The Rebel Faction

The Guild Hall, most prominent of features in Guildstowne, was filled to capacity. Something of a cross between a tavern and a coliseum, the structure rose some dozen stories into the sky and spanned a full kilometer in diameter and it’s most auspicious of rooms was the Grand Chamber. Thousands filled its amphitheater seating while hundreds more gathered in the center dais that served as arena, stage and, podium for the gathered populace. Overhead a great fire burned upon the pyre, raining down hot ashes that cooled as they fell upon the hordes below and sending a great plume of black into the night sky. Countless voices joined as one to create a constant roar that echoed out into the jungles and across the river. This was a gathering of the people, a gathering under the one great man they all worshiped as commander and leader.

At the center of it all, seated upon a throne haggard by abuse, sat the man that everyone had gathered about to pay homage. An unassuming figure, the man appeared human enough though much of his frame was lost under the long-jacket he wore. His eyes moved back and forth among the crowds that moved about high in the rafters, lost in their celebration. With him on the dais were those he chose to keep closest, both friends and enemies. In one hand, locked in the grip of a dull chromatic gauntlet, he held a goblet of some unknown liquid while in the other rested the hilt of a blaster. This was the man who ruled the population, this was the man they called Mandalore.

Beff Pike had grown a certain respect for the title, though he had long avoided the mantle, and now he could imagine nothing else. Concord Dawn had become his home many long years ago and even after the Exodus he remained behind with the few thousand loyalists who continued to call the planet home alongside their leader. Things had changed since the old days.

Guildstowne was now the single largest settlement on the planet, ringed by a network of smaller cities each based around one of the large refineries that processed the ore they continued to mine. It had been impossible to conduct any formal census after the transients had left but estimates put the population between ten and thirty thousand fighting men and women. They were dirty and lost but they were still some of the best hunters in the galaxy. Over the years they had lost some of their luxury but gained a hardened edge that only this planet could provide as it had done once for the first Mandalorians and all those to follow. Nothing could do that to a creature what this planet did, Beff Pike had discovered this long ago and while the Exodus had not been entirely his own creation it had offered him and those most loyal to him, an opportunity they would otherwise have never found.

As the Mandalore of Concord Dawn turned his gaze over this gathering he felt an undeniable swelling of pride. Here could be seen the galaxies best predators all celebrating together. Their union was Beff Pike; he was their only reason for cohesion. Sweat and stink filled the air mingling with the aromas of a dozen different intoxicants alongside the faint tang of blood. A prominent waft of cooking meat filled the olfactory sense, its source; a massive creature roasting upon a spit slung over the fire pit at the forward edge of the dais. This was a fire that could consume men whole. It roared and spat grease; it could make a man forget about the fire burning high overhead.

Mounted along the walls of the upper terraces were the greatest prizes Mandalore had to offer, killed and stuffed to be seen by all. Dead eyes and severed appendages that said these were people who would kill you without a moments hesitation watched the horde below with baleful stares. Higher still were slung the many banners from battles won. Proclaimed in ancient script were the places and dates along with honorable names that helped form the foundation of the Guild. Every inch of the Great Hall was a testament to what these people had done under the direction of their fearless lord. In everything Pike saw his own accomplishments and in everything he saw his people under him, reverent and bathing in the blood of his foes. This was bliss.

A flowing river of liquid hot iron formed a spiraling moat that followed the outer edges of the dais. Bubbling angrily as it passed, the stream spat furious pain at those who dared venture too close. The hardened metal was neigh indestructible. The river was yet another declaration of what the Mandalore offered his people through the land. Mandalorian iron could not be broken, its hardness unparalleled though out the galaxy and it could be found only on the planet these desperate few called home. From the ore they crafted the hand weapons that made them fearsome and from this ore they also crafted the armor that would make them undefeatable in combat. Massive stores of the stuff, refined and processed, lurked in hidden bunkers all across the planet surface. Since the Exodus they had not exported a single shipment of the product and so their stores were rich.

Another secret of his people lurked here in these crowds. It could not be seen from one group to the next but as a whole, it was undeniable. To the outsider most aliens look alike and so one may not notice the markedly high amount of well known xenophobes. Lost in the vastness there might have been a dozen faces repeated a hundred odd times throughout the crowd, a Defel here or a Barabel there. So it went that the Guild had been able to maintain its numbers despite the relatively low breeding rate. The secret was stolen long ago from a planet deep within the Unknown Regions with the aide of a reptilian species who now mixed with those who’d gathered here.

