#harswee

[direwolfrules]

Just Some Mandalorian Culture Headcanons (For Literally 2 Planets Cause I Got Bored)

Listen, Mandalorian Space contains several habitable moons and planets, and I just want some minor cultural differences between them.

Draboon:

I’m gonna say Draboon is a mountainous planet with several large swamps because a) the lapis deposits point to some form of igneous intrusion and from what I’ve gleaned from my friend’s geology study guide mountains are a sign of that and b) venom-mites just kinda sound like a swamp creature to me.

Food in Draboon’s mountains is wildly different compared to food in the swamp regions.

The mountains have a higher number of meat and grain dishes, due to the higher altitudes their main sources of food are a species of Star Wars goat and a high altitude grain like space barley. In communities where there’s an active mine stuffed bread pockets with a little handhold (like empanadas) are popular.

The swamps tend to make use of native plants, fish, types of water bird, and even venom-mites in their cooking. Venom-mites have to be prepared a certain way so they won’t kill you, but they’re really spicy in the way all Mando’ade seem to love. Capturing and killing venom-mites in a way that won’t get you torn apart by the swarm is something kids learn from their parents along with how to hand fish, though far more secretive. Every family has their own method and they’ll be damned if they share it with outsiders.

A traditional marriage proposal on Draboon includes a hand carved lapis charm being given, much like a ring. If the proposal is accepted at the wedding the charm is tied to the end of the marriage cord.

The different landmasses have different traditions for what the charm is carved with. In the southern mountain ranges the charm is typically carved with the Mando’a word that the carver feels most represents their beloved. In the northern and eastern ranges, the charm is carved in the shape of two interlocked beskar hearts. In the swamps to the west the carving often features some form of venom-mite, normally in the form of an adversary the couple is fighting off.

Harswee:

On Harswee a couple has to work together to hand weave their own marriage cord. It’s a sort of ritual, the hard work and cooperation they put into creating the cord is meant to represent the work that goes into a successful marriage.

Divorce on Harswee involves unraveling the cord.

Whenever a child is due to be born or a foundling is adopted by a Mando’ad from Harswee their parent(s) start a “rug of life” for them. The kid will work on it throughout their life, most notably after battles and important life events. You’ll gradually begin to see the weaving in the rug get better, more sure of itself as time goes on. When they die the rug is kept by their descendants as a reminder of their life.

The three most popular professions on Harswee (besides being a warrior) are: weaving, ranching wool bearing animals, and farming fiber bearing plants. Textiles are the lifeblood of their economy.

Warriors from Harswee tend to wear woven sash belts in their clan or house colors, instead of the usual girth belts.

Harswee’s environment luckily wasn’t as damaged by war as the central planets in the Mandalore sector, so there are more open air cities and sprawling farms compared to the densely packed dome cities on Mandalore and Kalevala.

In each of Harswee’s three major cities there are monuments to Mandalore the Binder, who’s basically their hometown hero.

The easiest way to make an enemy of a Harswee born Mando is to disrespect Mandalore the Binder. Say anything about their greatest native son and there is a very real chance you won’t make it home alive.

[scottysketches]

Since the excerpt from my Korkie/Amis story seems to have people interested, I thought I might share some of my headcanons for the cadets :)

-----

Oldest to youngest goes: Amis, Soniee, Korkie and Lagos (Soniee and Korkie's birthdays are literally just a couple weeks apart and she holds it over his head lmao)

Amis is from a poorer family in the lower districts of Sundari (which is still leagues better than some parts of Coruscant). His biological parents are divorced and he hardly ever sees his bio father - which is fine by him, because his stepdad is a better father than his actual father ever could or would be. He has an older sister (Daisa) and a younger half-brother (Denn). His family's name is Kar'jor

Soniee's family are from Harswee (and her maternal grandparents were the weavers who crafted the carpets and tapestries that are displayed on the Coronet). Like Korkie, she's an only child, but she has lots of cousins that she's close with. Her family's name is Bevehn

Lagos comes from a family of warriors who all fought on the side of the New Mandalorians during the civil war. Her ancestors originally hailed from Concord Dawn. She's the youngest of ten children - five sisters and four brothers. Her family's name is Agol'dade

Amis and Soniee were the first to meet each other on their first day at the academy and very quickly became besties because they're both repressed gays you can pry this one out of my cold dead hands

