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Chapter Text

Forever – is composed of Nows –
’Tis not a different time –
Except for Infiniteness –
And Latitude of Home –

From this – experienced Here –
Remove the Dates – to These –
Let Months dissolve in further Months –
And Years – exhale in Years …
It never failed to amaze him, how time flowed and bent on itself and he stood steady against its flow and passage.

Forever- Is Composed of Nows by Emily Dickinson

52BBY The Unknown Regions, midday

The last time he had stood on this planet, in this exact spot, he had been racing against a volcanic eruption, evading volcanic bombs launching themselves free of the angry mountain, through suffocating clouds of ash and brimstone, whilst trying to stay undetected by Revan's Sith acolytes and avoiding the Shorak and Peroenians battle. It was almost a laughable event now, so ridiculous in its chaos that it made for a fond memory, but if he closed his eyes for longer than a few seconds, he could already begin to hear the echoes of his pounding heart and shuddering breaths, the sharp teeth of the betrayal and the Dark Side's hunt bearing down on him.

Now, he stalked underneath the umbrella of a towering Toroc tree on the boundary between forest and field. The forest was ancient for its kind, expansive and relatively untouched after thousands of years free from colonial activities. He pressed forward through the remaining field to the soft moss of the forest's underbelly, eyeing the shoots and bushes with the fondness of an elder to a child. The tall, but wide-spread trunks made for easy passage despite the scale of their size, and the sprawling circular disks that made the tree-top canopy kept him hidden in the shadows and protected from the season's heat. Each trunk he went past received a gentle caress of greeting, an acknowledgment, and he reveled in the tentative or eager spikes of energy and presence that marked their greetings back.

He would always keep his mind and senses open on this planet; Giaca was alive and 'wild' in a way many worlds weren't anymore. She sang in the Force, the thunder and whispers of her freedom a balm to a time-weary traveler like himself. He rejoiced in how her voice had changed, the rough, hoarse edge of her protests and insult no longer present after years left alone, untouched and unsullied by violence and civilization. Had he not lived the history himself, he would have never been able to sense her Dark and bloodied history, not without deeply meditating to commune with her (not that he was one for deep meditations. He often tended to go too far and lose himself to the Cosmos in ways only he could understand. He was so different now, an ancient observer so separated he found commiseration more often from the planets and stars than anything or anyone else.

This was still something he found himself returning to, relearning how to accept it, accept that time would forever flow around and with him, yet he would forever stand unchanged by its currents. The blessing, and curse, of his bloodline and legacy.

Ocean eyes blinked away his thoughts, not eager to fall into the weight they carried. His mind has traveled this journey before, and he knows its end. With closed eyes and a deep breath, he gathers the budding tangle of feeling, memory, and despair only to exhale through it, envisioning it dissolving into its parts to be blown away with the breath of his thoughts. He repeats this several times and lets his mind draw on the tranquility of Giaca to center and ground himself.

He let his energy find place amongst Giaca's harmony, and let himself bask in the melody as his mind wandered witlessly as he walked on. The planets of the Unknown Regions had become his refuge and home, a respite from the histories, peoples, and conflicts that continued to haunt both him and the galaxy, but Gacia would always be one of his favorites. He had spent several years now refamiliarizing himself with the system and her two moons, deciding to revisit her after spending nearly a decade in the shadows of a slave liberation movement on planets bordering the Outer Rim. It had been a successful venture, with the establishment of an underground movement connected to other planets and liberation efforts, and the smuggling of thousands of slaves to freedom, but the planet was not yet free of slavers or slavery. The people had needed his help, and he offered it, and when they determined their freedom shall come from their own hands, in their own time, to a government of their own making, he did not deny them. He had no desire to rule or dictate how they should choose to rule themselves. Time had taught him well.

He would come when they called, and until then, he would continue to wander, following his curiosity, whimsy, and The Call as they came.

This return trip to Gaica was both whimsy and curiosity. Despite his many returns to the Unknown Regions, it had been several thousand years since he last entered Gaica's atmosphere and walked across her lands. How had life changed? Had she finally been colonized and fallen to civilization? Were the outposts even still standing, or had enough time passed that even the ruins fell to its passing? Had her volcanoes erupted to the point of mass extinction, resetting the timeline of life in her system? Were the species he walked with still present, or had they already evolved into something new and unknown?

His jump from hyperspace to a lush and vibrant planet brought joy to his heart and a smile on his face, and the warmth he received on his arrival despite still being in space had felt like an embrace between long-lost friends. She was well and healed, and so was he.

Upon his landing, he set out to find the answers to his questions, map out how the surface had shifted and changed, observe the plants, and maybe find new animal friends to play with. He had a tingle of excitement at the thought that enough time had passed for a fully 'sentient' specie (or rather, sentient enough for the galaxy to recognize them as such) to evolve and call Gaica home. This is where his hunt led him now, up the mountainside of a long-dormant volcano into the dark Toroc woods towards the hum and pings of semi-sentient life. He was not close enough to See their light and colors in the Force, let alone with his bare eyes, but he was in-tuned enough with the planet to hear the notes of their presence in her song.

He did not wish to disturb them, so he made himself small and quiet but he couldn't fight his glee. Brintaks! They still lived! Granted, the adults seemed to be much larger than he remembered, but who was he to deny survival of the fittest. The adult pair he spotted laying in a sun patch by the base of a hollowed-out Toroc tree were massive beasts, easily bigger than some multi-person speeders, and he had to fight a giggle as several of their litter bumbled about and tripped over their own limbs as they chased each other about babies yet large enough to trample him in their fumbling.

They still had four legs and were quadripedal, and he noticed with slight trepidation the increased dexterity of their barbed, tentacle-like tails and the thickened plates of their scale-hide armor. Their heads were large and elongated, not that dissimilar to an anteater, but their jaws were much wider and broader, the mouth a joker-like grin to accommodate their massive maws and rows of razor-sharp teeth. Their teeth were nearly as large as their talons, and at the base of each of their mouths were long, dancing appendages nearly identical to their tails aside from the decreased size.

One of the adults turned their head to the sky, small nostrils flaring before letting out a warbling rumble of deep bass which had the cubs running inside the tree hollow and the other adults leaping to four legs and snarling. He felt the call of aggression, the flare of protective instincts in the face of an unknown, and the desire to hunt down all threats around them. One deep breath in, and he reached out with his mind to connect and feel out theirs.

At the first touch, the standing adult reared back and let out a confused trill, but the tense seated adult focused on his location and stared at him only to let out a softer, rolling call. Taking that as an invitation, he brushed against their minds again, letting them hear and feel how he fit in Gaica's song, feel his curiosity and good intentions. He also transmitted the feeling of being full, of having had a successful hunt, to further showcase he had no desire to harm them or their babies, and he had no desire to claim their territory as his own for a hunt. He smiled when he felt them push back against him, curiosity at the feeling of his mind against theirs and wanting to better understand his role on the planet. He sent them the feelings of walking, traveling, sitting and observing, the way they might the bird equivalents of this planet; interesting in their own right, but not an object of desire or competition.

Understanding, but still curious, the seated Brintak shifted onto its legs, its partner still tense and uncertain, but trusting of its mate's abilities to protect their nest and kill such a tiny creature that would dare to threaten them. The ground trembled slightly with each lumbering step the adult took towards him, but he did not let himself show or transmit any feeling of uncertainty, weakness, or fear. I am no threat to you, but you are no threat to me.

It chuffed at him through his nostrils, and the tentacles around its mouth retracted its barbs and danced in the air towards him as if trying to further identify his scent. It eyes stayed unblinking on him, a murky but vibrant yellow broken only by the dark green of a crossed pupil, and he found himself meeting its gaze while he could as their minds connected further as it poked and prodded around his projected thoughts to further assess his purpose and threat. It circled him once, mouth slightly open, scraping its teeth against his armor, chuffing at his hair, and dragging its tentacle across his breastplate. It chirruped at him and then vocalized to its partner, whose body lost its tension but still stood between him and the collection of curious children now puddled at the trunk entrance.