And there you had it, the Guild Hall in its full splendor. But none of this had been arranged in vain.

“Silence!” the Mandalore roared in a tenor that transcended the thrumming noise of the crowd further amplified by the architecture of the Hall. His voice climbed the walls and washed over the masses that immediately fell quiet at his demand and turned their attention respectfully towards the speaker. He had stood while his voiced echoed through the Hall, and in standing the man revealed that he was only slightly over six feet, far smaller then many of the creatures that joined him on the dais. As he stood the crowd grew short. Those who had been standing fell to their knees while those who’d been sitting moved to do likewise. In mere moments the only sound to be heard was the crackling of countless fires large and small alongside the bubbling river that flowed relentlessly through the Hall.

“You are the best there are,” he stepped down from the throne and walked among the kneeling loyalists on the dais. “Mandalore has made you better, harder. But it has nothing left to teach.”

A confused sucession of murmers moved through the stadium like seats and the Mandalore allowed this for a moment. He raised a fist to again demand their attention.

“This is a hunt. Today we have overcome the hunt of our home. Respect it as you would a fallen prey but do not fear it!” Throwing back the customary hooded cap that swept from brow to shoulders, Beff Pike turned in a slow circle allowing his presence to radiate through the impossibly hard glare that locked with the eyes of each. His stare commanded devotion. “An off-world human moves through our forest now. He is Sith. He is a warrior and hunter. My dreams have come through the Sea of Voices. This is an omen.”

With just a few words the atmosphere shifted to comfortable companionship. With just a few words even the most dubious returned to the fold. Beff Pike knew his flock.

“He comes now. Raise your voices to the sky. Welcome him”

Bloody murder screamed on the lips of a thousand voices. A tumultuous roar echoed out across the river and into the jungle. The Mandalore threw up his gauntleted hand and pointed.

The stranger entered.

“Leadership I have,” spoke the man in the long coat. “But a society by any standard description, this is not.”

The folds of his jacket bunched against themselves as he spoke creating a contrast between the blue base and its dark brown piping. His arms moved in a slow, fluid motion that encompassed the whole of the Hall. Turning about in a full circle and presenting his rear to the Sith as he did. No attack came and so he spoke.

“This,” his brows bunched above the rimless goggles pressed around his eyes. “This is chaos.”

Rumbling cheers echoed through the Hall anew, shaking the walls with a deep bass tremor. Feet, or what passed for feet, thumped against the floor to the clapping of fist, flipper and hove. On the dais their jubilation was more reserved and the two who stood not far from the speaker moved in response.

One clad in the armor of a Mandalorian and emblazoned with the symbols of the Deathwatch stood to the left while another; far larger and differently armored figure remained to the right. Each had watched with adamant attention as the visitor had moved towards their liege. They studied him for flaws, none of which were readily apparent. They judged him as they would any other potential enemy (indeed, as they judged any and all they encountered). They sized him up.

“What you have found, stranger, is the hunters den. Welcome to the Great Hall, home to the truest seeds of the Bounty Hunters Guild.”

Again the cheer went up though now impossibly redoubled. He played to the crowd and allowed them their shouts and screams until the noise again died away.

“I am Mandalore. You may call me formal. I am Beff Pike.”

Though just shy of six feet and not shockingly built something in the mannerism of this hunter bespoke of a far greater strength then simply observed. His eyes hidden behind their shades betrayed no emotion while possibly scanning beyond the range of normal sight for signs of weakness in others. A long cap with flowing cuts of cloth ran down his shoulders concealing the ears. Confronted with the stranger he had left the blaster across the seat upon the dais but yet tended to keep his gauntleted hand between the Sith and himself.

Vance Jas did not seem to the hunter the typical Sith. While his words had not been in outright question the implied query was far from a demand… or an interrogation. The Mandalore was not force-sensitive, though he did possess many strange and inexplicable talents that rivaled those of the Jedi. But he was experienced, and aged. His interpretations of the interloper remained vague and he intended to probe the man further.

“Now I ask of you a question of my own.” The fire crackled ominously above and Beff Pike moved slowly towards the Sith. “You must answer it now. I will ask you again soon. You will understand then”

“Why,” he began now nearing within a foot of the man. “Why are you here?”