Amis and Soniee actually met Satine on their first day at the academy; Lagos didn't meet her until the end of the second term/semester, when Satine came to pick up Korkie for the holiday break

Korkie broke his arm falling out of a hammock once as a young child while he and Satine were visiting family on Kalevala because he tosses and turns a lot in his sleep, so he quickly picks out one of the lower bunks in their dorm room

Lagos snores. It's bad. (Korkie also snores, but not as bad as Lagos.) Soniee and Amis invest in some comfortable earplugs for sleeping so that they can actually get some rest at night, rather than have to survive on caf

At the end of the first term/semester, all first-year cadets get to choose a selection of elective subjects to take in order to fill out their timetables (this also includes extra-curricular activities like sports teams and clubs)

Korkie takes three languages (Rodese, Shyriiwook and Twi'leki), dance, cookery, additional political history and additional debate classes (because unfortunately for Satine he inherited Obi-Wan's restlessness and constant need to be busy - basically the Eleventh Doctor in The Power of Three, skip ahead to 2:28)

Amis takes one language (Twi'leki), architecture, cookery and martial arts. He's also part of the academy's shockball and fencing teams and enjoys free-climbing in his spare time

Lagos takes three languages (Durese, Kaminoan and Twi'leki), martial arts and the Mandalorian equivalent of religious studies

Soniee takes three languages (Durese, Rodese and Twi'leki), robotics, hacking and additional debate classes

Out of the four of them, Lagos is the only straight kid - Korkie is openly bi from the age of 14, Soniee and Amis are both gay but repressing throughout their time at the academy (Soniee until the outbreak of the Clone Wars, and Amis until the year leading up to the Death Watch coup)

Korkie bunks off school one day to visit Satine at the palace, which is when he comes out to her; she reassures him that there's nothing he could do, say or be that would change how much she loves him (before scolding him for sneaking out of school)

Amis and Soniee both bond over their sexualities, as they're each the first person the other came out to

Lagos and Amis both think they're being subtle about their crushes on Korkie. He knows

When he's 16, Amis's stepdad passes away; he gets pulled out of class to be told, and Daisa also has to break the uncomfortable news that their mother found the letter Amis wrote to their stepdad where he comes out, and she subsequently disowns Amis because he's gay. Daisa promises to stay in contact with him, and sets up a separate bank account that she deposits a set amount of credits in every month so that Amis has some money once he graduates from the academy

Satine is absolutely disgusted when Korkie tells her what happened, and promptly declares that Amis can stay with her and Korkie at the palace during the term breaks when the rest of the students go home

When they're almost 17, Korkie tells Amis that Satine is actually his mother, not his aunt - but because they're both stoned at the time, Amis doesn't take him seriously

As they get older and more confident in themselves and their identities, all four cadets start to explore different aspects of themselves around each other

Korkie wears traditionally masculine clothing a majority of the time, but he also likes to mix it up with high-waisted trousers, shirts in various colours/patterns/etc. that would be considered feminine, and crop tops

Amis wears masculine clothes all the time but starts to experiment with small amounts of make-up (eyeliner, nail polish, etc.) in their last year at the academy before the Death Watch coup; his signature clothing item is jeans with carpenter detailing on them (extra pockets, a loop for a hammer, padded panels at the knees, etc.)

Lagos is quite feminine, but she enjoys the comfy aspect of lounging around in sweats; she's also a big fan of cargo trousers (so! many! pockets!)

Soniee fully embraces her feminine side, whereas when she was younger she was more androgynous; she's the go-to for make-up advice (and was the one to teach Amis how to paint his nails and draw the perfect vintage wing)

At the end of every year at the academy, each year group has a school dance that gets more sophisticated the older the students are (think more like a disco for the younger years, and the older students have more black/white tie coded events)

As a joke, Soniee suggests going to what would be their last school dance in drag to Amis; he's 100% serious when he says yes

Poor Korkie suddenly has a gay crisis when he realises that the "girl" chatting with some of their other classmates across the room is Amis

[tessiete]

"You’re burning up” for Obitine BUT ONLY IF YOU WANT TO! <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

FOR YOU? ANYTHING!!! But only if you like it. If you don’t like it, please immediately erase this from your memory so we can still be friends. Anyway, there’s meant to be some stuff in here about the fever of first love, and like passion and fire and stuff, but it’s also just them bitching at each other so....I TRIED.

