given less reason to share as the days went on, and she savored it in an almost sorrowful manner as the memory of her fallen mentor returned to her. She would have given anything to be at the temple when the Sith landed; would have done anything to be able to fight by his side and protect him from whichever soulless fiend had stricken him down. Although the Jedi were told not to form attachments, the bond between master and apprentice was not one easily forgotten. In losing Master Doseir she felt as though she had lost a part of herself, and the anger that was born from it was so pure and real that she forced herself not to delve deeper into it less she cross a bridge that need not be crossed. Even then, in the middle of unknown space, she could feel herself heating. It would be better to think of something else – the last thing she needed to do was enter her mission with hatred on her mind. The holo-cube was manipulated once more, its surface touched to scroll her picture off of its projected screen and bring up the cover story that she had been presented with. With the lingering thoughts of her former master on her mind, she tried her best to calm and study what could very well be her saving grace should she be discovered by the Sith. If nothing else, it gave her mind something productive to focus upon. In a way, it was eerie to see how close their artful depiction came to life. She was Verra So’Quan, Jedi Knight and former apprentice of Master Ophirus Doseir. Born on a small mid-rim planet named Laebus Majora, she was discovered to be Force Sensitive at the age of two and sent to live with the Jedi. Her training went remarkably well and excepting notes of aggression that were slowly removed from her, she was an ideal student. After becoming a Knight, she fought in several engagements against local militia before being assigned to Alderaan where she witnessed the return of the Sith Empire. In all, the factors that led up to the present seemed to be relatively precise. And it was then that fiction entered the picture. Following the Republic’s defeats on Alderaan she became disenchanted, fleeing into the wilds after Coruscant fell. Aware of the Republic’s weakened position and filled with rage, she engaged a fellow Jedi in a heated duel that left the latter dead. Incapable of reconciling herself with the Council, she fled into Sith Space. It would be with this cover, as a Dark Jedi, that she would have to hope that the Sith would give her more than a second glance before tearing her to pieces. Various contact information was filled in, referring to her travels and those that she met, no doubt people that the Council had informed to support her should they have been contacted for verification of her identity. While the fanciful end of the report should have made her laugh, it did anything but. It was troubling just how close to the truth it was. Certainly she had not turned away from the Council – she could never do that. But she did feel that they had betrayed her, Master Doseir, and the many Jedi that fell during the sacking. Had the Jedi stood tall against the demands of the Sith then perhaps more would have died, but theirs would not be a name besmirched by capitulation in the face of their adversary. Pride, she knew, was a terrible thing, but pride was what separated her from a droid. She may not have cast aside her allegiance to the Republic, but she could understand how someone might do just that when faced with the glaring reality that the Council had failed them. Master Doris had not been incorrect: they truly had created a persona that she could play. The starship that she had been given to travel into Sith Space was not necessarily the most non-descript. Sleek and fast, while it had been deprived of its Republic markings it was quite clearly a ship of their make. Perhaps she would state that she had stolen it from the Jedi before she went rogue? Whereas normally she would have avoided lying if at all possible, that trait would have to be the first to go when it came to tracking down Zi’los. The cube had given her tertiary information about the man, but something told her that knowing where he came from or the name of his master would not matter much in the grand scheme of things. Her best course of action would be to get into Thorne IV, find him, and get out. Any dallying only increased the chances of her being exposed and subsequently lost in the same manner that he had been. And something about the look in Master Doris’ eyes told her they would not be sending a Shadow to rescue her. The holo-cube contained other pertinent information to her mission, namely that dealing with Thorne IV. The entirety of Sith space was entirely foreign to her, and she supposed that Master Doris had been correct when he stated that ignorance was an illness the Jedi shared. To think that all of the time spent dealing with miniscule and superficial threats could have been applied to the more pernicious and real dangers of the Sith was a mark against the Council that she knew they felt just as smartly as she did. They should have been prepared; they had allowed their arrogance to deceive them into a state of inactivity that their adversaries had not been loath to exploit. She sifted through the information data banks until a comprehensive view of the planet was offered. As she had been more interested in conversation than pictures when she spoke with Master Doris she had not paid much mind to the planet’s topography, but upon looking at it she found that the swirling image was composed of several cities, with vegetation and ocean running between them. The holo-cube projected a second screen, upon which more detailed information would be learned. For a single Jedi working within a hostile environment, Verra was impressed with how much information Master Zi’los had gathered. Most of the information would mean little for her search, but to the larger mission of informing the Jedi of the Sith presence, it was invaluable. As Magestus had been twice mentioned she could only assume that was the location Master Zi’los had spent most of his time studying. If there were to be any easily gleaned clues as to his whereabouts, surely that would be the location to check. Her mind returned to Master Zi’los then, a man whose name still meant relatively nothing to her. Try as she might to summon up the memory of who he might be, she simply could not place a face to his name. She manipulated the cube once more and was rewarded with several screens opening, before she selected the one in which a human male looked back at her. She supposed it made sense that humans were selected primarily as Shadows; other species being within Sith Space would be all the more noteworthy and compromise any attempt at integrating into the system. There was something vaguely familiar about the brunette man whose image loomed before her. He held the appearance of a Jedi trained in combat for more years than she had existed; a sign of distinction and respect within the Order to be sure. His hair ended at the nape of his neck and was curled for the most part, creating upon him a further dignified look. How it was that she could not have known such an impressive man, whose chin was set as though made of stone and features chiseled into perfection, was beyond her. Had she perhaps seen him on the front lines and that explained his familiarity? If so, he had not left any noticeable impression on her then, but she certainly could tell a thing or two about him now. The image of the man shifted as she scrolled her thumb to the side of the holo-cube and was presented with his background information. Born on Dantooine, he was the son of farmers that was found to be gifted with the Force. Apprenticed under Master Solaq Dalwes, he too was known for spates of aggression and more importantly, had incidents where he caused his training to be momentarily suspended. Nevertheless he eventually became a Knight and from there, entered the same rigorous combat training that she had. More importantly, he had been at the sacking of Coruscant and survived through the mayhem that ensued. She could only imagine what he must have felt when he was within Sith space. The hyperdrive upon her starship began to beep, indicating that they were coming to the end of a hyperlane. While she knew that she should have been anxious for what was to follow, she was not at all overcome with emotion as the white and black lines of diffusion began to fade away and suddenly came to an abrupt halt, landing her in the middle of inky darkness. Even before her happenstance promotion to Shadow she had been known to venture behind enemy lines to ascertain as much information as possible; this was the same, but on a larger scale. Of course, there would be no company of eager troopers prepared to rescue her should she meet with a snag, but she could live with that as well. Thorne IV loomed in the distance, a majestic and impressive sight to behold if one ignored the fact that teeming upon its surface was the blight of the galaxy. The on-board system had flashed with several ports that could be approached, and since she had relatively reliable access codes she supposed it would be best to select Magestus Prime and see where it took her. Thus far Master Zi’los advice had been spot on, what reason did she have to doubt him further? She transmitted the codes ahead and continued forth at sublight speed, waiting for confirmation to return and thus guide her into the port. At worst she might be questioned as to how she had discovered the location, but prevarication could answer that quandary. Everything would be alright. Or, it’d go horribly wrong. “Docking codes denied,” a voice announced over her intercom. Her brows furrowed, Verra began to search through the cube for any note that might indicate difficulty when using the system in question. Considering that nothing immediately sprang to the fore, she ground her teeth and attempted to resend the code. “Docking codes denied,” the voice repeated. “Reduce travel speed and await interception from sector security forces.” So perhaps everything wouldn’t be alright. The thought to try running the planet’s defenses came to mind, but as she had seen Imperial starships shred Republican vessels, she did not doubt that her current skiff would be capable of doing little when faced with the planetary defenses of an area seemingly aware that someone might have been trying to infiltrate. Patience would win out in this situation, and she complied by reducing the thrust of her vehicle and bringing it to a near crawling speed. The Council had, after all, given her a cover story. Why not start out her visit by breaking it in? A deep, guttural voice emerged over her intercom. “Hold position until we have secured your vessel,” it commanded. While Verra had heard many voices and dialects before, the one in question was one that surprised her. She looked toward her scanner and saw a trio of ships approaching her from the left. One broke away from the others and began circling wide to approach her from the other side when the time came. She drew her breath in and sat back against the seat. There was nothing to do now but wait. Or die. As her ship was a Republic navy vehicle, it was outfitted with sensors that responded when an armed vessel targeted it. Verra blinked but for a second when the sensor pinged, and then looked back to her scanner to see that the ships had assumed a definitive attack formation. While it may have been tempting to try to convince the Sith that she was not the enemy, her gut told her that it would be valuable seconds lost in the face of their approach. Mindful of the single ship that had taken a wide turn to encircle her, she ignited the starship’s thrusters and pitched herself diagonally away from the two ships and brought herself strafing before the one. Not surprisingly, the ships accelerated after her. “Hold your position,” the guttural one called over her intercom once more, though this time with much more malice than had previously been present. “You are within Sith Space, surrender your vehicle at once.” “Pardon my candor,” Verra replied to the assumed leader, “but I do not think armed weapons are necessary when detaining a person.” “You will hold your position until you are secured!” “I don’t think so.” A space battle over Thorne IV was not exactly the best way to make her entrance, but when faced with it or death she knew that she had but one choice. The starship responded with less finesse than she would have liked, but as she switched on the combat systems she realized that she would have to make do with what she had on hand. The solitary ship would have to be her initial target; partially separated as it was, it would provide the least amount of defense and its elimination would less pressure on her. She placed her starship into a hard roll that brought it about in an arch that once more crossed her before the other ship’s cannons. Predictably it unleashed its forward payload, but she accelerated within the turn and spun harshly to enter a twirl that cleared her from its path of attack. The maneuver was sloppier than she would have liked, but the solitary ship was hardly in position to capitalize on her perfectionism. With a compressing of the ship’s triggers, a flurry of lasers broke free of her cannons and lacerated the enemy’s vessel. In the blink of an eye it exploded and she was free to turn her ship around to face the two approaching vehicles. Things were going to become all the more difficult now. The ship’s on-board system informed her of the seconds that it would take to be within weapon’s lock. While some Jedi preferred not to mind their systems, she had learned that the Force was not something to be used as a “weapon” because it was more advantageous. When times were difficult, yes, the Force would provide answers, but the technological advantages of mankind were nothing to be ignored on whim. Rather than select one or the other she opted on both as she closed in upon the enemy ships. Sensing the enemy’s desire to fire as best she could, she banked to her left and accelerated as a stream of laser fire tore through where she had previously been. The starship was placed into another roll, but rather than break free of it and make a run, she instead dipped forth and brought herself into a fish-hooking pattern that removed her from the immediate sights of the Sith starfighters. The braking on her starship failed to properly punctuate her maneuver and as she emerged from the dip, she nearly overshot her mark. A blast from one of the enemy ships nicked her wing, causing her to enter a spin that sent various klaxons ablaze in her cockpit. Gripping her throttle as best she could, she fought to steer herself out of the “deadman’s spin” before the ships made a second pass and finished their precursory assault. Verra lowered her eyes to the sensors and saw that both ships were closing in upon her. With a final shove forth, she brought free of the turbulent spin and favored her uninjured wing for a turn to face them once more. Two ships against one, she was fairly certain that she could not prevail. The Sith fighters were not at all inexperienced and their armoring was good enough to prevent superficial damage from having lasting effects. Had she not met the other ship at a cross section, in fact, she was quite certain that it would have survived her attack. These two, she was sure, would not fall for the same tactic as had done their ally in. “This is your last chance to stand down,” the guttural voice commanded once more. “If you do not, you will be obliterated.” And after killing their comrade she’d be treated to tea? While she knew that the Sith were callous and reprehensible people, she did not doubt they would allow a personal slight to go unpunished. Regardless of how badly things could have gone for her if she did not acquiesce to their demands, she knew that the Sith were disgusting beasts that had to be put down. The Council had made the mistake of negotiating with them and it left countless lives unavenged; she would not make that same mistake. Against her better judgment, Verra accelerated the starfighter once more and brought it around to face the two approaching Sith ships. Their distance quickly approached weapon range and while she knew she could make another daring attempt to outflank them, she instead compressed her triggers and from her stationary position unleashed as many shots as she could in their direction before they entered an accurate distance of striking. The lead ship broke away from its lesser as several of the laser bolts grazed its surface and Verra, in a predatory state, instantly went for the throat. Sluggish or not, her starfighter’s takeoff was timed perfectly against the lone Sith ship that continued to approach her. She drifted to her side and entered a side-winding spin that cleared her of its range. Though it physically hurt her to make the turn that followed, she cleared it and bore in upon the side of the ship with as much intensity as she could muster from her fighter’s cannons. It placed a noticeable dent into the other ship’s side that sent it careening off course and with a final blast ruptured its shields and sent an explosion into the darkness about her. Parting the conflagration, she glanced to her monitor and saw that only one ship remained. Things would be much easier from that point forth. The alpha fighter was in no way an inexperienced pilot. Although Verra had the Force on her side, the latter was gifted with experience and confidence in his stride. Several times she attempted to lock onto him only for the other to enter a looping series of evasive maneuvers that nearly landed him behind her an in a primed position to make short work of the Jedi. Back and forth they jockeyed for position upon the other, yet nearly quite able to fall into pattern. Try as he might to assault Verra from behind, the Jedi refused to allow herself to be taken unprepared – conversely, each time she went for his head, he expertly deflected her advances. But the game came to a sudden end when her sensors began to read that more ships were approaching, and these were undoubtedly more seasoned in their training. Uncomfortable with the idea of taking on multiple targets at once, she looked back toward Thorne IV and then to the sensor. There would only be one feasible chance of escaping the confrontation alive, and that would mean leaving the alpha and making a dash for the planet. Shredded by planetary defenses or not; she would certainly be killed if she waited for the approaching cavalcade to mount their defenses against her. “You’ll never make it,” the alpha announced. “Surrender now and allow me to claim this kill for my record.” “And what would be the fun in that?” Verra asked hotly as she broke away from the game of cat and mouse and headed directly for the planet. Several times her monitor informed her that the other ship was attempting to lock in upon her, but she ignored it and placed all of her speed into outrunning him. Comfortably behind her as he was, he failed to find an opening secure enough to exploit, and was forced to stream in behind her as she made her suicidal charge. Thorne IV grew ever closer and she was certain that the pursuing Sith was hot on her tail. She broke sharply then, her ship veering as a jarring sensation washed over her. Yet her senses remained intact and as the Sith passed by her, she compressed her trigger and highlighted the underside of his ship with rapacious laser fire. As his ship exploded she saw him jettison from it in his environmental suit. Unfortunate as it was that he lived, she knew she could not dally to try and claim a merciless kill. After all, Jedi did not kill unarmed opponents. Verra increased the speed upon her starfighter once more and brought it barreling toward Thorne’s atmosphere. Several warnings projected themselves on the monitor before her, but she ignored them and clenched her jaw. If the Force wanted her to succeed with this mission, then it would see her through the incoming storm of fire. The density of gravity nearly tore her starfighter asunder as she began to breach the atmosphere. The atmospheric reentry was perhaps the worst she had ever experienced and both bones and teeth were sent to shaking as she fought to maintain control over her ship. Its sensors continued to off, warning her against proceeding at her current speed, but just as she thought to decrease it she was reminded as to why she had entered so sharply – the planetary defenses were active. Immense laser fire showered past her as she twisted and turned her ship in hopes of clearing the majority of the cluster; however, it was a cause lost as with each evasion she made the defenses honed in more acutely upon her. The damaged wing of her starfighter gave away under the excruciating pressure placed against it, and instantly she was sent into a hopeless spin. Lasers continued to streak past her, but their task would soon be accomplished by gravity as she went spiraling toward the ground. This could not have been the way she was intended to die, she told herself. If the Force had wanted her to perish in combat, then there were countless times she could have done so while fighting the Sith in Republic space. But out here, alone – abandoned? She would bring honor to nothing and provide no one with use in her demise. Not even Master Zi’los, who depended on her for emancipation, would know that she had fallen. That thought was the final one she had as one of the defense’s lasers slammed directly into her starfighter and penetrated its shields, exploding in her ears with such an indecent resonance that it sent her drifting into a distant and foreboding darkness.

