Gareth Jorsotal -- Spread Your Wings

[Foxeye]

It’d been a long few weeks.

A nail through each corner of the makeshift banner finished the day’s decorating. He finally had a ship. A good ship, too–strong engines, a reactor that wouldn’t give him cancer…but it didn’t come with bunks. He’d bought a bed kit, and he already had a hammock strung up in the engine room. It was nice to have choices.

With one last tap of the hammer, he stood back. A bolt of bog-standard canvas from Veles’ general store, and some nice red paint combined to make something meaningful. Out in the world, it still wasn’t safe to say his real name. In here, though…the shriek-hawk could proudly raise its wings.

Well, home was made up. Gareth went to strip down his armor, and take his first night’s sleep in an actual bed in far too long a time.

…

…

…

He could taste the soldier’s blood in the air, after it dribbled down into his respirator. It flowed and mixed with all the other blood caking his armor. A Sith soldier ushered him out of the detention block, and gave him a slap on the back as Gareth walked through the door into raging flame. Charros IV’s cityscape came into view, rushing up from below. His jetpack fired, slowing his descent as he rolled into the middle of a group of…shadowy figures. He knew their features, in theory, but they refused to resolve to his eye.

Clearly, they weren’t important right now. As soon as he got to his feet, the figures moved, and Gareth moved with them. Faceless Republic soldiers and civilians charged them, and each were slaughtered in turn. One figure cut them down with a lightsaber, another with a broad two-handed vibrosword. Gareth, meanwhile, hit with unerringly accurate headshots, burning flesh and boiling blood with each shot.

As they approached the towering capital building, the shadows of tree branches stretched over the roadway, lending shades of black and grey to the seas of blood and flame-red consuming the city. As the team reached the steps of the administrative building, Gareth turned just in time to catch a hint of a blue-hued lightsaber swinging for his skull…

He awoke peacefully, rubbing at his eyes. He stretched over the edge of the bed, groping at the crate that served as his nightstand for his canteen. Uncapping it and taking a drink of cool water, he thought about the dream, looking for meaning in it. It seemed to signal that he should stay his course–that no matter what, it would be worth it. And it seemed to signal he should start hunting Jedi.

[Foxeye]

Fucking exhausted. It took profanity to properly explain how Gareth felt.

Wake up. Walk through Veles. Buy some foodstuffs–bread, salt, spices. Head out. Loiter around the community center, see who shows up. Loiter more, check the news, check the weather, head home to the docks. From there, things diverged.

Option A: the weather was bad in the mountains, and/or on Hutlar. Spend some time around the cantina. Drink, bet on sports, more importantly, enjoy watching sports. Maybe get into a barfight–though that isn’t ideal. Go home. Maintenance. Exercise (your arms are getting a little skinny, do more pull-ups on the bar in the engine room). Sleep.

Option B: the weather was good. Make for Hutlar. Spend some time out in the snow. Hunt, and fight, and feel just the slightest bit alive. And most of all, remember.

The wolf lay dying. At least, it was called a wolf. Concord Dawn’s fieldwolves were more scaly than furry, but otherwise fit the mold. Mother patted the young Mandalorian on the back, looking over the animal–the head had a hole seared clean through it, scales looking like melted wax.
“Good shot, son. Nice and quick, as it should be.” Mother drew a knife, going to work on the rough task of butchering–Gareth knew when and how to help, discarding the entrails and packing away the meat.
“For animals, for hunting…you should always make it quick. Beasts like this, they’re above honor. They transcend it. They don’t know cowardice or cruelty, just following instinct and fighting as hard as they can to live.”
Mother began to peel the hide off, folding and tying it tight before stuffing it in a box on the back of the speeder bike the pair had taken out into the moors. “There’s no justice in making an animal suffer, ad. Only sin.”

Tonight had been another hunt on Hutlar. This one hadn’t been in the tundra, like most. Though the target of this hunt was a cat.

The padawan lay dying at his feet, crippled–a precise blaster bolt to the back had severed his spine as he tried to flee.

A song ran across Gareth’s lips, just as fire ran through his veins at this feeling–justice, vengeance, a true, brutal hunt. Even if it had been entirely one sided.

“Duum motir ca’tra nau tracinya…”

Let all those who stand before us light the night sky in flame. The Cathar padawan gasped for breath, trying to flip himself to his back.

Gareth closed his fist–a vibroblade burst forth from his wrist, concealed in his bracer.

“Gra’tua cuun hett su dralshy’a.”

Our vengeance burns brighter still.

---

Gareth plucked the padawan’s lightsaber from his grip, splattered in the boy’s own blood from the ruins of his skull. He slipped it into his belt. A good first trophy.

[Foxeye]

Addresses were weird. Arbitrary and weird.

There were so many ways to identify where someone lived. You could refer to something as precise as GPS coordinates, marking someone’s house down to the meter. You could do it by landmark–“fifth house north from the fountain”. Or, like much of the galaxy, you could do it by address: street name, building number, floor and apartment.

Things became more complicated if you didn’t know where someone lived. Even knowing who they are, it’s not exactly a picnic to try and find their current domicile off Holonet searches.

This goes double for Mandalorians. They are an aloof people, with an attitude to being in the public eye via social networking and government documentation (another good way to track someone) best summed up as “fuck off.”

Gareth sighed, twirling his pen in his fingers. Addressing this letter was absolutely going to be the worst part. But it wouldn’t be impossible.

Going back to the example, Mandalorians were also tightly knit as a group. There was a lot of internal loyalty going on there. Same with honor–lying and deceit and guile were usually disdained.

Usually.

The little holodisk hummed quietly on the table. Irritatingly. The noise was like jamming a knife into his ear, over and over it. “Finish the damn letter, dumbass,” it seemed to whisper, “Finish the damn letter so you can stop wearing black.”

Black really wasn’t his color. The disk, it were actually talking and not just a convenient target for Gareth to project his thoughts onto, would be correct. He could probably rely on other Mandalorians to carry the message to its intended recipient. They’d know where to find them, and would feel some obligation to do so–that’s the upside of kinship. It’s what he would do, anyway.

Gareth sighed, and gave himself a smack to the temple. Too much mental rambling, not enough writing. He put pen to paper.

“Send to: Oyu’baat, Keldabe, Mandalore.
Please deliver to a chieftain of Clan Vizsla.”