I love you!

IT CANNOT HAPPEN TWICE

“You’re burning up.”

“Remove your hand from my face before I remove it from your person.”

“I only meant to say that we can rest,” he explains, watching as Master Jinn forges on ahead, clearing a path through thick brush. “If you need to.”

It is safer here, out in the wilds, than on the road, the stretch between Mircine and Kar’Marev known for kidnappings, hunters, and corpses, but Satine will not be bowed.

“We may if you need to,” she spits. “I am perfectly capable of continuing without breaking, though I would not begrudge any weakness of yours.”

He grits his teeth, and she holds his gaze, steady and fever bright, the heat of her presence grinding him into deference out of respect for her position, for his master, and for the basic tenets of the Code - a Code which he seems to remind himself of continuously these days. Certainly, he has become more familiar with the first precept than ever before. He is intimate friends with it, having meditated on it for hours with no great success. There is no emotion.

“Of course, your Grace,” he says. His bow is shallow and poorly done, the curve of his lips equally false, but she says nothing. “I was only trying to help.”

“Thank you, padawan,” she says, then turns and marches on.

He catches up with her at sundown, hours later, and her condition is not improved. She stumbles along behind Qui-Gon, head bent, eyes on every next step. Her breathing comes in ragged gasps, and Obi-Wan can’t help the worried glances he keeps throwing at Qui-Gon’s broad back. He frets at the strand of shared consciousness between them, like he frets at the hem of his sleeve, and when it’s finally gone dark, he approaches his master where she cannot hear them.

“She’s ill,” he says, with no attempt at a conciliatory preamble.

“I know,” says his master. “I had hoped we might reach Kar’Marev tonight, but it is later than I thought. And I dare not brave the open plains past dusk. Not like this.”

“Then we’ll rest for the night?”

“We will,” Qui-Gon says. “Though I fear it will not help us much.”

“Master?” He shuffles nearer, and Qui-Gon speaks even lower to be certain of their confidence.

“The duchess is ill,” he says. “And if her fever persists she shall not be able to continue tomorrow. If it breaks, she shall be too exhausted to proceed. Either way, our efforts will be in vain, and worse - foolish. We gain nothing by gaining ground on foot only to lose it in body.”

Obi-Wan glances behind him as the duchess stokes the embers of their fire, banked low so as not to draw attention. She coughs, and it sounds as though it catches on every ribs, rattling and severe.

“Is it so serious?” he asks. “We are at least a day’s walk from help in any direction. What if she gets worse?”

Qui-Gon huddles close, scratching at the edge of his beard. “There is a plant,” he says. “A weed, really, and so it should be in no short supply. If I can find it, we may make a tea of its leaves.”

“A local remedy,” says Obi-Wan, looking skeptical. “Will it cure her?”

“It might alleviate the worst of her symptoms.”

Obi-Wan sighs. “Show it to me, master,” he says, closing his eyes to search out the gossamer impression of light and colour in the Force. But his master frowns, and holds him at arm’s length.

“No, Obi-Wan,” he says. “I shall search. You must stay here, and care for Satine.”

“What? But master, surely it is better that I go!”

“I know what I’m looking for, where to find it, and how much we need.”

“There are hunters on the prowl -”

“- And the only company worse than yours, should one find her here. Stay, padawan, and watch over her.”

She coughs again, and he throws a doubtful glance over his shoulder before applying to Qui-Gon once more.

“Master -?”

“Be kind,” he says. “And patient. Trust in the Force, and I shall be back soon.”

But Qui-Gon is not back soon, and the night grows cold and dark around them. The creakers in the grass go to bed, and the home world Mandalore hangs heavy in the sky until the clouds come in and shroud it from view. Obi-Wan smothers the fire with sand, the red heat of it glowing bright in the absence of planetlight. He worries it might draw the eye of any unsavory observers, and trusts that Qui-Gon will be able to navigate without it. He can feel him, far afield, illuminating the shadows like starlight falling softly over leaves, and moving father still.

“Do you think Master Jinn will return before dawn?”

Satine sounds miserable, her voice crackling in place of tinder. She clears her throat, and clutches her thin cloak more closely about her. 

“I hope so,” he replies. “Maybe sooner.”

“I had not thought reconnaissance something so eagerly done at night.”