The Brintak closest to him batted him with its head, slightly knocking him off his feet, but he did not let himself project alarm, instead letting out a laugh both in voice and through the Force. Play! The adult let out a higher-pitched chitter, and bumped him again, then turning its flank towards him and he tentatively shoved against it in a push back. This seemed to greatly amuse the creature, in how such an effort did not serve to move it, and it chirruped again louder, amusement dancing across both its mind and eyes. This creature is too small and weak to be a threat and does not taste good enough for a snack, let it play about until it leaves us it seemed to say.

And with that, the stampede of Brintak pups was released towards him, and he let out a yelp as he dodged barbed tentacles and tails, dancing through their limbs to keep from being crushed. The pups yipped and chirruped while the adults chuffed and he laughed.

It felt good to laugh…

---

52BBY The Unknown Regions, nightfall

The two moons were well into the sky by the time he shuffled his way back to his ship, groaning as he collapsed onto the bed. He was uninjured, but playing for hours amongst Brintak pups big enough to crush him and young enough to not know how to tame their own strength was no endeavor for the weak and unexperienced. He had fought battles for days on end where in the aftermath he did not feel so sore or tired. He chuckled to himself, maybe I'm finally starting to feel the effects of old age. Always something to learn, a skill to further hone.

Thank the gods that never stops.

He had no idea what he'd do if he somehow, some way, reached the peak or pinnacle of accomplishment and experience that could not be pushed or taken further. What would he do then with this cursed existence of his?

With that comforting thought, a mental edge he often walked himself to and away from, he placed his hands back on his knees, body protesting as he stood up again, reaching his left arm across to his shoulders to begin unbuckling his armor plates and disarm for the night while his right arm rested in support at his lower back as he walked towards his room's storage.

Each piece was placed to rest on a padded table top surface that lined the top surface of the unit, nesting each part into their corresponding indent in the padded surface until he was only left in his armorweave kute flightsuit . He reached down to the first drawer on the right side of the metal storage unit, and with an absentminded flick of his fingers, it pulled itself open, contents floating out, weightless, into his outstretched hands or to rest on the unoccupied space remaining.

With the practice of thousands of years, he settled into the mindless moving meditation an comforting routine that was cleaning and polishing armor. With a gentle smile, he separated each component of his hal'cabur chest armor piece and shar'tas abdomen piece , the most intricately designed and forged pieces of his werde beskar'gam dark/black beskar armor , and therefore, the hardest to maintain. Clean fabric in hand, he set out removing all grime, dirt, Brintak drool, and Toroc bark from between the metal plates, switching to an abrasive brush or scrub as needed. He repeated this process for his bes'mabur, ghet'bur, ven'cabur, shun'bur, motun'bur, bes'lovik, tadun'bur shoulder armor/pauldrons, neck armor, cod piece/groin area armor, bicep/upper arm armor, thigh armor, knee armor, and shin armor pieces respectively condensing all debris removed into a single, hard ball with a thought. He would return it to the planet once finished.

His mind was everything and nothing, thoughts coming and going freely, with no desire or attachment on his part to hold them to the forefront of his thoughts. He was both in the present, and living thousands of years in his past, the routine a connection across the lifetimes he's lived and all he's seen. With a reverence, he finally turned to his kom'rk vambraces or gauntlets

While he has long-since learned to wield weapons to mastery with both his hands, his right hand and arm were the first to ever draw a blade. His right vambrace, in tribute to that, bore the aliik sigil, symbol on armor of his riduur spouse, nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la Not gone, merely marching far away. (Tribute to a dead comrade or fallen loved one) . With a slower pace, mind drawn to the memories of his riduur and people, he gently touched his fingers across the mourning gray jai'galaar shriek hawk, a flying predator native to Mandalore .

With no warning, the Force swooped onto him, a rouge wave of energy so intense it knocked him off his feet, hand grasping the vambrace as his body and mind burned.

His vision swam as he clenched his eyes to flashes of lightning, of planets dying, rotting, of the universe splintering itself and reforming, again and again as if he were the fabric of reality itself shredding. And then, as if only beginning, the Force's song became screaming.

Lightsabers flashing, red against blue, blue against green, falling, Falling, blasters, bombs, screams, oh the screams. He could hear nothing but the frantic pounding of his heart in his ears, but he could still hear the screams. The sounds of thousands of soul and mind bonds snapping all together at once. The overwhelming, suffocating, instinctual fear as a cold dread, a blanket of darkness, death, and despair draped itself across universe, all light gone dark to the sound of marching, Mandalorian voices and orders leading the charge. His mind splintered as a black hum, a song as dear as the one of his soul, fractured across the ever-shifting visions. The rage of the blade, a sickly horrid feeling of wrong wrong wrong leaden in his stomach so abruptly he retched, heaving over himself as his body physically rejected the infection, the Force shared with him.

Blood fell from his ear as the war drums of the Manda thundered over his silent screams, streaks of justice black, revenge gold, and vivid duty green shooting themselves through him. Mythosaurs battle shriek-hawks, limbs ripped apart and bodies pierced, his body pierced, his limbs shredded. Battlefields, battles he had fought, battle happening now, and battles that would happen soon overlapping in a symphony of tragedy. He was the earth, the very soils of Manda'yaim, and planets beyond her, drowning in the blood of their people and he was sobbing, tears becoming the rains turned snow that fell upon a field of Buy'ce so wide it extended more than the Force would let him see. A tomb, a mass grave and memory, a future so painful the Force itself felt violated.

With a final gasp and lurch, the Force and Manda released him, the talons of their grasp unsheathing themselves from his mind and he finally threw up, panting, shaking to the point of trembling as sobs wracked his body. He was completely overwhelmed, senses still lost to him as he tried to regain his sense of self and humanity.

Never had he felt the Manda and the Force so strongly together, so aligned in their rage, their grief that he could feel his very cells vibrating under the joint command of GO GO GO, a swirling miasma of anticipation, trepidation, and feral bloodlust pressing itself against him. Hunt, stop, save, protect, destroy, ruin, kill, kill, save, protect, stop, no, kill, ruin, death, Dark, go, go, hunt, fight, move, move, MOVE!!!!!

The last time he had felt such consuming darkness, the Sith Empire was at the height of its power and supremacy over the galaxy, and even then, the universe had not felt so dark. There had still been balance; in what the Force had shared with him, the scale of the universe hadn't just been tipped, it had been eradicated.

He was not easily unsettled, but the chill colder than a planet without a star would not leave him. He dragged himself to lean against his room's wall, as his nerves continued to spasm as if frayed. He had never been one to see Shatterpoints, but if this vision was any indication, they were more than appropriately named. The curling predator prey hunter killer fearsome fearful loss life angry violation was still an ever-present guest curled around his mind and he cringed as the migraine made itself present now that he had calmed enough to feel lit.

I will answer your call he sent out to the Force, and it latched onto the words and energy of his promise, rabid, and he felt the tethers of a promise binding itself within him. Oh

move quickly move quickly run fly jump split flee hunt pressed itself against him, and he had to stop himself from physically cringing away. Forward he presented back, and the energy around him shifted within itself, frantic energy instantly turning to glee.

hunt hunt hunt hunter hunt stalk prey hunt kill save save SAVE

Yes, he confirmed, determination purring within his heart as his resolve formed and hardened to the task laid in front of him. Let's hunt.

Chapter Text

52 BBY - Korda VI

Jaster should have known this mission would go to Sith hells when Myles made a comment about one of his feelings and Kal had stood for longer than usual with a brooding brow, silent, as he reviewed the mission brief.

"JURK'ADIR (ATTACK)!!!"

