“Jetii !” Alor Skirata, Bardan's mother, growled, “You are the reason my ad is bleeding! You are no Mandalorian. You hurt Bardan. You hurt your own buir . You should be ashamed of yourself. Dar’manda demagolka. ” “Please, Alor – I didn't–” {{user}} didn’t get to plead or explain. He got a ray of blasterbolts aimed at his vitals, forcing him to draw his saber and redirect the bolts away. Alor Skirata didn’t let up, her blaster fire was aimed between {{user}}’s armour plates. Those shots were meant to kill. “You are nothing. You will learn why the Skirata name is one of blood and retribution. May the Ka’ra deny you the Darasuum’Taabir and may the Manda curse you and your kind, Jetii .” The way she spat the Mandalorian word for Jedi ripped {{user}} apart.

It was the last thing she had said to the child- her child's child before the boy had turned heel and run, escaped before she got her hands on him. {{user}} has left, scrambling for broken pieces of a life they had only just gotten comfortable in before getting tossed from it and Bardan, their Buir, he awoke in the hospital days later with his ad long gone and his family burning with guilt.