#buy’ce

[ranahan]

And cooking food on your armour plates would ruin the tempering and put grease all over you. I prefer to think of these explanations as folk etymologies.

I’m convinced that Traviss is repeating the Latin testa “pot > skull > head” etymology here (apparently she knows Latin), and derived the standard word for a helmet (buy’ce) from soldier’s slang of calling a helmet a bucket (buyca). I did the exact same thing in a previous conlang of mine because I thought I was being clever.

The word for a pint (buy’ce gal, “pint of ale”) comes then from a metaphorical use of buy’ce, rather like doing that same thing in the other direction. Mandalorian pint (“contents of a helmet”) then seems to be larger than UK or US pint, maybe something like Scottish joug (about three UK pints).

P.s. I’ve respelled fierfek as vhervhek in Mando’a.

I also want to point out that Mando’a is like, not gendered. At all.

The word for mother? Buir.

The word for father? Buir. Literally translates simply to ‘parent��

Same for ‘child’. Ad. Means simply ‘child’. No gender attached.

Same for ‘spouse’. No gendered term, simply ‘riduur’. Literally means ‘spouse’

On the other hand, there are like six different words for spicy food and like forty insults and eight different terms for gunfire.

[ranahan]

Hi, I just binge read a bunch of your linguistics post and I was wondering if you can elaborate on beten? Because I've always been very confused about what they mean and where you add them. Is seems grammatical in most cases (i.e. tion'ad, me'copaani, ad'ika) and then in a few others, decorative (buy'ce)?

Here’s a neat guide (not by me):

The Beten - A complete guide by the OB Discord Mando'a enthusiast team.

The tldr is that the beten can be confusing, because it’s a single character that’s used for multiple different purposes:

To join compound words (where English might use - instead), like all of your grammatical examples

To join certain affixes and clitics to words (this seems optional at least for some common suffixes, since words are sometimes spelled with and sometimes without a beten)

To indicate dropped sounds/letters or contractions (like English can’t, won’t, etc.)

To indicate pronunciation, glottal stop or a syllable boundary

And then there are a couple of words that have me a little confused as well. I guess buy’ce has the beten to indicate pronunciation, and it’s placed there to show there are two syllables: /buː/ with a long vowel (it’s a long u instead of a diphthong in this case) and /ʃɛ/, not e.g. /bu.iʃ.ɛ/ or something else.

[padawansuggest]

Mando 1: *sitting there looking calm*

Mando 2: What are you doing?

Mando 1: Meditation. That Jetii that we met last week said it will help me see less visions. Protects the head or something.

Mando 3: *throws a rock at their head*

Mando 1: Ow! What was that for?

Mando 3: Just put on your buy’ce oh my god it’ll stop the visions too! And it ‘protects the head’!

Mando 2: he’s got a point.

Mando 1: So does my knife.

[cabezadeperro]

wip wednesday

old guard au!!!

Jango leaves the command centre and makes his way to the edge of the landing pad, the wind throwing dust and dirt against his legs. Everything is white and pale yellow, even the sky—the few people working on the ships outside the big yawning hangar at Jango’s back are wearing goggles and breathing masks, the little of their skin that’s uncovered raw, burnt by the wind and the sun. He spent the first few months of his contract back on Kamino. He can’t say he’s sad to be gone from the place—Tipoca has always been a soulless, soul-draining place, and he doesn’t like Ti.  Jango stops right by the energy shields. A few metres more, and there’s an enormous drop. The bitter smell of burnt rock reaches his nose despite his buy’ce’s filters, and Jango breathes out and gives in and takes it off.  “Kenobi.”  The wind and the sun burn as much as he thought. Jango lets the stinging pain sink into his bones, there and gone, again and again. Jango blinks, half-blind, and turns to look at the Jedi.  He’s not wearing goggles or a mask. He stands there, arms folded, the wind tugging at the wide sleeves of his simple brown tunic, pale eyes fixed on Jango.  “Maybe,” he says. He clears his throat and closes the distance to stop at Jango’s side. Once again: sweat, wool, ozone. Jango swallows and looks away from him and back to the harsh landscape beyond the base. Cruel peaks and crueller gullets; billowing smoke and the faraway echo of machinery. Sand in your eyes, between your teeth. “You lied. I would like to know why.” Jango snorts. “I didn’t lie.” Kenobi scoffs. Jango listens to the crunch of loose sand under his boots. Kenobi stops at his side. For a beat, they stand together, shoulder to shoulder. They share the silence, if nothing else. If little else. Why him? Why Jango? Jango has learned to move through life without fixating on the whys, but now and then the not-knowing ambushes him, threatening to drown him in a mix of anger and frustration.  Why them?  An eternity of never quite dying, of a million last breaths, and only Kenobi to share it with.

[wings-and-beskargam]

I have become The Sandalorian.

Being Mando’ade is not a casual lifestyle. Being a Mandalorian armourer is even less so. Sometimes it feels like I spend so much time sanding out dings, scratches, and drunkenly-applied paint jobs on other people’s kit that I don’t have enough time for more entertaining things. Like practicing my long-shots, finding companionship, or breakfast buns.

Here's a live action shot of me refinishing the buy’ce of some dikut’la commando who left it under an AT-TE. 😩 (work shirt supplied by some confusingly irritable and uncommonly tall sniper)

RL Lessons learned: 3D printed kits are 20% time printing, 20% time painting and 60% time wet sanding. 100% nerdy and fun. They also get damaged. A lot. RIP Tech goggles. Up next, RC-1262 buy’ce with HUD, and his left hand plate as well. CATCH ME IF YOU CAN!

Illustrated version, because it's the weekend and I'm alone and had no help to get fully kitted up. Also it inspired "someone" to persuade me to take a live-action version.

Tagging @eobe, @ghostymarni, and @lonewolflupe because Eo told me to and I'm too impressionable to resist the chaos she has imminently planned for me.

[dragonjadearts]

quick concept I had for Luke in mandalorian armor. I know most of the time his outfits are black, but I really adore the cream/white looks from New Hope and ESB, so that was the main inspiration for this

Also this was inspired by a fic idea that I had, so if you want to read that, you can read the bullet list under the cut below

Atin — Stubborn, tenacious, capable of endurance [ah-TEEN]

At some point after S2 ends, Din gets in contact with Luke and they start co-parenting Grogu

Then Din decides to stop avoiding responsibility like a plague and take up the mantle of Manda’lor

He and Bo-Katan and several other clans retake Mandalore

They set up in Sundari first, focusing their efforts on rebuilding there as a start

At some point, Din reaches out to the New Republic and starts negotiations to respect Mandalore as its own independent system

Luke and Din continue to talk and eventually Luke moves out to Sundari so Din can be close to his son while Luke continues to teach him

They start to rebuild Keldabe, which is in much worse condition

Din leaves for a while to finish up proper negotiations for a treaty with the New Republic, leaving Luke in his place to make sure no one on the ruling council acts outside of his general wishes

Luke heads out to Keldabe to focus on rebuilding efforts there

His focus is on setting up farms and moisture farms to rebuild the soil in one of the old districts that’s so badly bombed that it’s barely habitable

The bio dome is still up but is badly damaged

The work is set back by frequent sandstorms that get in through the cracks in the bio dome, causing workers to take shelter until they pass and wrecking the farms

Eventually the air in Keldabe gets bad enough that every worker wears their armor/helmet outside at all times to filter through the air

Luke is called back to Sundari by the Armorer who gifts him a set of armor built out of Obi-Wan’s old armor which Bo-Katan found in storage on Concordia

The armor has been shored up and redesigned to better fit Luke’s body/fighting style

It’s light and doesn’t have space for extra weapons since Luke doesn’t use them

It’s been painted in cream and Luke takes some extra paint to decorate the helmet with two circles in white and pink to mimic the two suns of Tatooine

He returns to Keldabe to continue his work

At some point Din comes back and lands in Sundari with some senators to show off the work they’ve been doing

They stay in Sundari for a few days but Leia and a few others want to see Keldabe. Leia wants to help but at least one of the other senators wants to judge the current strength of the Mandalorians

Din reluctantly agrees

In order to visit they have to wear goggles and filters. They don’t wear helmets because buy’ce is sacred and while Luke is considered allit, these random ass senators certainly don’t

They head out to Sundari and Luke greets them. He doesn’t see Leia at first because she’s in the back and he’s wearing his helmet

Luke eagerly explains the work they’re doing as he leads them through Keldabe’s broken down castle to The Hub

When they get there, Din lets them know they can take off their filters if they’d like

Luke takes off his helmet

Ta-da, identity reveal

Idk where this will go from here honestly, that’s all I got so far but if a better writer than me wants to do this fic, I will give them free reign if they promise I get to illustrate it for them

[limnsaber]

Mandalorian Slash Fic Rec List - DinLuke Volume III: Canon AU + Other AU

Welcome to Volume III of The Mandalorian Slash! For reference, 🔐 means a restricted work and 💜 means an personal favorite. Check out the other lists here: Gen III, and Mando Slash I, II, and IV. Happy reading, and make sure to give your love to our featured authors!! -Limn <3

💜 Hand in Glove by rinwins (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Prosthesis, Gen, 1k)

“Here,” Luke says, “help me with this?” “I’m not really a mechanic--” “That’s fine, I just need your hand.”

Canon AU

💜 Right Side of the Sun by @vagrantblvrd (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Leia Organa, Greef Karga, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, 6k)

Karga comms Din out of the blue and asks him to come to Nevarro.

Under the Sky by @vagrantblvrd (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Leia Organa, Han Solo, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Teen, 3k)

“So,” the man currently invading Din’s personal space says, biting his bottom lip as he looks Din over. “You come here often?” Din’s heard better, and when he says as much the man laughs, mouth pulling into a genuine smile.

all for freedom and for pleasure by @foggysirens (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Leia Organa, Han Solo, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Mutual Pining, Rebellion Era, Teen, 10k)

“It was you.” The words fall from Luke’s lips before he can stop them. The Mandalorian freezes, helmeted gaze turning to focus on him. “The Force was leading me to you.” - Or, in an act of desperation, the Rebellion seeks out help from a rather unlikely source, leaving Luke unsure of how to feel about the new arrival to Echo Base, but unable to deny that the Force works in mysterious ways.