That was all the warning they received before the burst of an ion explosion blasted their ship into the canyonside. Commandos grunted against their security bindings and grit their teeth while bracing against the crash landing, the screeching moans of metal folding to the force of the earth deafening as alarm bells deafened and smoke clouded their vision.

A collective flinch went out as two subsequent booms went off to their right, the heat of the flames and smell of burning flesh and oil wafting past their helmets and breathers as they watched one of the landers explode in a torrent of flames through a window.

No one could have survived that.

They had barely a moment to breathe, and frantically release themselves whilst letting off return fire from the landing gear before the carrier rolled onto its side from another blast of ion cannon fire, two commandos blasted off their feet into the ship's shattered windows before being crushed by its body as it collapsed onto them. They didn't even have time to scream.

"Haar'chak! (Damn it!) Val ganar mhi gaanaylir'yc! (They have us trapped!)" 

Jaster could sense the rising rage and helplessness amongst his soldiers. It was not often a Mando’ade was caught unaware and made to be prey, let alone easy pickings, and he would not stand to see his aliit (family/clan) lose more lives this day.

"Vaii cuyir bic tech?! (Where is it from?!)"

"Gayiyla Mand'alor!! (Everywhere My Leige!!)"

All ships are being hit by both ion and Kordan blaster fire!"

Jaster pressed on his commlink, sending a silent prayer to the Manda that his ad was okay and well enough to answer.

"Jango?!"

"Yes Mand'alor?! (Sole Ruler of Mandalore)" Jaster would never deny the way his body nearly collapsed with relief.

"Me'vaar ti gar? (Sitrep?) What do you see, and how are you and your verde (soldiers/fighters/men)?"

"I'm fine, shaken, but fine. The second Headhunter Company carrier is down, no survivors," there was a slight break in his voice and Jaster had to close his eyes hearing his son be a man, and pushed aside his anguish in this being Jango's first experience as a squad commander. They were Mandalorians, and death and battle would never be something to shy away from, but he still felt sorrow over his son having to become a man in the face of war and battle instead of simple bounty hunter and rescue missions. "Vertigo squad landed safely, but is also taking heavy fire. Aerial Squad has been able to take out several ion cannons since their first blast, but they have guns on both sides of the canyons! No sign of the Kordan squad yet&hellip:"

"Aka be jehaat!! (Mission of lies!!) Easy rescue mission my shebs! (ass)" a commando cursed from behind Jaster as they set off blaster fire in the direction of their enemies. 

"Tion'tuur eyn pakod aka vurel pakod? (When is an easy mission ever easy?)" Another commando sassed back as they launched an ion grenade across the canyon, the explosion accompanied by several pained screams and a break in the blaster fire targeting the ship's hull.

"Oya!," Many meanings: literally *Let's hunt!* and also *Stay alive!*, but also *Hoorah!* Always positive and triumphant. was the resounding response from the surrounding Mandalorians.

With that, his verde began to form up, covering each other and firing back from what little vantage points they could leverage whilst still trapped within the ship. Once there was a break in the blaster fire, several verde slipped through the tear in the ship's hull, blasters blazing before lighting up their jetpacks to take to the sky and snipe from above.

Jaster soon found himself on the ground, exchanging fire and blows with Kordans in a number they had never thought to expect, with a proficiency in hand-to-hand combat he found alarming.

His comms crackled to life as Kal's voice came through the open channel. "Val akaanir guuror mhi...(They fight like us...)"

"Meg cuyir gar miit? (What are you saying?)" Jaster asked, edge to his voice as his mind began to stir up theories.

"Ni-ni vaabir n'kar'taylir...(I-I do not know...)" Jaster could hear the confusion and frustration in Kal's voice as he trailed off, trying to find a reason behind his suspicions that they were missing something. 

"Ni sirbur'yc ni gabar'yc   Aalar be Ka'ra…" [a] Feeling of the Stars" (Mandalorian word/understanding to depict the Force, separate from the Manda) (I told you I had a feeling...)"

"NOT the time Myles," Kal reprimanded with a growl, voice crescendoing as he threw a grenade back at the cliff it came from.

Kriff, Jaster thought to himself, too distracted to even admire his riduur (spouse) blowing up enemies across the battlefield. That's the second time Myles has said such a thing now.

Despite their efforts, Jaster was seeing and hearing more and more of his verde fall to ion and blaster fire. Not liking their odds in such a compromised and tactically disadvantageous position, Jaster prepared to call a retreat.

Bringing his hand up to broadcast across comms, Montross' voice yelled out "Ni oya'karir te aruetiise! (I will hunt the traitors/outsiders!)"

"Motir daab, Montross! (Stand down, Montross!)" Jaster ordered, alarm and urgency leading to a scathing tone as he tried to spot the man. But his Third either did not hear his call, or worse, deliberately disobeyed. Ibic di'kut kelir ve'ganir kaysh'ast kyrayc (This idiot will get himself killed), Jaster grumbled to himself, immediately ducking under blaster fire as he shot in the direction of yet another unseen enemy. By the Manda, Jaster was going to give Montross a piece of his mind and fury after he saved his sorry shebs. They cannot afford to lose any more verde (fighters)!

Jaster pressed his comms, sending out the signal to all the verde left alive and fighting. "Yaimpar at te ni'sen! (Return to the starship!) Tra'cyar mav teh te kebii'tra! (Fire at will from the sky/above!) Montross and I will disable the remaining ion cannons! Hukaatir dar verde! (Cover your fellow soldiers!) Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur! (Today is a good day for someone else to die!)" He did not wait to hear their assent, immediately setting out to the canyon ridge Montross disappeared into after covering Kal and Myles enough that they were able to take position behind their ship's wreckage.

Once he passed a curve in the ridge, Jaster stopped, years of battle-borne instinct stilling his next step. The air itself felt frozen, a wire strung tight enough to snap, and Jaster knew with his first step into the sand, he was not alone.

The hum and shuffling of running feet were the only warning Jaster had as he rolled forward and evaded a blow meant to separate his head from his body.

He lifted his head, expecting to see a beskad (traditional Mandalorian iron sword), and instead was met with a pulsing, electric, black blade.

The Darksaber….

Impossible! Jaster's mind screeched to a halt as he lifted his eyes, taking in the panting, raging, breathing, living form of Tor Vizsla. He would remember those colors, that armor, that aliik (sigil, symbol on armor) until the day he died…

Which may very well end up being today.

Mind and body scrambling, he hurried back onto his feet, blaster outstretched to shoot Tor, only for a blast to hit between his ribs. He cried out, grip on his gun loosening as he pressed the blaster-burn wound with his hand and tried to cover himself. Not seconds later, he was body slammed into the canyon face, ribs cracking and skull ricocheting against his buy'ce (helmet). Vision still swimming, he grabbed his attacker's shoulders, gripping tight as he rammed his knee over and over again into their abdomen, shifting as he felt them fall to grab their head and slam it into a rock face. As the body began to fall, he twisted it in his grip and felt the snap of their neck as dead weight collapsed in front of him.

No time to think, he grabbed the fallen's beskad to swipe at an in-coming punch, the blade clanging against beskar as this new attacker blocked against him. Taking the opening, he shot at their abdomen, in the space between their beskar plates, slicing across both backs of their knees as he swooped behind them. With a cry they fell, and Jaster finally had a moment to breathe and take in his surroundings.

He was effectively cornered, back up against a towering rock face and Kyr'stad verde (Death Watch soldiers/fighters) prowling through the canyon like Nexu in a fighting ring, Tor front and center as he primed for the kill. Now Kal and Myles' comments made sense; the Kordans attacking did fight like them-they had been trained by Mandalorians. This was a kriffing trap, an assassination attempt, and he had fallen right into it. With no Montross still in sight, Jaster gathered his wits, blade and blaster in hand as he prepared for the fight of his life.