They had decided between them it would be best to keep Qui-Gon’s purpose from the duchess. Qui-Gon had said that she was already struggling under the weight of so many expectations of infallibility that one breach might be enough to topple her. Obi-Wan had simply desired an evening free of insufferable debate. If Satine suspected either reason, she would be offended, so Obi-Wan shrugs, and unrolls his bedkit.

“Master Jinn felt it would be better if he used the cover of night to clear our path than simply hope we don’t stumble across some hive of villainy in the daylight.”

“And you agreed with him?” she says.

“I trust him,” he says, unflinching. “Master Jinn is very experienced in matters of this nature, and I trust him to lead us safely.”

“So long as the Force wills it,” she mutters. It is not his imagination that some bitterness sours the air, then, and he feels it twist against his spine, drawing him stiffly upright to counter her.

“Yes,” he says. “But you seem to be labouring under the presumption that trust in the Force is tantamount to resignation to our fate.”

“Isn’t it?” she demands. Her eyes are bright, and her cheeks flushed pink and raw.

“Isn’t pacifism?” he retorts. “Or would you contend that laying down arms in the face of violence and oppression a brave choice?”

A twig snaps in the distance, but Obi-Wan feels no danger stir in the Force. Foolish - for she scowls at him, baring her teeth like a feral strill on the hunt. 

“What do you know of bravery, padawan? You have always been at heel, always in the shelter of your Order, and your Temple, and your Master Jinn. You know nothing of fear.”

“And you know nothing of me,” he snaps. “But I would fight. I would sacrifice everything for what I believe is right. I would die for it.”

“And so would I.”

“I would kill for it,” he says, and she is silent. He feels his victory at hand, and her silence. his reward. Finally. “Don’t speak to me of bravery. You have fine ideals, and beautiful dreams, but I have seen the galaxy, and I know what it is to face villains who would destroy everything you love simply for the sake of seeing you suffer. I would not wish that on you, but your pacifism will not save you from it. I’m sorry, but I cannot see peace for your warrior kind.”

Satine sniffs. She coughs. He feels a sharp tug in his chest, looking at her already so weak and downtrodden by illness, and now battered by his own unruly emotions. But then she throws back her head. Her hair is lank, the lily-white gold of its strands turned dusty with neglect, but she is somehow regal still.

“We are not violent by nature,” she declares. “Our cultures, our traditions - there is more to Mandalore than bloodshed. And there is bravery in standing bared and open with nothing but peace, our shield between life and death. A blossom is just as noble as a blaster. More, for it thrives in harmony and gentleness. It lives, it grows, it seeds, and grows again. A blaster can only destroy. Would you have me wish that for my people?”

“I do not know your people.”

“Then do not speak for us,” she says. “I may not have seen the galaxy as you have, but I know Mandalore. Pacifism is not passivity. It is still the warrior’s way.”

Obi-Wan kicks out the end of his coarse bushcover, straightening the edges, and smoothing away bumps that rise up beneath the narrow mat. He says nothing as she coughs, not even when the next fit lasts for more than a minute. He only folds his rucksack so that his spare stockings and pants may act as a pillow, and cushion the edges of rations and various other instruments of use. He sits. He pulls off his boots, and aligns them neatly beside his bed. His stockings are next, and he lays them flat to dry in the open air of the forest. At last, the choking and sputtering behind him fade, and he lies down with his back to Satine.

“Aren’t you going to wait for Master Jinn?”

“No,” he says, closing his eyes. “And I wouldn’t advise you to, either, though I know nothing I say has any weight with you.”

“But what if he needs help?”

“Then I don’t suppose your being awake will have particular value there, seeing as you won’t lift a finger to defend him.”

He can hear as she surges to her feet, and kicks at the little rise of buried fire. Bits of sand and ash scatter at his back, but it is only a bluff.

“You’re insufferable,” she says. 

“The feeling’s mutual,” he assures her, pulling his coverlet up high, and nuzzling against his pack until it cradles his head just so. It is a warm night, and the earth still holds the heat of the day. The insects of Harswee have been until now a mannerly bunch, and Obi-Wan hopes that this resolution will last the night. He has already suffered enough. 

He waits until he hears Satine unroll her own kit, kick off her shoes, and lie down before he releases a deep breath, and relaxes into the Force.

