The bright orange sun hung low over the horizon, setting the naked hills ablaze in golden glow. A lone rider squinted against the blinding light and lowered his chin so that the brim of his dark hat shaded his eyes from the rays. Normally, Din Djarin would get a bit apprehensive about his vision being impaired so severely but he’d made this journey a hundred times. He could find his way in his sleep, something he’d done before when the jobs were long and days of no rest caused him to lull into a deep slumber as his horse, Razor, plodded on towards familiar territory.
Thankfully the job hadn’t taken more than an hour this time. It was just a small job, bringing a lousy low-life who owed some shady men some money. It didn’t make a difference to him one way or another. The man’s cries for mercy had fallen on deaf ears as Din had hogtied him and carried him on the back of his horse for a few miles to deliver him to his employer. Ol’ Karga had paid him decently this time, although it had taken some negotiating. Usually jobs like this brought in meager wages.
“Times are lean right now, Mando,” Karga explained after placing a small leather pouch in Din’s hand. Din rolled his eyes when the man used the nickname he’d unwillingly been bestowed but it couldn’t be helped. Karga didn’t have another name by which to call him. The two men had been work associates for years and not once had Karga ever heard his stoic employee’s name spoken allowed. The older man once risked asking and the withering stare he received from Mando was enough to make him never ask again. Din knew he was not the first Mandalorian to be called “Mando”, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last.
“Times are lean for me too, Karga,” Din snarled. “I’m the best bounty hunter you’ve got and you know it.
Karga sighed. “You’ve got a point there. I’ve never seen a bounty hunter bring in so many quarries so quickly in all my years.” Karga chewed his lip in irritation as he considered for a moment. Part of his livelihood was to keep his bounty hunters happy or they just might turn on him one day. The army he’d carefully cultivated over the years was a beautiful and delicate balance of unpredictable and dangerous. Plus, he had a warm meal and the soft embrace of a less than questionable woman waiting for him at the boarding house he resided in and he really didn’t want to delay his appointment with either on of them by negotiating further. “Fine,” he acquiesced as he reached into the deep pocket of his black trench coat, pulled out another pouch and tossed it a little forcefully at Din. “Here, that’s all I can do. Now git before I change my mind.”
Din patted the pouches that were secured to his belt as if reassuring himself that they were still there. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. Every little bit helps the Tribe. His postured straightened as he saw a tendril of black smoke curl into the sky. Razor’s ears perked up as the familiar smells drifted through the air. Din guided him up a sloping hill and when he reached the crest he found himself looking down at a small yet established camp.
“We’re home, amigo,” Din muttered as he gave his gray steed a pat on the neck before nudging him down the hill. It been about four days since he left and he was ready to have some rest before looking for more work.
At the edge of the camp Din swung down from his saddle. In a few short minutes he’d stripped the heavy leather off Razor and removed the bridle from his head before opening a rickety gate to a simple wooden corral where a few other horses were grazing listlessly. Razor snorted and threw up his head before trotting off to his own patch of grass. Din slung his saddle, saddle pad, and bridle onto his powerful shoulder and carried it into his homestead.
The hum of life thrummed through the veins of the camp between tents and small huts. Pit fires were scattered in front of homes filling the air with the warm smell of home. Wives and mothers bent over cook pots or spits roasting meat at some. Young tribe members, both men and women, were gathered around and sharing exaggerated stories about their most recent hunt at others. Children raced past him, shouting joyfully while playing games of their own imagination. These were the Mandalorians; a small tribe that lived in the territory on the river about half a day’s ride from the small town of Navarro. The tribe had held onto that land for generations, thriving in their culture within the safe haven of their humble village.
Stories of their past talked of fearsome Mandalorian warriors who fought tooth and nail for their stretch of land and warred with neighboring tribes and villages to protect it. Those stories were ancient. Din had never seen a Mandalorian don war paint and take up weapons unless it was to hunt. The constant settler expansion and constant threat of extinction kept the Mandalorians close to home where they could defend their home and not risk a potential overthrow by their enemies and neighbors. They were content to live off the land and observe their traditions.
Whether young or old, male or female, there was one unifying aspect throughout the village as Din traversed it; every tribe member wore masks covering the lower half of their faces so that only their eyes could be seen. This was how their ancestors had lived since the beginning of time. The mask was a symbol of humility and strength. Din had been taught from an early age that there was strength in silence, and that’s how the Mandalorians had survived settler expansion, war, a schism in their tribe, and other such hardships. He’d been taught that since the day the Mandalorians had found him; dirty, bloodied, alone, and frightened as the screams of settlers filled the air and twisted in the smoke rising from burning cabins.
Din shook his head, forcing his mind away from that dark place. Every once in a while those pesky memories would surface and that’s when he’d find himself drinking until he passed out. It appeared tonight would be one of those nights, but he had duties to attend to first. Quickly he stopped by his tent to drop off his tack before making his way through the village to a large circular hut located at its center. He stepped over the threshold and waited respectfully. A woman in leather leggings, decorative cloak, dusty red mask, and an ornate headdress sat in the middle of the hut, pouring over sheets of thin, cream colored paper.
“You may enter,” she said, not looking up from her work.
“I bring contributions for the tribe,” Din replied simply as he removed the pouches from his belt and lying them at her feet. It was then that she looked up from the papers she was studying and touched the pouches with gloved fingers, feeling the individual weight of the coins inside before lifting her eyes to Din. They were wise and serene looking and had brought Din a sense of peace over the years
