Fiction Gallery

Mandalore was in rebellion against the Empire, a point of pride if one were to look through their storied history. Wars waged for expansion through the stars, against the Jedi and the Republic throughout the centuries, which led Mandalore to becoming the desert the boy grew up with. When there was no one else to fight, after conquests turned into stalemates, their homeworld sieged, a tenuous peace with the Jedi and the Galactic Republic forced, and their warlike nature remained unslaked, conflict turned inward. Internal factions divided; some sided with the newly formed Empire while others refused to be bound under their yoke. The conflict on Mandalore mirrored the greater conflict across the Galaxy.

This wasn't a fight for a child; but it was a conflict countless children bore witness to.

The sound of Laser Cannon fire woke a young Wulfram from a dead sleep. Permacrete buildings fractured; the rumble and crash as the highrise pitched chilled the child down his spine. Eyes watered as he stared, in disbelief, out the transpasteel windows at the wreckage of the city. TIE Bombers, a ship he had only seen on screens, screamed through the air. Their bombs rattled the tower beneath his feet and he scrambled.

"Wolsha!" His mother shouted from the den, sending the boy on course for her.

His siblings surrounded her, Ganymede, Orri, Silas. The windows creaked, fractured, and gave way, the intense heat of the burning city below flowed into the apartment. Screams rose through the streets, crying, futility. They poured into the stairwell to escape the blasts, the shrapnel, the rancor of those who fell in the streets as the Imperial Forces marked them for death. The following hours were filled with dread. Hidden in the stairwell of their highrise as the bombings passed. The screech of Ion Engines became low hums as the bombers began making fewer and fewer sweeping runs, instead they switched to targeted sweeps on fortified buildings. The screams turned to silence, the occasional wail in the distance after another bombing run. Then something more sinister came.

The Hunt.

KX-Series Droids swept the city. The lasercannons slowed, their booming fire revealing the higher pitch of personal weapons fire. KX Droids opening fire on those who survived. The Armistead family saw them, they burst in through the lower level of the stairwell and opened fire on another family who had huddled together on a lower floor. Blaster fire reported back from the family and another who had prepared to fight Imperial soldiers after the bombing run. Nobody expected droid executioners.

"Wolsha, Meda, into the hallway." Their mother whispered, as she placed her hands on the elder twins' shoulders and pushed them in the direction of the nearest floor's doorway.

Terrified for their lives, and staring down the KX droids engaged with their neighbors below, the children pushed onward, unaware of the danger ahead. The resistance their building put up to the droids brought a familiar screech overhead. The building rent, collapsing from the upper floors as the bomber delivered the payload against the midseam of the structure. Implosive force as the building collapsed drove the air to the center of the structure, trying to find any place to escape as the building crushed in on itself. Windows burst out, shattered from their frames by the catastrophic forces. Wulfram turned to see his mother and siblings disappear in the cloud of debris in the stairwell, before the force threw Ganymede and himself out of the broken window and into the roiling flames of a speeder in the streets below, scorching Wulfram's back and arm.

Ganymede, however, was not as lucky. She fell into the middle of the street, into the stone debris, her hair strewn about her as she lay quiet, unmoving. Peeling himself, screaming, from the durasteel frame of the speeder, the young boy endured and crawled to his sister, where he whimpered through the night as he heard the repeater fire move closer and hoped it would take him too. When the morning came and the city was in ruins, he cried, as he heard detonations in the distance, knowing others were suffering a fate like his.

The neighbors that had fought the KX droids to a standstill limped out of the ruins of the highrise and spotted him and his sister alone in the streets. The following days were a blur to the orphan, but rage and the bitter taste of blood remained on his lips. His ears pounded with stress and the high ring of tinnitus never left him since that night.

Hector Von Ricmore Clan Vizsla Saxon Ship Tarre’s Terror Zsoldos System

Hector Von Ricmore sat in the captain’s chair of the Tarre’s Terror. The Hynestian Star Cruiser was a relatively new design which nonetheless pleased him greatly. This was no surprise given the history of the Nebulon as a repurposed combat ship, the New Republic and the Resistance had plenty of time to interpret that data to construct an excellent ship. Tarre’s Terror had been tested in combat numerous times since its construction. It had served and would continue to serve Clan Vizsla well. Aboard the ship was the relatively untested Frostwolf Special Missions Company. The unit typically resided in the Frostwolf Garrison, offering protection to the people of Zsoldos without imposing the harsh militaristic standards of most governmental militaries. It was time to grant the unit some combat experience and allow the members to become accustomed to working with one another.