Chapter Three: Lineage. I never doubted that I was my father’s daughter. Mandalorians are known to adopt children in order to continue the culture, thus there are some families that are composed entirely of people that do not come from the same bloodline. Cassir and Polus were obviously not blood relatives, and Astra looked almost the spitting image of my mother. Even from an early age people noticed the striking similarities between my father and me. If I sat in quiet contemplation, I was told that I was making “his face”. I had only seen my father smile once, but I hoped that when I did, it was similar to his as well. But there was more to our similarities than our personalities. Like my mother, Astra had hair that was as red as the dawning sun. My father and I both had brown hair, drawing a clear distinction between which parents we favored. Astra had a face that my mother once said was “meant to weep”. It was an odd thing to hear a mother say to her daughter, but she later went on to explain that those who were beautiful often found themselves trapped in untenable situations. Children would be born; children would die. Husbands would go to war; husbands would die. I asked her if I would weep as well, and she replied: “You will have disagreeable days.” I was comfortable with that. In fact, I was a little relieved to know that the men of our clan would not be hounding after me as they did Astra. Although we all lived in a relatively close area to one another, there was little reason for we Mandalorians to travel to see each other unless a child had passed their rites, or perhaps a wedding was announced. For the most part we kept to ourselves, working in as peaceful a manner as possible, until one day a Mandalore emerged to galvanize us as they had in the past. This meant that when Astra began to come into her own, the young men of our clan had to concoct excuses to spend time around her. It was amusing, if nothing else, to see her send away suitor after suitor. My father refused to intervene in the proceedings and on more than one occasion I had seen Astra physically expel someone from our property. She was a strong and fiery woman that naturally attracted the warrior spirits of our people. But when it came to me, I was certain that I would forever occupy the synapses between passable and attractive. I was not the tallest of the girls my age, and I did not have any of the makings that one would usually associate with a desirable mate. Perhaps I was harder on myself because Astra was such a paragon of beauty, but at the time I compared what I had to what she did and found myself severely lacking. In the mind of a child, after all, it did not matter that I might one day mature into those traits. What mattered was that I had not to that point. Had Polus not died, I believe that my parents would have been more dedicated to getting Astra to leave our home and start her own family. We never spoke of Polus’ death – in fact, when we did speak of him it almost seemed as though we were waiting for him to walk back through the door at any moment. Our memories were of the many times he would fluster himself while trying to keep stride with his brother, and although we laughed each sound was tinged with sorrow. I would often catch my father glancing at the seat that Polus had once occupied; his look no different than how he eyed his armor. Times past – things lost. It was my mother’s decision not to push Astra out of the nest that truly surprised me. While my father may have been the head of our household, my mother’s presence was one that kept us moving. My father was the rooster that crowed as the sun rose to get everyone’s day started. My mother was the sun. But where she normally would have been the impetus that my sister needed to leave home, she was just as loathe parting with her daughter as my father was. I never heard them speak of it, but I knew that my mother’s silence was her way of holding on to her daughter. She did not want to lose another child. I did not want to lose another sibling. At the age of ten, I was beginning to anticipate my own rites of passage into adulthood. Astra had passed hers, Cassir had as well. If I looked at it mathematically then I had a two out of three chance of not dying. Sadly, children did not think in terms of mathematically equations and to me the fact that one of my siblings had died was reason enough to be terrified. I used that terror though to train myself better and harder, and even once managed to throw Cassir who had been assisting me in close-quarter combat maneuvers. The look of astonishment on his face was testament enough to my aptitude. Far from embarrassed, he was proud that his little sister had been able to surprise him. We laughed after, though I saw no reprieve from his far greater expertise in the rounds that were to follow. After one of the training sessions that I had, in which Astra and my mother showed me how to properly tend to assemble my blaster rifle without looking at it, we were informed that guests were on the way. As was previously stated while visits were not frequent they were also not so uncommon that it was a reason for alarm. As we all set to getting properly attired, my mother made certain to note that it would not be a situation in which Astra was being courted yet again. Good, I thought. I couldn’t stand to see another gawking boy try his best to be a man! My father and Cassir went out to meet our guests. They both wore their armor, as did my mother and sister. As the only member of the household that had not yet passed into adulthood I felt sorely out of place, but made no mention of it. The time would come when I was worthy of having my own set of armor. There was so much to admire about the armor of others. Each nick and scratch spoke of a battle; each charred mark that was buffered down meant that a near-death had been passed. The colors alone were beautiful: my father’s blue armor, my mother’s black armor, my sister’s green armor, or my brother’s red. In times past, I had been told, the Neo-Crusaders of the Mandalorian Wars used the colors to designate a person’s rank, but as time had gone on that convention fell along the wayside. The armor became a more personalized aspect of the Mandalorian, and as such the colors designated their favored aspects more than anything about rank or position. I always cherished my mother’s armor the most; the metallic luster of the polished, black ore simply came across as intriguing to me. Perhaps when I was to make my armor, I would take note of hers. As the youngest member of the family, I knew what my role in the upcoming meeting would be. I was to attend to the needs of others: to ensure that their stay in our home was as enjoyable as possible. When I was younger the duty was taken on with a great deal of pride, but predictably as I aged and grew closer to becoming an adult, I began to resent the people that made me handle their every chore. Regardless, I shouldered on through that frustration. More important than anything else was the need to look and act as a Mandalorian. The sun was setting by the time that my father returned with our guests. Walking arm-in-arm with my father was none other than Uncle Valgor, my father’s older brother. I had few occasions to meet my uncle, but when I did I knew that I was to show him as much reverence as humanly possible. After Grandfather Dasius passed into the afterlife, it was Uncle Valgor that became the head of our clan. He was a very large man, taller than my father and with a presence that expanded as far as the eye could see. While my father rarely smiled, Uncle Valgor always did. The smile couldn’t necessarily be considered pleasant, but it was prevalent. Like my father, Uncle Valgor wore purple armor. Further behind my father and uncle was Cassir and then a slew of men I had never seen before. Their armor was varied in colors, some bright and others dark. Each of them had the swagger of young Mandalorians though, eager to test themselves against the fires of an enemy that would never emerge. My father had dedicated his life to protecting our family; my uncle had dedicated his life to rekindling the fading flames of our people. Both men believed in their causes and respected each other not to enforce them upon the other. All things considered, I liked Uncle Valgor. While the men had been on their way back to our home, my sister, mother, and I found time to prepare an appropriately sized meal. People may have loved the romantic notion of Mandalorian heroes fighting through hails of enemy fire, but they also loved the idea of being able to eat a full meal without having cause to worry. We may not have been able to provide the former, but my father’s hard work and diligence ensured that we were never wanting for food. The men returned to a feast and I took special pride in knowing I had a hand in preparing it. The adults spoke Mando’a for most of the evening, laughing and cheering over whatever tales they were sharing. Astra seemed to understand them more than I did, so I simply reacted to whatever she did. If she laughed, I laughed; if she smiled, so did I. The best thing that I could do was keep my head down and eat. I only truly had a reason to look up whenever someone slipped into Basic. “She’s almost an adult now, isn’t she?” Uncle Valgor asked as he set down his cup. He sat at the head of the table, a position that my father usually occupied. I looked up from my meal and to my uncle, whose warm smile revealed that he had already been influenced by the spirits that were coursing through him. “Ge’vard, are you excited to become a warrior?” Ge’vard or “almost-a-warrior”, was a title given to people in my position. We were no longer children, but we were not adults either. I looked to my father before I responded. He nodded slightly, so I spoke. “Of course, [/i]ba’vodu’alor[/i],” I answered. I hated speaking Mando’a, and more importantly, putting those words together was about 60% of the Mando’a I knew. It was a bit of a puzzle: ba’vodu was uncle and alor was a leader. Uncle Leader? I was unsure if I had put the words together correctly or if they even made sense. Uncle Valgor gave me a smile and laughed. I assumed that he was amused if nothing else. “I’ll never understand why it is you keep our language from your children,” Uncle Valgor remarked to my father. “In times past, that would be a very serious problem.” My father frowned. “Times past are times past, brother. My children can learn the language if they wish to – I live to ensure that they live to make that decision for themselves. Nothing more.” There was no trace of hostility on my father’s tongue and I knew that my uncle expected no less from him. I looked toward my mother, but found that she was as devoid emotion then as she always was. An uneasy silence was beginning to spread across the table then, and I was uncertain as to how to alleviate it. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed one of Uncle Valgor’s men looking at Astra, but her attention remained on her food. She was very good at ignoring the interests of others. Uncle Valgor leaned back in my father’s chair. It creaked under the weight but did not falter. I always found it odd that Mandalorians could eat, sleep, or simply live in their armor. I could hardly remember when Astra first wore her armor, but in seeing Cassir I knew that it was an art form learned. Initially he shuffled and stumbled, but with time he had learned to walk and then run in it. Now he, like the others sat with ease. “Do you remember the times past, brother?” “I do.” My father answered solemnly. “And you, sister?” “I do.” My mother answered just as coolly. But I knew nothing of them. My father’s stories always dealt with distant relatives, never his personal exploits. I had always assumed that he was a farmer all of his life, but as my uncle mentioned it I could not help but look at my father’s armor. There were scars on it; scratches and burn marks decorated it just like everyone else’s. When we spent time polishing it, I had always assumed that they were simply there. I did not consider how they had come to be there. Without thinking, I spoke. “Tell us a story, ba’vodu’alor?” The question left me before I could stop it. The others that were in attendance to our meal slowed in their eating and looked in my direction. I shrank inward but kept my eyes on my uncle, who in turn looked back at me with a degree of pensiveness not usually on his face. He cracked a grin and looked to my father. “Valgor,” my father said in an almost warning tone. “I know,” my uncle replied without needing to be informed of what was to follow. “I don’t think there’s any harm in telling your daughter about the first time you saw Sala, is there?” It was very rare that my father was embarrassed, but when the comment came up he gave an almost worried look in my mother’s direction. The smile that she offered in response was cool and well-maintained, nearly as out of place on her face as my father’s look was on his. “I think this is an excellent story to share,” my mother said. Father shook his head. “I don’t.” “I do,” Uncle Valgor said. “You’re outnumbered.” “Your mother was a beautiful woman,” Uncle Valor began. His words were drawn to a quick halt when my mother cleared her throat. “Was?” She asked, almost offended. Uncle Valgor grinned. “Is,” he corrected. She nodded and so he went on. “So beautiful in fact that men from all over would come along just to have the chance of meeting her. Your father and I often would go out of our way to arrive at her doorstep, sometimes clearing dozens of extra kilometers just for the chance to speak with her. The way word carries it, the same can be said for one of her daughters?” “Unfortunately,” Astra remarked. She caught the eye of one of the men that had been staring at her and glared. He broke eye contact with her and looked away bashfully. It took every ounce of self control that I had not to laugh at him. Uncle Valgor chuckled and clasped his hands behind his head. “Now, you may be