Just as he was about to take on his nearest challenger, they dropped, the thud of their buy'ce a ringing echo around them. Everyone stopped, Kyr'stad fighters shifting their heads to look at one another, confused as no blaster shot had taken their member down, and Jaster had not yet made his move.

In the breath of their confusion, a black blur made itself visible in the corner of Jaster's vision. A Mandalorian he had never seen before, beskar daggers in hand dived between the two farthest Kyr'stad fighters, blades flashing as he sliced at their ankles and stabbed into their necks as they fell. The moment the kill strike had landed, blades were ripped away, blood splattering and flying as beskar flew towards another Kyr'stad fighter. Blaster shots went awry as they pulled the trigger in their death, everyone scrambling to get out of the way and accommodate this new fighter.

Jaster forgotten, Kyr'stad verde (Death Watch soldiers/fighters) swarmed this new fighter, who took the onslaught in stride. Like a sword dancer, they wove between flying arms and red blaster fire. They elegantly back peddled as they stepped and swayed out of the path of vibroblades, beskad, and blaster fire, hands behind their back as if strolling to enjoy a nice breeze. Hands in a blur hit at vulnerable point between armor sheets, blades flickering in and out of eyesight as they stabbed to subdue and kill, blood splattering and spraying in their wake. In the chaos, Jaster saw to his shock and amazement blaster fire freeze in the air inches away from the Mando's body as if hitting an invisible wall before launching back at whoever fired it. 

Once the initial set of Kyr'stad who attacked this Mando lay in a pile of blood and beskar, the remaining number prepared their blades and blasters while the Mando taunted them with a head tilt and empty hands spread wide. Jaster's eyes flickered to Tor who trembled in rage, and had his buy'ce been off, Jaster was sure his face would be swollen and red. With a howl, Tor pushed aside a Kyr'stad verd and ignited the Darksaber with a flourish.

"Kaysh's pal'vut! (They're mine!)"

With that cry, the remaining Kyr'stad fighters created a perimeter, and Jaster tried not to take it personally that they thought him too injured to be a threat or flight risk. Taking the time to take some cover behind a set of boulders, Jaster watched as the easy demeanor of the werde (dark) Mando fell to a predatory tensing of their body, all noticeable focus on Tor and his kad. 

"Pehea vaabir gar ganar ibac kad?! (How do you have that blade?!"

The question and its intensity caught Jaster off guard, the voice through the buy'ce comcorder almost trembling, but Tor was too consumed by his stolen kill to notice, immediatley executing a sloppy strike towards this Mando's head. 

"Ash'amur!" (Die!/wishing a violent death in battle)

The darksaber's blow was met with a strange copper or bronze colored blade, deflecting and absorbing the full strength of the blow without a mark. Cortosis? Jaster still wasn't sure, the color and appearance of the metal just different enough. 

"Ib'tuur jatne tuur ash'ad kyr'amur (Today is a good day for someone else to die)," the Mando growled out, the phrase a promise steeped in blood as he took a stance. "Ni kelir nu rohakar'yc de tal aruetti hut'uun, dar'manda (a state of not being Mandalorian - not an outsider, but one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity and his soul - regarded with absolute dread by most traditionall-minded Mando'ade), demagolka (someone who commits atrocties, a real-life monster, a war criminal - from the notorious Mandalorian scientist of the Old Republic, Demagol, known for his experiments on children, and a figure of hate and dread in the Mando psyche) guuror gar! (I will not be defeated by a blood traitor, cowardly war criminal, who's forgotten what it even means to be a Mandalorian, like you!)"

Jaster felt his jaw drop in shock and even heard some of the Kyr'stad members audibly react; he did not even know one could say a graver insult, and he respected this new Mandalorian all the more for the vitriol with which he delivered it.

"Gar n'ijaat te Manda bal taab'echaj'la (You shame/dishonor the Manda and your ancestors/ones marching away (passed on)," the Mando shouted as he began to take on the offensive, each step planted and firm while Tor flustered his way into a defense against each blow and stab. There was no rythmn or predictable pattern to this Mando's style, stabbing, swiping, slashing, and punting with his blade amongst punches and kicks. After a particularly masterful combo that had Tor nearly losing his grip on the blade, the Mando dropped to the floor and swept his leg across, knocking Tor flat on his back. Before the Mando could stand to finish his onslaught, the remaining Kyr'stad charged to provide Tor cover to retreat and recouperate. With an audible snarl, the werde (dark) Mando took to taking down the remnants of Tor's squad while the hut'uun (coward, worst insult to a Mando) began to make his way towards the opposite end of the canyon. 

"Kriff, where did this bastard come from?" With a flinch, Jaster just barely managed to stop himself from shooting Montross as he came up beside him.

"Montross! If we approach together, we can take Tor out and finish this! Let's-"

Montross let out a sigh, head shaking before coming back up to look straight into Jaster. "I should have known, if you want something done right, you do it yourself."

"What-," Jaster found his voice cut off as an elbow found itself in his buy'ce, body flinging itself backwards before folding over with a kick to his stomach. Before he could defend himself, he felt the skin of his neck split as a blade slashed itself towards his throat. Reeling, Jaster tried to collect himself in the face of Montross' onslaught, hand pressing against his jugular as he felt blood begin to pusle down. He shot and punched where he could, slamming his heel into the base of Montross' foot the moment the oppourtunity presented itself. 

"Argh!"

"Aruetii! (Traitor!)" Jaster screamed, betrayal burning its way up his throat and tearing away at his heart. "Why?!"

"The True Mandalorians should be mine! Not Jango's," and with that, the next round of attacks and blows ensued. Jaster struggled to keep up, the pain from his wounds, the blood loss, and the pounding of his head taking away his energy to fight. Tripping over his feet, and forced to take on the defensive, Jaster swallowed against the rising feeling of doom encroaching upon him. This is how I'll die, he thought to himself. This is it.

With a final kick, Jaster cried out as he lay sprawled on the rock floor, blaster in his face. He had no idea where Tor was, or the remaining Kyr'stad and that strange Mando who tried to help him. All he could see was the cold metal of his once-friend's buy'ce (helmet) and the tightening of his hands as he prepared to pull the trigger.

Unwilling to hide from his death, Jaster glared at the barrel as he swallowed the taste of his own blood, only for his eyes to widen as a flash of yellow that disappeared as quickly as it was ignited swiped its way across his vision. No blood fell as the head separated itself from the body, and Jaster watched with darkening vision as the traitor's body buckled into itself and fell to the side to the approach of black beskar (Mandalorian iron).

Just as consciousness left him, Jaster could barely make out the words, "Ni ganar gar, jat'ca'nara. (I have you, I made it in time.)"

As he felt hands join his at his throat, a strange warmth tugging at his skin, the darkness claimed him.

Chapter Text

Italics: Thoughts or emphasis, context-dependent 

52BBY- Korda VI

Jaster came to with a flinch, heart pounding and mind racing as memories of his near-death flashed across his mind's eye. The lightest feather of a touch at his collarbone, and he blindly swung, fists curled and elbow armed for a follow-up strike. His wrist was immediately caught in a fierce grip as crippling pain speared its way across his ribs and stomach and he cried out, collapsing in on himself and into the chest of whoever had approached him.

"Udessir, verd'alor. (Calm down, leader of soldiers.)" A voice like honeyed kaf crackled through external comms, breaking through the ringing of his ears, accent heavy and unfamiliar. Jaster felt arms shifting to hold his weight as he lay curled into himself in an instinctual position to protect his vulnerability, the whisper of their movement barely discernible above the high pitch pulsing in his ears and his heavy panting.

Gloved and armor-plated hands guided him against stone to rest, as the voice continued, "Te aruetii cuyir kyra'yc (The traitor is dead), te hut'uun viinir be'chaaj (the coward ran away). Gar verde cuyir morut'yc (Your warriors are safe). Gar cuyir morut'yc (You are safe)." 

