Slodalpyr Is a Place of No Importance

by willowoak_walker

Summary:

Slodalpyr had not been a place where important things happened since the worship of Kad Ha'ringer faded.
The old volcano was still sacred, but few cared.
That made it a good place to perform a ritual that no Goran or other Lorekeeper had approved.
... If any place could be good for that.

Notes:

This fic uses mouseover translations implemented through a Work Skin based on this Work Skin, which unfortunately illustrates the process with Harry Potter characters.

I will also be using a slightly nonstandard spelling of some Mando'a words, because I have philosophical objections to transcribing a fictional language into English contexts in a way that makes it difficult for English readers to pronounce correctly where that is avoidable.

Chapter 1: A Light in the Night

It was local midnight in the town of Sladolpyr on Ordo when everyone woke up. It was a sudden waking, but an almost silent one.

The children did not cry.

In the clan houses, adults barred doors and took up guard stations around the karyaise.

In the hostels, visitors hid.

The few aruetiise(outsiders) who lived there long-term retreated into windowless rooms as if from a sandstorm.

The Goran(Armorer), alone in the Forge, watching the fire which must not be allowed to go out, opened the great doors and stepped outside. Bearing witness.

There should have been several moons that night, outshining all but the brightest stars.

There should have been clouds.

There were not.

The stars were bright, untwinkling, burning in colors even a Goran could not name.

Then one fell, plunging toward the mountain that overshadowed the town. The old volcano's sides had lost their sedimentary cladding, and now only the metamorphic rock remained.

Those who held the old ways considered it sacred to Kad Ha'ringer, the destroyer, the changer.

It would have been a good place to perform a ritual.

The falling star vanished into the rock, and for a moment the Goran thought it might be over.

It wasn't.

The stars blazed all together, blinding.

Angry.

Then it was over.

Even the Goran swayed as the pressure lifted. The children — and some of the adults — began to cry.

The Goran went into the Forge. The fire burned. It had been banked for the night, but it wasn't now.

It burned low, short of fuel.

It had not gone out.

Chapter 2: The Day after Judgement: Clothes

The stranger walked into the tailor's shop in Sladolpyr a little before noon.

They wore a kute (bodysuit) and boots and had wrapped a towel stained in dried-blood brown around their face to keep out the sand.

Nothing they wore fit.

Amun had been nervous all day. Ey was Freed and had taken shelter on Ordo because ey thought the Hutts and the Zygerrians would be less likely to risk a raid.

The midnight waking had left em sleepless. Eir neighbors had reassured em that the fire in the Forge had not gone out, so the stars were likely not angry at Sladolpyr, but that was little comfort to someone who knew emself an outsider.

The stranger was terrifying. Pinged every animal instinct Amun possessed.

Ey knew better than to trust instinct alone, though. Ey stepped forward and asked if they could help the customer with all the politeness ey could manage.

Ey didn't realize ey'd spoken Hutteese until ey started to make a slave's bow to a freeborn.

Ey caught emself, but ey wasn't sure how this stranger would take eir use of a slave's "I", and if ey was slipping into Hutteese by accident that would have been the "I" ey used.

The stranger gave em a deep nod and said, in Hutteese, "Thank you, survivor. I am looking for readymade clothes." The 'you' was the one used for a free person. 'Survivor' was a term some Freed used to address a stranger they suspected of being Freed.

The stranger did not stop sending flares through Amun's lekku, but ey was more than eir instincts. "I do not have readymade kutese (bodysuits)," Amun said, still in Hutteese, but remembering to use the free 'I'.

"I am not looking for a kute," the stranger said after a moment. "I am looking for pants, a tunic, socks, underwear, and a cloak or poncho."

"That I can do," Amun said. Eir hands shook as ey measured the stranger, but the stranger continued to be perfectly polite.

The stranger left with a change of everything and several extra of socks and underwear, a cloak and a poncho, and a proper face-protector for the sand.

