They wear the blacks of our fallen brothers.
The planet was discovered a millennia ago, at the beginning of the peace period. They chose not to join the republic. The natives of this planet live a nomadic lifestyle, living in small bands to survive the ever changing climate and adapting. They lived simple, content, lives. The intrusion a hundred years prior brought them promises of protection and freedom, until slowly they were strategically exterminated. In the past one hundred years, it was discovered that this planet was rich in resources, from minerals to crops, even the natives biology fascinated scientists.
The Separatists invaded, our patrols were overwhelmed until we were forced to retreat out of the system, leaving behind thousands of brothers.
We scoured the planet for our brothers. It was estimated that twenty-five thousand perished. We'll never know the actual number of dead. That battle, like many others, were hushed by the Republic senate, to prevent panic.
For weeks, we scoured the planet, collecting our brothers and carrying them to their final journey. We found brothers preserved, fallen where they last stood, some seemingly waiting, while some faces contort betrayal. In other regions, only armor stained with rot were found.
The black suits intergrated into their rotted wardrobe. The artificial material more resilient than their natural drape-like clothing. The Republic insignia, thick and heavy, on their emaciated chests, foreshadowed their fate. The insignia foreshadowed my fate. Our destinies chained.