Jaster's face reached up towards the heavens, a pale white and yellow against his eyelids, and a tear of relief fell amongst those unwillingly shed from his pain. Swallowing against the urge to throw up, he tried to take stock of himself. He didn't have his buy'ce (helmet) on. Had it been taken off of him? Had Montross hit him hard enough to rip it off his face? He couldn't recall, but he figured he could worry about where it had disappeared to after he stopped feeling like death warmed over, more trembling bruise than being. He had no creed to keep in hiding his face, and regardless, this person was a Mandalorian; Jaster's beskar'gam aliik (armor markings/symbols) are enough for them to know who he is, and what is a face in comparison to the ink on his soul? 

"Meg vaabir gar partaylir? (What do you remember?)"

Jaster fought a wave of nausea as responded. "Korda VI. Jehavey'ir (Ambush). Montross. Gar akaanir'yc (You fighting)."

"Jate luubid par jii (Good enough for now)," the Mando whispered under their breath. Jaster knew they probably wanted to get a look at his pupils, but he was still doing everything in his power to not vomit all over his...savior? Narudar (Enemy of my enemy/temporary ally)?

He swallowed, tongue heavy as lead, jaw clenching as his mind raced to make sense of his scrambled thoughts and memories, though each blur and flash sent a lance through his skull, migraine intensifying. As if reading his body for what Jaster could not say, a metal bit tapped his lips, and he flinched, eyes still closed and searing.

"Pirur, bic's pirun (Drink, it's water)...Liser't ganar gar pirur'yc tihaar  (an alcoholic beverage of Mandalore) o'r gar tratyc. (Can't have you drinking alcohol in your condition)," Jaster coughed, spilling the water over himself and his stranger at that, gasping and choking from the unexpected humor of the moment immediately broken by a cry from the pain lancing his sides and throat.

"Fuck! Should not have said that…," the use of Basic was a switch, the curse not one Jaster has ever heard, but it made the accent of the stranger all the more prominent. It must be a dialect of sorts, heavy and lilting…it oddly reminded Jaster of some of the more remote desert clans. It certainly wasn't Kalevalan or Concordian, but it was also so blended it could easily belong to someone from several other planets and systems closer to the Core. A truly well-traveled Mando then. Focus on that Jaster, focus on that.

Once his ribs were no longer trying to break through his lungs with every breath, and the white heat of his mind subsided, Jaster let out a much softer but no less hoarse or tense chuckle as the reality of his situation began to sink in. The huff of an aborted laugh briefly grabbed his attention, and Jaster warmed at the thought that this verd might understand his thoughts and position on a personal level.

With another swallow, he braced himself, dragging his right hand against the dried blood and dust coating his face to finally open his eyes.

The light was searing, and Jaster recoiled with a hiss, immediately shutting his eyes as he heard the sound of armor and fabric rustling.

"Olar, kebbur haa'taylir'yc jii. (Here, try looking now)." With a herculean effort, Jaster cautiously blinked his eyes open to the outline of gloved fingers and a curved hand covering his entire field of vision. They were barely parted, positioned so there was some light slipping through them and from below, but protecting Jaster from the painful onslaught it had been before.

It took some time to let his vision adjust, eyes dry and shifting in and out of focus from time to time. The hand before him did not shake or drop, held steady and patient.

"Ni'm jate jii (I'm good now)," Without a word or sound of confirmation or question, the hand pulled away and Jaster was finally able to get a good look at his rescuer.

A black buy'ce (helmet) with a large dark teal strip of duty and responsibility down the central panels came into immediate frontal focus, taking up the majority of his vision. Blinking, as if that would do anything to combat the slight blur and pain of his concussion, Jaster tried to force his eyes to better focus on details of his savior's buy'ce aliik (helmet markings/symbols).

The metal detailing of a Leige helm rested in the center of the buy'ce's crown with two strips curving around it on both sides as if to mimic a circlet. Two dark green Jaig eyes bore down on him, symmetrically placed just above the top perimeter of a truly unique visor. Who the kriff is this man? Jaster asked himself as confusion reared its head. Jaig eyes? A Leige helm? When was the last time a Goran had declared someone worthy of that honor and designation? Am I hallucinating?

Eyes scanning across the helm, Jaster tried to place the design. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before, the closest comparisons were depictions from archival texts. If Jaster didn't know any better, he would have thought an ancient Mandalorian had come to his rescue. The visor shape across the eyes was also curious mixture of a Leige, Guardian, and Vanguard cut; it stretched across the entirety of the face, temple to temple (much like a Tracker's), but instead of being set as a singular T shaped piece, this Mando's visor stripe down the central vertical plane of his buy'ce (helmet), where the nose and mouth would rest beneath, was broken up by a series of symmetrical pieces that mirrored the maw and mouth breaks of a Mythosaur's skull. The eyeline was also quite a bit thicker than traditional, likely reaching from brow bone to cheek bone for a human instead of being just thick enough to cover the eye or eye socket itself.

Jaster had no idea what to make of the being before him, crouching close enough to brace Jaster should he fall, but far away enough to respect his wounded space. Despite their current pose, they could not disguise their stature. They were tall; he remembered that much from the flickers of the fight that raced across his mind.

They wore a dark navy, almost black cape which, with the way it fell on them, obscured most of their form. It seemed to be a coarser, versatile and adaptable fabric, one Jaster himself used when traveling across climates and planets. If Jaster was right about the slight sheen to it, it might even be a reinforced cortosis-weave blend. This Mando must have money or connections… Jaster mused, but he still couldn't place the aliik (symbols/sigils/markings) to any Mando identity in the Guild. Surely if this Mando was in the business of soldiering or being a bounty hunter, Jaster would have heard of them before.

The cape was cut to loop around the neck, rippled fabric resting loosely and comfortably across their broad shoulders where it met some metallic fastenings, hanging low enough to reach mid-chest, though with the angle they were leaning at to crouch next to Jaster, it hung out low enough to cover the entirety of their chest. Jaster had no idea of knowing if they meant to have it draped in such a way that it obscured almost the entirety of their beskar'gam (armor) and body, but that thought wasn't the most comfortable, so Jaster discarded it. He'd lose his battle against puking if he had to think about fighting for his life again so soon.

"Liser gar taylir gar? (Can you hold yourself?)"

Nayc! (NO!) "Elek. (Yes)"

"Jate (Good)." Kriff…

With that, the Mando brought his armored hands to his knees and slowly rose to his full height while Jaster mentally bolstered himself to keep stable. Looking at the Mando now from his sitting position on the ground, Jaster thought this stranger was oddly reminiscent of a Wookie, more legs than anything else, though not so tall as to actually be a fully grown Wookie. Maybe a juvenile one?

Once standing, Jaster was surprised to see that, despite their height and larger size, this Mando wasn't bulky or bulging with muscle like some verde (warriors) he knew; they seemed to sport a more lithe, dense musculature that Jaster knew from what little he has seen made them all the more lethal.

"Te barre? (The bodies?)" Jaster asked, shuffling himself better against the rock with a grimace to take weight off his core and arms, letting the ease of their interactions so far fall to the seriousness of his responsibilities and the reality of what had happened. The stranger looked at him, and even without being able to see their eyes, Jaster would bet money on the fact that they would be hooded and assessing as the Mando's head slightly tilted while they considered their response.

Not immediately replying, they continued on for several paces before they crouched down in front of a relatively small pack resting against a nearby rock, the stranger drawing out the time it took for him to remove each item he collected long enough for Jaster to see. Bacta patches, gauze, bandages, and a metal tin likely containing some type of healer's balm. Is he a baar'ur (medic/healer)?