wondering why it is that if both your father and I would visit your mother that it was my little brother that ended up with her.” “Father’s very charming?” I offered. My defense of my father only caused him to groan and shake his head. Uncle Valgor laughed. “I wasn’t there for Sala at all,” he explained. “In fact, I was only there because…” “Valgor,” my father protested half-heartedly. Cassir laughed and chimed in. “He’s already brought us this far in the story, dad. You may as well let him finish.” My father shook his head and looked to my mother, whose chilly smile remained in place. “Let me just say now that your dad, when he was a young man, didn’t have a competitor out there. I count myself lucky that we didn’t have to meet in the battle circle when our father passed.” My father became uncomfortable with the praise. “I believe you overstate my prowess.” “Only to cushion the blow,” Uncle Valgor replied. “Your dad – the same one that could wrestle a boma into submission, or outshoot an assassin droid – was completely terrified when it came to speaking with your mother.” “I wouldn’t say terrified,” Father complained. My mother’s smile broke as she spoke. “I would.” A thin layer of laughter emerged from those present. I looked between my mother and my father and for the first time saw them as they actually were – a couple, two people that were joined in more than the fact that they were together. I began to wonder just what they had been through together before we were born. Expectantly, I looked back to Uncle Valgor. “Now, even though your dad was terrified of speaking to your mother, that isn’t to say he was any kind of coward. There were other guys that wanted the chance to speak to her, but the more of them that showed up the more that your father sent packing. I once saw him fight two men at once to keep them from approaching her.” My father furrowed his brow. “You also didn’t mix in.” “It was your fight,” Uncle Valgor cracked. “Needless to say,” Uncle Valgor went on, “it was only a matter of time before your mother decided to take matters into her own hands. She wanted to get married and your dad was just chewing up every other contender that might have been a suitable choice. I personally think that every hut’uun that your dad licked wasn’t worthy of being with your mother anyway.” Cassir took interest in that. I watched his face light up as he looked at our mother. “You would have married someone other than dad?” “Of course,” she answered. “But your father made a more compelling argument than the others.” Astra added in. “How’s that?” “If you impatient whelps would give me a second, I’ll get to that.” Uncle Valgor shifted in his chair again and sat forward. He looked between my mother and father, who shared fleeting glances, before continuing on. “One day your mother came out of her vheh’yaim and walked on over to us. You know what that is, don’t you?” I knew that he was speaking to me, so I absently nodded. At best I compared the word to shack, but I knew that wasn’t exactly correct. Not wanting to take up more of Uncle Valgor’s time, I did not ask for further clarification and so he continued. “I’m going to spare you the details on how she walked, but I’ll just say she caught our attention immediately.” That bit of information was more than I needed to hear, but it made my mother offer a smile I’d never seen from her before. Small, quiet, and filled with pride. She was reliving the moment as Uncle Valgor spoke of it. “We figured that this was it. Well, I hoped it was anyway – I had my own courtship to worry about. So she comes up to us. I can feel your father’s fear at this point; he was three-shades away from passing out.” Father grunted. “Enough of that.” “I’m just being an honest storyteller here, vod’ika.” My father’s disdain only made Uncle Valgor smile bigger. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was going to leave his face and become its own person at the rate it was growing. “Your mother came to a stop right before us. Looked at me. Looked at your dad. And before either of us could speak, popped him right in the nose. Broke it.” At hearing that we, the collective children, looked up in amazement. “He deserved it,” Mother said emptily. “I did.” My father agreed. “She said: ‘If you’re going to chase off every man that comes my way, then you had better be man enough to approach me on your own..’ I tell you this in all honesty; your mother was a scary lady. The same way that Astra has Cadim over there afraid to look at her, is the same way that she had your father.” At being mentioned, Cadim, the young man that had been trying so desperately to draw Astra’s attention, all but lost the color in his face. He began to deny the accusation, but even as the words formed we were laughing so intently that nothing came out other than stammering refusal. “Maybe he should take notes then,” Astra remarked humorlessly. I grinned at my sister and was rewarded with a sly one in response. Uncle Valgor continued. “So your dad’s standing there, blood dripping from his nose, and looking into the angry eyes of a woman that he knew he was in love with. I was about to propose to her just to get him to muster up the courage to speak, when he said that he’d prove his love to her. Alone, he’d bring down a Republic shuttle and give her its cache. If he failed, he wouldn’t be worthy of her respect.” I could see Cassir’s eyes widening as he heard the story. I knew that he was thinking of how he would impress his future wife; it was the same thought that I saw on the faces of most of the young men present. When Cassier spoke, I could almost hear doubt in his voice. “Did he manage to do it?” “Of course he did!” Uncle Valgor cheered. Mother’s smile became just a bit warmer; Father looked just a bit less embarrassed. “And that’s why we’re all sitting here right now. Back then, your dad was really a force to be reckoned with.” “He still is,” I said, almost defensively. “Father’s the best shot that I’ve ever seen.” “That, I do not doubt, ge’vard.” Uncle Valgor’s voice was steeped in an interest that I did not grasp at the time. “That, I do not doubt.” The rest of the meal was completed with intermittent though empty conversation. In addition to the young man that had been introduced as Cadim, there were others that I had met before. There was a saying amongst Mandalorians that family is not defined by bloodline, but I was always mindful of those that shared a visceral ancestry with me. My cousins Ryk and Vasmus, for example, were each certainly of my blood. Ryk was tall and lanky; Vasmus short and stout. The majority of the other men were of varying familiarity, but as I did not know them already I attempted to remain out of their way. After eating there would be drinking and when there was drinking young men tended to act foolishly. With the adults save for my mother now outside, I assisted in packing away whatever extra food we had to give to our guests. In our culture, supplying guests with rations was a great sign of respect and as Uncle Valgor was our clan’s leader, a good deal of pride had to be taken in ensuring that he and his company of young men were well taken care of. My mother and I rarely spoke directly to one another, more often than not because there was little we had to say. When it came time for training, I trained. If I had chores to complete, I completed them. But the sight of her smile was enough to draw me out of that routine, and as I finished tying off a package I turned toward her. “Did you know that you loved father the first time you saw him?” As surprised as I was to actually ask the question, Mother was just as surprised to hear it. She looked away from the food stuffs she was packing and gave me a look more akin to what I was accustomed to: pointed, cold. “Of course not,” she told me. “The first time I saw him, I thought he was an idiot.” “You married someone that you thought was an idiot?” “No. I married someone that proved to me that he was worthy of considering.” The logic in her words was too earnest for me to deny and I nodded. I knew that the time for my marriage was not so far away that I should consider it a fairytale; however, it was not so close that I gave it serious thought. Just as my mother took once more to wrapping food, I spoke again. “Do you think that Astra will ever find someone that proves her wrong?” “You mean someone that she will want to marry?” “Yes.” “I should hope so.” But there wasn’t much conviction in the words when my mother spoke them. Astra was her first born and as she had only given birth to two girls, that made her the most important child as far as I could tell. I never resented Astra because of my mother’s favoritism, and instead assumed that was the way it should be. She was much more like my mother than I was, anyway. “Does she have to get married?” “No one has to do anything other than die,” Mother said bluntly. “But if she wants to live a happy life, then yes she will have to become married. Women that run away from that fate end up old and alone.” I busied my fingers by working on another parcel. “Is a woman’s only purpose truly to have children?” My mother shrugged. “Some women don’t think so. Some think they can best serve their people in the battlefield, or acting as doctors or who knows what. I think that the best you can do is having children and making sure that they are raised as proper Mandalorians. The Six Rules agree with me.” “But we don’t live by the Six Rules,” I pointed out. “I said they agreed with me; I didn’t say they were why I felt that way. If nothing else, I’ve done that service to our people.” In hearing these things, I was being shown a part of my mother that I never considered. I didn’t think of her as a happy person, but by her own admission she was. She believed we were proper Mandalorians – that I was a proper Mandalorian. “Do you think that I will ever get married?” “Of course I do.” I’d never heard my mother answer a question so quickly, but after she did she looked pointedly at me. It was as though she was seeing me for the first time. “In a few years you’ll have grown into yourself.” “And if I don’t?” My mother set aside the last parcel of food and clapped her hands together. “Some women are destined to end up old and alone.” Those were hardly the words I wanted to hear. As an adult I can understand that my mother was telling me not to worry about “what if”, but as a child I took it as face value. She did not explain herself further and moved outside of our home to join the others. I fought the urge to cry, thinking that I had been cursed with being ugly, and after managing to get my emotions in order, I followed after her. Bird the Dog was the first one to notice me; I believe because I still smelled like food and had the highest yield of giving him it when he begged. Feeling all sorts of awful, I patted him on his head and looked about the gathered people. How could I possibly die alone when I had so much family? My father would always love me; Cassir and Astra would always be there for me. I knew that Astra would never marry either, because unlike the others she understood that the men we were destined to be with had died long ago – the gallant champions of father’s stories. I wandered out further away from our home and saw that Father and Uncle Valgor were in the middle of conversation, my mother completing the picture as she accepted a drink from a younger Mandalorian. Cassir spoke with a few of the other young men, no doubt sharing with them stories of his verd’goten. I did not wish to disturb either of them, so I went further still until I saw that Astra was watching two men currently in the middle of a grappling contest. Bird the Dog and I came alongside her. “You and that horrible mutt,” she muttered as we took our position. Despite her grumping, she gave Bird a pat that he returned by lapping at her hand. As with the other adults, she held a bottle of ale in a hand. She looked at me and I believe saw that I was still distressed over whatever mother had said to me. “What’s the matter, sis?” “Nothing,” I lied. “Can I have some of that?” Astra looked as though she was ready to deny me the request, but after she glanced in mother’s direction she handed the ale over. “One swig.” I complied with her directive. I’ve never liked beer, but it seemed like the ‘adult’ thing to do at the time. The moment that the bitter fluid was in my mouth I wished that it wasn’t, and as a novice to drinking I made the single mistake that everyone does – I forced myself to swallow rather than spitting it out. Surely enough, the beer went down the wrong pipe and I was suddenly coughing into my hand. My face was flushed; Bird even yipped to draw my attention. Astra took the beer back and chuckled. “You’ll get used to the taste eventually.” “Ugh,” I protested as my voice returned to me. “I hope not!” We continued to watch the men grappling. One of them was a man whose name I did not know, but the other was Cadim. His fiery red hair stood out against the night as he fought to overwhelm his opponent. While I did not think he looked like much of a man when he was sitting, when he fought there was a good deal of intensity that sprang out into the air. It made him seem much more masculine. “Why are they fighting?” I asked. “They believe that the winner will have the honor of marrying me.” My eyes widened. “Astra.” “Of course I won’t marry him,” she laughed. “Then why are you letting them do it?” “Because I’ll give the winner the chance to prove to me he’s worthy of being considered.” The words so closely mirrored Mother’s that I could not help but look back in her direction. She had a hand on Father’s shoulder, a rare laugh leaving her at the behest of something my uncle said. I did not want to imagine that one day Astra would be like that with Cadim or anyone else. If Cassir left with those young men, or if Astra married Cadim, who would I be left with? Bird? In the middle of the gathering, surrounded by all of my family, I came to understand something. I, Siana Daue, was already alone.