When he wakes, it is still dark. The air has turned cold, and Qui-Gon has not returned. Instinctively, as though still a child in the creche, he reaches out to his master, first, worried that it is some disturbance there which has stirred him from his rest. But no. Qui-Gon still burns, an effulgent flicker of light somewhere out on the plains, and Obi-Wan feels a sense of comfort and reassurance pass over him like a zephyr of thought. The problem does not lie there.

Instead, he finds it lying six feet away on the other side of the smothered campfire.

Satine’s fever has gotten worse. She shivers on the ground so loudly her teeth chatter, and her shoulders shake. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her, the thin coverlet strained with the desperate desire to provide some heat. Obi-Wan kneels to press his hand to her brow, only to find her skin slick with sweat.

“Oh, Force, Satine,” he says, shaking her awake. She looks at him with glazed eyes, but her frown seems instinctive, for it falls into place immediately upon recognition. 

“I thought I said don’t touch me,” she says. There may be fire in her, but it is raging through her blood and her skin, and her words come out as thin as smoke.

“Your fever is worse,” he says. 

“I know,” she replies.

“You should have said.”

He hurries back to his kit, throwing aside the cover and tripping over his boots in his haste to reach his rucksack. The careful work of folding and primping forgotten as he pulls it apart to find a small canteen of water and a packet of electrolytes. He tears the packet with his teeth, and dumps its contents into the liquid, shaking it, before returning to Satine’s side. With all the gentleness of newborn things, he slips his hand beneath her neck and raises her to rest against his chest. She protests feebly, but she cannot fight him, and when he brings the water to her lips she drinks as bidden.

“Small sips,” he says, one arm wrapped around her back to brace her, the other steadying her hand on the canteen. “You must stay hydrated.”

She nods, but pushes the drink away.

“Satine -”

“I can’t,” she whispers. She wilts against him, her head tucking itself into the crook of his neck beneath his chin. Her breath is hot against his throat, her body hotter still where he can feel the warmth of her fever radiating through the thin layer of her clothes where they touch. He puts the canister on the ground, propped up in the dirt but still within reach. 

“Obi-Wan,” she murmurs. “I’m so cold.”

“Alright,” he says, and he reaches forward to drag her coverlet from where it lies crumpled at her feet. “You’re alright.”

He pulls the blanket up over her shoulders, and wraps her in his arms. She responds to his touch in a manner so differently than usual he can feel his heart stutter and stop in confusion. Burrowing deeper, she nuzzles her cheek against his chest, and folds her arms between them. 

“Hush,” he says, rubbing wide circles over her back, the friction of his palm against the cover doing little to soothe her tremors, but doing much to calm his own uncertainty. 

“Is Master Jinn returned yet?”

“He will soon,” he says, though Master Jinn is still distant and cool.

“Do you promise?” she asks. She has never asked for his word before, never solicited his opinion, or sought his comfort. He pulls back to look at her face, certain he is being mocked somehow. But her eyes are closed, and her face slack with exhaustion. She tilts her chin, until her throat is bared, and she waits for him to speak.

“I promise,” he says. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. “I trust you. Will you wake me when he does?”

“I promise,” he repeats, staggered by this turn she so easily concedes to.

“And will you stay with me til then?”

He tightens his arms around her, cradling her head, and holding her close so that she might be warmed by the heat of his own body.

“I promise,” he vows.

And in the dark, he waits, and he watches, and he holds her until the sun comes up.

[kalesera]

        mandalorians  have  never  gone  even  one  minute  without  being  extra.

        the  upper  section  of  the  ship  was  made  to  resemble  ancient  kalevalan  ocean  cruisers,    and  the  helmsman  even  steered  the  ship  using  a  wooden  wheel.    the  first  space  seen  after  boarding  the  vessel  was  the  promenade,    a  grand  hall  that  exhibited  many  fine  exports  from  worlds  throughout  the  mandalore  sector.    the  richly  decorated  interiors  and  halls  were  fitted  with  jakelian  tuft-oak,    lapis  from  draboon,    and  carpets  woven  from  the  looms  of  harswee.    the  upper  section  of  the  ship  served  primarily  to  host  duchess  satine's  traveling  retinue  and  included  a  throne  room  and  several  royal  suites  to  house  her  personal  guests.

[gdcee]

I think the pronunciation of r in Mando'a should vary from dialect to dialect.