Materials in hand, the Mando rose once again, turning to return to Jaster's side. Jaster wasted no time in the opportunity presented to him, immediately scanning what armor he could see for any aliik (markings) whilst also trying to analyze and place the design. Some clans and clan members not only had signature aliik (sigils/symbols), but signature forging styles and designs as well to further distinguish hierarchy and ability.

The most obvious and striking of this Mando's aliik markings was the large shape of a Mythosaur skull embossed across his ghet'bur (neck/collarbone), hal'cabur (chest), and shar'tas (abdomen), minute, indiscernible ancient Mandalorian text engraved across the entirety of its shape. The engravings were all delicately painted over in a mix of colors that created a dark teal of duty and responsibility, the same as on their buy'ce (helmet). The rim, edges, and perimeter of the risen Mythosaur were painted with a thin, layered line: the base a shereshoy (lust for life) orange and the top layer a thinner line of mourning gray.

Jaster took a moment to absorb the poeticism of such a design, the symbol of Mandalore shrouded in the color of mourning, the loss of a loved one. Does this Mando mourn Mandalore, or for Mandalore? For Mandalorians as a whole? It's not a mourning of tradition is it? In that case, the ancient scripts would be gray as well. Painting those with teal, what text does he have written there that he recognizes it as his duty and responsibility to uphold or follow them? The orange was an equally strong message; as if despite their grief, this Mando would continue to carry a lust for life. Overall, it painted the picture of a steadfast, honorable, and Code-driven Mandalorian; whatever their opinions or stance may be, Jaster found respect blossoming in his chest, not just for the fearsome warrior approaching, but for the person beyond their skill they seemed to be too.

Shifting his gaze from the aliik (markings) to the beskar'gam (armor) it rested on, Jaster found himself once again baffled as he faced the unfamiliar. The cut of the beskar'gam (armor) was unusual, to say the least. Rather than several large, singular and thick plates attached to a reinforced kute (flightsuit), this armor covered almost the entirety of this Mando's body. Delicately placed and layered metal plates and pieces seemed to mimic, or be based off of, the structure of a humanoid musculoskeletal system. Jaster watched how it moved as the Mando finish their approach; each piece was so intricately linked and calibrated that the suit moved and breathed seamlessly with every shift, weight change, flex, and release of their movements. It was tactical and practical genius. None of the weak points present on most modern Mandalorian were obviously present and every major vital point was covered and protected in such a way that all fighting flexibility and maneuverability was maintained.

The motun'bur (thigh) pieces were similarly genius in their design. Instead of resting to cover the front thigh and quadricep only, the piece and all of its components spanned almost the entire circumference of their leg, leaving only the inner thigh uncovered by beskar (Mandalorian iron/steel), though Jaster noticed their kute (flightsuit) had additional fabric or leather reinforcements where their thighs met and rubbed. They seamlessly transitioned into the bes'lovik (knee) and tadun'bur (shin) pieces. Squinting and forgoing all attempts at subtly, Jaster couldn't determine if the bes'lovik (knee armor)wrapped fully around, but he assumed if the motun'bur (thigh) pieces did, then the tadun'bur (shin) pieces would as well at least. It was also near impossible to tell while the Mando was moving if their cetar'bur (foot) armor was built into their boots, or build to fit on top of them, but either way, their steps were silent and sure.

Jaster didn't see any holster for a blaster, but he could make out the leather straps of a thigh belt and pouch around both legs which may be where they hid their weapons. He could also make out two beskad? Kad? (Traditional Mandalorian iron sword? Non-Mandalorian sword?) hilts peaking out from beneath their cape, creating an X-cross to their silhouette. Jaster had to hand it to this Mando, they made for an intimidating figure.

Even while walking, the cape covered both arms. Jaster could only make out the outline of arm, bicep, and shoulder armor under the fabric. Kriff, they've obscured any aliit (family/clan) markings they have there. That didn't necessarily bode well for him.

Taking in their confident and assured approach, Jaster found himself a bit awed. His concussion had seemed to do away with all of his natural protection and survival instincts; he was having to force himself to remember to be suspicious and cautious of this stranger.

Remembering more of the fight as the Mando stalked forward, Jaster internally remarked at how their movements almost seemed liquid in their armor. If Jaster had been looking at this Mando walking while cloaked from behind, he would have never assumed them to be as armored and armed as they were. Jaster could think of several Goran off the top of his head who would drool at the chance to study their beskar'gam's design pattern and dissect it. Whoever had forged this piece was a Master of Masters, a Goran truly versed in the ancient, and maybe even lost arts of beskar (Mandalorian iron/steel) forging. Jaster would forever deny drooling a little bit himself.

The entirety of their beskar'gam (armor) base was entirely black instead of the natural metal's coloring, even with the scratches and weathering gained by blocking vibroblades and blasters and getting slammed into canyon walls. Jaster knew only of one ancient Mando, the Werde'verd (Dark Warrior), who once wore black beskar'gam (Mandalorian iron/steel armor). They were an elite warrior close to Mand'alor Sole Ruler of Mandalore Tarre Vizsla, though the mythos surrounding them are quite juxtaposing, most records of them only surviving in Mandalorian oral history.

Some clans and stories claimed the Werde'verd (Dark Warrior) had become dar'manda a state of not being Mandalorian, one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity and his soul, betraying Mand'alor (Sole Ruler of Mandalore) Vizsla, resulting in his death. Others praised and nearly deified the Werde'verd (Dark Warrior), placing them at equal or even greater standing as Mand'alor Vizsla. Some even insinuated that they were lovers. There was only a single surviving text on this verd (warrior), describing a trial or ancient ritual they had to complete. From what was still legible, at least one aspect of this entailed hunting amongst the home canyons and caves of the Mythosaurs, weaponless and armorless, to receive the approval of the Manda and Manda'yaim herself. All that was known of the outcome of this ritual was the only known instance of black beskar (Mandalorian iron/steel), and acceptance at Mand'alor Vizsla's side.

Perhaps this Mando knew the old myths well, the ones praising the Werde'verd (Dark Warrior), and saw them as a worthy idol?….Optimist, Jaster thought to himself. But it was either that, or this Mando was likely an assassin or stealth verd (warrior/fighter), maybe a maverick lone-wolf type who sought out their own form of justice? Why else would a verd (warrior) paint the entirety of their beskar'gam (armor) base black? Neither were very favorable options considering the gray Shrie-hawk glaring at Jaster from their right vambrace, a direct replica of the aliik (symbols/sigils) on the fallen Kyr'stad's (Death Watch's) armor aside for the difference in color.

Jaster's eyes flickered back to his blaster, which rested suspiciously close to his side, before returning to the stranger, body coiled to strike in an instant. The more Jaster thought about it, the more bizarre and strange this situation and Mando seemed to be. Nothing about this person, from their fighting style, to their preferred weapons, to their accent, to their markings, was familiar to Jaster. Yet they were undeniably Mandalorian.

As if sensing his rising suspicion and returning wits, or having caught his brief glance to the weapon at his side, the Mando slowed and began to further telegraph their movements, hands held low and presented towards him, as if giving Jaster the courtesy of being able to see and anticipate any strikes or grabs. Getting no sign of discontent or aggression from Jaster beyond his suspicious stare as they came up before him again, the Mando slowly descended and returned to their crouched position off his left side now.

Reaching every so slowly towards his collarbone, the stranger seemed intent on continuing their supposed treatment of Jaster's wounds. That must have been what woke me up, Jaster thought to himself.

After Jaster's nod of consent, the stranger delicately parted the torn fabric of his kute (flightsuit) to continue his work on the wound.

