Snakes In the Grass (Dark Age of Honor)

[Ysmir]

---

Hal's craft soared through the space above the Mandalorian homeworld, homing in on Clan Carid's encampment. Dotted among the walled headquarters were the most numerous array of farmlands on the entire planet's surface, part of the Clan's claim to fame. As he approached the upper atmosphere, he lifted the tacpad on his left vambrace and punched in the coordinates of his landing, sending them along to his companion who was meant to meet him there.

Normally, touching down on Manda'yaim would mean the beginning of a hunt, or a visitation with one of his Clan's many patron teachers to teach the young ones a thing or two. He supposed, in a way, it was the beginning of a hunt. But this was an entirely different breed.

The Clans were fractured. Mandalore's apparent death, coupled with the destruction of the Par'jila, submitted the people to waves of hysteria that hadn't been seen in years. The Golden Age was long gone -- now came the Dark Ages.

Their lack of a leader meant a power vacuum, one that many seemed eager to fill. For years, Hal stood on the sidelines and did the following. Always looked for a leader, a figure to give him continued purpose to serve the Mando'ade and their cause. Now, he aimed for that prize himself. He was sick of inaction, of not taking responsibility. If he wanted to serve the cause, he'd do it his own way. The only thing that mattered to him was his people's assured survival, and if that meant getting his hands dirty, then so be it.

Hal's patrol craft landed in a clearing just outside the walls of Clan Carid's impressive encampment. He made his way across the familiar grassy ground of Manda'yaim, his helm tucked under his arm, his Beskar'gam proudly bearing the emblem of Clan Kelborn across his left pauldron. At the gates, Hal stopped; an armored Carid guardian stepped up to him.

"Vod," the guardian nodded upon noting his armor. He placed his hand across his chest.

Hal returned the gesture and bowed his head. "I would speak with your Chieftain whenever he can spare the time."

"At once. He hopes your investigation will be swift," the guardian stated, before lifting his hand to activate his helmet's communications device. "Open the gates. The envoy from Clan Kelborn has arrived."

A few moments after his request, the gates creaked and moaned as they were opened on the other side by a series of grinding gears and pulleys. Once parted enough to fit through, Hal exchanged one last nod with the Carid guard and entered into the encampment.

It was as familiar to him as breathing; beating drums, crackling flames, the yells of Mandalorian instructors as they berated and instructed the younger aspirants who sparred one another for a chance at joining the hunt. They seemed well off enough for a Clan of farmers, but then, it wasn't they who suffered directly from the missing supplies. Their shipments were part of the lifeblood of the Mandalorian clans, a crucial cog in their well-oiled machine that had an ailment. Hal would see it cured sooner, rather than later.

He stalked through the encampment until he reached the Chieftain's compound. He passed by two warriors positioned outside the entrance, who pulled back their bevii'ragir to allow Hal inside.

In the grand hall, he came before the Chieftain stood before a telemetry console; of prodigious size and barely contained by his Beskar'gam, he turned toward Hal and held his arms aloft. "The would-be Mand'alor! Welcome! I'll be glad to be rid of the headache these blasted caravans are causing," he said in a boisterous tone and with a waft of his hand. He placed his fists upon his hips. "I was told you'd have company?"

"I will," he affirmed in terse tone, nodding. "They'll be along shortly."

[Neology]

The money’s good. There’s that at least. If Quintillian lied to himself often enough, perhaps he would begin to believe it. Laying on his crates, he watched the blur of shifting greens, the veshok tree canopy above, while the hired speeder made its way toward Clan Carid’s settlement. The forests of Mandalore seemed no less thick and hungry as the ones back home on Dromund Kass.

He was unaccountably excited to be on the job again, some thin approximation of fieldwork. Maybe it was the fresh air – even with the greasy stink of the old model transport’s engine – it was a departure from breathing in Nar Shaddaa’s smog soup. Spend some time trekking through the wilderness with this Hal, who was something like one of the Mandalorian tribal leaders as far as he knew. Shoot what needed to be shot. Pick up some of the local language if he could. Further business, maybe, if this went alright and Hal’s credits didn’t run out.

The wall of trees gave way to open fields and empty sky all at once. Some minutes later, the speeder rumbled to a slow stop. The driver and the guard exchanged a few brief words. Quin sat up and brushed his fingers through his hair, hoping it would lay flat. The t-visored Carid guard climbed into the back of the flatbed and made a quick examination of his gear. He sensed it was more a matter of principle than anything else so he smiled affably and tried to stay out of the way. Once they were waved through the gate, Quin was treated to the sight of the clan’s full encampment.

It was a strange place, to say the least. Neither his idea of advanced civilization nor one of desperate poverty. He’d known vaguely what to expect from his training years ago, back when the Empire had had a brief alliance with the clans. He’d never expected to put any of that to use. Now Quin found it hadn’t quite prepared him after all – with almost every adult armed and armored, it looked more like a military base than a farming community. He unloaded his equipment and left the crates stacked where they were, surely to be moved onto another vehicle shortly.

On second thought, he slung a particularly long and skinny one over his shoulder by the thick strap. It wasn’t out of the question that his new employer would want to see he was in fact equipped for the job. Quin made the long walk up to the gathering hall with a small escort, a bookend pair of armored gentlemen that he pointedly ignored. He had a good guess as to which of these other men might be his employer, judging only on the insignia worn on their armor. It had to be that tough-looking old guy – not the overweight specimen enthusiastically chatting away. Then again, he could see why the latter might have need of a hired gun. Quin waited for a pause in the conversation before offering each a handshake, somewhat curious how they’d take it. He decided not to hide his Imperial accent, deciding that its later discovery would be much worse.

”Fraley. Forgive my ignorance but which one of you is ‘Hal-storm?’”