Chapter Twenty-Nine (Patreon)

Even from space Togoria was beautiful. It was green and blue, a mottley of white clouds soaring over it. It was mostly land (sixty-four percent) but the large amounts of freshwater (eleven percent) created a planet teeming with life. The male clans wandered the vast lands of the planet, from the jungles and the savannas near the equator to the swamps and dense forests that extended well past the tropics, even in the Great Eastern Desert, where massive canyons (carved over millions of years by the constant flow of water) led from the mountains to the sea. Both north and south poles were covered in icy ocean, only a small part of the world’s land within the arctic and antarctic circles.

Togoria had a single city, the capital of Caross. It housed the vast majority of the planet’s women and children. That was why the rite of the First Hunt was so important. After passing the test, women remained in the city to continue their apprenticeships while the men were returned to their fathers to become part of the wandering tribes and those who were both or neither were allowed to wander back and forth. Those who existed outside the binary existence of Togoria were considered semi-sacred, used as messengers between the Margrave who held nominal authority over the planet and his kin in the city, who ruled in truth. It was far from a perfect system, prone to fostering resentments and prejudice, but it seemed to work. At least on Togoria all were accepted as part of society.

Her master’s voice cut through Ali’ya thoughts. “Ground control, this is flight Krill-Jeff-Besh one-seven-seven-eight, requesting permission to land.”

“State your name and purpose.” A deep rumbling voice came through the com system.

“I am Jedi Master Sora Bulq, escorting Padawan Ali’ya for her First Hunt.”

There was a slight pause before the woman spoke. “Child?”

“He speaks true,” Ali’ya stated, leaning towards the communicator.

“How came you to be off-world?”

“I was born on Coruscant to the remnants of Clan Tyran.”

There was another pause, before the voice came back, the rumbling less dangerous than before, yet just as wary. “You are cleared for landing.”

They were met at the spaceport by a rather large group of people. Ali’ya could sense that it had thrown off her master somewhat, but she wasn’t too surprised. Few Togorians left, and since the Dral’han almost none had come to Togoria from the wider galaxy for their First Hunt. The survivors of the Three Clans simply lacked the finances necessary.

At the head of the group were three women, dressed in silk brocade robes than hung from their shoulders. Tied at the waist, they displayed their fur-covered chests and bellies. Each had a Sc’rath belted at their waist. Known to off-worlders as the Togorian Scimitar, the Sc’rath was more like a long knife in the hands of a Togorian. They were equally ceremonial and practical, with their engraved hilts and pommels acting as identifiers. Ali’ya could not make out all the designs present--a crystalline blade with an elephant on the pommel, a vibroblade whose hilt was engraved in written Togorian, a plain metal Sc’rath with gold-wire at the hilt and a crown on the pommel. A messenger from the Margrave Clan. A high-ranking one, judging by the ornate nature of her robes.

“You claim heritage of Clan Tyran,” the Margrave ambassador stated. “Present your evidence.”

“I have the Sc’rath of my uncle, long belonging to my family and my clan,” Ali’ya replied, freeing the blade from her bag. She reluctantly passed it over. The ambassador looked at it for a moment, then passed it on to the woman beside her. Now close enough, Ali’ya was able to spot the hammers-and-anvil patterns in her brocade.

“The scabbard is new.”

“Yes, honored Smith.”

“Hmph,” the smith huffed, but kept her focus on the blade. She stared at it, searched every inch of the blade for defects. “It is the Sc’rath of Tyran, that is true. Made of Beskar, a gift older than any alive. But are you of Clan Tyran? Come, touch the blade. It shall judge you.”

“Padawan--”

“I’ll be fine, Master,” Ali’ya replied. Her master looked her over, but nodded. Ali’ya stepped forward.

The blade felt different now. Awake. It had been sleeping before, she realized, coaxed into rest by anger and despair. Now, on the planet it had been forged, it was eased back into life. Ali’ya reached out. She felt its suffering, the anger-dispair, the feeling of impotence as forests turned to ash and plains to sand and glass. Clan Tyran had been numerous. The family numbered in the thousands, their allies and vassals in the low millions.

A hundred sixty-eight, Ali’ya remembered. The total number of survivors, not only of Clan Tyran but of Clan Bist and Clan Mosgoth as well. She reached out, touching the blade with the Force but not drinking its presence. I miss them as well, she thought, and the blade cried for yet more of their family was lost. I miss them, but I am here. As long as we live, the Clan lives. As long as we are alive there is hope. Gently she reached out, touching the blade’s presence as the mind healers touched hers. She eased the pain, pulling thorny roots from the mental surface. She did not take away the pain, nor the memories, only the ability to get lost in them. They would remember, but not dwell.

Ali’ya opened her eyes. The blade before her hummed in the Force. It felt strange, alive like her kyber and yet not like her kyber. A blade used by thousands of warriors, carried by those attuned to the flow of the Force and those who were not.

“You are of Clan Tyran,” the smith declared. “The Sc’rath acknowledges your claim. Return from your hunt, and it shall judge you again.”

*

Contrary to her expectations, Ali’ya was not immediately sent out on her hunt. There was a protocol, it seemed, for those who had not been to the planet before. For the better part of a month she was trained in survival, in the natural world and geography of Togoria. She learned of the numerous rural clans, and how the city-folk sometimes adhered to those lines--as was the case of the Ruling Sister, the official title for Cardoss’ governor--and sometimes did not, as was the case for the Academy. She learned of the Conclave of Smiths, one of the rare exceptions to Togoria’s dualistic gender roles. Smiths could be men, women, both, or neither. Smiths (capitalized) were called to by the Winds and imbued their craft with the power of nature. There were other smiths, but only the Wind-Hearing Smiths could craft a soul into their creation, one that grew with every experience and wielder. Ali’ya wondered which had come first, the Mandalorian gorane or the Wind-Hearing Smiths. She doubted there would ever be a way to tell for sure. All records indicated that the Mandalorian and Togorian cultures were already similar when they two fought, part of why the Togorians were welcomed as equal warrior after proving their martial prowess. After millennia of interwoven cultural ties, who could say which ideas came from where?

At the end of the Togorian month--on the thirty-fourth day of the galactic fourth month--Ali’ya set out from Caross. She left with nothing, as was tradition. She had no weapons save her claws, no armor save her skin, no clothing save her fur.