Like the Dawn by @ace-din-djarin (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Leia Organa, Han Solo, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Mutual Pining, Found Family, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Teen, 15k)

Din’s words appear a few months after the attack on his village, after he had been taken in and adopted by the Mandalorians and the grief was still thick in his throat. He doesn’t know, at first, that they are there at all, until his baji’buir looks at him, her golden buy’ce tilted, and says, quietly, “I believe you have your words, ad.” She hands him a piece of shining beskar to use as a mirror, and sure enough, curled under his left ear in a slanting script, there they are. Two words: I am.  — Just before his eyes slip closed, he sees something else overlaid on what he can actually see — a flash of silver, shining and beautiful. Something in Luke’s heart sings, for just a second, and he hears the Force whispering ‘ this one.’ He strains, trying to see more, but he can’t hold on, and drops down into unconsciousness. — Or: The first words your soulmate says to you are written on your skin. Luke and Din travel the galaxy before they find their match.

Branching by @alchemyalice (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Finn, Rey, Gen, 8k)

“What color is the ship?” “White and red,” Reeves reported slowly. “Why?” Din’s lungs rattled as he exhaled. “I, uh.” He worked saliva into his mouth. “I think it might be a friendly.”

🔐 the albatross by TheCosmicMushroom (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Sith Luke Skywalker, Force Sensitive Din Djarin, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mild Gore, Mature, 5k)

“There, at the epicenter, he awaits. Back-lit by ominous red—so much red—Luke Skywalker appears small, too small certainly for the devastation he’s wrought. Covered head-to-toe in black, he epitomizes the Dark Side itself. Effortlessly, he sends blaster bolts careening back to his would-be attackers with that crackling, wailing blade. Lines blurring from impossible speed, he is a wraith in the waning daylight. And before him, men break into pieces like wet flimsi.” [An AU in which Din finds himself entrenched in the Rebellion and the Imperial Prince’s attention.]

through power, there is victory by @emilianadarling (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Sith Luke Skywalker, Power Imbalance, Psychological Horror, Teen, 8k)

Then, slipping between Stormtroopers like a living shadow, another man appears. He’s of modest height and slim build, clad in a black cloak with the hood pulled up over his head. The energy in the room instantly changes as he steps forward, becoming weighted and charged. There’s a sense of raw deference in the way everyone watches him. When the commander from earlier steps forward and tries to speak, the man raises a gloved hand to cut him off without looking, dismissing him as easily as one of the rank and file. Din’s stomach bottoms out. - In a galaxy under Emperor Vader’s rule, Din and Grogu are intercepted by Imperials.

only as strong as the warrior next to you by @emilianadarling CaroGolden (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Sith Luke Skywalker, Power Imbalance, Politics, Possessive Behavior, Imperial Prince Luke Skywalker, Depictions of Fascism, Multimedia, Ensemble Cast, Explicit, 141k, man this one, whoof)

With an indolent air, Luke rests his elbows on the railing, leaning forward to better take in the action. Below the Mandalorian is already in motion, beskar a glinting contrast to black walls and floors. Luke’s eyes trail him as he moves, bitter and gluttonous. Watching as Din takes stock of the concrete half-walls, helmet tilting upward to survey the turrets above. Exploring terrain before the simulation is initiated, his professionalism unaffected by the tension that still lingers beneath armor. Compartmentalization is a skill Luke learned involuntarily; a way to cope with the horror that was once his daily existence. Din, by contrast, embodies the very practice of it. That rigid separation between self and other. The Mandalorian’s inner world is so vast, Luke could get lost in it. - Imperial High Prince Skywalker has taken himself a bodyguard.

Other AU

Persevere by @chocmarss (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Ensemble Cast, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Lighthouses, Teen, 40k)

"And you don’t need to pay me anything just because I saved your life. Anyone could’ve done it.” “You’d be surprised at how many wouldn’t,” Luke told him with a wry smile. “My name’s Luke, by the way. So that you’d know who you just dragged into your home.” “That implies that I should be worried,” The man —Din— pointed out, using his hip to lean against the bedpost by his feet. Luke reached forward and set the glass on the tray. “Should I?” The sun lit up his brown hair, catching every curl that glowed red and amber. Luke met his gaze head-on. “I’m not a threat, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Luke didn't take into account how he could get tossed into the sea when he was on that mission; he didn't think he'd wake up in someone else's house. There were a man, his baby, and his dog, you see. You'd have to understand — Luke wanted to be a part of it.

would you be so kind by furiosophie (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Leia Organa, Jyn Erso, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Mature, 4k)

"You ready for self-defense class in second period?” Jyn asks from where she sits with her feet up on the common table of the teacher’s lounge. “Apparently Ahsoka bullied one of the parents into doing it." Now Luke actually comes awake, "One of the parents?" "Yea, that one scary looking dude who never takes off his helmet what was his name--" Oh, Luke knows exactly who that is.

handspun (i could be lonely with you) by @we-re-always-alright (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Ensemble Cast, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chicago, Mature, 40k)

Luke runs a yarn store out of converted coach house in a quiet part of the Clybourn Corridor. Din is trying to chase his kid and keep him from touching everything in sight. Grogu just wants to live in the softest yarns. (A story about the vibe of a city, spoken poetry and the power of the hand knit.)

splicing (tell all the stars above) by @we-re-always-alright (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Ensemble Cast, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chicago, Weddings, Mature, 63k)

Luke decides the best way to get your family to approve of your partner is to drag him and his child to France for a week. Din is skeptical of most of the Skywalker family. Grogu is willing to try snails but he already doesn't like the texture of mushrooms and French cuisine loves mushrooms. Leia is having the most elaborate wedding this family has seen since the last time the Amidala family was at court with the Bourbons. Something about weddings can bring out the best and worst in your family, can't it? (A continuation of the story about the vibe of a city, soft spoken poetry and the power of the hand knit. The Over-the-Top Elaborate French Wedding Edition.)

making it easier for us to celebrate by @andfollowthesun (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Meet-Cute, Pre-Relationship, Gen, 6k)

There are some days when he wishes he could stay at home full-time. Like now, when Grogu plants himself in front of Din, and promptly bursts into tears.

💜 Are We Out of the Woods Yet? by @maered613 (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dinluke Halloween 2022, Mature, 14k)

There’s something following them. Din’s sure of it.  His old instincts have kicked in ever since he heard the snap of that branch.  It’s almost lunchtime, and by now he’s memorised Skywalker’s graceful, sure gait- and all the kid’s chaotic stampeding.  There’s another in the mix.   Grogu’s Boy Scout troop is going camping, and faced with the prospect of spending 48 hours worried out of his mind or sleeping outside for a night, Din decides to get some fresh air. Din thinks his biggest problem is going to be hiding his attraction to Grogu’s Scout leader, that is, until he hears something start to follow them through the woods.

💜 To the trust funds and the punishers by niuxuu (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Teen, 15k)

“But you can say no.” “Why would I say no?” As soon as the words left his mouth he realized he wanted to, he wanted to say no more than anything. But he had no reason to do that, not when everything was going according to plan; this was an accomplishment. Grogu needed this, so why was he being selfish and hoping to deny it? or Where Din is Grogu's foster dad and he convinces himself its just for a short while, until one day he's contacted about a couple that wants to adopt the kid and he realizes he can't imagine a life without him.

Blue Sky by @thrvrnd (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit, 35k)

Luke is trying to adapt to his new life: out of the Navy, in a new town with his newly-found sister, following the death of their long-estranged father. Then he meets a Force-sensitive kid and his single dad at a playground. Luke isn't sure about getting into a relationship with a single father. Din's not sure Luke's ready either. Can they work it out? Yeah, they can. They do. That's the story.

And in my mind, I still need a place to go by @dancynrew (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Teen, 7k)

"Ah," Luke says, blinking rapidly, ice pack dripping into his eyes, lights still flickering, air conditioner still groaning horribly. "Well. This is a disaster."

🔐 I'm still trying to figure out (the end of what I was starting to say) by Kushana (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Relationship, Mature, 7k)

Luke is still reeling from the discovery that he has somehow found himself another family – and isn’t it strange how right it feels, how easy it feels, to fall into rhythm with Din and Grogu. They have been doing it for months now, unaware of what it meant, of where it was leading, getting in sync without having to think about it.

by committee by @treescape (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Teen, 5k)

Over the years, Luke’s just about seen it all. He and Leia had spent twelve long years growing up in the Imperial Palace while Padme was Supreme Chancellor, and they’re both settling nicely into their own Senatorial careers now that their freshman terms are over. But he’s never seen anything quite like Din Djarin, who’s apparently just won the Mandalorian Senatorial race without ever actually running. Or, Luke and Din are both Senators and serve on the same committee.

Some Glad Tomorrow by @vagrantblvrd (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Pre-Relationship, Teen, 4k)

Din’s not sure what to expect when he gets a call out of the blue. Especially when the caller turns out to be a lawyer.

💜 Up Against the Dark by @vagrantblvrd (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes, Teen, 5k)

Luke honestly doesn’t know what it says about him that he ends up in these situations. Really. “Strange,” the Mand’alor says, a pained note to his voice, which is fair as he literally just took a bullet for Luke. “I think it says you’re an idiot.”

somewhere only we know by @foggysirens (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Night at the Museum Fusion, Teen, 42k)

Scanning the paper, Din's eyes fall onto a listing that he had somehow missed. Right at the bottom of the page, in smudged black ink, is a listing from the natural history museum looking for a new nighttime security guard. Now that was an interesting thought. - Or, Din is a struggling single father who becomes the natural history museum's new night guard. He's not expecting much out of the job other than a steady paycheque, but when the sun goes down and the exhibits start to come to life, Din needs to find a way to keep everything under control. A task easier said than done, especially when there's a certain Medieval knight who won't leave him alone.

impossible scenario by deniigiq (Din Djarin/Luke Skywalker, Peter Parker, Crossovers, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Reincarnation, Reunions, Teen, 14k)

Luke did a double-take. “That’s a lie,” he accused. “Tell the truth or be compelled.” “By the Force?” Ned asked hopefully. Luke blinked at him. He pointed at the glass sliding door which revealed Obi-Wan holding Junior the cat above his head by the kitchen sink. “By the Force,” he said. Ned’s face fell. (Peter accidentally flirts with a drunk Luke Skywalker in the middle of an identity crisis. He then becomes involved with a bunch of people who might actually be more chaotic than him and decides to help out the best he can.)

