Every Last Soul

[Sinister]

Cyrus took a long deep breath of the air of Mandalore. It felt correct to be here, beginning his journey to unite the clans in glorious conquest. There had been many long nights that he had wrestled with the idea that he might not truly be the best choice for such a position. Doubt that he may be unworthy of the impossible glory of such a task. Sometimes, in the dark of night, the weight of it still stung at him. Pressing against the back of his mind like a blade of beskar, unyielding. But there was no one else. No one else who understood what was at stake, with the conviction to seize the reins of history and turn them to the glory of the Mandalorians once again. He had heard them speak. Not a one spoke of taking new worlds. Of biting back against these years of apathy without the crusade. They didn't understand. His people had not lost. No, they had only been too short sighted. They did not swell their numbers quickly enough. There would need to be new calculations and plans made, of course. New maps drawn for conquest. But the Sith and the Jedi would be murdering each other once again soon enough. There was a chance to make unprecedented growth, and he would be the one to lead them into it. He had to be. For his parents. His daughter. His people. He owed it to them.

These were the thoughts that occupied his mind as me marched on toward the firing range of Clan Gedyc. They would be expecting him. His family's white armor did not gleam in the sun, but did catch the eye against the more muted colors of the world. Nearby and behind him walked, Asyr Yevor
, the charming mercenary he had met some years back year his home on the moon of Dxun during a rather...unusual hunting trip. The fact that the man had even survived as long as he had in the impossibly hostile environment of the moon spoke to his caliber, and if they weren't precisely friends, Cyrus did have a level of respect for his boldness and caustic wit. The man couldn't see his smile, but no doubt heard it in his voice as they approached their destination.

"Tell me, Asyr: what do you make of our world? Has it wilted your delicate constitution as of yet? I could always secure a lounge chair and gentle shade for you should the heat prove too much."

He chuckled to himself.

[Rugs]

Mandalore was an interesting world, to Asyr Yevor’s uncritical eye. The heart of Mandalorian power was as varied as its people, boasting thick jungles, sprawling grasslands bordered by towering forests, and searing deserts that stretched out to meet the deep, sparkling sea. Its beauty was largely untouched, thanks to the care of its people and their sparse numbers, compared to some other places across the Galaxy.

That and, he could only assume, some unofficial policy that it was better to fuck up other people’s home than your own. It seemed to be the driving force of their foreign policy — such as it was — for the last few centuries, anyway. Though who was he to judge? The Mandalorians were a warrior people, and warriors warred. Asyr could respect that.

He chuckled as his acquaintance and present employer asked after how he was faring on Mandalore’s surface. “Sorry to disappoint, but your world will have to try harder than this to bother me,” he said with a sly smile. The sun beat down ruthlessly from above, over a sprawling expanse of dry grasslands a few hundred miles away from the edge of a small desert.

Some weeks ago, Cyrus contacted Asyr with a request for assistance with some internal matter. They’d met years back, in what turned into a bizarre hunting trip on Dxun--though Asyr couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy the experience. The Echani knew little of the Mandalorians’ internal politicking, though everyone knew Mandalore the Regulator, their latest leader, was missing.

But money was money, and Cyrus was offering pay. The work didn’t directly harm the Republic, so after some days to consider, Asyr accepted the job and set out on his own with his crew waiting for his return.

Now they were to meet with Clan Gedyc, whoever they were. Cyrus, as far as Asyr knew, sought to gain their loyalty to make a grand play at leadership over the Mandalorian clans.

Asyr laughed to himself, and not for the first time. Here he was, helping a Mandalorian. Gods, what would his father say?

“So tell me, what’s the plan again?” he said as they neared a small outpost. Laser fences ringed its perimeter, and a compound of some sort rose from its center, surrounded by smaller residences and what Asyr assumed were storage facilities. “We go in there, razzle ‘em some slick shootin’ and they decide to join up with you?”

It seemed too easy. But then again, he wasn’t a Mandalorian.

---

Karei Gedyc stood at the outpost’s edge, peering to the horizon. Before her swept fields of desert wheat, rippling in the arid midday wind. Occasional it shifted, blowing from the east and bringing with it the faintest hint of salt from one of Mandalore’s distant oceans.

Her heart ached. Once again, turmoil swept her people — not only the clan but all of the vod. Mandalore the Regulator could only be presumed dead. The Par’Jila — what little remained of the once-mighty warship — lay in ruins scattered across Mandalore’s surface. Such tragedies could cripple the clans, if a strong leader didn’t emerge to lead them through the coming tribulations.

She lifted her stone grey eyes to the clear sky. Dark clouds gathered over the Galaxy. New contenders rose, all seeking to lead the clans. They always did. But would any of this lot prove themselves worthy? Already, she’d heard that a contender from Clan Vizla withdrew himself from consideration, after gaining access to his clan’s resources and clout. She snorted. A grifter. How many more would claim to want to lead the clans while looking only to line their own pockets?

It seemed unthinkable, a few short years ago. Mandalore the Regulator’s decadence--his so-called Golden Age — left them soft and greedy like the Republic and Sith. Even the vaunted hunt for Force users had produced scant results.

“Karei,” a voice pipped into the small communicator in her ear, ”Fett comes. He brings an outsider.” A scout, keeping watch from a tall tower in the outpost’s heart. Karei’s lips pressed together for a short, thoughtful moment.

“Let them come,” she said, bending over to pick up her armor’s helmet. She turned, tucking it under her arm, and walked away from the output’s edge. ”I will meet them at the front. We invited Cyrus. This guest will serve to gauge his judgment.”

Cyrus Fett. A contender. His road, like all the others, would be long and difficult. His company was a surprise, but they’d welcomed the man. Surely he wouldn’t be stupid enough to bring a threat.

“Join me,” she commanded. “We will hear what Fett has to say.”

Note: speech in Mando'a in bold