They did not haggle, merely handed Amun a pile of mixed currencies that, when Amun ran the exchange rates, was almost twice again what ey'd asked.

Amun looked up from the currency check to find the stranger gone.

Chapter 3: The Day after Judgement: Weapons

The light always shifted when someone entered Kora's weapons shop, but this time it had shifted wrong.

She looked up to see a tall human removing a sand-mask. Underneath, the human's face was scarred.

Something about the way the light fell on em was wrong.

Kora tapped her fingers to the kar'ta beskar on the breastplate she was wearing and turned her chair to meet her guest.

"Welcome," she said, trying for a more classic Mando'a than her usual Ordan twang. "What can I do for you?"

The human reached out a hand — unarmored, scarred, the light was wrong, the light was wrong — and placed a bag on her counter. "I wish to sell," ey said. Eir Mando'a wasn't just classic, it was Preservation Mando'a, the dialect developed early in the Crusades to preserve the sense and sound of the old songs.

Nobody used that dialect to offer goods for sale.

Nobody alive.

Kora pulled herself together. She was facing a Marcher, yes, but the Forge-fire had not gone out, so …

So she just had to treat them with exquisite courtesy.

"May I see what you have to sell?" she asked, reaching for, but not touching, the bag.

The Marcher said, "Elek (Yes)," and withdrew their unarmored hand.

Kora opened the bag. It was full of weapons. Blessedly, the knives were all in sheathes and the blasters separated from the cartridges. She lifted them out, examining them. A few were good quality — nothing spectacular, nothing beskar, but of course there wouldn't be — but many of them were … cheap.

She knew her face revealed her opinion of the Qui-Sii 210.

"Cheap piece of shit," the Marcher agreed, accent suddenly heavy Concord's Dawn. "Took it off a slaver." A slight pause, and then, once again in Preservation, "Those who fight slaves do not need quality; fear is their true weapon."

The light was wrong, the light was wrong.

"There is no honor in hurting someone who has no strength to stop you," Kora said, trying for Preservation herself because it was a quote from one of the stories of Mand'alor the First.

The Marcher nodded.

"I will not be selling any of these," she said after a moment, nudging the pile of truly dreadful weapons she'd put the 210 in. "I do not sell weapons I know will fail."

"Will you buy them for …?" Still in Preservation, and Kora didn't know the last word. Her confusion must have been evident, because the Marcher said, "Scrap, parts," in a fair attempt at an Ordan dialect.

"Yes," Kora said. "Let me calculate a moment." She did the sums on her vambrace, since she was wearing it anyway. She told the Marcher a price that was slightly on the high side of fair.

A considering pause. The light was wrong, the light was wrong.

"Agreed."

Kora pulled out the wadase and counted out the appropriate amount. She set them in a pile and pushed it toward the other side of the counter.

Stars forgive her, she did not want to touch an unarmored Marcher's skin.

The Star in front of her showed no sign of offense, merely scooping the money up, checking it, and tucking it away.

Kora nodded and began putting away the half-way decent weapons.

"I forgot to ask if you were counting the bag," Preservation Mando'a was not meant to sound sheepish. Marchers were not meant to sound like Kora's baby brother admitting that he'd let the striile into the house again.

Kora was smiling as she looked up into that wrong-lit face. "I wasn't."

Chapter 4: The Day after Judgement: Boots

Ohhhse was sorting the ridiculous collection of winter boots that Buir (Parent) bought three years ago and has sold maybe three pairs of since, trying to make them take up less space without becoming invisible, when the shadows burned away.

He had grunted — definitely not yipped, whatever Ag said — and turned toward the door with his hand not on his blaster but close.

The human walking in was stupidly tall, even for a human, but what Ohhhse noticed was the boots.

They were terrible! Absolutely appalling!

"Please tell me you are replacing those boots," Ohhhse said. Did not whine! Might have begged, he'd allow "begged", those boots were a disgrace.

"I am," the human said, sounding amused. "That is why I am at a boot store."

"Wonderful," Ohhhse said, "Delightful, please sit down and remove the atrocities. What are you looking for?"