The latest bounty received by Clan Vizsla was the perfect opportunity. Vik Colton, a Corellian man of immaculate looks and expert gunslinger, and his merry band of pirates had angered the wrong crowd. The crew had robbed a wealthy noble from Coruscant and become marked for death or capture.

Projected in front of him was a Star Map. Colton was last seen traveling the Hydian Way. This area was a massive galactic hyper route used for ships undergoing hyperspace travel. There were a number of planets along the route which Colton could use to hide and resupply. The crew of Tarre’s Terror were given a tracking fob tied to Vik Colton. But the Corellian had used his knowledge of sensor technology gained from his time as a starship mechanic to impede the effectiveness of the fob. The Vizsla forces would need to find the planet Colton had chosen.

The Hydian Way had many planets but Colton was a Corellian. As a human being he would likely chose a planet with an atmosphere which would support human life. Of the planets on the Hydian Way route there was one which stuck out in particular to the minds of Clan Vizsla, Brentaal IV. The planet was located on both the Hydian Way and Perlemian Trade routes, offering Vik Colton easy travel options. It was a core world which brought the amenities and comforts that planets in that region have access to. But it was not a hugely populated or well traveled world; which could appeal to Vik Colton as a hideout.

Tarre’s Terror dropped out of hyperspace at Brentaal IV. The tracking fob began to beep affirmatively, highlighting the nearby Corona Class armed frigate as the ship carrying their target. Tarre’s Terror opened fire on the vessel, heavy turbolasers and turbolaser blasts flying towards the vessel. The saucer shaped Corona class returned fire, ion cannons flinging streaks of blue into the Vizsla ship and starting to disable systems.

“Launch all fighters.” Hector Von Ricmore ordered. The Hynestian needed to get its vessels airborne before they lost access to the hangar. 48 Fang Fighters exited the capital ship and blitzed towards the Corona. The saucer deployed its complement of 6 Flare Star Attack Shuttles which were quickly overwhelmed by the massive amount of Vizsla fighters.

With the shuttles destroyed the fighters refocused on subduing the Corona. Point defense cannons and ion emplacement ripped through the armor of fighter after fighter.

The ion cannons no longer targeting the Terror gave the Vizsla ship the breathing room to recover and reactivate its weapons. The ship brought them to bear against the Corona, destroying its weapon emplacements and deactivating the hyperdrive.

“Frost Wolf Company, prepare to board.” Hector ordered.

The Vizsla force made their way down to the hangar. Garbed in sealed Heavy Mandalorian Infantry armor the warrior also carried a Galaar blaster rifle. The crew boarded the Umbra, Hector Von Ricmore’s Corellian Star Shuttle. The spacecraft exited the Terror and flew over to the disabled Corona, entering through its damaged hangar.

The Mandalorians disembarked and began trading fire with a group of pirates, rapidly mowing them down with sheer numbers.

The hunting party continued forward relying on their armor and weapons as well as their numbers to overwhelm the pirates. Several Frost Wolves were injured despite the durasteel heavy armor but the pirates lacked the weaponry required to inflict permanent casualties.

The strike force arrived at the bridge of the ship. Hector sliced open the locked doors and the force pushed inwards.

Vik Colton pulled his blaster from its holster faster than the eye could follow. The custom weapon ripped through the durasteel armor of the Frost Wolves, causing the first fatal casualties of the boarding.

Hector Von Ricmore activated his Jetpack. Flying forward he smashed into Vik Colton, sending the duo to the ground. Vik readied his blaster and fired into Hector, obliterating all the layers of his shield with a single shot. Hector’s arm shot out and hit a pressure point on Vik’s wrist, forcing the Corellian to drop his weapon.

Vik slugged Hector across the face then shook his fist in pain from the impact with the durasteel. The Zeltron grabbed the man and brought his helmet down in a Keldabe kiss once, twice, three times, before dropping the limp corellian to the floor.

Taking a moment to regain his bearings Hector saw the fighting had finished up around him. Checking Vik’s vitals he learned that the Corellian was alive but almost certainly would suffer a concussion.