Chapter Two: True Mandalorians. In many ways, I am quite certain that people would not see my father as a “true Mandalorian”. Neither he nor my mother made any real effort to teach us the language, although when we would use slang to deride it, we were often reprimanded. I once made the mistake of telling a boy that he was a “moron’ika”, and when my father heard me he slapped me so hard in the mouth that my ears rang for two days after. It was odd to not be taught the language yet be forbidden from mocking it. In many ways, it made me resent Mando’a and the people that spoke it fluently all the more. I understood certain words, naturally, but to use them would mean I would reveal myself to be all but a foreigner to the language. Things like ori-jate (“Very good!”) and k’uur (“Hush!”) were learned in passing, often from elders of the clan, but when I spoke them they came out more like songs than words and often time were stammered, or worse yet mispronounced. When a fellow Mandalorian heard me attempt the language they often developed a slightly embarrassed look, which in turn kept me all the more from wishing to speak. According to my father, being a Mandalorian was about more than knowing a language. It was a way of life that transcended simple rules and went further still to define a man and his character. He informed us that if we wanted to be “true Mandalorians”, then we would act in a way to bring honor to the Clan Daue, and whatever we did would surely be what a Mandalorian would do. There were times when I wished that my father was more like the others, who fought and raised all forms of hell, but as I am now older I know that he had only one goal in mind: ensuring that the Clan Daue did not fade away as so many did around us. I had very few occasions to see my father’s armor, and even less chances to see him actually wearing it. Once a year he allowed me to polish it with him, refitting and refurbishing parts of it that had worn as it waited to be adorned. There were times when I would see my mother and father look at their armor and then exchange glances, almost as though to relive something that I could never understand. I would later discover that there was much more to the youth of my parents than farming, but at the time I simply thought it was their desire to live out something they never could. Their longing gazes were never lost on me. Although we did not exemplify every one of the actions in the resol’nare, or Six Actions, my father did make sure that we knew them. I had heard him several times speak Mando’a, usually with fellow clanmates, and although I always found the language ugly, I envied him for being able to. Still, whenever I brought it up to him he refused to teach me it. He said that like with many things in life, should I really wish to learn it then I would on my own. Like most people would do, I learned the “bad words”, but the joy in that was short-lived. The present condition of my family took precedence over it, and so I abandoned my learning almost as quickly as I began it. I have never considered myself to be the ideal Mandalorian. The first time that I can recall seeing my father wear his armor is when the twins Cassir and Polus were preparing for their verd’goten, a warrior’s initiation rites into adulthood. Although I will always consider Cassir and Polus to have been siblings to me, I believe it is necessary to point out that they were not blood relatives. Zabrak children that had been orphaned in a raid on their village, my father took them in and raised them as his own sons. He said that they were fortunate to have each other and so when the time for their initiation came, they were to complete it together. My father’s armor was beautiful. Like many men of the Clan Daue he knew the secrets to smelting Mandalorian Iron and used the inner beauty that I knew was within him to create armor that simply defied words or explanation. As I think of him now, with the glistening, blue armor of his catching against the sunlight, I am moved to tears. How anyone could deny that my father was a true Mandalorian is beyond me, but to see him was to know that the might of Mandalore was not shattered even though its children may have been lost within the galaxy. I often found myself watching Cassir, Polus, and my father practicing for the upcoming trials. I was seven at the time and growing ever closer to my own rites. I knew that once I became a true woman of the Mandalorian people, that I would be expected to do more than I was at that moment, but I could not help but be excited. My mother was an excellent teacher in many ways; I had once seen her throw my father in a demonstration of a self-defense technique, but although I loved my mother I did not particularly like her. She was my superior and I respected her, but there was something missing from our relationship that I have now come to understand as warmth. Sala Daue was a cold woman. Far colder than any blade I have ever held in my hands. Her severity was a testament to her life though, and as I grow older I know that people will feel the same of me. Where my father was a quiet person, she was a silent one. Where my father was introverted, she was standoffish. I often wondered if she would have been happier without her children, but even as a child I knew that it was a foolish question. Without her children, a Mandalorian woman is nothing. The only way that we can persevere is if we continue to populate the galaxy, which means that severe women like my mother must produce young Mandalorians like me. This was why the training that I went through, and that which Astra had already completed, were so vital for young Mandalorian women to understand. One day I would be the one teaching my children, and my husband would be preparing them for their eventual rites. I took pride in that idea even as a child, and could not wait until I was one day able to fight alongside my future husband, who undoubtedly would be far too good to be true. The same work ethic that had earned me respectful stares following our days in the fields was applied to my training, and I made certain that when the time came I would be prepared. The night before Cassir and Polus were to undergo their rites, we all ate dinner early so that they could get additional rest before the big day. Although father did not make mention of it, I knew that he accepted less food so that his sons could have more. It was a silent sign of respect that I envied the moment I saw it – they were no longer children, they were going to be men. I am uncertain which of the twins I liked more, but I know it would be a lie to say I liked them equally. Cassir was a clever while Polus was stronger and quieter. Between the two a single powerful Mandalore could be made if only they had been born as the one and not two. Father’s story that night dealt with Ancestor Roga and his duel with a Jedi Knight by the name of Valo Arris. It was one in a series of duels that would eventually culminate into an epic showdown; a story that showed how resourceful and bold the warriors of Clan Daue should be. While I had once sat in Astra’s lap during these story sessions, I had since grown too old to do so any longer. I was a young Mandalorian woman in my mind, and as such I had to present myself as one. Astra and my mother sat with their legs crossed: so did I. They looked intently at my father to absorb his every word: so did I. I may not have been able to learn Mando’a, but I would learn how to be a true Mandalorian. “It was a misty evening,” my father began in his deep and rumbling voice. Cassir and Polus, who normally were more than eager to avoid stories of the past, nevertheless listened in. “The war on Onderon had been going well for the Clan Daue. Perhaps too well. The Republic, beaten and battered as it was, had turned to the Jedi for assistance. The Jedi, who time and time again sacrificed themselves needlessly to protect those that could not protect themselves.” My father’s voice dipped a notch then. While I cannot speak for all Mandalorians, I can say that I have found the Jedi to be an extremely confusing aspect of our culture. We are supposed to hate them, this I know for a fact, yet by the same token we constantly seek them out and are defeated by them. Even Mandalore the Ultimate, who many view to be a man far larger than life, knew that he would eventually fall at the hand of a Jedi should they enter his war. I have been told that we are a masochistic people, but I do not know if that is entirely true. Yes, we seek out defeat, but we do not necessarily covet it. My father’s views on the Jedi were never made completely clear to me, but he seemed to take offense if we dared to insult Revan or even Valo Arris. In his opinion the Jedi that Roga fought were honorable warriors, and so I suppose it makes sense that they should be respected. After all, if we were to demonize the Jedi that defeated our people, would that not in turn make us look all the more insignificant? It is something that has caused me pause on numerous occasions, and a question that even now perplexes me. In any event, my father’s story continued. “Roga, along with Cassus, were stowed within the depths of the mist, waiting for the Republic and their saviors to cross their path. They had selected a path against a hill, permitting them excellent advantage over the Jedi when they finally arrived. “They launched their attack when the Republic had nearly passed them by. Cutting into their middle, young and brave Mandalorians rushed forth to destroy their startled foes. As expected, the Republic fell apart at the first sign of combat. In the mist they could not see one another and like frightened children they could do little more than cry out and beg for help. By the time that the Jedi entered the fray their detachment had almost been entirely routed. But when the Jedi did enter the mix, oh… it was something to remember. “They say that Valo Arris was a mountain of a man, a rarity. Most were little more than twigs; boys that swung glowing swords and used magic to defend themselves. He brandished a wicked lightsaber that cut through flesh as easily as it did the mist, and sent many stalwart Mandalorians to early graves. Roga, who knew that his men could well be slaughtered if the Jedi was not checked, sped forth on his speeder and met the Jedi in combat.” This was always my favorite part of the story – it was the part that my mind played over and over regardless of how many times I heard it. “Roga and the Jedi met in several clashes, vibroblade against lightsaber. Where one struck, the other parried. Where one thrust, the other dodged. Their speeders met and broke time and time again, each round becoming all the more impressive as they battled. It was not until Valo dismounted Roga that the two took to fighting on the ground, where once more they met in combat. Roga, summoning the courage of a Mandalorian champion fought with his every fiber against Valo, whose power came from their Force. “While Roga and Valo fought, Crussus was hard at work finding a way to assist his brother. He saw his chance when Valo broke from combat to refresh himself and without warning, Crussus unleashed cover fire for Roga to take advantage of. There was no doubt that Roga would die if he continued to fight Valo, but he knew that if he did not find a means to stop him then all would be lost. He tossed a grenade toward the Jedi and ran for his brother’s position. Valo may have escaped the immediate blast of the grenade’s detonation, but by the time that it had cleared Roga was back amongst his men and the Mandalorians were retreating.” And that was it. There was no miraculous victory. There was no great showing from Roga. In that he had not died while fighting Valo there was cause for celebration, but my father was never one to embellish a story. He could have said that Roga fought the Jedi to a standstill, but to what avail would that be? If nothing else, it would only further disgrace Roga by saying his actions were not ‘good enough’. I now understand why it was that my father chose that story to tell on the eve of Cassir and Polus’ verd’goten. He wished for them to see that even against unlikely odds, two brothers were capable of standing against a dangerous foe. At the time I did not grasp that concept. Unfortunately, neither did Cassir and Polus. Cassir returned from his verd’goten. Polus did not. When I looked on Cassir, who had become a man in every sense of the word, I saw that he had changed. He was stronger, he was more driven, and he was also tinged with a sadness that I could not understand. I had lost a brother, yes, but I had not lost my twin. In later years Cassir told me that losing Polus was no different than having to cut off his own arm. The deeper meaning to that would be revealed to me shortly thereafter. I wanted to cry when I found out that Polus had died. I wanted to throw myself down and demand that the news be taken back and proven not to be true. But at the age of seven, I did not. My mother did not cry; my sister did not cry. I could not cry. The lesson that I learned from my brothers was a simple one and one that I still live by. One can live as a true Mandalorian. One can die as a true Mandalorian. Although Cassir passed where Polus failed, I never considered one more authentic a Mandalorian than the other. Live or die, a person’s status as a Mandalorian does not depend on what someone else says of them. It depends entirely upon whether or not that person is willing to give their life for the pursuit of being a Mandalorian. Cassir was a true Mandalorian. Polus was a true Mandalorian. Astra was a true Mandalorian. My mother and my father were true Mandalorians. I knew that when my time to be tested came, I would be a true Mandalorian as well. That was what the Clan Daue needed, and I would never let my family down.

