Starting place for Jax Rook

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The remote system of Drogoon lies in the extremities of known space. It's environment hosted hostile extremes of both highs and lows. The native life of the world were ferocious and deadly. Mere existence here was a challenge. Such a world was once deemed ideal by your ancestors, who conquered worlds like Mando'a, Dxun, and the like. The struggle made you stronger. The emblem of your kind heralded back to such a time, a mighty predator that had long since been made extinct by your pernicious and deadly forebears. But this was not the idylic hunting grounds. No traditions of foundlings or ascension were made here. There was no clan. There was no crusade.

Not even the Mandalorians could call this home. It was a tomb.

The First Order, in it's search for galactic conquest, did not stop at merely eliminating the Empire. The newly resurgent Mandalorian presence was quickly targeted. It's members identified and either killed or collected into this harsh world. Your weapons and armor destroyed; sacred beskar yet again melted down to base metal.
Why they did not kill you all on sight was a mystery. Some suspect the labor you produce is valuable somehow to their war effort. Others believe you are being held in case you may prove useful. A few ponder that the First Order takes macabre glee in watching the once great Mandalorian clans slowly wither and die.

The work was hard, the days were long.  The guards could feel his scheming, his need to get revenge.  They could see it in his eyes.  He was beaten, deprived, but still he persevered.

Every day he worked and watched.  Keeping count of guards, prisoners, routines...anything that might help him put a plan together.

Others had tried to escape...but, even if they'd made it out of the compound, the flora and fauna of the world would end them.

"Oi, keep your eyes to yourself, Red," one trooper yelled as he struck Jax with a stun baton.  They called him Red because of his tattoo...and because they liked to see his blood.

Jax took a breath and willed himself to remain calm.  He looked the guard in his eyes as the stun baton fell again.

Again he rose and looked at the guard, "I can't get any work done if I am unconcsious..." He turned slowly and went back to work.

"Don't worry" You hear in a mocking tone behind you through the helmet of the enemy "There's plenty of you cultists to go around. You're replaceable easily enough"

The laughing soldiers walked off, and one of your fellow prisoners came in behind you. Zirk, who you've known a little while now. He was an old man, with a graying beard coming in scraggily, the years wore heavy on his face, but not his shoulders. He was atypically empathetic for your people; consistently found rallying those around him.

"Let it go, lad. Keep your wits and reputation about you" He spoke quietly "You're going to need the first if we want to get through this, and you're going to want the latter when we're all out of here."

He nudged you briefly, prompting you to look over your shoulder, to see the female prisoners being lead out of their seperate barracks to a task "especially when it's time to hunker down with someone. Trust me, they're paying attention"