The Vizsla forces gathered their dead and wounded then returned to the Terror. Vik was brought to the Anvil and passed off to the bounty office. The award was granted and credits were transferred to the bank accounts of all the Vizsla forces who were involved.

The mission was a success but Hector Von Ricmore couldn’t shake the sense of despair that came with losing a comrade. He took some comfort in the knowledge that the Frost Wolves had been blooded and the survivors of the company would be able to perform better in the next conflict.

The klaxon of an alarm woke the Mandalorian from his rest and roused him from the recurring memory of the purge, slate-grey eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lights in his quarters. Wulfram tossed in his bed for a moment more before he reached out and grabbed the offending helmet from the stand and pressed the interior switch to disable the alarm and activated the intercom.

"Winchester. You awake, or is Ritz flying this heap?" He asked, knowing full well that if it was first alarm, Chris was likely asleep in the Wheelhouse and Ritz was steering them through deep space.

They were on their way home from a far-flung assignment on Coruscant. A VIP security detail, with Chris securing sight lines across the promenade while Wulfram provided close support for their principle. An uneventful job, by far, without interruption or even a bar fight afterwards.

Every assignment was the same, verify target, stock up, ship out, perform, drink, go home. And these assignments were Wulfram's life, day in, day out. Even if it was a simple pickup, a break-in, or being someone's escort, the work was his life.

"Why do I bother, you're sleeping." He grunted as he sat up and pulled a pair of briefs out a drawer beside his bed.

"I'm awake. You stupid droid started complaining 'bout local traffic, so I'm actually awake." The man in the wheelhouse complained through the helmet, evoking a smirk from the Mandalorian.

"You know Chris, you complain too much." Wulfram chuckled into the neck of the helmet before he threw it onto his bunk and stretched out.

"I'll be up in a couple minutes." He finished as he crossed the room and picked up a toothbrush and went through the basic morning routine.

In a state of undress, Wulfram made his way up to the wheelhouse and stared at Chris and Ritz. The lane into Dajorra was backfilled with various freighters and returning warships. The Mandalorian looked at his crewmate and shrugged as he investigated the tail numbers of other nearby vessels and tried to figure out their purpose in the lane.

"Can't think of the last time I saw this many ships backlogged coming into the system. Guess I'll just go clean my armor, I'll start a pot of caf on my way back to bunk. Want any food?" He asked as he scratched his stomach and put a hand up on the bulkhead.

"No, but put some clothes on. I'm really starting to think those Helmet-obsessed zealots have the right idea. Never see them naked, never see their ugly faces. But you, I have to see both. Every. Single. Day." Chris shot back, throwing a stylus at the Mandalorian as he ducked through the bulkhead and cackled down the passageway.

"Feelin's mutual, Imperial scum!" Wulfram laughed back as he ducked into the Galley and punched the caf pot into place and started a fresh pot for the pair of them.

He then ducked back into the passageway and towards his bunk, staring at the helmet on his bunk, the klaxon alarm sounding off again.

"How did I get stuck with this schutta again?" He joked as he slapped the helmet to turn off his alarm.

Alexandyr hadn't been in Dajorra during the last incident with the locals and relied on secondhand reports and data entries from after the fact for any knowledge of what to expect. His eyes darted between the crew members around him, several of whom he only had passing memories of. Only Ruka and his initiate, Sivall, were familiar to him. Already uncomfortable after the events at Sundari station and immediately fielded to an operation after his arrival on Selen and debriefed with the Proconsul, the man shifted in his seat as he looked his initiate over. At least one of them seemed in their element, alive and thriving after the gutters of Coruscant.

"Tekpantli in view, beginning descent and joining formation." The pilot called out across the ship intercom.

The Proconsul righted himself and looked through those assembled in the craft, many with a more storied presence in The Clan than Alexandyr. Certainly, most were more worthy of being a Proconsul's protection detail than himself, Alex thought as he turned his gaze to Sivall. The Mirialan paced between them, which bothered Alexandyr, but his grip on his brow made it all the worse. A gnawing headache began to grow at the edges of Alex's perception as he watched Ruka move towards the cockpit; waves of unease grew as he heard the man shout something incoherent before he felt a sharp jerk as the vessel began to nosedive. His emerald eyes turned towards Sivall as he heard a scream erupt from the back of the ship and the small Chiss woman's arm outstretched toward him before everything went dark as he readied for impact.