Simplicio, you fool!

This isn't even a question. Sith = Palpatine. Jedi = Luke. There are a lot of people near them, but those two stand above the rest.

Luni.

S'not weird at all.

So, are we going to complete the Forge Continuity?

The imperial symbol is almost the same as the Galactic Republic's symbol.

Wyrmrest Accord was never a super server.

Nothing can stop me now.

The first wave is deployed. The storm only grows stronger now. No, I just never use MSN. And I got a new (awesome) computer so I didn't re-dl it.

Why, thank you. I hope that it only becomes better.

For years there had been no word from Drew Karpyshyn on Revan's fate. Long before he decided to assassinate the Exile's character, the True Story of Revan had already informed the world of what had actually occurred in the life of one of the Jedi Order's most infamous members. Now, that tale is revisited. And it is all entirely canon. Chapter Guide: 01 - Uncertainty. 02 - Unforeseen. 03 - Unbound. 04 - Unwanted. 05 - Unleashed. 06 - Unchallenged. 07 - Unintended. 08 - Unanticipated. 09 - Unrealized. 10 - Unafraid. 11 - Unbroken. EP - Untold. Chapter One: Uncertainty. Revan, arguably the greatest Jedi of his time, was unquestionably terrified. The transparisteel before him allowed the young Jedi to look into the sharply contrasting lines that hyperspace offered any foolish enough to meet its gaze. While he had heard of some veteran soldiers being able to stomach the intensity without batting an eye, the reason why he had opted upon the action was to take his mind away from the sea of uncertainty that surrounded him. The Mandalorians, an enemy who legend did not discredit in word of ferocity or brutality, had been defeated. By all accounts he should have believed that the Republic saved: he was a hero, a visionary that had stood against the maelstrom and prevailed. But then, why was he so horrifyingly afraid? There was more to the situation at hand; perhaps the only true talent that he had was discerning that quality about that which floated around him. Tales of his prowess with both the Force and lightsaber had already begun to reach the minds of many, which in turn spun earnest hard work and tactical knowhow into a fantastic story of a single man that was very much akin to staring into the Heart of the Force. He knew that talk such as that served its own purpose – it bolstered the hopes of his allies and demoralized his enemies, but he also knew better than to believe it. He was just a man, nothing more than a simple man. Of course, the question that was on his mind – that had been on his mind since he witnessed a particular general turn away from his victorious bands and return herself to the Jedi Council for reprimanding, was why it was that he had not gone with her. They had achieved their goal in a sense: the Mandalorians were defeated, and yet the thought of a danger far greater still lurked within the expansive beyond. Was it truly his place to right every wrong that the galaxy faced, or did he simply assume that mantle when the people offered it to him? Whatever the case, Revan and the Revanchists were prepared to enter yet another storm. The sound of the refresher’s doors opening drew Revan away from his momentary introspection and brought to his stomach a sudden and harsh pain as his mind related to his body the labors of staring for so long into hyperspace. He pulled away then, queasy and paled, when his vision befell the one that had escaped from the confines of the shower to his aft. It was a person that he had seen before and one that as always managed to bring a smile to his face, if only vaguely. That toned physique; those well shaped legs and finely sculpted abdomen. A chest that was expansive and desirable, easily cut from marble and painted a fleshen tone by the hand of some immortal artist. With water still faintly glistening upon supple flesh and dripping from a noble nose, Revan found it difficult to breathe. Oh how strong and succulent those thighs were, or the powerful biceps that at the moment flexed when the white towel was moved to rub along a smooth, tattooed scalp. Finally, his breath left him as a single, simple gust – trembling, almost whispering with unspoken lust. “Alek.” And as always, so too did Alek Squinquargesimus present him with a winsome smirk – a becoming smile that did well to quiet his heart’s uncertainties and in their place ignite a fire the likes of which none could deny. To the rest of the world he had become "Malak", but that was a title that had no place within their relationship. Whatever it was that Demagol did to change his beloved Alek did not matter; he would forever see him as the loving and caring boy that he had fallen in love with so long ago. “None other,” he answered in voice velveteen; as smooth and supple as his flesh. “You seem distraught, is everything alright?” He desired nothing more than to confess that everything was not alright; that from the moment they left Dantooine he felt ill and uncertain of himself. But he knew that not even Alek, who had gone from being a pupil, to a brother, to something… more could truly understand those fears. He had to remain strong, to appear brave, even in the face of certain doom. The Mandalorian woman’s mask that he had taken permitted that in the heat of battle, for though he presented a grim picture to his enemies, it did well to mask his fear and trepidation. At that moment he looked almost longingly to the discarded mask and desired nothing more than to place it back on. But he did not and knew that he could not; he would not shield himself entirely from his beloved Alek. “I am fine,” he heard himself saying without much feeling. “Tired, is all.” Alek chuckled understandingly (what he understood was beyond Revan) and languidly placed his tall, fit body against the bed that the two Jedi shared. He patted his hand in place once and curled his tongue as he clucked a response. “Then rest, my love. If any have earned that right, it is you. Revan, savior of the Republic.” It certainly had a nice ring to it, did it not? He could already tell that one day, in the distant future, laymen would say his name with greater acclaim than any other. That his meager talents and unassuming demeanor would be forgotten and in their place the image of a titan superimposed. That was both an exciting and frightening thought! The former because he would be immortalized; the latter because his true self would be forgotten. And just who was he truly? Well, that question was answered when he placed himself beside Alek on the bed. With unchecked affection he looked up to Alek, whose eyes swam with worry and concern. “I do not know if I have saved anyone,” he said with a surprising level of sincerity. “I do not know if any of this has amounted to much.” “That general’s words still paint your vision,” Alek chided as he placed his hand to Revan’s unassuming, diminutive chest. “Forget her, Revan. She was – is, of little repute. She served her purpose and will be forgotten; if she is to ever be heard of again it will be only in the shadow of your name. We both sensed… something was out there and it is only right that we investigate it.” Alek’s words did well to assuage some of the pain that rose within Revan’s chest and he smiled appreciatively in return. He fit his head against Alek’s shoulder, nuzzling it in place as his eyes became veiled hoods with sleep’s imminent arrival. The feeling of Alek’s strong arms and body near him always brought peace to his mind, and the raging emotions that coursed through him were given a positive spin. “If not for you, I do not know if I would have the courage to face this threat,” Revan confided with a wary sigh. In response to the statement, Alek turned his head and brushed his lips along Revan’s forehead. After the kiss was offered he nuzzled closer to Revan and whispered into his ear. “Then you are truly blessed by the Force, Revan, because you will never have to. I will be with you,” he began. Revan looked up to him then and captured Alek’s eyes within his own. Together, they whispered a single word. Though their lips did not meet, their heated and warm breath pressed together in a ferocious and passionate interlocking of their invigorated desires. So close, yet so far away, that affection could only be expressed in that lone utterance. “Forever.”