[writerlyhabits]

Ni Ceta

Pairing: Din Djarin x female reader

Word Count: 5.7K

Summary: Your second day in the covert reveals both new and familiar faces; hospitality and hostility.

Chapter 2 of the Shereshoy series | Masterlist | Ch. 1 | Ch. 3

Warnings: lots of Mando’a, mild language, soft Din, awkward Din, protective Din [he’s got a wide range, okay?], original Mandalorian characters… maybe a little bit of angst? It’s mostly worldbuilding, so I think that’s about it. 

AN: A word from the author – "I'm in grad school, I take forever to write things." This is the second part of a sister fic for my fic Courting a friend of mine wrote based on this request, and I’m so happy she’s letting me share it with you guys! In this chapter, we get to see some new faces – or helmets, I should say – and I am here for what they have in store for us! Thanks for reading, we hope you enjoy 💛

This series is also on AO3, so you can read this chapter there too…

Translations:

Baar’ure: medics 

Gotabor(e): (approx) mechanic(s)

(Lit.) engineer(s)

Aruetii(se): outsider(s)

Me’bana?: What happened?

Copikla bal mirdala: cute and clever 

Copikla: meant to refer to babies and animals - never women unless you want your head ripped off

Could be considered a backhanded compliment or an insult

Ne shab'rud'kaysh, vod:  (Approx) Don’t fuck with her, brother. 

(Lit.) Don't mess with her, brother. (extremely strong warning, likely to be followed by violence)

N'eparavu takisit, vod: (Approx) Sorry, brother. 

(Lit.) I eat my insult, brother

Me’dinui: share, give to one another 

Aliit: family

Solus mhi oyacyi: (Approx) United, we remain

Buy’ce: helmet

Ik’aad: baby, child under 3

Jatne vod: “sir” or “ma’am” 

Cabur(e): guard(s)

Kad: In reference to Kad Ha’rangir, destroyer god in the old Mandalorian pantheon

Utreekov: fool, idiot (lit: emptyhead)

Ni ceta: (Lit) I kneel, (approx.) I’m sorry 

Ni ven’ceta par gar ratiin: I will always kneel for you

You feel the chill of the cave air settle around you as you rise from your slumber.

Opening your eyes, a soft glow leaks into your space from the room adjacent— signaling that Din is also awake. Not that he sleeps for very long anyway. Rather than immediately leaving the comfort of your sleeping mat to join him, you opt to spend a few extra minutes holding the little one close, hand on his back, as he continues to sleep soundly on your chest. Mornings like these are commonplace— cuddling with the Child until you feel ready enough to begin the day; making fresh caf for you and Din to share, feeding yourself and the little one, while enjoying the quiet company of one another in the cockpit. Perhaps our routine can stay somewhat the same, even here.

Mustering the strength to pull yourself from your warm cocoon of blankets, you slowly rise, trying to not disturb the Child. Two feet on the cold stone ground, and a blanket wrapped over your shoulders, you wander towards the common room. 

In the corner sits a short-legged table, the perfect height to tuck ones’ legs beneath while enjoying a meal, or in this case, the morning caf. Din sits beside it, his shoulders and head leaning against the wall, his legs outstretched and crossed in front of him, and his hands interlaced across his abdomen. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was sleeping; but for the first time in a long time, Din is simply relaxing. 

His head turns slightly to look at you as you approach, his arms slowly extending upward for the morning trade-off of the Child. Din guides him to lie against his shoulder while you ease yourself down to the floor, sitting across from him. Getting to watch Din with the Child like this was rare— it wasn’t often Din was able to decompress, allowing his body a break from the constant weight of armor. With bounty hunters and Imperials searching for the three of you, danger lurked around every corner. Din had to be prepared to fight at any moment. Seeing him unarmored and at ease— getting to enjoy the simple action of cuddling with his Foundling— makes you feel more calm, despite how unsettled you had been the day before.

“Did you sleep well?” Din asks— his voice soft, to not stir the Child. 

“Yeah…” you nod, your fatigue causing you to trail off, leaving your thoughts incomplete. When Din shut out the lights before falling asleep, the pitch black  of the cave was not unlike the darkness in the Crest every night. Despite the sleeping mat not quite matching the feel of your bed on the ship, the familiarity of the darkness had been a comfort, allowing sleep to come easily. 

However, it wasn’t entirely refreshing— with the usual lag of being on a new planet, as well as the ever present nip of the air throughout the night. Feeling the chill of the bedrock beneath you, you pull your blanket tighter around yourself. “...but it’s colder here than I expected.” 

He readjusts, shifting the child to his other shoulder before replying. “The temperature underground remains constant,” he tells you, not unkindly, “It’s best to dress warmly— prevents the stone from absorbing your body heat.” He taps his fingers on the ground to emphasize his point. You nod, and the three of you ease into a comfortable silence, Din continuing to lie against the wall as you pull the blanket tight around you once more, hunching forward to rest your arms on the table, and your head atop your arms. It’s almost too easy to doze off again, your grogginess coupled with Din’s calming presence. 

Before you’re able to drift back into a light sleep, he gently places his free hand on your arm, giving a light squeeze. His gruff voice just barely above a whisper, “I know you’re tired— but we won’t be out long… You’ll meet the baar’ure and the gotabore, and we’ll come back here.”  

Gotabore— that’s a new one. The mechs? 

Your eyes meet his visor again, and with a small sigh, you nod at him. “Let me get dressed… then I’ll make the caf.” Giving him a weak grin, he gently removes his hand from your arm, allowing you to stand back up and return to your sleeping area once again. While changing into a set of durable work-clothes, the time alone offers you the chance to reflect on the current arrangement— reiterating once more where you’ve come to, and why.

Recalling back to the discussion with the Alor the day prior— inquiring about some of your aptitudes and skill sets, tasking you with specific labor, and instructing Din the same. Being a guest in their home; shielding you from any dangers, being given a bed to sleep in and meals to eat— requesting that you earn your keep seems reasonable. But why did she ask— tell— Din to bring you here? When you first met, she did not deem you as a member of his clan, despite your… relationship with Din and your role as the other caretaker of the Child. Currently— the populace of this pseudokarst-hidden covert regard you as nothing but an outsider. An invader. A danger. A threat to their safety. An aruetii. 

And yet, no matter their levels of distrust, you are here, by the Alor’s request.

This is not the first time you have had to deal with unpleasant people— those that make the day seem unending or unyielding in its discomfort, or work with ones who question your intelligence or ability at every turn. The only surefire way to ease the inquietude of your cohorts is to employ the same tactics that you always have— by simply doing your best. With Din, this came naturally. As a pragmatic man, he values and trusts both competency and integrity. Showcasing both traits allowed him to ease his habitual suspicion of strangers and eventually, after enough time, foster a fond friendship between you. Perhaps utilizing the same tactic can render a twin outcome.

It can’t hurt to try, at least for Din’s sake.

You understand, at least to some degree, what the concept of clan and community mean to him. After the tragedy of Nevarro, you watched him silently mourn his many losses, not just of the individuals, but the purpose he held in providing for his people, his sense of worth intrinsically tied to the survival and prosperity of his tribe. Whilst those who are gone will never return, this new collective of Mando’ade could present Din with an opportunity to release his residual guilt and shame, resuming his role as a primary generator of income, sponsoring many Foundlings and adults alike for many years to come. In essence, Din could finally come home. 

Your place, for now it seems, is to make this arrangement with him, and them, work. To not instigate or incite any conflict, to not act out of turn or be discourteous. The way to the heart of your companion was through patience and compassion; and thus cooperation and communication is the way to solidarity with his comrades. Presenting yourself as an equal, as someone who has earned the respect and trust of one of their own can give them the freedom to do the same, without fear. And perhaps, one day, to care for you and about you just the same as Din does every day. 

—

The workshop is lively— abuzz and boisterous.   

The cavernous walls echo and amplify the clangs and thumps of the tools, muddling together with the chatter of the Mando’ade working together. In the mess of noise, you can distinctly make out their laughter, of all things— and with it, their camaraderie. At this moment, you can’t seem to recall a time in which you were that happy to be working on anything— undoubtedly, you’ve enjoyed some jobs and some people, but you can practically hear the smile in their voices hidden beneath their buy’ce. 

For a group of ‘fearsome, ruthless warriors’, this isn’t what I expected.

The workshop appears to double as a port for the strange variety of ships they have stored, ones they must have collected over time, perhaps as more Mando’ade arrived at this covert. Anything from speeders to small transports. Most of them don’t appear to be in the best condition— and by the looks of others, not entirely operational either. At the far end of the shop is the hangar door, which presumably leads to the outside, where two Mandos are working on a small ship— a CS fighter.  A small single-manned starfighter designed for combat, so customizable and versatile they’ve withstood the tests of time— most models still in existence are decades old. 

Another pre-Empire ship, I’m sensing a trend.

The two Mandos underneath the ship pay no mind to you and Din as you approach, instead focusing on trying to remove a part from the underbelly of the starfighter. Upon closer inspection, you take note of their appearances. One Mando adorned in armor painted a faded mauve— old paint, chipped on the thighs and chest piece; and the other a light blue, with gray accents detailing the armor throughout. The two of you watch them work for a minute before Din speaks, getting their attention. 

“Perhaps my friend could be of some aid.”