He didn't want to die, not like this. He still felt shackled to a past he couldn't outrun.

The scent of sun-scorched earth and iron burnt the Jedi's lungs and shot him out of a dead slumber. An unending sun and the tropical rains of Kowak surrounded him, and an iron cage confined him. A long-forgotten sense of panic drenched him, and he began to scramble. He searched for his lightsabers, comms, or any affiliation to The Brotherhood or Collegium, anything to bargain his way out of the cage. It was then he realized he was alone, naked, and left to market in the high heat of the day. Emerald eyes turned wide, shifted side to side, and she shook the bars.

"No! No, no. I can't be here. I left everyone on Selen! We got shot out of the sky over Tekpantli! I need to find my people. I can't be back here; this isn't real! You aren't real!" He refused to believe, shouting at the dream that enveloped him, denying his return to slavery.

Patrons in the market laughed at his futile attempts to free himself and remarked at his calls for freedom. His mind slowly slipped from him, and his eyes watered as he felt their eyes size him up. Every scar, imperfection, and wrinkle was exposed to the world. Manacled hands grabbed the door to his cage.

Anger welled within him, and he seized violently upon the hinges. The cage pitched and turned as he raged against his captors. The glint of his anger grew, but his frustrations were worthless. With each attempt to call on The Force, he felt nothing. The doors wouldn't budge when Pushed; no Lightning would burst from his fingers at his captors.

A prod passed between the bars of his cage; the voltage against his bare skin and the iron bars floored him.

Groggy eyes eased awake, cast around an unsure locale, and met those of another man who smirked before they walked away. The man, a pale Zabrak, leaned on the far wall of the cave Alexandyr now found himself inside and chuckled.

"Think you're some kinda Jedi, do you? Well? Come on then! You've been raising such a ruckus and making yourself unsellable on the block you've been sent to me to fix your attitude." The Zabrak remarked. "Show me what you've got. A real Jedi would have been able to push out of that cage or cut his way out, like that ass we had a few years back. Broke through our defences, freed a bunch of slaves, and got himself killed, but managed to set some kid free. Oh, wait! You got left behind when that happened. Did you finally lose your marbles? Get fried in the sun? Eat some bad mushrooms?"

Alex choked, his eyes locked on the Zabrak's as he clenched his fist and tried to summon a spark, something to kill the man and find his freedom, anything to return to the life his saviour had given him.

The Force didn't answer his call.

"Was... Was it all a dream? What do I have to do to escape this nightmare?" The Jedi questioned as he looked into his palms.

The Zabrak smirked as he approached Alexandyr and beat him across the face with the prod. Then pushed the electric edge into his back over and over again until the man collapsed.

"There's nothing you can do. This isn't some nightmare, this is your nightmarish life. You'll be sold, again, and then when that owner tires of you, you'll be sold again for even less, because, unlike droids, you don't just get repaired. You get old." The Zabrak taunted as he threw down a simple brown bag filled with some kind of food and left the cell.

"But for some reason, the masters want to keep you around to sell. I guess they like seeing you squirm."

Alex sighed and crawled naked through the cave to the food. Tears streamed down his face. Had it all been a dream? The Brotherhood? Arcona? The other slaves he had ventured out and found help for through the years? Were they all delusions he had made in his mind, a disassociation to keep his sanity and he survived the years of his own slavery? As he reached the brown bag he collapsed and wrapped himself around it, sobbing.

As he whimpered over his meal; a shout in the hallways reached his ears. The sounds of mechanical stress, alarms screaming, and a woman shouting.

"ALEXANDYR!" She shouted.

An image of a young Chiss woman floated through his mind, draped in a shirt much too large for her as she smiled over the first meal she had in days.

The thought pushed Alex to lift his head from the dirty floor of his cell.

The memories of the woman pushed through his mind, like a frigid torrent. Their meeting on the streets of Coruscant. The reintroduction on Sundari Station, and her surprise appearance at his apartment, when he jammed his thumb in the doorway. His eyes gazed at his hands again and found the familiar scar before they turned up to find the Zabrak, now a hazy Selenian face.

The rushing water in his lungs and chest was not a metaphorical presence, but literal. His eyes darted open and his body flailed against the cold water and the grip of another, he saw Sivall through the fog of his tear-streaked eyes and shoved himself free before he turned to see the Proconsul.

