He'd been fighting his way out of obscurity, aching to make a place for himself, somewhere he belonged. Abandoned to the streets of his home planet, left to starve – he'd fought hard.
There was a savagery inherent to the streets of every city, anyway. It was a flesh and bone fight for survival and it never had any respect for anyone - didn't care how young you were, how big or small you were, nor whether you were male or female. No, it picked you up and spit you back out and all you could hope for was that you retained some semblance of humanity in the process.
Hedarr Soongh won his place, emerging from the Great Hunt the Grand Champion, and then he held it firm, and never mind how young he was when he did it. He'd proven himself a Mandalorian of honor, the youngest ever to do so, a mere stripling boy of fifteen. And he'd never backed down from that honor, held fiercely to it, let it define him the whole of his life since. He didn't set it aside for anything or anyone, not for any man or woman and no matter the prize or reward that he was offered to do so.
He'd burned, rather, to show the worlds everywhere that he was better than the gutter trash his mother had called him as she walked away from him, there, in that long ago dark alleyway. The Mandalore himself called Hedarr friend, and he honored that respect wholly, with all that he did.
That's why he breathed out a tired sigh as he regarded the two warriors in front of him, although both of them continued talking. He looked away, across the passageway, looked at the press of fighters, hunters, and warriors bustling through the hallways of the Enclave, thinking.
"You should've seen her, Hedarr. Sweat rolling off her face, blood splattered across her armor. She pulled on the beskar we gave her without hesitating, without wiping the blood from her own skin, even. Then she just marched off to find her real target. Didn't even slow down. It was beautiful, I'm telling you." Dorrik's voice was heavy, solid, his admiration of the hunter intense.
"I'd fight alongside her any day. Any Mando would, if they were smart." Gezda rumbled out his agreement, as well. Hedarr glanced at him, his eyebrows arching in surprise. There were some who wondered if Gezda was a mute, he so rarely spoke his thoughts. That he did so now, in relation to this particular hunter, made what he said all the more impressive.
Not that there hadn't been countless whispers and rumors about this hunter. The Huntmaster started watching her even before she truly won a place in the Great Hunt, growling out several choice words when Gratta came back from Hutta with holorecordings of her team's destruction. He'd called it shameful, even if he agreed with Gratta that no real rule of the Hunt was violated.
Hedarr had still burned with the shame of watching someone he'd fought aside, taught and trained, guided – watching as that warrior acted without honor shamed him.
Tarro Blood. He'd followed Hedarr away from battle on Alderaan, his eyes burning with enthusiasm. He'd insisted to Hedarr he wanted to follow the Mandalorian code, to live by Mandalorian honor, that such a life was all he wanted, desired. To prove it, he'd disdained his inheritance, the wealth and privilege that marked his youngest years.
Hedarr realized, watching those images, that Tarro only wanted glory, not honor. He wanted backslaps and admiration from his comrades, rather than to truly stand alongside them as equals. He really did want privilege and only hid and deceived as to what that privilege really was. Not wealth but accolades. Not honor, either. But shame. And it marked all those who should've seen it beforehand, even if the Huntmaster and Mandalore both insisted otherwise.
"There comes a point, Hedarr, where we accept that those we lead and teach will still have to act no matter which way we pointed them towards. That they choose different than we taught – well, that's not for us to make." The Huntmaster had growled, his Wookie voice rumbling sadly.
"And Gratta's pointed out the hunter didn't back down or give up, Hedarr. She's come to Dromund Kaas, she's fighting to win, even against such obstacles. Truly impressive, don't you think?" Mandalore had stood there, shaking his head in fascination.
Hedarr had agreed, nodding as he leaned over the holoterminal. "I'll be watching her."
And he did. He watched her with vivid interest. She was no rapacious killer, no sadistic animal bent as much on self-destruction as anything else. She was calculating, rather. She would size up an opponent and then take them down with precise and methodical care. She took it personally when others were harmed or destroyed along the way, too, marking it as a personal failure. Her protection of her own people involved an almost brutal tenacity, in fact.
Hedarr almost felt sorry for Tarro Blood being the focus of that level of terrible resolve. Almost. And only because he remembered Tarro's early enthusiasm and excitement, the bright, burning thrill he showed whenever he fought. But he would soon be overwhelmed, Hedarr knew. Fervor like this hunter, this Kastiel was showing – that determination wouldn't be overcome except by an even greater determination. And Tarro didn't have what it would take, probably never did.
None of which changed Hedarr's shame, either. He'd not suffer the indignity any further. Honor demanded that he act.
"She's not one of us! She's not Mandalorian! It'll take more than a few fancy moves against dummy Imperials and crazed assassins before I'm impressed." Jogo's voice carried over the gathered warriors, all of them pressing into the circle of the sparring ring, sweat dripping from countless brows while throats gulped down various fluids.
Torian shook his head. "She fights well, Jogo. Fights with honor, too. There's no shame that she wasn't born among us."
Jogo glared over at him. "Only an aru'tal would so completely misunderstand what it takes to be a real Mandalorian."