Ag, behind the counter, stopped being able to hide his laughter.

"Traitor," Ohhhse hissed at him.

"I'm looking for something versatile," the human said, removing thank the Stars one of the alleged boots.

Ohhhse trotted forward, producing his measuring tools. "Do you want to measure yourself or may I do it?"

A slight pause, and then, "You can measure as long as you avoid sudden movements."

"Thank you, I am a professional," Ohhhse said, eyeing the debooted feet. He had practiced moving slowly while measuring. "I am going to start with this foot." He measured the feet, carefully moving slowly. The light was better here than usual. He hardly had to squint at all.

"Versatile," Ohhhse said thoughtfully, looking at the feet. "Waterproof? Cold resistant?"

"Both would be good," the human said, "I am often in cold wet places."

"We've got those winter boots Buir bought, right, Oh?" Ag said. He was still laughing, wretched thing.

"Yes," Ohhhse said. "Are two pairs in your budget?" he asked the human.

"Ah." A thoughtful pause. "Maybe?"

"I will show you the winter boots and the desert boots and a decent pair of compromise boots and Ag will tell you the prices and then we can go from there," Ohhhse said, and went to get the winter boots.

The human did not know how to properly try on boots, but that was all right, Ag was good at explaining it.

Ey ended up buying winter and desert boots rather than the compromise. It was in eir budget because Ag gave em a discount on the winter boots.

The human had raised an eyebrow at that. "Hard to move them," Ag explained.

Ohhhse asked if ey had plans for the disgraceful boots and got a puzzled denial.

"I shall make art from them, then," Ohhhse declared.

The human chuckled and slipped into a dreadful Concord's Dawn accent to say, "What cannot be made whole must be made art."

Ohhhse laughed. "Yes."

The human nodded to both of them and left.

"Huh," Ohhhse said as he turned back to the winter boots. "It got dim all of a sudden."

"'Lek," Ag said. "That was a karking Marcher we just sold boots to."

 

Chapter 5: The Day after Judgement: Tea

Koyo knew immediately that they was looking at a Marcher.

The Star wrapped around the human's frame was not blinding, but ey was devastatingly brilliant.

Not Mand'alor the Lesser, this one.

The human, the living component, was not wearing armor.

The Marcher reached out for them in two separate reaches, the Star and the Living independently stretching to touch them. They reached back, a single reach, twining the lights together.

The Marcher's mouth opened a little, surprised. The Living shied from the touch, nervous and overwhelmed. Koyo let him slip away, curl into his shields.

The Star curled around him, protective.

"Elder Sibling," the Marcher said, their Mando'a a truly peculiar mix of accents, "Did you know of this plan?"

"Not I," Koyo said, "I was not consulted. The Goran, neither." They examined them. "It was not your choice, sibling. I am sorry."

"I had a choice," the Living said, his Mando'a a version of Preservation that Koyo hadn't heard since the Vizsla idiots stole their Elder's lightsaber and Fay stopped coming round. "I chose to live."

Koyo laughed. They was a Neti, so not everyone recognized their laugh. The Marcher did, both parts of them.

Their smile was the Living's, hesitant. Afraid.

"What brings you here, then, Marcher?" Koyo asked, leaving the difficult subject.

"Supplies," the Marcher said, more than half the Star — Concord's Dawn accent, thick and modern.

"Of course," Koyo said. "What sort of kitchen facilities do you plan for?"

A pause. Conversation.

"The Force will provide," the Living said, sounding just like Fay.

"Well," Koyo said, "Let us trust in the Force to guide your choices, then."

The Star was flaring, anxious. All new-buir energy. The Living led their progress through the store, reaching for the Life that buoyed him.

When the Marcher brought their basket to the counter, Koyo had a gift ready. Two.

They let the Marcher pay for the supplies. Wadase, for the most part, but a collection of other currency thrown in to make up the balance.

The Marcher bagged their own goods, polite.