"What happened? Where...?" Was all Alex managed before he slumped to his knees, utterly exhausted.

"I felt it first, saw... Things." The Sith answered as he grabbed the lunk by his shoulder and drug him out of the tide and tossed him into the dry sands by the Chiss woman.

"Get yourself together. I'm going to guess whatever we saw is what made you blow the rear hatch open and vent us and the others into the shallows." The Proconsul chided, leaving Alex feeling even more vulnerable.

Had he unintentionally hurt anyone? What had gotten into his mind? Who knew his darkest secrets?

Feat: Constant Vigilance

The streets of Zsoldos were often a dangerous place to walk at night. If it wasn't the local gang known as the Gutter-Boyz, stirring up trouble, it was often some other degenerate trying to make ends meet.

Juda?

He literally didn't care. He walked among the riff-raff as a King. His own gang, Slaret Orat, or in the basic tongue Bloodhorn, were never very far. Still, he enjoyed the solitude of walking the streets alone. It gave him time to think. As he pondered life and the ever nagging anxiety that stemmed from parenthood and running the Underworld of the Mandalorian planet which he would eventually control in full. The Proconsul strode, his powerful gait slow and deliberate as he pulled a cigar from his suit pocket and bit down on it.

Sparks became flame as he thumbed his lighter and puffed an ember into existence. He took the moment to pause, not because he desired the aroma of the Iridonian tobacco between his lips. He paused to allow the being that had been following him time to catch up.

His datapad chimed in his pocket, but would go ignored as nothing was going to ruin his stroll through the yard. A term he used to refer to the local center of commerce and trade hub of the city he governed.

With his sense dialed into his surroundings, he hears the clatter of something down an adjacent alley. It was the rattle of inexperience. He had his suspicions on who it was but would curb any finger pointing and wait until the tail revealed themselves. It was only a matter of time, besides, he hated being wrong. Continuing his walk, he took turns that lead to winding alleys and corridors lined with spice addicts looking for a handout, droids carrying out their programming, and any other patron of the night life.

Subtle shifts of footwork sliding against the grated walkways triggered Juda's exceptional hearing as he took in a deep draw. The cherry at the end of his lips painted his ghoulish visage in an eerie light and his eyes flicked to his right. The sensation of spiders crawling up his spine was a feeling he only ever got when someone was creeping up from behind.

"Ya know, you have the subtlety of a rampaging Wampa." He spoke, seemingly to himself before a figure rounded the corner. "I thought I taught you better than that, Lugar." His frightening face cracked a smirk.

"How'd you know it was me, Dad?"

"I've listened to your footsteps since you learned to walk. I can recognize them anywhere."

"Are you gonna tell mom?"

Juda laughed and tussle his son's blue mowhawk. "Of course."

Lugar sneered. "Admit it, I almost had you."

"You didn't. Not by a long shot, kiddo. Now come on, let's get back. Your Mother is far more terrifying than your old man."

Juda flicked his cigar, sending it tumbling in a cascade of sparks and wrapped his arm around his son's shoulders.

"Ya know, someday you'll be running this outfit."

The two continued their talk as they strode down the street until their words faded from earshot. It had been a long day.

Dark Jedi Brotherhood Clan Vizsla Lt. COL. Hector Von Ricmore Unknown Space and Time

Exiting the portal he chased Su Well and her men through was a disorienting experience. Hector Von Ricmore was overcome with a sickening dread, a sense of perpetual wrongness that clawed at his mind and body. The Zeltron had done many abominable things in the name of science and discovery. But even he was loath to pursue the path Su Well walked.

There was a natural order to the galaxy, a degree of fate that all were bound to. One could fight against their fate and the outcome that awaited them. Yet the Force fated situations to bring out emotion. Conflict especially. Was the Force evil? Such a thing was difficult to say. It empowered those who sought conflict, many Sith were traditionally stronger than their peace loving Jedi foes. But an argument could be made that the Force simply sought balance. Even at the height of their Empire the Sith were dwarfed by the many Jedi who populated the galaxy.

Despite this it was tempting to call the Force evil. It always pushed the galaxy to conflict. It was a cruel and fickle master, awarding its favor at times which seemed seemingly random. It reveled in chaos and destruction as much as it did peace and love.