I wanna know where the gold is. Burs burs burs. Swag.

The Barely Legal Jedi is a series filled with puns. You have been warned. Chapter Guide: 01 - Backroom Face Time 02 - Indecent Explosion 03 - Taken from Behind 04 - The Business 05 - Conception. 06 - In Vitro Veritas. 07 - Inspecting Erectus. 08 - Going Down 09 - Taking the Head. 10 - Hard to Swallow. 11 - Exploited. EP - Shadowy Seconds. Successive: A Primal Vice. Chapter One: Backroom Face Time. Of all the places she had been told to go during her tenure as a member of the Jedi Order, this was perhaps the one least expected. A blanket of smoke covered the floor, acting no differently than miasma might within a bog. Given the sluggish mannerisms of the occupants and their often times unpleasant sounds, she would have not at all been surprised to find that the denizens were in fact some form of swamp creatures. The only sense of culture that came from the establishment at all was a thin, willowy sound from the local band playing what had to be a snake charmer’s tune to keep the brutes and ruffians in line. When she considered some of the silhouettes she saw, she realized that was not at all a bad idea to possess. Finding the location had been difficult enough as it was. While being told to do to Ord Mantell was strange enough in itself, she had expected to be given directions to the nearest Republic holdout position. The Imperial forces were growing ever bolder as she had learned, and although the Treaty of Coruscant should have prevented them from taking further liberties in the galaxy she was hardly surprised that it had not. Their offenses were far too grievous for “liars” and “breaker of oaths”, to truly be labels they feared. The Council had made a mistake in suing for peace with them, and that had been a mistake she was more than vocal of when it occurred. Perhaps, too vocal. That might explain why she was sent to the cantina in the first place. There were many lives that had been touched by the sacking of Coruscant. She knew that her grief, while genuine, was hardly unique in its status. Former padawans, friends, and masters had all lost valued companions when the Sith led by Darth Malgus stormed the temple with such audacity that even to that day she could hardly fathom it. While losing Master Ven Zallow may have been a blow to the Order’s pride, it was the losses that surrounded his that truly opened wounds in the hearts of those she knew. But as Jedi they were not to allow those feelings to corrupt their thoughts, nor to attach themselves to the notion of vengeance. In her opinion, they were not to allow fear to control them either, and the Council… A large Aqualish passed by her, drawing her attention away from her happenstance brooding and toward the fore. She felt a glint of acuity pass between them in that moment; the Aqualish attempting to discern whether or not she was someone that might prove lucrative to his need for money or casual mayhem. Although she wore robes to conceal her identity, she knew that the look was becoming familiar enough that Sith sympathizers would simply assume she happened to be a Jedi. In the distance she could feel more eyes falling upon her; each sizing her up and more importantly waiting to see what the lead did. The situation had all the potential for a fight and it would not be the first time that a Jedi met an unseemly end at the hands of Imperials and their agents. “This is an Imperial cantina, reppie,” the Aqualish stated as he snorted through his nostrils, a sound that that brought to mind a geyser exploding. She did not doubt that it very well could have been an Imperial cantina, but she knew that it mattered little to the Aqualish. Had she been an Imperial walking by at that same time he would have accosted her in any regard. They were, after all, a feckless and pugnacious people. “Maybe I could get a lot of money for you.” She realized that to say most anything at that point would be to further encourage confrontation, and yet not to act might come across as ignoring the testosterone driven thug. Minding her situation and all but exposed in terms of her cover, she lifted her hands to her hood and slowly lowered it. Her green eyes, near feline, focused upon the Aqualish in what could be considered a manner of appraisal. He was larger than her by nearly half a meter and had more muscle mass than she could ever hope to compensate for. More importantly, at his side was a blaster whose grip looked just worn enough to indicate he was a quick draw, if his meaty arms didn’t solve problems for him. The cantina was crowded and she knew if he landed a solid hit on her then his comrades would swarm in as well. All told, the odds were hardly in her favor. But she knew she could take him – she could take them all. It was a thought that birthed upon her lips a surprisingly resplendent smile, whose existence seemed more to placate than to demean. In the realm of her human interactions she had several times been considered attractive, though if that was born from her affinity with the Force or her physical attributes she was uncertain. Of course, such charms and favors might well be lost upon a bruiser whose only purpose was to bruise. She smiled in spite of this fact though and the Aqualish hesitated if only for a moment. That moment was all that she required to do what was necessary. She extended her hand, palm exposed, and brought it to the muscular arm of the irate man before her. “There is no need for violence,” she said in a calm and even tone. While her voice was in itself of a fair and sincere quality, what was more important to her statement was that as she spoke the Force was slowly working upon the pickled brain of the one before her. Aqualish may have been notoriously violent, but they were not inherently resistant to the Force and a mind well soused was a mind easily converted. “We are all friends here.” “Friends,” the Aqualish repeated with a level of incredulity that bespoke his awareness of the sudden change in demeanor, but not enough to know what she had done. “You ain’t my friend,” he clarified. Another tense second emerged between the two before he snorted once more and brushed past her. Doubtlessly if he was not going to pulverize her then he would find someone else to attack. Perhaps she had a duty to mollify him further, but if she stopped to pacify every uproarious brute that she ran into then this meeting would never come to pass. With the Aqualish taken care of, she offered a cursory glance about to those still present and found their interest in her had waned. Some looked to her with an interest different from violence, but theirs were lust addled minds that she had little time for. Jedi did not go to dive cantinas when they required that sort of attention – at least, not the ones that she knew. “You must be the one that I was told to talk to,” a shifty Rodian male said from behind the bar. She looked in his direction and found that his jittery nerves and swift manner of speech was a note faster than his people were known for. More than likely he had ingested spice recently. Excellent, she thought with derisive contempt at no one in particular. My contact is a spicer. “There’s a fellow that wanted to talk to you – booked the backroom until you got here.” Backrooms were never good things to be told to go into; especially not when the majority of the patrons were more than likely squirrely and spiced thugs like the bartender or the one she had recently sent outside. She considered probing the Rodian’s mind for any details on what would be waiting for her, but just as it was simple to plant a thought into the mind of an addict, so too was it difficult to navigate through the jumbled mess of ideas that flowed through them. Instinctively she lowered her hand to her side and felt the long, cylindrical and metallic object that she kept at hand in case a situation became too much for her to handle with mere words. “Thank you,” she responded without looking back to the bartender. The chances of an ambush having been set for a Jedi were high; during the current day she knew that several had been lured into traps only to never be seen again. Yet to avoid duty for the sake of fear was a folly that she would not encourage, and if the Imperials felt that she was worth dragging away from the frontlines in order to assassinate, then perhaps t hat should have been taken as a marker of pride. Whatever the case may have been, she knew that she would not allow it to go unanswered. Without fear, the Jedi proceeded past the sea of lustful eyes and made her way into the backroom. It was time to face whoever had set all of this into motion. The doors slid apart and allowed her to enter the backroom. The moment that she stepped inside, they closed behind her and sealed – never a good sign. Mindful of her immediate area, she observed several crates and a wall that led into a distant corner. Though the Force was as always her guide, she could not help but wonder if perhaps her guide had gotten lost at that point in time. To turn around was no longer an option though, and try as she might to think of a scenario where the steps that she was taking would not lead her into an inevitably dark situation, she continued on her path without fail. Hand near her lightsaber, she turned the corner. “Verra So’Quan,” a male voice said from behind the table that was before her. The umbra presented him with enough shadow to conceal his appearance beyond the silhouette that loomed before her eyes. Hearing her name was hardly something that surprised Verra; however, that the tone was not at all unfamiliar did. When the person rose and approached her, the shadows parted from him and revealed a dusky man wearing robes not much different than her own. Most important of all was the smile on his face; a reassuring expression. “It has been too long since last we spoke.” “Master Doris?” Verra asked, her voice almost revealing the surprise that she felt. Moments prior her breathing had increased; blood vessels increasing their flow, and eyes taken on a new level of awareness. She had all but been prepared to fight and much to her dismay she actually felt somewhat let down that she would not be able to. Passing up the Aqualish as stress relief had been a mistake she knew, but to even consider fighting simply to alleviate tension was an act that carried grave implications with it. Rather than worry over her mental state, she stepped closer to the Jedi and embraced his forearms as he did hers. “I did not expect to find you here.” Master Doris laughed and shook his head. “And why would you? Not many expect masters to be found in dingy cantinas.” “I was unaware that there was a type other than,” Verra said with a winsome smile. Master Doris chuckled, a sound that she had once heard filled with mirth but now tempered at its fringes with sorrow. “Please, be seated. We have precious little time to discuss the matter at hand.” There was always precious little time, Verra knew. While the galaxy as a whole believed that for the most part the Jedi did nothing more than meditate and prevaricate, in truth theirs was a task that was more about preventing problems than solving them. She moved as she had been instructed to and sat gracefully at the table. The hand that had previously been prepared to pull her lightsaber at that point lifted and brushed her platinum blonde bangs behind her left ear. It was a slight action, but enough of one to give her nerves time to calm. It had not been the first time that she was told to sit before Master Doris, Verra noted with some amount of amusement. As a youngling she was known to be too quick to anger, and although she had never given her masters cause for serious concern, there were times when she was told that her greatest weakness was her desire to care for too many people, too readily. In doing so, Master Doris had told her, she was only allowing herself to be drawn into a multitude of directions that could only end in frustration and disappointment. His words had proven true and over time she learned to form relationships that had a goal beyond simply being relationships. Of course, at the time Master Doris’ face had been a bit less wrinkled, and the lines around his eyes hardly pronounced. It would appear that just as time had changed her, so too had it changed him. “As you well know, the Sith Empire has returned in a way unconscionable,” Master Doris began as he placed a small, glowing orb before himself. “Our defeats in the beginning of this newly minted confrontation pale in comparison to the ones that will surely be incurred in the future. The sacking of Coruscant was but a symptom of the illness that plagues us.” “Illness?” Verra asked, a finely structured eyebrow lifting but a notch. Master Doris compressed the cube and from it, a projection emerged of the galaxy. “Ignorance,” he stated solemnly. “The Republic is now shattered, splintered into competing sectors of influence. Many planets are only nominally within its control.” As Master Doris spoke the projection began to shade various locations either red or blue. The key that fluctuated at the side of the map indicated that the red were Sith and the blue Republic holdings. Whereas a few years ago everything would have been colored blue, Verra could understand the concerns that might emerge when once loyal sectors were now torn between the two. “Our problem,” Master Doris said. “Is that we know next to nothing about our enemies. Clearly they know us; the Sith have had centuries upon centuries to study and perfect the art of killing Jedi, but we have been so… driven in our pursuits for peace that we allowed our duties to the Republic to lapse in that regard,” he said with what could be considered a note of personal failure. Verra cleared her throat softly. “Master Doris, we could not have possibly known that they would attack us so brazenly – so recklessly…” “Couldn’t we have?” The senior Jedi asked with a sorrowful sigh. “To the contrary, Verra; we knew that the threat existed and simply did not address it. Three hundred years before this day, did Darth Revan not return in a fashion no less audacious?” Darth Revan, she thought. An enigma tucked comfortably within a mystery if ever there was one. The existing holo-records had placed him as the returned hero of the Republic, marred by the Dark Side and an agent of an unknown force. His was a story of depravity and redemption; of failure and success. A cautionary tale to be certain, she only wished that she knew how the Republic had stabilized itself after his tyrannical assault. That would have been very pertinent information to know, for in that perhaps the Republic might correctly unseat the Sith from their positions. Unreliable historians, she fumed inwardly. How dare they not record pertinent history? “We have had…” Master Doris trailed off for a moment as he thought of the word to use. Verra knew that whenever such occurred that it meant there would soon be a half-truth spoken. “Agents,” he said with relative self-satisfaction, “exploring old Sith ruins and ensuring that their taint did not spread to impressionable minds. Theirs was a task that dealt primarily with prevention over investigation.” Verra’s eyebrows furrowed, for this was information that she had not been privy to. Certainly there had to be someone that ensured that the Sith did not rise again, but for all of her missions and duties they had dealt with preventing local disturbances up until the return of the Sith Empire. That there were Jedi specifically selected for the task of specifically hunting down Sith artifacts was not only news to her, but somewhat startling. “Forgive me, master, but I do not know why this information necessitated a meeting here.” “Then allow me to speak with more clarity,” Master Doris said. “The Council, after experiencing the losses that we did, could not continue to ignore the threat of the Sith. So it was that we sent several of these agents into the Outer Rim in hopes of gathering more information on our adversaries. These agents, known as Shadows, were specifically tasked with sending information back to the Council at weekly intervals.” Verra canted her head slightly. “And one of them did not?” “Precisely,” Master Doris confirmed. He pressed another position on the holo-cube and the map centered upon a single planet. “This is Thorne IV, the location that our operative’s latest dispatch came from. We have reason to suspect that he may have been captured, killed, or worse.” “Or worse,” Verra said softly to herself. She feared to know what the Sith would do to an infiltrator, and yet knowing that one of her brethren was trapped without assistance raised within her an ire that knew no consolation. Normally she would have expected Master Doris to warn her against her emotions, but he sat silently and watched her. She drew her attention from the map back to him. “What can we do?” “I am afraid that this task will fall solely upon you,” Master Doris stated. “The Shadows are an organization that are permitted liberties most other Jedi are not afforded. The Council has already spoken of your case in particular and we believe you will be the perfect candidate to venture to Thorne IV and discover what has become of Master Zi’los.” She thought to ask what made her the perfect candidate, but she supposed she already knew. Hers was a record that was clean enough, but that did have infractions that might lift eyebrows. If she was expected to act in accordance with the Code completely then the need for secrecy would not have been mandated. No, they selected her because when the time came she would do what needed to be done. The name ‘Master Zi’los’ meant relatively little to her, and so she instead focused upon something more pressing. “You said that the Shadows are granted liberties?” There came a look of uncertainty to Master Doris’ face then that spoke more to his unwillingness to continue than his desire to do so. Yet, the glimpse vanished within the blink of an eye and he offered her a nod of his head. “Yes,” he started. “There are actions that would be legal to citizens of the Republic that we Jedi do not condone. Because Shadows must be prepared to confront untenable situations at all times, we simply believe that... that are granted privileges that allow them to perform actions that are barely legal.” Barely legal? Was that a half-truth? Something was either legal or it wasn’t to most people, but she supposed this cryptic message would be a lucrative spin for any of the Jedi that had moral doubts about what they were being told to do. Verra knew that the decision was out of her hands, if the Council had already discussed it and agreed then she was as good as on the mission. She felt no resentment for that fact, though. How many other Jedi were given the chance to venture into the darkness and retrieve a brother? How many other Jedi could say that the Council felt they were trustworthy enough to send against the Sith, alone? “I will find him,” she stated. “No matter the cost.” Master Doris paused then and gave her a smile that was surprisingly sorrowful. After its manifestation though, he slid the cube toward her. “Programmed into that databank is the identity you are to assume. Because truths are easier to express than lies, we have applied as much truth as possible to your cover.” Verra rose from her seat and accepted the cube. With Master Doris also standing they embraced forearms once more, before she looked into his eyes. “I shall not fail the Council.” Master Doris nodded once more, but in his gaze she saw something that she knew would never leave his lips. After their embrace had come to an end she turned about and made her way toward the door once more, which slid open expectantly. Perhaps she had misread what she felt upon the old man? It was possible that she had projected her own thoughts onto him, after all. But there was still a small sting that came to her mind as she made her exit; a tiny seed of doubt that refused to allow her to forget that look. It had but a single message to it, but one with grave ramifications. That is what Master Zi’los said, as well.