"We are not far from the battle site," the Mando began to share, switching back to Basic. "No scavengers have come, and I have kept watch for chalaar (corpse robbers). It seems your attackers have no desire to stay around and ensure their job is done, the hut'uun cowards (strong insult for a Mandalorian) (cowards). As for your aruetii (traitor) and those other verde (fighters), they may have been my kills, but they are your enemies. You can choose how their deaths are to be honored, or dishonored if you would rather. I haven't reclaimed their beskar'gam (armor) yet. I've been a bit busy keeping your blood in your body. As for your fallen verde, I have stood vigil, but have not touched or moved them. Your surviving verde (soldiers) can reclaim them, and I have no right to their death honors before you do," he drew back a bit, head shifting to meet Jaster's eyes ever so briefly before softly adding "Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la...(Not gone, merely marching far away...)" [traditional tribute/condolence to or for a dead comrade]

Jaster nodded in response to the tribute extended for their losses, and watched from his peripheral vision as his savior's focus returned to his more serious wounds. Jaster tensed, both at the pain and at having such a vulnerable area exposed, but tried to keep still. His body relaxed as soon as the Bacta patches began to cool and numb his skin, and he let out a breath of relief once the stranger's hands left his neck to open the healer's balm and unwrap some more bandages.

"Vor entye (I accept a life debt)," Jaster whispered, voice soft but still strong with the conviction of his meaning. The Mando stilled, body held tense, head jerking up from Jaster's wounds to look at his face. It was a very feline behavior, and Jaster felt the full weight of this Mando's focus as the dark glass and Jaig eyes of their buy'ce (helmet/head) centered on him. Despite the pain in keeping his head angled to maintain eye contact, or at least what he hoped was eye contact, Jaster did not waver.

He knew what he said, knew exactly what it meant, and he intended to honor it, even if this Mando was a dar'manda a state of not being Mandalorian, one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity and his soul Kyr'stad (Death Watch). Though that seems very unlikely, he reassured himself. This verd (warrior) had saved him, killed for him, protected his men from dishonor after death, knew to reclaim dar'manda a state of not being Mandalorian, one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity and his soul beskar (Mandalorian iron/steel) as dictated by the Old Traditions, and had painstakingly ensured Jaster would not succumb to his wounds. If such actions did not call for a life debt, little else would.

There was no initial response or explicit acknowledgment of his words, but Jaster knew they were at the very least heard. The moment the words had left his mouth and the stranger had jerked in response to hearing them, their air seemed to gain a weight and density that had not been present before. No sounds had been made, but Jaster could feel the hum and charge of an electrical shift in the air. The feeling was so strong, Jaster was half convinced it he closed his eyes, he would have been able to imagine a distant rumble of thunder. For a brief moment, it wasn't a humanoid in front of him; it was a storm, dark and tumultuous clouds forming, wind biting and rain cutting. The hairs on Jaster's arms were raised, and silence had never been louder. His mind and instincts were at war; he was fully aware he was in the middle of a desert landscape under clear skies and a burning star, but his body told him to take cover as if the sky would split apart at any moment.

Finally, the stranger tilted their head ever so slightly, and Jaster physically felt the shift as their gaze broke away from his. He was surprised to feel his heart fluttering in his chest, and his breath came and went a bit faster, as if he had actually been fleeing.

The strange, seemingly mandokar (epitome of Mandalorian virtue - a blend of aggression, tenacity, loyalty and a lust for life) (epitome of Mandalorian virtue) Mando had Jaster equal parts wary, captivated, and curious. Why did they save me? Are they a true ally, or a narudar (temporary ally - specifically your enemy's enemy, where both sides know this is an alliance of convenience and not a lasting pact)? What would they have me do to fulfill my debt? Jaster had so many questions, he was nearly vibrating with them, yet this stranger before him remained as still and focused as a strill preparing to pounce.

It unnerved him, that energy and his body's instinctual response to it. What-

"Ni buyca gar entye (I recognize your debt)," Their voice and word choice caught Jaster's attention and drew him away from his thoughts: 'I recognize your debt', not 'I accept your debt'. What an interesting word choice, Jaster thought to himself, but it was one he wouldn't comment on at this moment. He wasn't too keen to be the center of such attention again so soon. And thinking or debating deeply on syntax and connotation with his brain's addled condition might just take him out. 

They stayed in silence together a bit more, the quiet of the battlefield broken by Jaster's hisses and groans of pain as the stranger continued his mending. Heartbeat and breath finally settled, Jaster returned to his multi-functional distraction tactic: questions.

"Tion'ad cuyir gar aliit? (Who is your clan?)," Jaster asked,Who do you owe your allegiance to? resting on the tip of his tongue instead. It is not necessarily a common question amongst Mandalorians (though the diverging political factions had changed things), but this Mando's aliik (markings) had Jaster unsure. The stranger's pause in his ministrations had Jaster internally frozen, eager to know yet dreading what would be said.

"Gar tionir venjii te entye? (You chose to ask that after offering your debt?)" The tone with which they asked that question, while carrying a slight edge of humor, had Jaster feeling like an admonished ad (child), and he fought against a blush as he silently sputtered. That had certainly not been what he had expected.

"I'm concussed," he justified, and the rolling wave of the Mando's laughter made a brief return.

"Mhi buy'ce gai cuyir Buurenaar (My helmet name is Storn), he/him…You-" his voice cut off and Jaster could swear he could hear the clenching of the man's jaw and his swallow before his next sentence was spoken. "You can call me Percy. Percy Naasade (Of No Clan)…"

"Jaster Mereel, he/him, of House and Clan Mereel," he answered on instinct. Then Percy's words registered. "Naasade (Of No Clan/Nobody)?" he asked with incredulous delicacy

A nod was his only response.

Sensing the prickling defensiveness of his savior, and the undoubtedly touchy subject of how they came or chose to bear such a name as Naasaade (Of No Clan/No One), Jaster refrained from asking any more pressing questions about this Mando's identity. He didn't want to accidentally press a wrong nerve and find himself at the end of this man's mercy and care.

A tenser silence descended upon them both, the Mando's tending and movements a bit sharper while Jaster mapped out his approach to navigating the minefield around their identity.

"You say you are Naasade (Of No Clan) now, but you wear the Vizsla and Kyr'stad jai'galaar (Death Watch shriek hawk)….your reaction to Tor seemed…personal…," Jaster pointedly eyed the man's vambrace as he found himself at a loss of how to phrase his next question despite his initial confidence. It didn't seem like he needed to worry about that though; there was a cautious hesitancy to Percy that suggested his implication was clear and made Jaster fear.

"Ibac cuyir nayc pandor haat (That is no easy/simple truth)..." Percy brought his hand to his vambrace, thumb idly stroking the painting. "As you've likely assumed, I was not always Naasade…" his voice trailed off, a whisper, before returning with the strength a strength and sadness Jaster found himself sympathizing with. "But I am now. My riduur (spouse), however, was of Clan and House Vizsla. Taab'echaaj'la ti te Manda (He marches away with the ancestors/Council of Kings), but I know he would be so disappointed in what's become of his aliit…"

With no other response he could think of, Jaster extended his condolences. "Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la. (Not gone, merely marching far away.)" [tribute to a dead comrade]

They stayed like that, sharing a moment of silence and remembrance before Percy shifted to continue his healing. Trying to distract himself from the pain, Jaster decided to focus on asking questions about the Mando than about his current state. He'd get enough of an earful once Mij found him.

Just as Percy was tying off the last bandage, he froze, head swiveling towards the South of the shipwrecks and battlefield Jaster had come from.

"BUIR! (Father/Parent!)" Jaster felt his heart tear open, chest cracking upon hearing those words as he sniffed, tears instantly welling in his eyes as he heard the yells of his ad beyond the canyon edge. That was the first time Jango has ever called him father.

"Jaster!"

"Mand'alor Sole Ruler of Mandalore!"

Openly sobbing now, Jaster extended his arms out as Percy quickly stepped to the side and the armored bullet that was his son and riduur (spouse) collided into him, the sounds of Jaster's pain overridden by Jango's cries.