Their heads snap to you in unison, staring at you both for a moment. Mauve tilts her head, “Nice to see you too, Djarin.”

You give a slight chuckle at her response. Din can be the worst at introductions sometimes. You look back over to him, waiting for his own retort. Rather than greeting her, he nods his head once, and gestures towards the starfighter, “Me’bana? What’s wrong with it?” 

Mauve pulls herself out from underneath the ship, wiping the oil on her gloves on the unarmored sections of her pants, and leaning herself against the wing.“Engine keeps overheating— we don’t have enough parts to replace every cooling unit, and I haven’t figured out which ones are failing or why,” she says casually, crossing her arms. She nods at you, “What do you think?” 

You match her stance, crossing your arms, leaning your weight to one side, giving the question a moment of thought. “A ship as old as this? Check the ground conductors. The one’s on the Crest fry pretty often, especially with how manically he flies it.” In your peripherals you see Din turn his head to look at you, as if your jab at his pilotage genuinely offended him, but hearing a snicker from Mauve, he looks away.

Listening to your suggestion, Blue works to take apart the cooling unit they had already removed, working his way down towards the center. In less than a minute, he’s able to remove one of the culprits responsible for the malfunction— a very fried ground conductor. With a little, prideful smirk, you turn your head slightly to look back at Din, your eyes meeting his visor. He gives you a short nod, a silent approval of your correct assessment, his own unique way of telling you, Good work.  

Blue rises from his back to a seated position, setting down the tool he has in hand. He refuses to look at you, to address you— to even acknowledge you, instead staring at Din. “Copikla bal mirdala— I see why the Alor let you keep her.” 

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

If you’re dastard enough to undermine me, have the gall to do it in Basic, asshole. You want to conjure some sort of response to him, but ignoring his attempt at a crude remark may be the best course of action— to retaliate with your own insult will do nothing but escalate this dispute. As you have come to learn, anger is prone to rashness. And anger, whether it’s yours or Din’s— or both, is what he wants. And you won’t give him the satisfaction of having it. 

“Ne shab'rud'kaysh, vod.” 

Din, however, gives in to the bait. His voice irate— a warning, a threat. For a brief moment, there’s a passing worry about the possibility of Din igniting the flames of his gauntlet, a favorite weapon of his when he’s provoked. If anything, a knife fight feels more likely. The silence between the four of you somehow drowns out every other noise in the shop. The two of them continue to glare, both waiting for the other to make the first move. 

Your eyes watch back and forth between the two of them, waiting with baited breath. When Blue slowly raises both his hands in a mock surrender,“N'eparavu takisit, vod—“, and Din finally looks away from him, you know things have settled… for now.

An uncomfortable silence returns for a few moments, and Din is still not at ease. Mauve finally quips, “You saw it for yourself, go find another conductor.” She waves her hand, gesturing for Blue to leave. He rises, walking towards the other ships in the center of the shop— “You too, Djarin, find some.” She adds, casting Din away in the same manner she did with the other gotabor.  

Din hesitates. He doesn’t want to leave your side— and looks to you, with a silent question. You nod at him, an unspoken It’s okay— with a sigh, he complies with her command. “Fine,” he swiftly turns around, leaving the two of you alone. 

You watch them descend further into the shop, until they disappear from your sight. You’re left with the sounds of the distant chatter of the other Mando’ade, continuing to echo as it did when you first arrived. 

Well, that could have gone worse. 

Of the six Mando’ade you’ve met, three of them have not been hostile. It’s a start.

Continuing to stare off, Mauve speaks once more to get your attention. “Come help me check the rest of them.” 

Her request brings you back to the present moment, turning around to see her lying underneath the ship again, hands deep in its underbelly, loosening some things and pulling others. You kneel down, until you’re able to lower yourself to the ground completely, lying next to her. She hands you the cooling units as she pulls them out, and the two of you work to take them apart, sitting beside one another. 

“Jado doesn’t like you. But pay him no mind.” She states, matter-of-factly. 

Yeah, he looks like a ‘Jado.’ 

This revelation of Jado’s discontempt is unsurprising— and not unexpected. “He doesn’t know me,” you say. Asking a question of why would be inane, you already know the answer.   

“Well… none of us do. You’re an aruetii.” That moniker makes your stomach churn, but her lack of malice allows you to diminish the feeling of dejection quickly. “But that’s not inherently a bad thing. We’ll all get to know you soon enough.” 

…What? 

She continues, nonchalantly, “Djarin and the Alor trust you; so that’s all that matters. Aruetii or not.” 

You continue to work, letting a short-lived silence settle between you, before she speaks again. “I’m Odona. Clan Drii. Unfortunately, Jado’s a part of it too. My little vod.” 

You listen as her spiel drags on, leaning in to signal she has your attention, “We both usually work on the ships here, but he’s still pretty new at it— and I haven’t worked with many Pre-Imperial ships. When I heard that you were coming, after being on Djarin’s ancient me’sen?” She raises both her hands dramatically, “Briikase tuur. Happy day.” 

Listening to this Mandalorian monologue feels like an oxymoron— given the usual disposition of your companion, and the general taciturn reputation that all Mandalorians seem to hold amongst the outsiders. Regardless, her comment and theatrical gestures make you grin.

“Don’t tell me you’re another ‘strong and silent’ type… Djarin’s sulking is enough for me.” That makes you laugh. 

He does sulk a little, doesn’t he?

Smiling, you finally respond, “No. I think I’ve just grown accustomed to the sulking.” 

Odona snorts. “Sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll get none of that from me. You’ll replace Jado for now, we’ll likely get more accomplished that way.” You’re not disappointed, the change of pace will be interesting— a new opportunity to learn a lot from. You feel a little prideful, knowing that she’s pleased with your knowledge and ability. 

Before Odona can begin another monologue— and perhaps to disprove her claim of yours and Din’s shared hobby of sulking— you seize the chance to ask a question of your own. “I’m surprised by how many ships are here— but why are so many of them stripped out?”

Her hands stop, a pause in her tinkering as she ponders your enquiry. With a tilt of her head, she finally answers. “Whenever we get a new ship, it gets…” she hesitates for a moment, attempting to better articulate herself, searching for the precise word; “...triaged.” 

Interesting connotation.

 You suggest, “...As in, you decide whether to fix it, or scrap it for parts.”

“Exactly. We don’t have the resources to fix everything. It’s best to spend our time efficiently— focusing on the ones that will yield the greatest benefit in the long run.” The explanation is sound, yet Odona sees your underlying confusion still present. She asks you, “Why?”

Din would blow a fuse if someone tried to strip the Crest… again… Damn Jawas. 

You point in the direction Din and Jado wandered towards, “I can see why he landed the Crest over a mile away from here.” Odona chuckles at the light joke, and you continue, “But— people are… okay with their ship getting scrapped?” On the surface, the concept almost sounds absurd. For Din, the Crest is another home. Everything meticulously ordered, from his weapons to his food stocks. Despite the frequent abuse his ship endures, he works to ensure its continued functionality, it’s almost a second layer of armor, one he cares about greatly. 

“Well, no one has a personal ship— whenever any newcomers settle into the covert, any ships they once owned join the tribe’s fleet,” Odona explains. 

Your brows furrow. They just give away their ship to the covert?

She elaborates more. “I guess it could be difficult for someone outside of…” she gestures to your surroundings, “...this… to understand. We share things— me’dinui— do what we can to contribute to each other, to our community.” She shrugs, watching you, gauging your reaction. “A ship doesn’t mean anything… But supporting your aliit? Your family?” She pauses again, her voice passionate, “...It’s everything. All we truly have is each other.”

In a galaxy so wrought with selfishness, greed, and ‘survival of the fittest’— the thought of anyone doing anything for a collective good is almost inconceivable. And yet, hearing the emotion of her voice, listening to her speak of the tenets you see Din adhere to so unfailingly, the concept of unity seems more tangible, more apodictic.  

Setting down the tools you have in hand, you softly lament, “Sadly, I think I’ve become a little jaded to that idea...” you look at her, hoping to meet her eyes behind her visor, “...but I’m open to having my mind changed.”

You nod at her, and she does the same. In a familiar tone, Odona enounces, “Solus mhi oyacyi— this is the Way.” 

—

Upon Din’s and Jado’s return with the necessary parts, Din extends a hand to you to help you rise from the ground. 

As you stand, Odona quips “Making me do all the work with these?” 

And with Din’s reply— “We have other matters to attend to;” you make your way towards the exit, giving Odona a wave, and she returns with a nod. 

As you both close the heavy metal doors of the shop behind you, the hush of the cavern is jarring— the noise of the chaotic banter suddenly silenced. You’re only left with the sound of your blood whooshing in your head, and again, the persistent gelidity of the cave air forcing a chill up your spine. You exhale, removing your hands from the door, and slowly turn around to face Din. You stare at one another for a moment, before taking another breath. 

“Odona said you sulk too much,” you say, your voice light and soft, to break the quiet tension without dissettling the quiescent chamber.

He huffs at your teasing remark and tilts his head, “...It seemed like the two of you were getting along?” He matches your volume, inquiring gingerly.

There’s worry in his voice, you recognize. Lingering feelings of contrition for the unnecessary antagonism Jado had given you. It must be strange for him, you contemplate, this role reversal of sorts. Outside these walls, he’s a living embodiment of minatory. In his day-to-day, he has to make an effort to appear benign to sociable strangers— whilst you, on the other hand, are as regular as any other citizen in the galaxy— posing passivity is the goal, a fine balance between being amicable but guarded. But now, in his enclave, you have to think and behave as he does when he interacts with everyone else in the galaxy— an intriguing juxtaposition.  

You smile, “Yes, she’s interesting...she reminds me of Peli.” That’s not all he wants to know. It’s another tacit question, a chance to tell him how you feel without him having to ask. You take a step closer, letting your eyes meet his visor, “She also assured me that continuing to ignore her brother’s jibes is the best course of action.”

He sighs, and his shoulders drop. “I told him not to do it again.”