Chapter One: Smile. I remember the first time I saw my father smile. He was a strong man, by any standard of brawn and character. While the former seemed to me far more important for the majority of my life, I learned in later years that it was the latter which truly made a man worthy of praise or respect. As with all Mandalorians, my father dedicated himself to whichever craft he had on hand. Were he to be given a blaster, he would be a marksman. Were he to be given a starfighter, he would have been an ace pilot. For three hundred years we had been without a Mandalore, which left us but with Mandalore the Preserver’s final command: persevere. And so we did. It took two centuries of Daue men and women to discover how best that might be accomplished, but it was my great-grandsire, Regimus Daue, that realized it was tilling the land that might provide us with the ability to survive in a changed galaxy. Centuries ago, our ancestors had lived by agrarian standards, and it appeared that the circle had come full term at last. The was were over and our people were scattered; however, those of us that could find our way back to that true path did so with varying interest. From what I have been told or gathered from past accounts, Grandsire Regimus was a man that was in no way fond of the idea of farming; however, he did that which was necessary for our bloodline to persevere. I have heard it said in passing that a Mandalorian is as good with a hoe as he is a blaster. Keeping in mind the number of shoddy farmers I have met in my day, I believe it would be safe to say that I’d rather those people be given chance to prove that adage true. In many ways, I believe, Grandsire Regimus fell into that category. He was the last of our family line to aspire to greatness through combat: who actively sought violence and thrived on chaos. Long before him Ancestor Roga had been killed in battle against the (in)famous Jedi general, Revan. Odd though it may seem to be an impetus to guide people through life, from Ancestor Roga to Grandsire Regimus, the men and women of Clan Daue tried to live by that example. Thankfully, in the end, they gave up the pursuit. We became farmers. No doubt, part of my father’s strength must have come from his agricultural background. I never knew h im to be angry, violent, or even an unpleasant person. But when he was working in the fields; that was the only time that you could see he was content. Content, I believe, is the best way to describe my father’s disposition. Happiness seemed too excessive for him and apathy too dire. He did not smile when he sewed the land with future bounty; he did not sing songs or even hum. He simply worked, and in working he completed that which he felt our family required; that which Grandsire Roga had set out for him. I would find myself at times marveling at his ability to so completely give himself over to the tasks at hand, and with each day hoped that I might have that level of dedication. I do not believe that even now, so many years later, that I have that ability. Nor has any man or woman I have ever met since then. On the day that my father smiled, we had been working harder than ever within our fields. Three weeks had come and gone without a droplet of rain; more importantly, there was none upon the horizon. Unperturbed by this, my father instructed us to continue planting and so we did. The rain, he said, was coming. My fifth birthday had only recently passed. I was not so old as to doubt my father, but I certainly wondered why it was we were working so tirelessly without any relief from the drought in sight. Nevertheless, I, like everyone else, worked without complaint. There was never a cross word nor a thought to stop that which we were instructed to accomplish. I believe that it is when working that a Mandalorian family is at its closest. In times past this was seen by tightly knit clans fighting against outside forces, but that was part of a legacy we did not inherit. The enemy was no longer Republic troopers or crafty Jedi, but weeds, insects, and all manners of destructive critters. I did not brandish a blaster, only a small hand shovel. There was no beskar’gam (Battle armor made from Mandalorian iron) to be found upon my body, only thread-bare clothing that my mother had created for my older sister long ago was now mine as I struggled to become the woman she was. The others worked faster than I did; I have no shame in admitting that. Even with my fiercely loyal mutt at my side I could not do much more than dig holes and plant seeds at about half the pace that they were. As I think back on it, the dog probably slowed me down more than he helped. He knew how to start digging; it was the stopping that he couldn’t quite grasp. But for whatever trouble that stray may have caused me, I loved him with all of my being. His name was “Bird”, and although he was larger than me then, he never seemed to realize that. Bird was my first true and loyal friend. In later years, he would also be my first true and loyal ally. But I suppose that all that is important in mentioning him at this juncture is to say that we were a terrible team back then. Despite that, we worked our damndest to see our goals completed. The benefit of youth is an indefatigable body and spirit. By the time that I had finished my work, I felt no different than I did upon waking upon. Bird and I raised across the fields and through the woods that shielded our home from the nearby Gao’Mi River. Knowing that he had no place inside of her home, my mutt gave me an affectionate lick on the cheek and then bounded off to wherever it was mutts went whenever their companions had no use for them. I, on the other hand, went inside, uniformed I n the grit and grime of a day’s work and feeling every the Mandalorian for it. The way that they looked at me when I came inside informed me that I had every right to feel that way, as well. From my father to my mother, older sister Astra, and brothers Cassir and Polus, each looked at me with something far better than love. Their eyes were filled with respect. We ate a healthy dinner that night. After we finished, my sister, mother and I cleaned up the dishes while my father and brothers made certain that the house would be secured for the evening. Even in times of peace, a Mandalorian’s mind is always preoccupied with what could happen, and the best way to prevent any negative outcome must be to be positively sure that all has been done to preclude those realities. When both sets of chores were done we once more joined and my father took to regaling us with another story of our ancestors. It was a story I had heard before, but I loved it each time that he mentioned it. To us, our ancestors were the “heroes” of all times and though I am certain that they were greatly exaggerated over the centuries, they nevertheless still hold a great deal of importance as to how I view my role in this galaxy. This evening’s story was of how Ancestor Roga and his brother Crussus the Strong managed to besiege a Republic prison camp and rescue their cousins and uncles from it. The Republic had been slovenly enough to rely on Onderon’s native beastmen to guard the camps; it only took a bit of distraction before the untrained beastmen were attacking the very shadows while Ancestor Roga and his brother led our relatives to safety. Doubtlessly it is a silly thing to admit, but the characteristics that Ancestor Roga exemplified are that which I have looked for in men ever since hearing those stories: strong, resourceful, clever, and fearless. The ideal Mandalorian man: that which would be able to defend his people, clan, and family without a second’s pause. I now know that these men do not exist in reality; that every person has flaws and no person can truly live up to a lofty notion or an ideal, but as a girl all that I cared about was when I heard of Roga’s exploits, they made me feel joy. My brothers and sister had heard these stories countless times and hardly seemed to pay attention to them. My mother was a quiet woman that concerned herself more directly with her family’s present situation than the past. This made me believe that the stories that my father shared; the ones that I devoured more ravenously than the food on my plate, were meant only for me. When considering that my father was a man of few words, having the notion that he spoke to me and me alone was far greater than any mundane affection other parents may have shown their children. I went to sleep in a better mood that night than I usually did. The chirping of insects outside mixed with the cool wind that made its way through my window was a recipe for deep sleep, and I accepted it willingly after my long day of hard work. My sister and I shared a room and bed, greatly reducing the space needed for our family of six to fit into our small home. Nuzzled against her, I always felt safe. The difference between a Mandalorian woman and a Mandalorian man is purely one of physiology; given the chance to protect her loved ones, a woman will fight just as fiercely as a man if not more so. Astra would have died for me and I for her. As with all things, time would prove this to be true. Normally, I could sleep from the moments my eyes closed until Astra called my name, but on that night I was awakened by something outside. It was a quiet sound that pulled at the inside of my mind and willed my eyes to open. Imagine, if you will, a string being placed within a person. Now have it tugged on, and continue to tug on it until the person moves without realizing that they were. That is the best way in which I can think to explain the sensation. It continued until my eyes opened and even then, went further to encourage me to rise. Astra’s arm was over me, but when I shifted she did not awaken. I slipped out of bed and made my way out of the room and into the next. The feeling was so compelling that I followed it further still, until eventually I found myself standing at the door to our home and looking outside into the darkness. It was the blackest night I had ever seen in my short life. My natural desire was to turn and run back to Astra, but even at that age I was beginning to understand the self-reliance that Mandalorians are bred to exemplify. To turn away in fear was to act as a coward and to act as a coward was in no way to bring honor to the name Daue. I balled my little fists and moved out the door, not for a moment thinking as to why it may have been open. My walk came to a sudden halt when the sound of grass at my side being disturbed filled the air, and I froze up in terror. The feeling of Bird’s tongue against my hand brought me out of my catatonia. I gave him a shy smile which he answered with a soft whine; together we set out to investigate just what the sound was that had so enraptured me. Understandably, a scared little girl became a bit braver when there was a mountain of a dog next to her. With my hand on Bird’s back we moved silently and with great skill until eventually we were at our fields. The darkness of the night was pierced then by a luminescent ray from the moon, which bathed our crops in its beauty and created such an awe-inspiring scene that I felt my breathe leave me. More startling than any of that though, was what was happening in the center of the field. Even bathed in shadows and moonlight, I could make my father out. That tugging that I felt had brought me to him, and I was suddenly embarrassed that I had not been able to identify it sooner. It was his presence; his feeling that guided me to him. I watched him kneel in the middle of the field, his rugged appearance made just a hint softer by the moonlight as it washed over him. He plunged his hand into the soft earth that we had previously tilled. When he drew it up, dirt and grit tumbled through his fingers as he held his hand to the sky. The clumps of dirt fell from his hand, describing a descent that seemed to tumble carefully and with purpose from his rough, sturdy hands. He did the same with the opposite hand, then placed both of his hands together and plunged them as a knife into the soft soil. I had no idea what he was doing and my first thought was to run over and ask him – but that presence told me to do anything but, so I remained where I was. The sky slowly began to darken. Where once the moon had lorded over the crops, now did dark and fat clouds materialize. I drew closer to Bird, who looked up as though enraptured in the same manner that I was. We knew that the sky was clear before; where did the clouds come from? I looked back to my father and saw that he had lifted both of his hands to the heavens, from which a mighty crack of thunder emerged. Now, while I am quite certain that what I believe happened and what actually happened could be two different things, I can only speak to what I remember. A beautiful ray of light descended from above. It was powerful and fierce, raw and mighty, and struck the ground with such force that a small breeze was created in the wake of its manifestation. Bird’s ears flattened; my fingers and toes curled. The flash of lighting lasted for but a third of a second but is emblazoned within my mind even to this day. I feared that it may have stricken my father, but what followed was so unexpected that I could not be bothered to move. It began to rain. It was not simply raining – it was a downpour. Fat droplets of rain struck me with such force that I winced, and Bird let off a little groan. We both began to retreat from our voyeuristic position, but just as my feet touched against the now soaked ground, I saw my father stand and begin to turn about in the rain. It was then, with a few rays of moonlight still upon him, that I saw he was doing that which I had never seen before: he smiled. It was an expression far too beautiful for words, and I have lived my life hoping that I might see something similar before I expire. I have seen a star nova, in fact, and that hardly approached the brilliance of my father’s smile. It was a breathtaking experience, shared between him and nature, and by proxy me for being fortunate enough to be there. I slipped then and fell, the splash of my fall enough to draw his attention to my direction. Far too frightened to see if he actually saw me, I turned and ran back to our home, with Bird plodding behind me. I will say this: I was a fast. Before I knew it I was back inside and Bird was panting next to me. It took me several seconds before I realized that Bird shouldn’t be panting next to me and I promptly kicked him out of the house despite his whining protests. Dogs belonged outside. Daughters belonged in bed. My mind was filled with the thought of my father’s smile, so stunning and unrestrained. I returned to Astra’s bed, soaking wet and covered in mud, but once more did not awaken her. Just as I had been pulled into awareness by the sensation that I couldn’t describe, I later learned that Astra could sleep through a volcano’s eruption so long as that eruption would not endanger any of her loved ones. I nuzzled back into place and received a squeeze from my sister for the effort. She gave me a soft snore of recognition and a murmured complaint, before slipping back into deep slumber. I lay in bed, thinking over what I had seen. From my father’s odd actions to the smile that he had given. Each second that passed seemed to only replenish the image in my head, which kept me from forgetting just how wonderful it had been. I smiled in return to the thought. Perhaps one day, I would be able to make my father smile like that? Not even Cassir or Polus could claim that honor. I am uncertain as to when I fell asleep, but I only know that I did. My dreams are also a mystery to me that night, but the reason for my waking was not. I felt something soft hit me in the face and was roused from my sleep with a start. Astra glared at me and hit me once more with the pillow, an action that caused me to wince before I rolled out of bed on the opposite side and looked at her with abject bewilderment. Her cheeks were red with anger and her eyes were narrowed. I actually thought that for a moment she was going to attack me. To my credit, I didn’t back down. “Why are you hitting me?” I spat out at her, my confused and tired voice mixed with irritation. She pointed at the bed. “You’re too krelling old to be having accidents in my bed, Siana!” My embarrassment abated when I looked to the bed and saw what she was indicating. Surely enough there was moisture in the bed, no doubt a stay over from my running through the rain. I thought to explain away the events by saying that I had been outside, but I knew I would only get into more trouble for going out without another to go with me. I remained tight lipped on the matter and blushed. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise.” “You’re krelling right it won’t happen again,” Astra snorted before she threw the pillow at me. Even though it was a soft object she managed to weaponize it in that action and I staggered backward as I caught it. “Now change the bedding and for the love of the Preserver, you had better not tell me what that is on your legs.” I looked down and saw that the mud had dried and caked. Although I couldn’t help but want to laugh I knew that doing so would gain me another of Astra’s glares. “You’ll do my chores for a week,” she ordered. “Now go clean yourself up before mother sees you. If you make her angry then you’ll really make me angry.” I didn’t bother to ask her the logic in her statement, I simply abided by her command. Bowing my head apologetically I scampered out of the room and toward the refresher. I could stomach the teasing Astra would give me for what she thought was my accident. I could do her chores without a complaint. Had she told me to wash her unmentionables, I would have even done that. Because while she may have thought she knew what was going on, she was absolutely oblivious. They all were. I had seen my father smile. And no one could take that away from me. “Disgusting,” she called after me. “I know!”