Jango buried his uncovered face into Jaster's neck, body heaving and trembling as he uncontrollably sobbed. Threading his hands into Jango's hair, Jaster pulled him closer, whispering sweet nothings and reassurances as the teenager processed almost losing his second family in his first mission, only a year or two after losing his both family. Kal's arms were wrapped around them both, hands shaking as he squeezed his family tight and Jaster could barely make out the grateful whispers and declarations of love his riduur (spouse) made at finding him alive.

Kal and Jaster quickly collected themselves, keeping protective and loving arms around them as they took in the scene around them.

Jaster took stock of the Haat Mando'ade (True Mandalorians) members that had likely joined Kal and Jango's search for him. They all had their backs turned while maintaining a safe and tactical perimeter between them, Percy, and the slain bodies, giving their little family some modicum of privacy under full protection. Kal's attention instead immediately centered on the stranger in their midst, energy and posture more hostile than anything.

"Gar tegaanalir'yc kaysh? (You rescued him?)," he growled.

Arms folded, posture unbothered, Percy answered with a nod. "Elek (Yes)."

"Tion'jor (Why)," Kal demanded. Before Percy could begin to answer, Jaster took Kal's hand into his own.

"Naak, udesla cyare- (Peace, calm down beloved)-"

"Gar ru'lis ganar ru'ash'amur! (You could have died [violently]!)" was Kal's immediate harsh rebuke. "Pehea liser vi ruusaan kaysh?! (How can we trust him?!)"

"In my defense, if I wanted him dead, he'd be dead." Kal let out a furious hiss, body tensing as he prepared to rise, the other verde around them taking offense and going towards their weapons-

"He's right," Jaster let out forcefully, trying to put a stop to any hasty or violent actions. Kriffing di'kut (Fucking idiot), he cursed to himself. This Percy was showing himself to be quite an interesting character, but Jaster was not interested in finding out how his men fared against this verd (warrior) so soon. There was a sea of bodies and blood staining the rock face and sand surface to affirm that. Bastard didn't even look like he had just been in a fight.

Jango let out a sharp intake of breath, and everyone seemed to freeze. "If he wanted me dead, he could have just let Kyr'stad (Death Watch) or Montross kill me, or done the job himself and fled with no one the wiser. Instead, he kept me alive and protected. Had he not intervened, you'd be collecting my body." At that, Kal's eyes darkened and hands clenched, hands shaking fists as Jango let out a small whimper and tightened his grip around Jaster.

"Montross?" It hurt, how the question was asked as both a denial and confirmation.

Head hung low as he nodded his assent, curses and accusations flew in everyone's disbelief or vindication. Montross had been extreme in some of his positions and actions, blunt, harsh, and demanding, but everyone had learned to make peace with his personality because no one could deny his ability or effectiveness. Recently though, he had been even quicker to temper, lashing out in frustration. The signs were all there, now that Jaster looked back. And I hadn't just missed them; I ignored them entirely…

"It was a trap," he confessed. "Vi rucuyir hodar'yc (We were deceived)...Tor Vizsla is still alive. Montross sold us out to him and Death Watch. He lured me away from the main battlefield to an ambush led by Tor himself; Percy arrived just in time. When Montross realized I was being covered to get away, he tried to kill me himself-"

"As important as this conversation is," Percy cut in, voice projecting as he dropped his casual stance to move forward, approach stopped by the aiming of blasters at his person. Not even acknowledging the weapons, his eye-line stayed glued on Jaster. "You should save the report for later. I think you'd agree that there are more pressing priorities." His head swiveled to the nearest verd (warrior) whose blaster was pointed straight at his head as he took a single step forward, loose posture as threatening as anything Jaster had seen, before losing the aggressive air as he focused on Kal. "Now, if you're done trying to determine if you should kill me, or have at least decided to postpone that, who's your baar'ur (medic/healer)? I did what I could with the limited supplies I had on me, but he needs more extensive treatment, especially for his internal injuries."

Upon registering Percy's words, both Kal and Jango flinched away from him, Mij breaking rank with a flurry of curses as he descended onto Jaster like a swarm of rabid Xandu.

"What have you treated so far," Mij asked as he took stock of the bandages and wounds on Jaster's person. Percy shifted his weight, making yet another aborted move to come closer before a body blocked him. Really? his head tilt conveyed. With a nod from Jaster to the verd (soldiers/fighters) guarding him, they stepped aside and closed ranks behind Percy once he walked through directly towards Mij.

"My main priority was the vibroblade cut along his neck and jugular. With the way it struck him, it did knick the vein, but the angle ended up being more horizontal than vertical, so I was able to put a fast patch and blood-stop gel on the vein itself to control the bleeding. I closed the wound with some stitch strips before putting on a bacta patch and wrapping it up. I don't recommend undoing the bandages until you're at your ship or medbay, wherever there are supplies to handle the vein reopening if it does. He has several cuts and stabs along his torso, arms, left knee, and thighs. Each one has a temporary seal and bacta patch with a gauze pad and tight bandage around them."

Kal, Jango, Mij, and the other verd (soldiers) took a closer, shocked look at Jaster before turning back to Percy. Most of them in their shock at finding him alive, and with an unknown, had taken a close enough look at his person to see the now so obvious bandages.

"Kriff, we're lucky you knew what you were doing and had supplies on hand…"

Percy gave a deceptively nonchalant shrug. "Not my first battlefield."

Everyone took note of that answer.

With a final assessing, and maybe even approving glance, Mij turned back to Jaster, maneuvering him to lay down as he began to prepare him for transport with Kal and Jango's tentative help in prepping the field stretcher.

"We can't stay here for long," Myles commented nervously, agreeing with Percy's unspoken assessment. "They might not have returned yet, but they'd be stupid to not try and recover the beskar."

"Myles is right," Jaster confirmed with a strangled groan as he was shifted onto the stretcher. "We also need to be sure the Kordan Force we were contracted to rescue actually exists and are still alive. Even with all of the developments, we came here to do a job…" he broke off, panting as the waves of pain flared before fading again. "Mij and all of our injured verd (fighters) will be escorted to the carrier ship still in atmo. The rest of you will recover the bodies of the fallen for burial rights and reclaim Kyr'stad's beskar'gam. As soon as is safe, we'll burn the pyres. Percy-" Jaster broke off as he found himself under the man's full and unflinching focus once again.

"Are you willing to stay and help?" No one spoke or made a protest as their chosen Mand'alor (king) spoke and made this request. Even if they had objections, this was not the time or place to voice them. Their Alor (leader) trusted this man, at least to some degree, so they would too. Percy also seemed to take his time to consider Jaster's request, and while he did not move, Jaster could feel his mind turning over itself.

"I am," came his soft yet strong assent. "Nayc entye par ibic. (No debt/No need to thank me.) Val kelir cuyir ijaat'yc. (They will be honored.)" 

Sighing in relief as he finally let himself rest down against the stretcher, Jaster conveyed his silent thanks. It was visible, the shift in both Kal and his verd's demeanor towards Percy upon his last two sentences being spoken.

"I am not a baar'ur (medic/healer)," Percy continued, "but if there are some with superficial wounds who are to stay here on the ground, I can patch them up quickly before we work. My ship is also not far from here. The area where I landed is large enough for you and your remaining ships to join, and it rests under hanging cliff edge, so we won't be easily spotted from above. I can share the coordinates with you all."

Jaster's focus shifted, vision blurring and hearing fading in and out as the adrenaline flooded his body and he felt himself begin to crash. He could hear Mij and Kal around him, hear Jango, but also Percy as orders were given and actions were taken.

Just as his eyes were closing and the darkness embraced him, falling back to unconsciousness, Jaster found his thoughts dancing around Percy and his seemingly natural ability to take command. Kaysh's alorir verde...(He's lead soldiers before...)

And with that final thought on the mystery that was 'Percy', the darkness consumed him.