This situation was absurd. Traveling through mystical portals to a place and time unknown. It was nothing Hector had ever wanted to do. Su Well could not be allowed to get away with her plans; Hector feared the wrath of the Force all the same. It may not come for him today or tomorrow, but the energy source produced by Midichrolorians would always win in the end. It played the long game and sustained itself with the emotions of the galaxy as it waited.

The time for philosophy and critical thought had passed. The bizarre nature of the situation and alien feelings made it easy for one to mentally spiral out of control. Hector had a mission and it was time to get back to it.

Forcing his musing to come to an end through a burst of willpower the Zeltron began making his way forward. The land he found himself on looked strangely familiar. But he couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding wrongness which enveloped him.

The landmarks seemed similar to Zsoldos, but where the ground should have been a frigid and arctic tundra sat obsidian and other volcanic rock. The heat was almost oppressive; Hector had begun to sweat beneath his armor.

His yellow eyes soon widened in recognition as he caught sight of Su Well who appeared…to be having a breakdown?

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this…it wasn’t supposed to be like this! I am Su Well and I am chosen! I found the portal to the past, outwitted those Vizsla simpletons, only to find an alternative reality unconnected from the present!” The Miraluka raged against the injustice, the lack of fruit produced by all her labors and machinations.

Hector couldn’t help himself. He laughed. What started as a chuckle soon turned into a huge belly laugh. The absurdity of the situation was too much for him to handle. The Force itself was not keen on allowing people to meddle with fate. And it had delivered a rather appropriate response to those who sought the past.

Su Well turned to the sound of the laughs. “You! This must be your doing! I’ll make you suffer for this. You will known unending agony and suffering. You will beg me for death and weep for your end. Then and only then will I allow you to die.”

“Are you sure about that?” Hector responded

Su Well snapped out of her tirade, noticing the Zeltron standing next to the portal. His Jetpack and several blaster power packs had been propped alongside the archway.

“This reality will serve well enough as your prison. Goodbye Su Well.” The Zeltron fired several blaster bolts into the power packs as he dove into the portal. He heard a scream of rage echo behind him as he warped back to the World Between Worlds. He reappeared in the temple, the archway housing the portal collapsing behind him.

Having returned to the temple Hector decided to destroy the rest of the portals. Time was not something Mortal man was meant to control and he could do with earning some good will from the Force.

Hector Von Ricmore Clan Vizsla Unknown Space

Reality rippled and whirled around the Zeltron known as Hector Von Ricmore. Distorted portals, doorways to various space and time surrounded him.

But why was he here? This was more than the result of a ritual gone awry. His last ritual had stripped the former quaestor of the majority of his connection to the Force, all that remained was the smallest of tethers, enough to utilize alchemy and rituals but none of the conventional Force abilities.

He hadn’t intended or chosen any materials which would allow for the manipulation or time or space in such a regard. He would be disgusted with himself if he did. The timeline was one of the few sacred and unchangeable things about the wider galaxy, or at least that is how it should be.

Whoever was messing with time and space to such an extent needed to be punished.

Hector made his way across the darkened stone, passing black monolithic structures. The monuments evoked feelings similar to that of Sith structures. An uneasy dread filled him. A sense of wrongness. Wrong Space. Wrong Time. Wrong. Wrong Wrong WRONG!

Shaking his head to clear the feeling which nearly overcame him the armored Mandalorian made his way further into the world between worlds.

The shapes formed on the portals began to grow familiar. He saw the Millennial Falcon, a younger version of himself and Appius Wight laughing aboard.

He saw his first apprentice, Dakor Terrok, the only one to make it to Knighthood. There was still hope for his new apprentice Kasmar, but the galaxy was a dangerous place. Who was to say what fate awaited them?

Images of his consul Korvis, glorious warrior astride his War Droid.

Kanal flying various ships, obliterating his enemies in space.

And then he saw things unfamiliar to him.

Strange rituals, plots by the Children Of Mortis.

Various Mandalorian Clans, garbed in new colors and embracing new ideologies. Among those stood a traditionalist armored in white and gold. Ursula Taabir; was the name the portal supplied to him.

But this was no time for hesitation. He made his way forward, seeing Su Well and a number of mandalorian acolytes.

Pulling his blaster rifle he exchanged shots with them. Downing member after member as he made his way forward.

He activated his Jetpack and took to the skies, weaving around bolts and returning fire.

In the chaos Su Well fled towards one of the portals.