Mando'a speakers from Concord Dawn pronounce their rs as a voiced alveolar tap/flap (ɾ in IPA).

Those from Harswee do a voiced alveolar trill (r in IPA).

And Kalevalan speakers do a voiced postalveolar approximant (ɹ in IPA).

[izzyovercoffee]

When the sun set upon the curve of Harswee, did you see in its sunset the far reaches of your family’s legacy? Of your own?

Could you have known that hundreds of years down the line, the finest rugs woven by hands so similar and so different from yours, separated by time and distance and the reach of starlight, would decorate the halls of conflict---would line the richest floors of a lavish vessel, of an impressive palace, built on the blood of pacifism in words only?

Would you have steered things differently, if you could? 

Did you see what lengths the galaxy would go to cover your struggle and obscure your name in the intricate patterns the title, Mand’alor, worries out of all who hear it? Your life passed down through the centuries as threads of a story, of a name and a clan, woven and interwoven in the threads spun by those same hands that clasped your cheeks at night and held you still for a steadying kiss. 

Mand’alor, did you see in that quiet sunset on that far isle upon the heart of Harswee the lengths many would go to hide your struggles as they do dust beneath carpet, damage beneath rug, secrets behind curtains? 

Did you know what stepping out into the sun, for all to see, would mean so much and so little to the right and the wrong person?

Did it bother you to earn a title so close to the truth, or were you pleased by the teasing the jate’kara gave you? Did you take it in stride, with a smile and the laugh the adate remember so vividly, as if we all have lived and loved under your gentle amusement and your hard compassion.

As if we all could have been so lucky to live in a time beneath your temperance, and hear firsthand how you teased apart the people’s differences as you teased apart fresh threads for your buire to set upon the loom.

What was it like, to watch the warm sunsets, and ask Harswee’s guiding star for a promise, not knowing what that promise would take from you to grow? 

Not knowing how you would well and truly shine in that promise?

I don’t know why I ask, I imagine I already know what you would say.

“Haar’chak, ad’ika. Ne’dinui shebs be’strilli pel’hokaani.” 

Damn it, child. Do not give a strill’s backside a soft trim. 

And I know. 

I know. 

It’s not what they’re for. 

[direwolfrules]

Another Mando Time Travel AU (I Don't Know What This Is This Started As A Totally Different AU We Don't Even Get To The Time Travel Till The End)

Tarre Vizsla's relatively peaceful afterlife is rudely disrupted by one Jaster Mereel. Now every time the Ka'ra meets, Jaster's always talking about his son.

It only gets worse after Galidraan, and honestly, Tarre can sympathize. He too would curse up a storm if his entire movement was slaughtered and his son sold into slavery. He actually did perform some of the more colorful acts of vengeance that Jaster describes, all those years ago when he was crude matter, and the Sith had kidnapped his padawan. It was part of what had made him leave the Order, once the Sith had been defeated. The shame of those moments of raw, unadulterated violence, the whispers in the halls that perhaps he was simply too Mandalorian...they had followed him since he was a babe in the creche, but towards the end they had grown in number and volume.

Then one day, Jaster starts cursing Jango's name. It honestly shocks Tarre enough that he breaks his most important rule: not engaging in conversation with Mand'alor the Ridiculously Loud. He's curious, sue him.

(Inside his head Tarre cannot help but chuckle, because his master had often said his curiosity would be the death of him. Now that Tarre was dead, would it be the life of him? He doesn't know. All he knows is his friend Fay would have groaned at that poor excuse for a joke.)

Turns out Jaster's son, his precious boy, his poor, brutalized child, has decided to help in a Sith plot that would see the Jedi destroyed, all for the low price of millions of enslaved sentients.

Tarre – who avoided looking at the affairs of the living after his descendants sacked Coruscant and stole the Darksaber from the Temple where he left it, turning his tool for peacekeeping into a weapon of war and giving the anti-Mando factions in the Senate all the ammunition they needed to unleash the Dral'Han – tunes back in. He's horrified by what he sees.

He can't help but watch as the Clone Wars wages through the galaxy, as Manda'yaim is subjugated by the Empire, as Mando'ade are so brainwashed by the Sith (and oh how it burns, that the ancient enemy managed to slip through their fingers all those years ago) and their propaganda that they build the very weapons the Empire turns on their fellow verde. His brief moment of jubilation at seeing the Mandalorian rebellion nearly succeed is crushed by the Night of a Thousand Tears.