Preface: I'm Gestahlt and for the past few years, I've been writing fan-fiction specifically dedicated to SWTOR. Memoirs of a Mandalorian was my largest project and leads into a very long story arc about Siana Daue, so if you like those kind of things then welcome aboard and if not, see you in a different thread. For first time readers, I'll say this much: I learned about Mandalorians by writing through the eyes of one. You won't find this to be a Karen Traviss carbon copy, but you also won't find it to be without homage paid to a woman that, though controversial, did add elements to a previously empty archetype. Love her or hate her, she did that much. For return readers, the remastered version is me trimming the fat or making certain parts shiny. You won't run into a "Koga shot first" moment, but I do intend to tweak and adjust certain scenes to better fit the vision I had at the end (since you know how it ends, anyway). Skim or read, up to you, but the experience should be a little different. Anyway, I've rambled on long enough. I will probably do an update 1-2 times a day, simply because I have everything pre-written and I don't want to flood people that haven't read yet. Questions, comments, critiques - please, leave them. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Part I - 01: Smile. 02: True Mandalorians. 03: Lineage. 04. Ambition. 05. Perseverance. 06. Blood and Honor. 07. End of an Era. 08. Verd'goten. Part II - 09: War. 10: Stories. 11: Half Truths. 12: Bitter Medicine. 13: Half Kill. 14. The Ring. 15. Second Chance. 16. Taking Point. 17. The Struggle. 18. The Siege.

Sorry for my slow response, I'm editing something. In short, it seems like a great idea at first, but when you have a Super-anything you magnify not only the good parts, but the bad. So yes, you will have a lot of people there, but you'll also have larger cliques, larger pools of trolls, and larger groups of griefers. You'll end up draining the life out of smaller servers and ultimately creating a place with many two large ones, and the other ones being bone dry. Does that really sound like a fun situation for anyone? I thrived on Moon Guard, don't get me wrong, but my fondest memories were on Kirin Tor.

Hello, my pretties. I see I need to update my signature. I've decided to launch all of my projects at once. I will conquer the forums while they are still weak.

The thing that hurt RP on WOW was the creation of a "super-server" with Moon Guard. I'd strongly advise against repeating that mistake.