Hector continued his pursuit, slaying Mandalorians left and right and jet packing towards the portal.

He was tackled by one of Su’S men and brought down from the sky. The man tried to grasp Hector’s throat by he defended himself by smashing a knife hand into the being’s adam’s apple.

Getting to his feet once again, Hector rocketed forward into the portal, following Su Well into parts unknown.

As he emerged from the portal light and darkness assaulted his features. He was once again overwhelmed with a sense of wrongness. But he had to push through to find his target.

It had been a few years since Alexandyr had returned home, for as much as he could call anyplace home. Clan Arcona had taken him in and given him some semblance of purpose, yet everything still felt empty. When he finally settled in, old routines crept back in, and he found some comfort. As he acclimated to Estle, he found city life to be busy but not stressful.

Staying in the same bed for more than a night was something he missed, and waking with the comfort of aircon even more so, but some things never changed. Whether travelling, stationed abroad, or in the comfort of his own home, one such comfort he took with him everywhere was a hot cup of caf. Quick brew in the mornings while abroad, but at home, he enjoyed a longer steep. He showered afterwards to help him focus and settle on plans for the day ahead. After he'd showered and had his first caf of the morning, he made breakfast and a second cup of caf. This one was sweetened to match the taste of his meal. Whenever Alex travelled, he often had meals comprised of nutritional bars or ready-packaged foodstuffs, but now he cooked his own food. He wasn't an award-winning chef by any standards, but nerf and eggs, with some simple flatcakes, were winners in anyone's record. At least Alexandyr thought as much.

Once he'd eaten, Alex sighed and got up to gaze out over the city, the perfect view as he started his morning callisthenics. Daily work kept his muscles limber and the ache away after long journeys, though he had to admit as his age crept up on him, his travels exhausted him further and further. Form practice with his sabre always followed. An outstretched hand called on The Force to deliver his lightsaber from across the apartment before he began. He checked the few pieces of furniture out of his way to open up his main room. His living quarters were relatively sparse, which gave him space to practice.

After his morning routine, Alexandyr felt the familiar wanderlust, part and parcel of why he sojourned so often. The call to see new things or to meet new people meant his bones never felt comfortable in one place long, but even home was alien after a few years away. An easy remedy was to visit the market to take in the new faces, vendors, and sights.

Market stalls were always a favourite of his, and here in Estle, they were as bustling as any other core world. The sights and sounds were enough to swallow a man, but the scent of spices and cooked meats were pure bliss to a man like Alexandyr. He danced between the stalls, investigated the various wares, greeted the new faces, and caught up with the latest gossip in the system. Even at home, he couldn't escape the same cycle he repeated abroad. Find some food, gather local faces, gather intel, and squirrel it away. Anchor yourself in place and remember where everyone and everything belongs.

After a few laps through the market, he doubled back and made a few purchases, some spiced meats, local spices, alcohol, fruits, vegetables, and a broken blaster being sold for a steal. The man loved to find things to tinker with, if nothing else. Once he collected his bounty he made his way back to the apartment and settled in for the night.

"Alright, le'see what's goin' on with this blaster. Prob'ly just a warped emitter or lens, but with these older models, they're gonna be harder to source." He chuckled as he lay the weapon out on his table before he went to put his groceries away.

While he was still in the kitchenette, he pulled a few pans down from storage to prepare a dinner with his haul, setting them aside before he returned to his newest toy. A smirk played across his lips as he began to pull the weapon apart and lost himself in the process. He only stopped to prepare dinner when his stomach complained loudly enough to garner his attention.

"Well, I guess I'll figure you out in the morning. It's a bit later than I'd like tonight." He complained as he looked out to the twilight city.

"Maybe a few more days off will do me some good? Not like I ever change how I do things, anyway. But at least I can relax while doing them at home."

Kowak. It had all begun here, Alexandyr's inscrutable search for a meaning in life. His obsession and anger, borne from trauma, over the absurdities of life and the existence of slavery. Now in his waning years, he sought to correct the stain he had let fester far too long. The market in Sclavos was already in full bustle, slavers hawked those they captured like cattle. It was enough to make anyone sick. No, it was enough to make anyone with morals sick, but morality had long since abandoned this place. Alex knew that far too well, years ago he had been sold in this very block. The cages changed over the years, but the clientele never did.