Din isn’t good with words. He’s curt, sometimes to the point of being tactless. On Sorgan, when faced with the obligation of informing the villagers of their predicament— Bad news, you can’t live here anymore— his delivery, at best, was uncouth. Nice bedside manner— Cara had told him, which earned a chuckle from you. He usually thrives more in one-on-one interactions; he can be amenable— kind, even. He ensures to give people thanks when necessary, listens to others without interruption; and attempts to be a calm presence, especially in times of turmoil.

Where he excels, however, are in his actions. Whether it’s the softer things— letting the Child grip his finger for comfort, a gentle hand to help you;  or the more intense things— fighting his way through an army of Imperials to ensure the safety of his aliit, Din shows his care through his actions. He didn’t protect you from the enmity of his cohort because he thought you were incapable of vying against another Mando’ade. He wasn’t attempting to patronize you— but rather displaying his respect, to not stand idly by when someone is attempting to ostracize you. 

His care is a reverent kind, one he conveys with both his body and his mind, a message given with nary a word spoken.

You stare into him once more, hoping to meet his eyes. You grin, and give a soft “Thank you.” 

He doesn’t respond, he simply nods.

You gaze at one another for a few moments, before you nod your head to the side, gesturing to him to start walking; just as he did to you the day prior. Together, you walk beside each other through the various halls and passageways— working to build a mental map of the cave system— until you reach the medbay. 

It’s a small room, one equipt to host only a few residents. Along the chamber walls are privacy shields— drawn to create different spaces for individual patients. Towards the back are tall shelves of med supplies— anything from syringes and needles, blood tubes, to disinfectants, gauze, and kits for intravenous fluids— supplies that would allow for basic blood tests, and treating minor to moderate wounds. Near the entrance sits another Mando, the baar’ur— their armor a deep green with teal sigils along the side of their buy’ce; holo pad in hand, seemingly deep in focus. 

The sounds of your footsteps pull her attention. “Ah, su cuy'gar, Djarin, it’s been a while. How’s your ik’aad?” 

He extends a hand for her to grasp, pulling her from the ground. “Fine. He’s with the other ade.”

She looks at you, “Jatne vod, I’ve been waiting for you to arrive.” 

“I hope I can assist.” You give her your name, she replies with her own; Mavis. 

She sighs, exasperated. She points to the first room, “One of the idiot cabure just showed up for the third time in two weeks, and…” She stops, and takes a deep breath, trying to ease her agitation, “... and I don’t want to deal with him again.” She holds the holopad out for you to take, “Can you handle this for me?”

Reading through her notes, you skim over some of the details.

G: He is in no apparent distress. He is alert and oriented

S: No open fracture or bony abnormality

E: Laceration to left shoulder, 15cm x 1 cm, simple, shallow

A simple laceration… “No sutures or staples?” You ask.

“No. Just use a tissue adhesive— I would have just made him do it himself; but he can’t reach it.” Her annoyance seeps through her voice again, “So, don’t waste any bacta on that,” she replies, pointedly. She mumbles under her breath, shaking her head, “Kad knows that utreekov will be back here next week.” She looks at Din, who gives her a sympathetic shrug. 

She must be the only medic here. 

You nod in understanding, “...I’ll take care of him, Mavis.” You turn around to walk towards the room, reading through the rest of her notes. Din and the baar’ur carry on in conversation as you approach the line of privacy shades.

Standing before the first room, you use the corner of the holo pad to tap upon the pole holding the curtain— a sound to alert the patient of your arrival, “Can I come in?” you ask.

A moment of silence greets you, before a deep voice answers “...Sure.”

Slowly drawing back the curtain just wide enough to allow you entry, you step in. 

A familiar Mando sits before you. The idiot cabur.

The same idiot cabur you met yesterday— the very one that glowered into your karking soul like he craved nothing more than to break you in half. The sight of him makes your stomach sink— dread coursing through your bones, your nerves firing to prepare for his inevitable attack— skin electric, heart racing, blood cold. 

You’re not safe.

You breathe, trying to will your voice to return once more. Taking a moment, your eyes scan up and down his form— assessing his position. He’s slouched, sitting atop the bed, one leg tucked underneath the other, a hand pressed against the injured shoulder. His pauldrons and chest piece sit beside him, his shirt half pulled over his form, revealing the nasty gash across his shoulder blade. Your eyes finally meet his visor— almost hoping to find his own beneath it, only to greet the same abyss that bore into you upon your first meeting. 

Breathe. You nod at him, feigning nonchalance, “What happened?”

He observes you in return, tilting his head. 

His gaze, though not predatory, reveals his intrigue. You’re enigmatic, oracular— he’s studying you, fixated on your features; searching for the apologues and adages that have sculpted your spirit— the flame of your psyche he yearns to succumb to. For a moment, he too is breathless, lost in the sea of your presence, desperate for a mast to secure himself to. He yields, finally looking away from you, to bring his attention to his injured shoulder.  

He considers his response, and answers your question; almost timid, but with an obvious lightness to his voice. “I— uh… bravely protected the covert from an invader.” 

You blink, and furrow your brows in confusion. You slowly shake your head at him. “No.” You reply, unconvinced. “Try again.”

He straightens his posture, looking at you once more. After another pause, he argues his second retelling of events. “Okay… again, I bravely rescued a Foundling lost in one of the Back Caves,” his voice less shy, but still chary.

His witticism begins to thaw the icy tension between you, reforming to liquescent diffidence— your pulse easing back to its restful tempo, the slight tremor of your hands gradually ceasing. You stride towards him, equanimous and assured, until you’re close enough to inspect his injury. A nasty gash, skin frayed along the edges, with smaller abrasions surrounding it— the beginnings of a bruise coloring the area. Dust and tiny shards of lava rock are settled on the skin throughout, peppering the wound. It looks painful.

Your eyes meet his hidden ones, desperate to conceal your amused grin he’s given you, “No,” you challenge, an insincere jest, “...last chance.”

He chortles, looking away again, almost bashful. “I fell,” he responds, resolute. “In the Back Caves… Lost my footing on an unsteady rock, and landed on a sharper one.” His coyish inflection shifting to one aflutter— in a moment of confidence, he returns his gaze to you, illuminated by your amused expression, having caught on to his jocular antics. 

You nod, and try to hide your simper, “That sounds right.” You gesture to his shoulder, “May I?”

“Please.” He moves slowly, turning slightly, allowing you easier access to his shoulder.  

With the wound in full view, you work to treat him.  

It only takes but a few minutes to clean the area, the two of you spend that time in silence. He fidgets, not in a way that indicates he’s in pain— but rather that he’s unnerved, nervous, even mousy. This massive Mando’ad sits beside you with such tension in his form, as though he’s bracing for an impact; on the precipice of the inchoate attack— waiting for the aruetii to spit their vitriol, to exploit his vulnerable position and leave him more scathed than when he arrived.  

With your hands gently pressing over his shoulder blade, sealing the adhesive in place; he releases a long held breath, the anticipated aggression absent. The tautness of his muscles gives way, highlighting their definition across his back as he decompresses. Stop looking. His heat radiating into your palms, a warmth you’ve been starved of since entering this frore catacomb, you’re reluctant to pull away— longing to linger in the intimacy of this untrodden amity that has just scarcely begun. 

Slowly, you will yourself to retreat, discarding the soiled gauze and removing your disposable gloves. “Does the brave cabur have any other battle wounds?” You tease, disrupting the prolonged silence.

“No, ma’am,” his tone reveleaving the alacarious smirk hidden behind his buy’ce. As you turn away, he maneuvers his arm back into his shirt. He continues, “...thank you. Vor entye.” 

You look back to him and nod, “Of course.” 

Just as the silence settles again, and you attempt to leave, he recommences. “Before you go…” He waits for you to stop, “I was hoping to speak with you?” His inflection returns to one of timidness again; but he sits straighter, his legs wide and relaxed, his hands resting over his thighs. Even without his armor, his broad form fills the space around him. Don’t ogle. “We didn’t get to talk much yesterday.”

Difficult to chat when you think you’re about to die. “No, we didn’t.”

His voice turns gentle, almost placating, as if he heard your thought. “I’m Ikarus, a guardsman for the covert. The other cabur was Sabe.” He breathes, tilts his head, fidgets like he’s considering every word before he says it. “It’s our duty… to ensure the safety of everyone here. Including you.”

You’re frozen in place, refusing to cross the threshold to him again, despite his words wanting you to ease yourself closer.

“I—” the words are trapped in his throat, “I failed that duty yesterday. I failed you.” 

He pauses, looking down to the floor, gathering his thoughts once more. “I’ve been here a long time. We’re very careful who we allow in here. Having a new Foundling and an outsider come in like this is unusual, to say the least.” 

He looks to your face, meeting your eyes, “But this… inordinate circumstance… doesn’t give me the right to scare you. Being leered at by a giant, armed, faceless stranger should not have been your first impression of us… of me.” 

His guilt bleeds into his speech, a sadness overcoming him. “I’m sorry.”  For a moment, Ikarus envisions you, the terror in your eyes upon your first meeting, your protectiveness of the Child, of Djarin shielding you from his ravening presence, keeping you away from him. “Ni ceta, I’m sorry.” 

You stare at him, speechless, in awe of his confession. 

Ni ceta. I kneel. 

A rare, groveling apology you had only heard once before— in an unfortunate situation with Din that left you both upset— he found the Basic phrase I’m sorry could not express his attrition wholly. He had explained the Mando’a words to you; their connotation, their significance. Kneeling, you learned, was one of the highest forms of respect to another Mando’ade— not only a display of humility, but reverence, obedience; and at certain times, even submission. Whilst his genuflect never came, his declaration was enough for you both to reconcile. 

But the person before you is not Din Djarin.

Having a man like him brought to his knees would be a sight to behold. 

In a moment of boldness, you slowly step towards him— soft on your feet— until you stand a mere meter apart, never looking away from where you presume his eyes to be. In a quiet, demulcent tone— barely above a whisper; before you can even think to reconsider your words, you ask him, “Are you going to kneel, Ikarus?”