It's horrible, and made even worse by the realization that out there in the darkest edges of the galaxy, hidden away like the spider-roaches they are, the Sith survive. They had devastated his people, both his peoples, and they had survived with plans to do it all over again.

The Ka'ra meets more frequently now than anytime in Tarre's memory since the Dral'Han. Or the first Dral'Han, he supposes.

Things had gone so wrong, the Manda was full of souls who had lived too-short lives and the Force was constantly screaming in pain. Mandalore, Geonosis, Alderaan, Serenno, all were devastated by an ill-tempered madman high on the pain he caused and his army of sycophants. That much needless, senseless death leaves lasting scars on the fabric of the galaxy.

"If we could go back and fix it all..." It's Mandalore the Binder who says it. Harswee's greatest native son had been silent since the burning of his homeworld's fields. Where once there had been herds of wooly-nerfs and banthas grazing without care, now there was only blackened ash. To hear him speak now in that rumbling, gravely drawl of his...they cannot help but all pay attention.

It's a simple statement, one that most of their number had been thinking, but never said aloud. What was the use in longing for the impossible?

But then, Tarre thinks, is it really so impossible?

Tarre's curiosity would be the death of him, his old master used to declare, before indulging his inquisitive padawan's bad habits. Sometimes, such indulgences led to Tarre and his dearest friend exploring long abandoned Temples with little to no supervision. And in one of those Temples, there had been holocron upon holocron dedicated to the study of Time and it's relation to the Force.

It was Fay who put together the fragmented ramblings of half-mad acolytes, the accounts of failed rituals. It was Fay – who the Force loved so deeply even then – who figured out how such a ritual would work. And it was Tarre who she chose to share this information with.

It was heretical, a piece of the Force that tread dangerously close to the Dark. Tarre had shoved that knowledge, that terrible burden his dearest friend had inflicted upon him, deep into the recesses of his mind, never to be accessed again. Until now.

To fix it all, to send back the consciousnesses and/or bodies of a few chosen champions...it's tempting. It tempts Tarre almost as much as the Dark did during that one horrid year, when his master had been killed, his riduur assassinated, his people ripping themselves apart—

He brings it before the Council of Kings. It's the only way to be sure he's not being guided by his own selfish desires. The Mandalores of the past are a vast group, filled with individuals as varied as the stars for which they are named.

The vote is a close run thing. For all the Mandalores who ascended to the position through their love for their people, there are just as many who rose to power through force of arms or hatred of the Jedi. Many of the latter view Tarre's very presence as an insult, as do some of the former.

Surprisingly, it's Mandalore the Indomitable who breaks the tie. The former Mand'alor had served his Sith master faithfully in life, had died to fulfill his oath, and millennia later the Sith repaid his sacrifice with the blood of millions of his own people. He detests the Jedi, he makes this point very clear, but he loves his people more. Let the jetii in their ranks perform his Force osik. Even if the very thought of such an act makes him feel sick to his stomach, the survival of their people and their Creed is more important.

With the vote decided, Tarre merely has to pick his Champions. The range of the ritual can only go so far back. The Force is infinite, but Tarre's presence within it is not. He had gone through great lengths during his early life to not seem too strong, too much of a threat, and his efforts had resulted in a rather limited way of thinking.

He brings in Jaster to help make the decision. As annoying as the man could be, as much as Tarre disagreed with him on matters of morality and honor, he was quite knowledgeable about the destination time period. Both of them made their careers not just on the strength of their arms, but in the force of their personalities. They know what they need to look for in potential champions: those who would follow the orders of the dead, those whose skill set would prove apt for their designated theaters of war, and those who could be manipulated through their honor and beliefs.

That last one, the manipulation, it leaves a sour taste in Tarre's mouth, but the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.

In their dreams that night, two young Mandalorians and a Jedi are offered a choice by Tarre. They all accept.

Simultaneously, at the very edges of the Manda a father speaks to his son for the first time in many years, and in the face of his buir's stern disappointment the son reverts back to that orphaned fourteen-year-old. He agrees to his orders, and dreads facing his greatest mistake.

And in the Force, the essence of what was once a young knight who sacrificed himself for his family is plucked away from the collectiveness he had been lost in, and offered a similar choice. He eagerly accepts.