"Having fought so many times to prove my honor has taught me how deeply precious it is, rather." Torian shook his blonde head, so that the sweat dripping from his scalp could drop to the sand-strewn surface of the floor. Several murmurs of agreement went through the group, then, and Jogo scowled, especially when Dev thumped Torian on the back.
"There aren't many warriors more honorable, either. I'd fight with you through anything, Torian." Dev raised his chin towards Jogo. "If Torian thinks she's worthy, I'd tend to agree. Besides, everyone knows if she survives the Hunt, she'll probably be taken into one of the Clans. Word is, several Clans are already vying for her. Even Ordo has mentioned taking her."
"Tarro Blood says he'll defeat her!" Several calls and shouts echoed that sentiment, too. Torian frowned, listening. Tarro Blood had visited the Enclave several times over the past months, moving among the warriors, whispering here and there. He spoke of his competitors with disdain, insisting he would triumph over all of them. But he was particularly virulent in his castigation of the hunter from Hutta.
"She's a mongrel, nothing but a baseborn whelp. She's worth nothing, not even a good fucking. She should've been drowned at birth! Someone must've thought so, too. Did you see her face? I'm surprised she's willing to show herself out of doors!"
Torian had been disgusted by the Mandalorian's ranting diatribes, until he finally avoided him every time he saw him approach. Tarro Blood reminded Torian of a bitter weed, one of those that spread rot in even the most thriving thatches of grain. He just exuded dishonor, until it seemed so much a part of him, like there was nothing else to him. That he wore the mantle of any Mandalorian clan was offensive.
Dev leaned closer to Torian, then, whispering, "I heard it was Tarro Blood that warned Kastiel Blade's target on Tatooine, sent the Devaronian running to escape her and made her hunt all the harder."
Torian cocked his head to the side, considering. "Yet she succeeded, even with such challenges. There'll come a day when Jogo can't say she's no Mandalorian."
Dev nodded. "I think she's going to kill Tarro Blood. They say she's determined to make him pay for the deaths he brought to her people back on Hutta, that there was an old man she cared for among them. It's personal for her."
Torian knew what it was to defend, had fought endlessly to belong and cherished those who called him friend and brother, as a result. "If he dies by her hand, it will be a good death. Honorable. He should be grateful for that much."
"I don't believe he'd ever see it the way you do, Torian." Dev grinned, then.
"I don't believe that much of him, either." Torian looked up when Jogo began yelling again. He barely listened, though. At least not to Jogo. Several warriors were bantering back and forth with stories about the dark-haired hunter he was truly interested in, rather, and he hunkered down to hear what they had to say. Dev crouched next to him, and they listened.
On Balmorra, she'd killed the Imperial who used her to undermine his own people for personal gain. "Shot him straight in the chest, I heard. They said he actually cried real tears as he died! Not even an ounce of bravery."
On Nar Shaddaa, she'd beat an assassin, marking his face with the metal he'd pulled from a young man's face, earlier. "Isn't keen on Nar Shaddaa. I've heard she doesn't like Hutts too much. No, not even after being sponsored by one. Did you hear what Nem'ro did to her on Hutta?"
On Tatooine, she'd fought a wild, maddened native, a chieftan to the Sand People, there. "He tried running into one of their caves. But she followed him. Came back out clutching his damn head. Dorrik met her in the outpost nearby, said she didn't even wash his blood off before fighting a Gamorrean in an Exchange arena!"
The stories flew, hot and wild, as each Mandalorian tried sharing yet another tale about the compelling bounty hunter. Torian remembered her, there in the melee – the way she'd moved, responded, turned and jumped, the way her dark hair tumbled against her jaw and her armor twisted against her frame, and the way she'd held her arm up in victory there at the end. He dropped his chin, lowering his gaze to the ground as the warriors debated, arguing which clan she'd belong to, which warrior she'd take as her own.
"Ordo wants her! There's no way she'd turn them down!"
"I think it will come down to which aliit the hunter herself chooses, not so much which one will take her."
"Yea, there are several eyeing her carefully."
"You're all fools. What it will come down to is which one she calls mate and husband. It will be his clan name she takes up as her own. Mark my words."
Several of the more experienced warriors nodded sagely, grumbling agreement. Torian looked away as the younger men began arguing which of them could entice the hunter, then. He'd admitted to himself he was interested in her, had watched and listened to the course she was taking in the Great Hunt long enough to recognize his desire to get closer to her, even. But … Torian looked around him at the circle of warriors crouched there, some of them pointing their fingers back and forth to emphasize their points of argument.
What worth could he offer her when his name only invited ridicule and scorn?
Torian clenched his jaw tightly shut, before backing away from the group. Dev watched him stand back, nodded briefly when Torian motioned towards the nearby living quarters. He went alone towards the refresher stalls, intent on washing the sweat and dust from his frame. He shook his head as he moved, his determination settling.
Corridan was right. "It's time, Torian. Trust me. Move to prove yourself, clear your name. Show them all! Show them that Jicoln is dead and you are a real Cadera."
Only a few words this time around:
beskar - mandalorian iron. also, armor
aru'tal - traitor's blood
aliit - clan name or identity. also, family