Thence, he is in free fall. Your emollient voice and temerarious inquiry luring him into the vast unknown of you— succumbing to the pull of your orbit, the fire of your spirit. In an instant, his body relaxes— his eyes bore into yours, as he slowly rises from the medical bed to his full height, before bending the knee to kneel below you. After a moment, he extends his hand for you to grasp. Whence his hand grips yours, he answers your question in kind; “Ni ven’ceta par gar ratiin.”

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[techs-goggles9902]

Since I got a little bit of positive encouragement I’ll give you a little something something of my OC story.

Two Souls Entwined

By yours truly. Part 2 here !!! Part 3 here!

I AM OPEN TO CRITICISM!!!!!! It’s my first time writing and I want to improve!!!!

Summary:

Niva Veen was born into a Mandalorian family. Her father is a war hero during the civil wars and Niva was sent to shadow him when she was 8 (Mando custom). Six years later he’s killed and Kal Skirata takes Niva under his wing, then two years later he’s invited to train commandos on Kamino. Niva meets and trains Captain Rex of the 501st. But it’s no ordinary friendship… (hint hint wink wink they like eachother)

“Niva, k’olar!”

Niva turned, a long, strand of hair falls into her muddy green eyes. Again, her story was interrupted. How will she ever become an author if she can’t even get through the first sentence? Life was never constant for poor Niva, always on the move. One battlefield to the next.

“Coming, Buir!” Niva tucks her curls behind her ear and sprints back to the camp ground, through the sloshing mud. Southern Mandalore was always muddier, no matter how many wars kill off the flora and scorch the dirt.

She freezes once she’s standing a foot away from her Buir and stands at attention. The man smiles and ruffles her hair.

“I have a present for you, ad’ika. C’mon,” Buir holds out his hand for her to take, and she does. They walk down the dirt path into the encampment, greeting comrades as they pass.

The mission was almost over, along with the war. There were too many to count, so there was no official name.

Buir leads Niva down the path until they reach their cream colored tent, the flaps rustling with the breeze. Niva trots in, her father at her heels. She sits down on her small sleeping bag and grasps the fabric between her forefinger and thumb. The soft Mandalorian wool is a comfort, and always has been, since before she could talk.

Her father sits down on his own sleeping bag beside her, and takes out a small chain from his pocket. Hanging from the chain is a small silver tree. But not just any tree, the tree that only grows on Kashyyk, the enormous behemoths that cover the planet, the Wroshyr tree. Barely four centimeters long, the silver charm dangles beautifully from the matching chain.

“I know, I missed your first eight birthdays, and I’m trying to make up for them. It’s your sixth birthday we’ve celebrated, and I wanted to do something special. A vendor was selling these, barely a kilometer away. I thought…. Well, you’d love it.” Buir says, blushing slightly, as if he’s embarrassed.

“Oh, Buir… I love it! Vor entye, vor entye!” Niva says, lurching up and wrapping her boney arms around his neck. He embraces her and clips the necklace around Niva’s neck. She looks down, beaming with pride, admiring her new accessory.

Before either one can say anything, shouting comes from outside the tent. Not he usual friendly banter, but loud fearful shouts and orders. Niva’s people are Mandalorians, this clan specifically doesn’t get scared easily. Buir stands quickly, slipping on his black and gold buy’ce.

“Niva, listen to me, don’t move. Stay here until I come back, alright, ad’ika?” He cups her cheek and she nods quickly, slipping into her sleeping bag. Buir dashes out, checking the charge on his Verpine Blaster.

Seconds pass. Then minutes. The shouts don’t stop, and now roars of engines fill the air. Niva clamps her hands over her ears and curls into a ball beneath the sleeping bag. Why, why us? Why is it always me that makes things happen?

The sounds of blaster fire are next, then the smell of carbon. The smoky smell makes its way into Niva’s nostrils and makes her eyes water. Soon, it gets quiet. Too quiet. There’s over fifty Mandos, men and women, who’re apart of this legion. Only two voices are heard from outside the tent. One is unrecognizable, almost foreign because of the accent. The other voice is…

“Buir… no no no…” Niva scrambles to her feet and peaks out of the tent flap. He’s on his knees, begging for his life. His helmet knocked off and lying almost ten meters away from him. The Mando standing over him is wearing unfamiliar red and white beskar. “Buir…”

She touches the little silver tree hanging between her collar bones. Deep breath in….deep breath out…. She was just about to run outside when her father kicked the strange man’s leg, causing him to collapse to the ground. The two fight it out, punch after punch, headbutt after headbutt. Niva watches in terror. What do I do? I can’t let him die!

Taglist because I need at least two notes for my soul to be happy:

@fionajames @sevdidntdie @hellhound5925 @will-is-silly

Glossary & pronunciation

K’olar ~ come here [koh-LAR]

Buir ~ father/mother (there’s no gender in Mando’a) [boo-EER]

Vor entye ~ thank you/ I accept a debt [vor-ENT-yay]

Ad’ika ~ little one, son, daughter, of any age - also used informally to adults much like lads or guys [ah-DEE-kah]

Buy’ce ~ helmet [BOO-shay]

[readbythestarlight]

Title: the things we are (the things we may become)

Pairing: The Armorer/Bo-Katan Kryze

Written for SW FemslashFebruary2024

Word count: 2022

Read on ao3

❤️❤️❤️❤️

There are days when the weight of her buy’ce feels too heavy for her.

They are not often, but sometimes it feels as though the severity makes up for the lack of frequency. Today is just such a day, the first since the covert has come to this new planet, hidden in their caves.

The pain is not weakness, she knows. She is not lesser for what she suffers. Fatigue, yes. Pain, often. Today, both, a pulsing throb behind her eye and a sluggishness in her bones that suggests she should have stayed abed rather than braved the usually comforting familiarity of her forge. But, as always, there is work to be done. Now more than ever, with so many new Foundlings to fend and provide for. Their armor must be made.

But it is telling, the toll it is taking on her, when she doesn’t even notice the visitor until a voice echoes in the chamber she has built her forge in.

“Are you alright?”

By instinct she stiffens, shoulders lifting from their hunch and head raising until she stands erect, proud, unshakable as always. Too late, she suspects, as she turns her head to find Bo-Katan standing in the entryway. Her face is pulled in a frown of concern, and the Armorer can see the way her eyes move, assessing, searching for an explanation.

“Kryze,” she greets. The formality causes a flicker of surprise, temporarily throwing Bo-Katan off of her hunt for an answer. The Armorer turns back to the forge, her eyes skimming over familiar pieces. “What brings you the forge?”

An impatient hiss of breath sounds behind her, followed by clipped steps. Blue and white enters the periphery of her vision and the Armorer turns her head to look, seeming languid in the movement. She tilts her head in silent inquiry. The action earns another huff of impatience.

“You’re avoiding my question,” Bo-Katan accuses. She juts out her chin, lifts it in a silent challenge as if daring the Armorer to ignore her again. “Are you alright?”

She sighs, knowing it must be audible with so little space left between them. She would have preferred to avoid this.

She sees the stubborn look in Bo-Katan’s eyes and knows that this will not be a fight easily won. Stubbornness runs in both of them, part of the iron will that she suspects has kept them each alive for so long. Most days it is an admirable trait in Bo-Katan. Today it is closer to an inconvenience. Even if she knows that the stubbornness now is less because Bo-Katan has been long accustomed to having her own way and more because she cares. Because they are—

Well. They have not put a name to it. This something between them. But it is because They Are. That is reason enough.

“I am well enough,” she answers. Against the tension in the back of her neck, a warning creeping at the edges of her mind that she steadfastly acknowledges and carries on in spite of, she takes hold of her hammer again. There is beskar to be forged, never enough, but the new Foundlings must have their buy’ce. She turns her focus from the warning ache in her skull and Bo-Katan’s hard gaze both, grips tighter on her hammer to still the slight tremble in her hands. “What can I do—”

The pain strikes her like a spear through her skull, searing through one temple and exploding into everywhere. It steals her breath away and leaves nausea curling from her stomach to her throat. For a moment she is merely off-balance, then it worsens still. She barely hears the clatter of her forge hammer as it falls from nerveless fingers to strike against the stone floor, does not have the ability to feel when her knees give way, or arms scoop around her waist to keep her from falling. She knows only the pain and that she must push through it, must breathe.

Breathe. Breathe. It will pass.

It does pass, slowly, from unbearable searing back to the dull throb of before. The nausea remains but the rest of her senses return, hearing, sight, touch the last, as she becomes aware of the cold steel of the forge at her back, the hard stone under her, and the pressure of hands cupped against the side of her neck, just barely to be felt through the thick fabric of her kute.

“Armorer? Armorer!” Bo-Katan’s voice is tight, and in it is an undercurrent of fear that she so rarely hears from her. “Dammit—stay with me,” Bo-Katan says, and it sounds so much like a command even as it is pleading. Bo-Katan raises her hand to her ear, activating her comm. “This is Bo-Katan Kryze, I need a medic in the forge—”

With a soft groan the Armorer raises a hand, laying fingers still stiff and nerveless over Bo-Katan’s. She gently draws her hand away from the ear piece, cutting off her message.

“Don’t,” she says. Her tongue feels heavy. “There is nothing a medic can do. It will pass.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Bo-Katan snaps. “You need—”

“Bo-Katan,” she interrupts, and her voice must sound firm enough, or perhaps only weary enough, to reach her, because Bo-Katan pauses mid-reach for her comm again. She stares, frowning, frightened behind the steel of her eyes.

Her hand is warm as the Armorer squeezes it gently with her own. “It will pass,” she assures again.

Bo-Katan’s jaw moves, impatience warring with concern warring with that same admirable, infuriatingly stubborn will. She is unconvinced, but she waits, and when her comm comes to life with someone asking for clarification, she answers, “Give me a moment.”