The man drew his cloak closer around him and pulled his saber close. What he planned to do here was not in his routine operations, but he knew he wasn't long for the world anymore. Each day his breaths grew harder. His cough grew worse. Normally Alex would stalk his targets, or prepare lengthy operations to minimize risks of casualty, this was personal. The drone of the barker, the chatter of the buyers, all of it seemed distant to the man as he made his way into the pens.

Fifteen years as a slave. Sold into slavery alongside his mother at the age of five, he found no identity in those years. His first owners sold him two years later, separating him from his mother, to a couple who raised slave children to fill their empty nest. Three years later he was sold again, and then every two years on, until a rebellion in 21 ABY. The memories flooded back through him as his eyes acclimated to the darkness of the pens.

His contact in the city, a Zabrak, Haruk, nodded as reached out to palm a key to Alex, who in turn shook his head and produced his Saber. Today would be different, today would be like the rebellion that freed him.

The flicker of a lightsaber is an unmistakable sound to many across the known galaxy. To those who recall it, a sense of hope or terror are often accompanied with it. Alexandyr first ignited his with hope. The hope he would return home and repay what the lone Knight did for him. And in his dying moments he intended to live up to his dreams.

His cloak fell from his shoulders and revealed the form of the ageing Disciple, long in the fang and grey in his age. But as the first guards realized what had ignited, it was too late. The amber saber sliced into the locking bar on the cages holding the children. As he cored the cages of the others he barraged the guards with telekinetic bursts to keep them at bay.

"Life is fleeting, and we owe it to ourselves to pay the debts we incur." He called to those he freed, throwing his saber to a sensitive among them as he waded to his death.

Character Question 6 By Shimrah

Shimrah sat at his Aedile’s desk, the galactic holonet played on one view screen while the Brotherhood holonet played on another. The chatter of the talking heads did very little to interrupt the deep, brooding thoughts that he was known for. A chime at the door notified him that he was about to have an imminent visitor.

The Sith scowled, he wasn’t expecting anyone. Far away at the remote base on Daemunn, deep within the mountain, Shimrah had little fear of any assassination plots concocted by the other clans. He fingered a control on the underside of his desk, springing the door open with a hiss of hydraulics and a combination of moving mechanisms that groaned in obedience.

Stepping through the threshold was Shimrah’s agent, Tuuka, clad head to toe in his Mandalorian armor, his helmet tucked underneath his arm. The scent of the Mandalorian’s beard oil was pungent, and the Aedile noted the new addition to his hygiene.

“In the future, apply less.” Shimrah commented.

A look of embarrassment washed over Tuuka’s face.”Heh,” he chuckled, trying to lessen the impact of the statement, “sorry, the new lady I’m seeing insists, or else I wouldn’t, yah know?”

“No. I don’t know.” The Battlelord added unnecessarily. “Why are you here?”

“I just came to congratulate you on succeeding me as Aedile.”

Shimrah blinked unamused at his counterpart. “You mean you came to get paid for your part in the charade.”

“I mean, yeah, but can’t I congratulate you too? It deserves a toast!”

Tuuka made his way over to the side table in the office and set his helmet down upon it before removing two fresh tumbler glasses. He grabbed the bottle of liquor gingerly as he inspected the label.

“It really doesn’t. You can congratulate me when I become Consul,” Tuuka uncorked the crystal decanter and gave it a sniff. “and again when I arrive as a member of the Dark Council.”

“Mmmm. Corellian whiskey. Wait a minute, is this the aged stuff?.” He asked Shimrah as he ignored what the Sith had said and poured both of them a glass. The Human corked the bottle again, grabbed both glasses and sat across from the former Keibatsu, sliding the glass across the ornate wooden desk.

The Mando raised his glass to the Sith. “To your resurrection from the dead and triumphant return to Brotherhood space. May your enemies…” Tuuka trailed off as he failed to pick the right words, Shimrah raised his gaze from the glass and settled on his toaster. “choke to death on their own blood?” He finally finished, more of a question than a statement.

Shimrah nodded, satisfied with the unwanted toast. Tuuka downed his drink in one gulp while the Aedile ran his finger around the rim of the glass before finally taking a sip. Tuuka stood up and snagged his glass, making his way back over to the side table with the decanter for another glass.

“Tuuka.” He swung around eagerly to address his boss and benefactor. “The credits are in your account. Take the bottle and go. I’ve got plans to solidify.”