Memories of ages past began to resurface; images played across his minds eye. Beff Pike remembered, through the Sea of Voices, when a Mandalore long forgotten had made an alliance between his people and those who would bid for the galaxy. The results of that pact had become legend. Doubtless the Sith had their own ancient history that recorded the Mandalorians in their own light.

He waited for the chorus to die to a dull roar. He stared at the outstretched hand. He spoke.

"Your appeal sits well with my people." Pike turned cooly away, an outright rejection and insult. Yet, he spoke on. "Your appeal does not sit so well with me, however; I cannot ignore the desires of those I lead."

Moving away from the Sith towards the bubbling river of molten iron he remained silent. The moments ticked by uncomfortably as the crowd rumbled and grumbled it's own concerns. Less then half of those in attendance claimed a heritage not distinctly tied with the Mandalorians that lived millennia ago. Indeed these were not the same

"You do not mask your threat." He turned to face Vance now, his back to the moat of flowing metal. Below the brim of his cap, with his face framed between the flaps there-of, the warlord seemed to radiate an unnatural aura of sheer will. "With one hand you offer us glory while the other holds close the lightsaber you would hold against us."

"We have resources, yes." A gesturing hand waved over the moat. In the reflected sheen of his gauntlet the river seemed to grow calm. Kneeling, his hand slipped into the liquid with only minor resistance. Radiating heat washed over him, to no apparent effect, while he fished through the orange-red stuff. He seemed to find what he had been searching for and as he withdrew his arm a long shaft of hardened iron came with it. "You are Sith."

He held the shaft high still glowing a bright amber hue.

"Long ago the Mandalorian were feared though the galaxy. No were are legend and myth. Many here are not of Mandalore true though they have adopted it as home. You are Sith and know of the gulf between species and sect. I am Mandalore and it is true of us as well."

At the end of the shaft was a ball, a scoop filled with the molten iron and it flowed beautifully in its transparent orb. The Mandalore moved across the dais allowing all those watching to see the miracle for themselves. He then bowed and poured the cooling liquid into molds set at the edge of the dais. Long blades of flowing steel poured out and the blacksmiths moved to work. When Beff Pike spoke again it was to a chorus of thumping hammers pounding steel with the hissing scream of superheated water.

"Our trials and tribulations," he added with a flourish, again closing the distance between himself and the Sith to but a few meters. "These are our own to endure and we need no liberator. Our exile is our own."

Decorated murals and banners alike told the story of these people, each paid tribute to those who had come before but in no way would those who lived be bound by the actions of their predecessors. Between the works of art, tribal and warlike, was told a tale that evolved from the pages of the Bounty Hunters Guild through to the current incarnation; the Mandalorian Dominion.

"We are warriors. I doubt you would have such an easy time bringing to us death but your meaning is clear. I know the Sith well and through. The vision I have is much as it will be now. You offer us a place at the side of a Sith Order? Then you offer us nothing we cannot take ourselves."

As he spoke to the backdrop of hammering steel the smell of worked iron slowly seeped into the atmosphere. So too did the crowd grow louder, more unruly; the listened and shouted alike. The two figures who had shadowed him now stood at a distance.

"Mandalore offers you the right to reclaim the galaxy as the Sith should. We offer you the chance to fulfill your destiny here, now! Mandalore grows weary of a galaxy dominated by order." Now the crowd tasted the hint of war, the guild rose to it's many thousand feet (tentacle and hooves) and roared its agreement. "Too long have we sat and watched; sat and done nothing. So too have we watch the Sith sit silent. We will not bide our time any longer!"

A tremor echoed through the ground at their feet. As though an earthquake had been unleashed upon them, the great hall shook. Unimaginable in its magnitude it did nothing to disturb the audience who, to a being, had begun to adorn themselves in the armor and uniform of the Mandalorian Dominion. Beff Pike too threw off the long jacket.

Glinting iron, polished or dulled to personal tastes, filled the stands. Weapons; blades and pole arms of countless descriptions, filled the air with the waving sound of broken air. A motley army stood ready and screaming for the blood that the galaxy would give up. Some wore full suits, their faces hidden behind a myriad of helmets while others wore only plates or mail made from the same almost-indestructible alloy. Humming static filled the air where those with powered weapons stood and still others clutched their blasters with the same ferocity.

It all unfolded as the roof of the great hall slowly began to slide open to the dark and starry sky.

