Author's Notes: Sometimes, determining the role of the hero is largely a matter of perspective. The following story takes place during the early prologue of the Jedi Knight class story.

H'otregh roared in victory as the Jedaii cub fell beneath his blade.

A moment later, his fellows Thokim and Barkogh, pounced upon the fallen cub, feasting on her flesh.

Similar scenes were playing themselves out all around them. Far to the north of their mighty rock-den, the Jedaii young were easy meat, with few of their elders to protect them. The cursed Jedaii had been taken completely unprepared for the People's attack, and now they were going to fall in droves.

The laws of the Old Gods were clear on the matter of the Jedaii – they were to be hunted and slain. The Jedaii had rebelled against the Old Gods in the times of the People's grandsires' grandsires, driving the Gods away from the Land. It was the sworn duty of the People to punish the Jedaii for their crimes against the Gods. Indeed, the shaman told tales that this was why the Old Gods had created the People in the first place, forging them in their own image.

But H'otregh did not need to listen to the tales of the shaman around the fire to know all of this. He could feel it in his blood.

For countless seasons, the Land had been pure. The People had reigned supreme. Though the Old Gods did not return, it was good.

Then the hated Jedaii had returned.

The People had tried to hunt them again, as the Old Gods had once commanded. They had tried to slaughter them, to feast upon them. But the Jedaii were strong, and the People were scattered. The years of peace had made them soft. They were easily turned back. So it was that the Jedaii had built their rock-den. Then later still, the head-things had arrived, building their own dens east of the Jedaii rock-den. They were not as strong as the Jedaii, but they were still unified enough to resist the scattered People. Truly, the People had been brought low, reduced to mere scavengers on a world where they had once dominated everything.

Then the New Master, the Bengel, had arrived, along with his war chief, Callef. The two had forged the People anew, training them in the use of the weapons used by the Jedaii and the head-things. The hitting-sticks, and the fire-things that could fell an enemy from afar. The Master united many tribes from all over the Land, gathering more of the People than even the elders knew existed. They even showed a handful of the People, their chosen, how to learn the Power; the same gifts the Jedaii wielded. Now united, the People would crush the Jedaii, finally retaking the Land for all time.

Reveling at the thought, H'otregh's teeth plunged into the neck of the fallen cub, drinking his fill as the bloodlust overwhelmed him. The People had always fed on their fallen opponents to claim their strength as their own. They become more powerful for having claimed their prey. The greatest warriors among them had slain and consumed dozens of foes, not only among the People but among the beasts of the Land as well.

Greatest, of course, was to consume Jedaii flesh.

Throughout the valley, the Jedaii cubs fell or fled, chased off by the People and their fire-things. Most would be hunted down and eaten on the spot; others would be taken prisoner for later. Their elders would be slow to respond, and their future would die here. For many turns of the seasons, the Jedaii had dismissed the People as beasts. That would now change.

Many things would change this day.

It would be a victory worthy of the Old Gods.

Suddenly, H'otregh felt the impact of something large landing nearby. No doubt, one of the other People had come to scavenge his kill away from the trio of Thokim, Barkogh and himself. Furious, he released the dead cub, letting out an angry roar as he looked up.

What he saw shocked him.

Thokim had been impaled and nearly decapitated by the weapon of another Jedaii cub, one who had not been there a moment earlier. H'otregh realized that the cub had leapt from many lengths away, something no cub should have been able to do. He carried a hitting-stick in each hand, but unlike his elders, his hitting-sticks did not glow. One of these sticks now protruded from Thokim's throat, his blood spilt on the grass. That was impossible. No Jedaii cub should have been able to come upon a proven trio of the People's warriors undetected, much less have the strength to strike down one of them carrying a hitting-stick one-handed. The shame that would attach itself to Thokim's name would follow him into the next life.

Barkogh would not suffer the same infamy. He raised his fire-thing and pointed it towards the upstart cub. He would strike him down with his fire. Only the glowing hitting-sticks of the fully-grown Jedaii could block the attacks of the fire-things. The cub was as good as dead.

Impossibly, the Jedaii dodged the fire as it leapt from Barkogh's weapon. Then, with a single slash of his hitting sticks, Barkogh fell to the ground, dead.

H'otregh roared. His followers, warriors who he had known since he had been a cub himself, had been slain in the space of three heartbeats.

He refused to follow them.

H'otregh lunged at the cub with his own hitting-stick, calling upon his rage to fuel his strength and speed as the Bengel had trained them.

The cub nearly – nearly – parried the blow, as the sharp tip of the hitting-stick caught his face around his right eye, a flesh wound that very nearly blinded him.

The glory of the strike sang through H'otregh's spirit in adulation, and he let out another roar, this time in anticipation of his coming victory. The Jedaii cub would now crumble, and H'otregh would finish him off and feast on his flesh. Even now, he dreamt of all that would come to him. Grand Chieftain Keshk would honor him before all the tribes, perhaps even name him a chief in his own right. The Bengel might even choose him to receive the Power. The females would flock to his side, eager to mate with him. All he had ever desired would be his.

Too late, H'otregh realized that the cub had not, in fact, crumbled in pain when their blood had been shed.

He had recovered, and now he was attacking with both of his hitting sticks lashing out.

Desperately, H'otregh attempted to block the strikes, only to watch in horror as his block countered and turned aside by one stick while the other cut deep into his arm. He bellowed in pain, dropping his weapon. He looked up and saw the Jedaii moving to finish him off. Strangely, there was no anger in the cub's expression. No pain or recrimination. Just resolve.

Somehow, impossibly, H'otregh knew that this encounter would make the Jedaii cub stronger. He would not consume his flesh, but he would consume the experience. The Jedaii would be left with a scar, but one that he would learn from and would be a constant reminder in the future. No one would ever strike at the cub the way H'otregh had again.

The Jedaii hitting-sticks struck home.

As his consciousness – and his very existence – faded away, one final, bitter thought formed in H'otregh's mind as he felt his destiny stripped away from him:

It wasn't fair. He was supposed to have been the Hero.

END

Author's Notes: So, Corellan – how did you get that scar around your right eye?