Swiftcurrent Creek The shade

It sparks an interest, the Mando’a on his tongue, and a part of Simran they can only describe as pure, distilled Mandalore cries out happily at the question that falls from Kynareth’s lips. They are ever so happy to teach, a light burning in their eyes.

You may. I am ever happy to teach of my culture. They rocked back on their haunches, tipping their head toward the sky.

Mando’ade are the children of Mandalore, the ancestral home of my people, the Mandalorians. My code is the Resol'nare, the six tenets of Mandalorian society. Ba'jur, beskar'gam, Ara'nov, aliit, Mando'a bal Mand'alor—An vencuyan mhi. They let the language roll from their tongue, before piping up again to translate the phrase that had become as familiar to them as breathing

Education and armor, Self-defense, our tribe, Our language, our leader—All help us survive. I was raised by a tribe called the Underrock, as a foundling, an orphaned child adopted by one of the members of the tribe as their ad, their child. That’s how I grew up. They closed their eyes, taking a short breath. The Tribe was gone now, their buir lying beneath the earth, rejoining the manda, watching them from the ka’ra.