Silence settles for half a minute. The Armorer shifts, movement ginger and tentative as she tries to avoid triggering that tension in her neck again. Pride already fled, she lets her head sink back against the forge, beskar meeting beskar with a soft ring. Bo-Katan watches her, both hands now on her knees, fingers twitching as she resists reaching out to help.

“What is it?” she finally demands.

The Armorer sighs, her eyes falling shut. “An old complaint,” she answers. “Few of us escaped the last days of Mandalore, fewer still unscathed. It is an old wound that strikes anew every now and then. There is nothing to be done for it but wait for it to pass.”

No response is immediately forthcoming. The Armorer allows the quiet the help settle the remaining ache, until it settles, dull but bearable, in a throb behind her eyes. When she opens them she finds Bo-Katan looking away, her jaw tight.

“Is it because you will not remove your helmet? Is that why nothing can be done?” Bo-Katan asks. The Armorer feels a spark of impatience that she strives to smother. Always it comes back to this.

“Bo-Katan—“

“We could find you a droid,” Bo-Katan interrupts, sharp again, impatient again. “It would not be breaking the Creed to allow a medical droid to see to you. I know the Creed does not allow you to show your face to a living thing, but a droid—”

“It will not make a difference,” The Armorer interrupts in turn. She speaks over Bo-Katan’s sound of frustrated anger. “It has been tended to before. There is nothing else to be done.”

She can see the war going on behind Bo-Katan’s eyes, her stubbornness battling hard against acceptance. She does not take defeat or helplessness well, no more than any Mandalorian. For a moment it seems she will push the issue further, call for the medic and have her way; but all at once she surrenders, her shoulders sinking. The Armorer smiles mirthlessly. It is a poor victory.

She welcomes it when Bo-Katan’s hand raises to her neck again, hovering near without touching this time. “Is it alright if I…?”

Another unseen smile. “It’s alright. I am not glass, Bo-Katan, however fragile this attack may make me seem.”

“I would never think of you as fragile,” Bo-Katan assures, amusement lacing into the words in spite of the heaviness still lingering between them. Her palm and fingers cup against the side of her neck again, thumb ghosting up towards the edge of her buy’ce. Were anyone else’s hands to stray so close she would have made them regret the impertinence. But here it is permitted. Bo-Katan won’t betray the fragile trust they have so steadily built.

“Is there anything I can do?” Bo-Katan asks. So uncertain. Tenderness has been a skill long lost to them both, emerging tentatively in moments like this. The Armorer treasures it, rare as it is.

“When I’m confident it won’t trigger another attack just to stand, you can help me back to my bed,” she says, pragmatic in her answer. Well-intentioned as her determination to see to the forge today had been, she was in no state to continue pushing her limits now. No one would fault her for leaving the work undone until tomorrow.

“Of course,” Bo-Katan agrees. “You should be resting.” There is an accusing edge to the words that are almost amusing. It’s a long time since she has been the one chastised for reckless behavior.

Once she feels able, Bo-Katan helps her to her feet with steadying hands. The journey to the small but private hollow where her bunk waits isn’t long, but long enough that she has no desire to repeat it again today. Her head aches again by the time Bo-Katan helps her lower to sit on the thin mattress pad, and neither of them speak a word as she undoes the snaps on her heavy cape and the latches on her cuirass. It is the most she is willing to remove before she lies down. The weight of her buy’ce finally eases as her head settles into the bundle of spare blankets she uses for a pillow.

Around her the room goes dark, the bare bulb strung above their heads dimming. It makes almost no difference through the HUD on the inside of her visor, but it was a kind thought.

Bo-Katan hovers, and were the circumstances different it would be charming to see how uncertain she is. Confident in so many things, but lost in a sickroom. The Armorer takes pity. “You do not have to stay. I’m in no danger.”

Bo-Katan doesn’t immediately move, momentarily frozen in a limbo of indecision. Her decision leads her not to the door but to the bedside, crouching down. Still lost, but unwilling to go. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Her instinct is to deny, to repeat that there is nothing to do but let the pain pass. But there is a vulnerability in her that finds its way to the front, creeping past the usual walls of iron that she has forged around herself. With a soft breath, almost a shiver as it leaves her lungs, she reaches out, offering her hand. Bo-Katan doesn’t hesitate before taking it in both of her own.

“Will you stay?” The Armorer asks. For once she nearly fumbles, her lips silently moving behind the safe shield of her visor as she tries to find the words. “I don’t… rest easy when this fit strikes. I think I may find it easier if you’re here.”

Bo-Katan’s eyes flicker with emotions too jumbled and quick for the Armorer to make sense of, settling briefly on a kind of beautiful devastation then shifting into what is almost gratitude. “Of course,” she answers. With a squeeze she brings the gloved hand between her two palms up to her face, pressing her forehead to the worn leather. It’s not quite a kiss, but it’s something close. A step nearer to a definition of this thing that They Are.

Bo-Katan rises from her crouched position to take a new place on the edge of the bunk. There is hardly any room but neither of them mind. To be close is the point. She doesn’t let go of the Armorer’s hand.

“Rest now,” she whispers. A tentative, beautiful smile pulls at her lips. “I’ll keep the watch.”

❤️❤️❤️❤️

@starwarssapphicweek

[snorkin-sporks]

My soggy little fic <3

Paz Vizla may or may not be dead. [chapter 1]

Paz Vizsla was being dragged, half unconscious, across the grated floor of the Imperial base. The two remaining hut’uune pulled him along by his bindings, never letting him get to his feet. Their armour reminded him of just how many Mando’ade those Imperial demagolkase would kill today, plasteel coated red with the blood of his people.

Paz ground his teeth at the thought of his armour being scraped on the uneven metal grating that made up the hallways leading to the med-bay, it was all he could do to stave off the worry for his son and vode. 

He remembered exactly how Gideon said it. The words rang crystal clear inside his buy’ce. He replayed it over in his mind, unable to shake the guilt from his conscience.

“Take him to the med bay, I want him in one piece and conscious enough to understand that everything and everyone he has ever loved is dead or dying.”  Gideon turned towards Paz, staring into his vizor as if he could see through the opaque black plasteel that separated Paz from the Moff.

“Understand this Mandalorian, I will murder everyone you tried to protect, I will blow your civilian ships from the sky, and I will make you watch every minute.” Gideon had grinned, teeth stained with the flesh of every Mando’ad that had come before Paz. With that, Gideon had bent down, and pulled Paz’s helmet from his head.

It was all Paz could do, not to cringe at the thought. His face was bare, and the man looking down on him was not his son, not his riduur, but Imperial scum. 

It had happened before, when the Praetorians had tied him down and gagged him, not even giving him the right to pray. But it was different then, because they had not taunted him, had not committed atrocities towards his culture and people, they were hired killers, and that was it.

There was no going back.

His reply was hoarse, pained, and spiteful. Backed by fury and a pure, unchallenged hatred for the genocidal monster that stood before him.

Paz turned away, scraping his bare cheek against his pauldron, gag slipping loose. He spat at the feet of the myth who killed his planet, the monster who killed his covert, and the man who threatened his son.

With that, Gideon kicked him hard in the ribs, and ordered his red shabuire to take Paz away, instructing them to drag him off to the med-bay in the heart of the base, where he would have a prime view of the slaughter.

_________________

other chapters coming soon.... i hope

if anyone wants to be tagged for updates please let me know!!

thanks so much for everybody who has been interested, especially those that leave comments, it really encourages people to share their work and motivates writers to do their thing!!

[amariaamaris]

Of Spite and Planned Assassinations (Ch. 2)

Here is a teaser of Chapter 2: Of Weighty Decisions and Identical, Unexpected Visitors. The full chapter is up on AO3, I'm going to try and get the link to work, but so far it has been a pain in my ass.

He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes, “Mij,” his voice is low, soft, and slightly brittle, “I’m well aware that we all owe him a debt we could never hope to repay. Can’t you tell that he’s given in? He’s done Mij, you and I have both seen what it’s like when a warrior gives into death. The Jetii has stopped fighting, you know that I would give you the go ahead to do whatever you need to do to save his life… but he’s done. Would it not be a mercy to let him slip away?” Mij is still, but his lips twist even as regret and understanding enters his eyes and his shoulders slump ever so slightly.

“Mand‘alor! K’olar!” Jaster pauses for a split second and his eyes flit from Mij to the jetii, then he turns and slips on his buy’ce as he leaves. Jaster very nearly trips on his own feet in shock when he sees eight verde - one has a kama - in what looks like eyayah beskar’gam painted purple. No, not purple, a deep vibrant violet like be’jetii jetii’kad.

[ranahan]

Sexism in Mando’a, take two: misandry

We’ve talked before about sexism in the canon Mando’a corpus—particularly misogyny, e.g. words like dalab ‘sheath, scabbard’, or sayings like Ke barjurir gar'ade, jagyc'ade kot'la a dalyc'ade kotla'shya ‘raise your children, sons strong but daughters stronger’.

But I don’t think I’ve seen misandry covered yet.

jagyc (adj): male (can also mean macho in context)

ori’jagyc (adj): bullying; also bully, swaggering big-mouth - someone who picks on someone smaller

That is, these two definitions equate masculinity with toxic masculinity (or toxic behaviour in general). Male = macho = masculine in an overly aggressive or unpleasant way. Very male = bully; and what’s more, a bully with a fragile ego.

And. Ugh. That’s a step above equating women with scabbards, but that’s a bar so low that going above it is not a compliment.

Are you really telling me that this is what mando men are like? So much so that the word “manly” also means “macho”? And not just to outsiders (many of whom probably find mandos of all genders overly assertive/aggressive), but to Mandalorians themselves? Come on, now. That’s just the tired old “testosterone = bad” argument (no, testosterone does not make men angry or aggressive any more than oestrogen makes women emotional and hysterical).

Outside of the GFFA, this is not something I personally want to propagate. It’s not a message I want to send to young men who are into military science fiction. That being manly means being toxic, that your gender and identity are just the bad things associated with them. Where does that message leave you? Where’s the call to action, to do better than the previous generations? Where are any of the number of masculine virtues or role models to strive for or to imitate? No—that message just leaves you with the message of “you = bad”, because it’s not like any of us can (or should) change our gender identities, which are core parts of ourselves. No boy wants to be a bully when they grow up, but some don’t have any better role models of how to be a man.

