Lights danced across the battlefield below, matching the intensity of the fighters blows against one and another. It had been nearly two decades since Rynn himself had partook in any sort of spar for glory, the once young Mandalorian had grown into his late thirties at this point. His ancestral armor was scorched with blast marks, one of the horns broken and seared from a battle years prior. Why he was here, amongst a group of strangers, Rynn still didn't know. It was not that he cared for the games, or any of those participating in the battles.
The cold lifeless visor scanned across those gathered and watching, recognizing no one in particular, the faces he had come to know, vanished. His people's rise had come as quickly as their fall. They were nothing again, but a distant memory that the galaxy had come to forget. His hand rested against the tops of his upper chest plate, holding against it for comfort as he turned his attention back towards the sport. The lightsaber that he had worn against his breastplate as a trophy pressed against the pad of his hand -- reminding him of the empty pride that had come in that long forgotten deceit. I wonder where that man is now? Most likely dead.