Mandalore stood at the center facing the Sith while a cadre of even more impressive beings, those who had sat upon the dais with them, moved to encircle them with their own weapons at the ready. As one, they cast their eyes to the sky.

A cluster of lights hung high above, too small and dull to be stars or nebulae. The longer one stared the better the shapes resolved. They stood gazing up at a war-fleet; the Mandalorian War Fleet.

"What I offer you is the strength to crush your enemies."

In full battle armor the Mandalore seemed all the more impressive. Plates of hammered iron integrated with woven mail covered chest, back and shoulder. His legs were lost to the sweeping robe of woven fibers that met with the floor (and had blended flawlessly with the long-coat he'd worn moments earlier).

From outside the circle the hammering stopped to be replaced by the sound of clattering steel as, tossed from beyond the dias, a single long bladed sword arced through the air to land noisily between Beff Pike and Vance Jas. Beff Pike eyed it.

"I wonder if you have the strength to take it."

The sound of steel against sheathe spoke its own answer to the questioning Sith. A could shank against cloth noise that silenced the crowd faster then any command.

They had been strapped in cross-hatch fashion across the hunters back, previously hidden by the jacket. Each measured just two feet, single bladed and straight edged with a bold tang running the full length of blade and hit. Pure black, no light glinted off of their honed edges as the Mandalore brought each into view. Evil radiated from them.

He lunged; the right blade coming in high with a sidelong chopping action. It was a ploy, easily seen and easily avoided. The point was simple; impress the crowd and set the Sith moving. Swung high and hard the angle was such that it moving away from the attack, Vance placed himself squarely opposite Beff with the long sword thrust into the ground between them.

“You talk as dictator but I am a warlord.” He spoke softly, alert and watching for the sign of a light-saber. A sea of voices sung of a million possible futures. Infinity played out between them. “But you overstep yourself. I will fight with you and die with you, if you are worthy. You think you have come here to test us. Look around Lord Jas, this test is yours and yours alone.”

“There is always compromise where strong wills are involved. You make your demands without validation. We have nothing to loose. We are too old for eager young Sith. We remember the first of your kind.” Somehow, as he spoke, he’d managed to transpose I for We. “We do not need you. You want us. Make us want you.”

“Take up the sword.”

The Mandalore Pike attacked swiftly and with brutal ferocity. Each combatant had made their platforms clear with elaborate posturing so common to confrontation. The time for action was upon them.

Aware of his opponents skill and fully aware of his preparedness, Beff Pike chose a careful series of planned strikes to open. When fighting Jedi, and indeed Sith, careful planning is key. To kill a force-trained warrior one must be patient; one must plot.

His right hand, wrapped deftly about the hilt of one sword, carried the weapon in a tight horizontal arc while the left stabbed at the belly of Vance Jas. The air hummed, whistling a painful cry against the rushing blades.

Too fast the Sith brought his weapon up and between himself at the would-be warlord. The sharp sound of steel hitting steel echoed through the arena as both swords, first the inside then outside, we driven back. In one simple move Jas took the upper hand.

While Beff fought to recover his defense the Sith readied himself to attack. For a moment it looked as though the conflict would soon be resolved.

As the Sith claimed the Force as their weapon, the Anzati called upon the Sea of Voices for whispers of the future. Beff Pike consulted the soup often and was rewarded with the luck of his victims. Chance alone would not be enough to conquer this foe, however.

His tactics paid off. Before the Sith could carry off what could have been a fatal blow his attention was drawn to a new threat. From deep within the crowd someone had thrown an energy tipped spear. Beff Pike had planned this distraction, among others. It was intended to test the resolve of his enemy. As the bounty hunter saw it; Jas would be forced to choose between a potential victory over his adversary and his own safety.

The Mandalore was a deadly warrior in his own right but for all his skill he could not hope to match a trained Lord of the Sith in single combat. Particularly not this one.

His first “trap” failed.

The Sith called upon the Force, or so it seemed, and the spear changed direction. Vance Jas brought his blade across the Mandalorians chest. Beff Pike twisted sidelong, managing to deflect most of the blow. He spun with the force of the blow, the momentum carrying him through.

Perhaps the Sith had though himself victorious for he lowered his blade and easily back stepped away from the frail counter attack.

Beff Pike covered his chest and fell to a knee. One of his swords fell away. He tugged at his chest convincingly.

“Kark,” he cursed. “You fight like an infidel.”