“YUCK! PAHH! BLECCHH!”
Came the voice of a man.
“Just gabagool, you fool.”
Came the voice of a Man.
In a speeder, across the dry desert dunes of a barren world, that seared planet, Demir.
It wasn’t horribly hot, not really, but the red haze that sun cast aglow was to be feared.
For the faint of heart, really—those afraid of bloody tides and the red sun’s rise this day.
Night or a day, a Mandalorian’s never afraid, for, if he is, then he isn’t even a Man, no way.
“The kark is gabagool!?” Queries the older man, seventy maybe, a Man of the same clan.
“It’s like salted sausage, I guess,” shrugs the other Man, and he's the head of Clan Ratheon.
“It tastes like ya motha!” Older man, an aging elder, thoughts crossed between gums and gun.
“I don’t remember her,” Ratheon shrugs again. “Not really. But I remember my father…clearly…”
“Whatever, let’s just get this done.” The old man’s turn to shrug. In the speeder, sits as passenger.
Beside him, that younger man, Endyr Ratheon, he is the driver, so prone to some road rage anger.
Today, no soul around, beneath that red sun of Demir, on rocky roads barren moves his speeder.
In the distance, a bloody horizon, like the gods of night and day crossed blades above mountains.
Swarming, fire clouds looming, plumes of smoke curling in a blaze like yesterday’s cigarette.
Endyr doesn’t smoke, not really, but on occasion he’ll puff one while the Man cocks his gun.
Ease the nerves, calm the senses, cool and composed, that Mando of Concord Dawn bred.
He ain’t dead yet, though some would like him to meet his death, to see a Man on the run.
A Man, a man, he is Endyr Ratheon, and he’s got bigger balls than an Ishi Tib has three testicles.
Whatever that meant, fading memory to time well spent, when Tib’s nuts led to a merc called Crux.
Crud, Cups, Crunch, Klutz, whatever his name was, he became Wolf, bled to death, maybe, that fool.
Still, he'd fought against a Mandalorian, so he was a goner from the start, yes, a Man called Cas.
“We’re here,” declared the elderly Geldery, though he wasn’t gelding anyone today, at least.
Geldery of Clan Ratheon, an old man, withering in the mind and weathering within the knees.
Yet, a hurricane of brazen brain, brave and strong in spirit, he had given his Alor the winning tip.
Here, on Demir, that is where she presumably hid it, her, Casany Praxor, the winnings of her ship.
The speeder halted beside a dune, a mountain, hill, call it what you will, that plateau so round.
Jagged, yet, like a Mandalorian’s head beneath his crown, yes, his helmet, pristine if so scarred.
“Crack yourself a beer, old man, but hold the whiskey for when we’ve found it.” Ratheon gets out.
Geldery stays put in speeder, takes a sip of some beer, listens. “Found that bitch’s stolen beskar.”
