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Light had begun to bleed into the horizon, silhouetting the cramped, rocky canyons, the rise and fall of dunes in the desert, still leaving the camp and town behind it in the dark.
Jango took a deep breath, held for a moment, then slowly released it to the air. Today had to be the day. Nearly four years, and Vizsla still lived, still continued to kill and pillage.
The mythosaur tattoo on his back burned under his gold-painted armor, calling out to the man Jango had gotten the tattoo for.
Jaster Mereel. The Reformer. Murdered by his second and Jango’s own incompetence.
He breathed again, slowly, doing what his buir had aways taught him to calm down. There was a Jedi with the Kryze, yes, but one known for not participating in fights with Kyr’tsad, instead running his charge away. The two of them would be here for a moment, then Jango would attack their pursuers, and all but Kyr’tsad would walk away happily.
Myles walked up, buy’ce at his hip, grinning.
“Vizsla’s going down, vod. Today feels good.”
Jango turned to his verde.
“We’re close to the desert, close to some towns too, but closer still to the desert; an hour by sen’tra, and Kyr’tsad is going to try to lure us there. Don’t you follow. The kill is not worth the exposure.
“Evaar’ade gaajir cuy dayn ogir, ibac jorbe Kyr’tsad cuy olar. Val cuy cuun n’adu jekai, bal bid mhi val’paguu, ibi’tuur mhi ne’kada. (The New Mandalorians will be out there, that’s why Death Watch is here. They are our unwilling bait, and as much as we dislike them, we will not harm them today.)
“Do not allow yourselves to get cocky. Do not allow yourselves to get shot out of the sky. Do not let those bastard hut’uune take us down. If you do, I’ll shoot you myself, and cart you off to the medics. Today we will live. Today we will shine. Glorious as the Ka’ra may be, none of us will be joining it today. Am I understood?”
“OYA!” came the cheer, accompanied by vambraces hitting chestplates.
Jango grinned, the adrenaline and thrill of his and his soldiers ramikadyc flowing through him, and slammed his bucket on.
The sun had almost risen, and they would strike soon. Other than the Evaar’ade suddenly learning how to fight, very little could disrupt victory today.
And of course, in the middle of the fight, the Haat’ade chasing Kyr’tsad, blaster bolts filling the air, out danced a Jedi. And not the one it was supposed to be. Instead of the old one that supposedly rarely drew his kad’au, the blazing sword was wielded by a young, copper-haired jetii’ad of all things.
Unfortunately, they distracted everyone, Kyr’tsad swarming the Jedi even as all of Jango’s soldiers reeled, clearly more used to the Jedi’s antics. The Kryze, who couldn’t have been much older than the youthful Jedi, was shoved out of her hiding place, shrieking. Jango had recovered, and perhaps against better judgement, stopped his shoot-out with Vizsla and turned his attention towards saving the kids.
Completely unnecessary, it turned out, as the extremely skilled adat'ikaperson + diminutive, basically young man sliced through the Kyr’tsad members, dragging Kryze away from the hut’uune.
“Hey, kid! You want a hand?”
“Shab off!”
The kid kept running, now holding Kryze by the hand.
Jango considered giving chase, but the rocky canyons the ade were heading towards was not somewhere he wanted to lead his soldiers. And they were Evaar’ad and Jetii…neither group was on the best of terms with more historically minded Mando’ade like Jango and the other Haat’ade.
The Jedi was youthful, too young for Jango to let himself be attracted to, but Manda if he wasn’t good with that kad. For some reason, something tugged at him to follow, to connect with the kid, to chase down Vizsla, but he turned around. He was Mand’alor now, and he had verde to protect, more importantly than any feeling in his gut.
Obi-Wan kept his eyes resolutely forward, ignoring the soul-deep desire to turn and run right back to the Mandalorian in the grey-red-and-a-spot-of-gold armor. He wasn’t entirely sure of what the armor colors all meant, but he knew that the new group wasn’t Death Watch, and he knew that the touch of gold meant vengeance.
Hopefully not against Satine or her family. Qui-Gon would have his hide—or his braid—if Obi-Wan managed to expose them to yet another threat.
Returning to the unknown Mandalorian would also likely anger Satine, as she was firmly against any of the Mandalorians wearing armor—New, True, or Death Watch. Which…that group was probably the True Mandalorians, as they called themselves.
The physical strain of tugging Satine along had kept him from thinking very clearly, but now that Death Watch was close enough that he could sink into his battle-mind, he was thinking again.
Yes, probably the True Mandalorians, not heedlessly violent like Death Watch, certainly not pacifist like Satine. He couldn’t believe that after all those years of all the older Jedi rejecting him for his anger and telling him “a Jedi does not use violence”, one of his first missions ended up with him killing dozens of people!
The Force-quieting abilities of the metal many of them wore, beskar, was actually a good thing, here. It meant he did not have to feel them die in the Force as their bodies died on his blade.
It also seemed to keep him from being drawn further into the thrall of that one Mandalorian. Satine was developing feelings for Obi-Wan, and he found that he couldn’t entirely reciprocate. Not that he didn’t…like women, his emotions about Siri and Cerasi had proven that, but Satine was just…not the sort he ever found himself looking at. She had fire, and passion, Obi-Wan just didn’t like where that passion was facing.
Speaking of facing, they were nearly at the canyons, with very few close calls from Death Watch. Hm. Maybe thinking about his anger really did help him fight better, and the Masters were wrong. Not that they—or Satine for that matter—would agree.
He hadn’t expected the True Mandalorians to give chase, but he couldn’t help but be a little disappointed. Adult as he was by local social standards, he still looked young, and if even Satine had some of the care for children that the rest of the Mandalorians had, he should have followed.
Perhaps he did not feel that tugging, the one not quite like the Force. It didn’t matter, anyway. They were a mercenary group, one that Obi-Wan would not see again, tug or no.
So he kept the dogged pace, running Satine and himself into the canyons and the caverns within, keeping his charge alive more important than any of his own feelings, his own callings, incredibly loud call though it was.