So. Let’s do better! Here are some options:

jagyc (adj): male

That is, just remove the part inside the parenthesis (“can also mean macho in context”).

ori’adyc (adj): bullying; also bully, swaggering big-mouth - someone who picks on someone smaller

Lit. “big guy” or “big child”, basically a gender neutral equivalent of the original.

Here are two words from @booklindworm:

orikaanii (n): bully - lit. big fighter /sarcasm

orikaanyc (adj): bullying

Leaning on the sarcasm here: “aren’t you a big fighter, picking on someone smaller than you?”

And from the MandoCreator Language Team (“pretentious”) & Aay’han community (“royal (sarcastic)”):

aloryc: pretentious; royal (sarcastic)

That is, someone putting on big airs, making themselves more important than they really are, and demanding more respect than they have earned. “Royal” is kind of an odd choice of words in English, but I guess what they’re aiming at is “putting on undeserved airs” (i.e. pretentious) or royal in the sense of “a royal pain in the ass” (lit. “leading” or “chiefly” pain in the ass).

I was originally not a big fan of this word, because what’s the neutral adjective from alor, then? But I ended up just deriving it from the root *al- > alyc or ala to avoid possible confusion, and I think that works fine. I’ve come ‘round to it.

ori’shya te buy’ce: too big for their boots, lit. bigger than their helmet

A swaggering big-mouth. You could also say “ori’shya kaysh buy’ce”, but I think the definitive article te does the same job in context, and you avoid repeating the same word (“kaysh ori’shya te buy’ce” instead of “kaysh ori’shya kaysh buy’ce”). Aesthetic choice, really. It’s easier to say in my mouth, at least.

[evighedenlegacy-scribblez]

Here’s some more scratchy sketches of Alyxia Dalyrud, realized I forgot the writing on the right side of her buy’ce (helmet).

I’m noticing I don’t have quite a lot of art of my OC’s and if I do have some they are low quality and inconsistent so I’m probably gonna take a bit to compile and create some more. I’ve debated just posting them but I dont know :/

I’m a sketchbook hopper and I can’t just draw start to finish in one sketchbook so it’s very scattered. I have a digital character lineup in progress tho.

[cabezadeperro]

Me again 💖

CalBoba +

hi tasha!!! i didn't actually follow your prompt too much sowwy 😭 vague spoilers of jedi survivor; pre/established relationship (situationship), T, 870w.

---

The cuffs are just plain durasteel. They’re good quality, kept painstakingly clean and in good condition despite the heavy use they see, heavier than they look. Boba sourced them from a factory on Kuat that also makes Imperial-grade restraints for the ISB. They were expensive: they are an investment. Boba knows what happens when your bounty shakes off their shackles, and he has to live with the scars.

They are not Force-suppressing cuffs, however. They’re high grade durasteel, nothing more and nothing less.

Kestis sits in the hold of the Slave, shackled wrists held in his lap, fingers lax. His little droid friend is nowhere to be found, and he is soaked to the bone, dripping seawater on the metal floor of Boba’s ship. His lightsaber is tucked away in one of Boba’s pouches, weirdly heavy, cold through the many layers of fabric, and Boba knows intimately what Jedi are capable of. 

Coronet is a dump. Boba closes and locks the ramp, trying his best to keep out the wind and the cold, and returns to Kestis’s side. He’s shivering slightly: Boba fished him from the docks. He lost his boots while trying to swim across the bay, and his lips are blue, his red hair darkened by water and rain. The brightest thing about him is the blood that stains his clothes, and his green eyes.

Word says he survived Vader, and his bounty’s high enough it might even be true. 

The shackles are simple durasteel. Boba crouches in front of him, keeping his distance: Kestis tilts his head, those green eyes of his serene. He seems to be around Boba’s age—he must have been thirteen or fourteen when the war ended. He’s made it for ten years, and the cuffs around his wrists are plain metal, and if he’s there, in Boba’s ship, is because he wants to be there.

Boba chews on his lower lip. After a beat, he takes off his buy’ce. Green eyes widen in recognition, turn thoughtful. 

“I knew I had heard that voice before,” Kestis says after a beat. The cuffs click open, and he sits up, leans forward to lean his elbows on his knees. 

Boba tracked him down after that first chance meeting on Koboh. He’s been doing his best to hunt him down for the past year, and this is not the first time he thought he had Kestis, and he’s beginning to think it won’t be the last. 

“I’m not like them,” Boba tells him. Kestis snorts, mouth ticking up in a sideways smile. 

Boba should have kept his mouth shut.

“Yeah. I can tell,” Kestis replies easily. 

There’s blood on his shirt. Boba got him right before he jumped. High up on his right side, right across the ribs. Must hurt like a bitch.

If Kestis is there it’s because he wants to.

His thighs are starting to burn. Boba stands up and steps away, buy’ce held uncomfortably in his left hand.

There’s an unused pair of Force-suppressing cuffs gathering dust in the armoury. Boba’s had them for a while. 

He’s playing a dangerous game—his father would be disgusted. He never had any patience for the sort of hunter who did what Boba’s been doing lately: for him, bounties were just credits on legs. You tracked them down, you caught them, you handed them in, and you moved on. Clean and quick and professional.

Kestis reaches out to him with one ungloved hand. After a beat, Boba wraps his gloved one around his wrist, pulls him to his feet. 

He calls himself a Jedi, but he looks little like any of the sanctimonious pricks Boba met during the war. He’s all confident swagger, and he has the kills to support it. He’s been cutting his way through the galaxy, like a too-sharp knife in bantha butter.

Boba moves first, but Kestis’s quick to catch up. His lips are rough, and there’s stubble on the cold skin of his cheeks. Boba closes his eyes and grabs blindly at him. His cold fingers tangle themselves in Boba’s hair, and Boba steps even closer, knees bumping, his bulky armour both a physical boundary that has yet to be crossed and a reminder. He tastes of salt water and blood and metal, and Boba opens under him, already sweating under his kute. 

The lightsaber is very cold where it fits under Boba’s chin. He opens his eyes and looks up at Kestis. Boba raises his brows, painfully aware of the way his pulse beats against the thin skin of his throat, and Kestis licks his lips. He’s flushed, his hair a mess and his lips reddened. 

“I won’t stop,” Boba reminds him. His voice is shot. He clears his throat, and feels the heavy weapon move with him.

“I know,” Kestis says. “I should kill you.”

Boba’s fast, but Kestis is faster. He ducks out of the way, pushes Boba away; Boba feels himself fly through the cold air of his ship, head cracking against something sharp. By the time he manages to shake off the dark spots off his sight, Kestis is long gone, the ramp standing wide open, Coronet’s winds flooding the hold with a mix of seawater and tibanna.

[miitgaanar]

Whumptober prompt!

No. 11: SEEING DOUBLE

Convenience Store | Loneliness | “Leave no trace behind, like you don’t even exist.” (Taylor Swift, Illicit Affairs)

***************

Looking up at the night sky, Saya tried to find something familiar in the stars.  In their patterns, their alignments—hell, even in the twinkling gleam that so taunted her from the surface of this strange planet.

But there was nothing.  She double and triple checked the constellation maps she always kept on hand, looked through numerous systems and their suns and moons, and yet she could not find a single thing to indicate that this was the same sky she had grown up learning to navigate.

She sighed heavily, sitting against a tall, sturdy tree on the edge of a clearing.  At least this felt familiar.  Many a night was spent on watch leaning against a tree just like this one, her squad fast asleep and oblivious to the world around them.  All because they trusted her to keep them safe, to do her duty should someone come upon them as they dozed beneath a moonlit sky.

Saya’s throat burned with the threat of impending tears, and she could only sniffle loudly as she shut her eyes tightly, willing the tears to recede.

“Are you all right, Guardian?”

The kind, tinny voice of the droid—no, Ghost, he called himself—broke through the silence, and another sigh left her as she did her best to rein in the anger blooming within her chest.

“Stop calling me that,” she snapped, the briefest flicker of guilt clutching at her heart as the small, droid-like creature seemed to flinch back where he hovered in the air before her.  “We’ve been over this.”

“Sorry, Guar—Saya.”  He hovered silently for a moment, a soft whirring noise coming from whatever servos kept him aloft.  His shell shifted a few times, something that Saya had come to associate with the Ghost being deep in thought, until he finally said, “You’re sad.  What can I do to help?”

“Find a way to get me home,” she bit out without hesitation.  There was no point in pretending there was anything else on her mind.  “I need to get home to my clan.”

He was quiet for a beat, his shell shifting a few more times.  “You know that’s beyond my capabilities, Saya.”

“You claim to be able to raise the dead,” Saya said with no small amount of scorn, “and yet a bit of interstellar travel is beyond you.  What good are you to me, then?”

The Ghost did flinch back at that, his single glowing eye downcast as his shell seemed to actually sag.  Saya immediately wished she could take it back.

“I’m sorry, ad’ika.  I didn’t mean—”

“You miss your family,” he said suddenly, though his eye still seemed to be pointed toward the ground, casting a faint blue glow on the grass laden earth.  “You’re worried about them.”

She swallowed thickly, her voice hoarse as she said, “Yes.”

He seemed to nod in understanding.  If bobbing in the air indicated such a motion.  “I can’t get you back to them—at least, not right now.  Not on my own.  But…” He trailed off, as if considering his words.  Then he looked up at her, his voice gentle and sure.  “I’m here for you, Saya.  No matter where you go or whatever happens, I’m here for you.”

Saya felt her lips quirk upwards, her eyes stinging with the burn of fresh tears.  She was grateful for her buy’ce in that moment, hiding her expression from her little companion. 

“And I’m glad for that, ad’ika," she said, reaching out to pull the Ghost to her chest. He trilled softly, as if happy for the embrace, and Saya realized that she needed the contact more than she had known. "Truly.”