"I have a gift for you, sibling," Koyo said as they finished. "And I would ask you to carry one to another person."

"I can make no promises," the Marcher said, both together.

"This, for you," Koyo said, pushing over the package of shig. Their own recipe, one that soothed the mind and made dreams lighter. "And this, for Fay, when next you see her."

That package, they had wrapped.

"I will do what I can," the Living said. "What name shall I give her?"

Koyo laughed again. "Tell her, 'The Neti Mandalorian'. I have changed my name too many times since I saw her last."

"I appreciate your kindness," the Living said, an outsider warned not to thank Mando'ade.

"Maybe we'll meet again," Koyo said.

"Koyashi (Stay alive)," the Marcher said. Catching the pun.

Chapter 6: Dawn Brings Clarity

The Goran of Slodalpyr had been told of the Marcher. Four encounters, one with that nervous Freed tailor.

The tailor had knocked at the door of the Forge despite it being open, knowing emself unwelcome. Had offered the Goran a handful of coins — the Marcher had overpayed.

The Goran had told em to keep the money. Marchers did not give gifts by mistake.

Had eyed the tailor. The survivor, as ey said the Marcher had called em.

Had handed them a copy of the texts the late Mand'alor had thought were most important for a newcomer to know and invited em to the lore-singing the Goran was holding on the fifth night after the Starfall.

The tailor had been … touched. Warmed, perhaps. Welcomed.

They might always be neverd, but the Goran would not deny someone a Marcher called "survivor" welcome.

The Goran would have to reconsider the rest of the aruetiise in the area the Forge of Slodalpyr served. Perhaps the fire had burned low because they had not been made welcome.

When it was clear how the Stars had judged, the Goran would meet with the elders and consider next steps.

Five days had been the longest it had ever taken for a Star's judgement to arrive at a Forge, and that had been because the three nearest Forges had burned out.

The Goran woke at dawn the day after the Marcher was seen.

No-one had rung the bell at the door, but the Goran rose anyway, unbanked and stoked the fire, and opened the door.

It opened out, to make it harder to break down. There was a ringing note when the door was half open, beskar on beskar.

The Goran looked down.

The armor was scattered, to a first glance. But the second look revealed order.

Pauldrons piled together, breastplates stacked, greaves and vambraces shoved into boots or upturned helmets.

And eight kar'ta beskare, removed from the breastplates so cleanly not a wire or thread of the backing straggled.

Dropped face-down in front of the door.

The Goran of Slodalpyr stared for a long moment.

The song for such a situation was not often sung, but all Gorane of the old tradition learned it. This Goran had reviewed the words last night.

There was still a long moment of silence before the first curse rang out.

The armor needed reforging. Each and all of it.

The kutese might be reusable, in theory — they'd been piled up behind the helmet the door had hit.

There were eight of them. Eight helmets, eight breastplates, eight backplates, sixteen vambraces. Only fourteen boots.

At the end of the first singing of the Condemnation, the Goran of Slodalpyr began gathering them up, checking for distinguishing marks.

The third breastplate was one she knew. It shocked her, for a moment, out of the role of Goran and into Jisane Ordo, whose sister she had just learned was dar'manda.

She drew the role about herself again, like armor, like a cloak, like a way to avoid facing grief for a little longer, and gathered the armor up.

Filming the whole time, of course.

The pauldrons that bore the mark of Clan Viszla — the mark that now meant Death Watch — had a line and a circle scraped through the paint. Not quite the cancel symbol.

The line curved down, just a little.

It might be a coincidence.

The Goran would take it to the elders. They would compare it to all the recorded Mand'alore's marks.

There might be another it matched as well as Jaster Mereel's.

Chapter 7: Noon Would Have Been Symbolic

The ship that took off from the foot of the mountain did so several minutes before noon, but no-one noticed, so it hardly mattered.

Notes:

To anyone subscribed to me, sorry for the notification spam. Couldn't figure out how to post all draft chapters at once.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of A Star Sheds Light (Even One That Fell)