Two days of riding passed, the soft sand slowly faded back into brittle grass. They did not camp that night as Obwain urged them on, fearing the worst.

"Agents of the powers that be are everywhere," he said in one of their few stops, "In the sky, in the water. Birds and beasts and the creatures of the water may be his servants."

"Who's servants?"

"Do you recall that I mentioned Lord Vader, a servant of Sauron, in my account of the Skywalker?" Luke nodded. "Before he was under the sway of the Dark Lord, Vader was my pupal. He was entranced by the power of the Rings, and was corrupted by Sauron. He slew your forefather and was the mastermind behind the destruction of Tolfalas. That event, however, was the catalyst that led Numenor to enter the war. Saruon quickly realized that he could not overcome the might of that nation through military means, and sent his most valued servants to the far reaches of Middle Earth to preserve his legacy while he was in captivity. Vader fled north with his personal legion. I tried to track him down, but he and his forces disappeared into the far north. I have reason to believe that he has reemerged, and the people of Alderaan may be the only hope against him now. I am glad that you were the one to find the map. I believe the encounter has set in motion an awakening."

"What do you mean?"

"The son of the Skywalker, for you are his descendant, and the slayer of the Skywalker: both seem to have arisen in tandem. It is not coincidence that Artru came to you." He stopped for a moment, questioning his next words, "I know you have a family and a life in your homestead, but I must ask you, would you come with me to the north? The blood that flows through your veins is the same that flowed through my old friend's. I could train you in the ways of combat and war and the name Skywalker may once again spread fear into the hearts of orcish-kind."

Luke was silent. Yes, he had always dreamed of an opportunity like this, to go out into the world and fight the forces of evil and now, knowing his heritage, he could avenge his forefather. But…something held him back. Maybe it was the thought of his aunt, slaving away to keep him fed as a child, or maybe it was his uncle's wise counsel that had forged him into the man he was that day.

"I'm sorry Ben…Obwain. If what you say about the peril my family faces is true, than I cannot just leave them alone against whatever may come."

"I understand," the old elf replied with a weary smile, "Let us be off then. I shall ride with you to your home and then we will part ways."

They continued their long ride, letting the sun pass over them as they continued north. Luke still felt conflicted. He truly wished to join Obwain on his quest, but he could not, in good conscience, leave the people who raised him defenseless against the shadows of the North. He thought of fire and smoke but, soon, he realized they were not of his imagination. Far into the horizon, he saw a pillar of smoke rising from burning crops. No... He whipped the reins and sent his horse flying forward. NO! The rushing wind drowned out Obwain's calls and all that filled his heart was rage and desperation. The stench of smoke hit his nostrils and stung his eyes. The brilliance of the golden fields alight with flame merged with the setting sun. The farmhouse slowly came into view, now only a pile of charred logs, and Luke leapt from his horse, drawing his sword. It did not glow, but still, he charged in, blade at the ready. His mind was a hive of hate and passion. He wanted to butcher the creatures that had done this to his home, to smite them and defile their corpses, but all emotions came to a crashing halt when he found them. Two charred bodies lay, twisted with their last agony, upon the ruined doorstep. Their bodies were black, and blood still oozed out from their cracked skin. He collapsed, dropping his sword, and tears poured from his red eyes. How could I let this happen? I should have never gone! Damn those beasts. DAMN THEM!

"Do not blame yourself."

Obwain stood behind him, having just arrived. Luke remained on his knees as he swallowed his sobs and clenched his fists.

"I will go with you." He said, rage tinging his restrained voice, "if you swear that I will have vengeance."

"I swear, if it is within my power, you will."

Luke stood, retrieving his sword, and faced him. His soul was alight with rage and sorrow and regret. The handle he clenched felt good there, as if it were promising sweet revenge like a lover's whisper in his ear.

"We ride then?"

"We will ride."

…

He still smelled of burned body. He liked that. He loved the reminder of a successful job. Be it a king or a beggar, he wanted to remember the kill. There was nothing worth looting from the couple's bodies (he had checked before setting the cabin ablaze), but his rusted armor might still retain the aroma of their death for a few more days. He liked that…the age that is. His armor was old. It had so much history. How much blood had run down its green–copper plates? How many lives had ended by his bronze gauntlets? He had forgotten some kills, much to his displeasure, but relics of many past victories embellished his suit. A dwarf's skinned face hung from his belt (the one who carried the ring, he recalled; a kill commissioned by the Dark Lord himself), and an elf's ear hung from his wrist (that belonged to the red-haired huntress from Mirkwood; he had killed her not for a job but for sport). A long grey cloak hung from his shoulders, looted from the corpse of a Galadhrim scout, and from his neck dangled a Tarudain amulet, a treasure he had collected on his journey to the far south. His entire appearance was that of a cobbled together vagabond, all, that is, but his helm. It too was green with age, but it was forged in the style of the Mandolorian warriors of old, his forefathers. It still maintained its power, its symbolism. He was a warrior. He was a bounty hunter. He was a Mandolorian. He was Boba Fett.

The bounty hunter dismounted his black Warg, a reward for a previous kill, and entered the ragged outpost. The orcs, spawn of Gundabad he thought, let him pass and they seemed to get a twisted satisfaction from the smoky aroma emanating from his armor. They liked it differently than he. He saw it as a trophy, as a mark of his skill. They felt their tongues grow wet and their blood became hot with the joy of death. They disgusted him. They fought only for blood or by the will of some force stronger than their own. He was different. He was a warrior. He fought for glory (and pay) and only worked for those he respected. Sauron was on that list and so was Lord Vader. He knew that he was one of the few outside their circles whom they could trust, and their will directed the orcs to also respect him. Boba slowly ascended the spiraling wooden staircase up the cobblestone tower. At the top, he was met by a large, bone-clad Uruk with a lazy eye.

"Ya' here for a bird?" he growled. Boba nodded and the Uruk stomped towards a chattering collection of cages, and tore out a large, black bird. " 'ere you go." Boba took the Crebain and whispered in its ear. He could trust these creatures. They had no will outside of their master's and would never use his information against him. The fact that they were killed after delivering their messages also helped his paranoia. He thought back to when the White Wizard commissioned the execution of a nosey representative from Rohan and, as payment, taught him the ways of the Crebain. He released the bird into the air and traced its movements as it flew out the window and towards the North. Fly fast, he thought, to Angband with your knowledge.

Boba Fett returned to his Warg and looked out into the East. He had a meeting. Something about Jabba the Hut and a certain smuggler owing him a shipment of spice.