#heavy infantry mandalorian

[the-lady-auri]

30 minute single brush study of my favorite Mandalorian to shake the rust off of not painting for a week.

[uwingdispatch]

Y’all I’ve got your giant man. Paz Vizla earrings are now in stock.

*insert sza big boy TikTok sound*

I paired Paz Vizla with yellow jade to match the details on his armor. The big canon is not glued down and can be removed.

Earrings can be found here. ❤️

[court-jobi]

Sneak Peek: Just Be Gentle pt 2

Gif credit by @javier-pena

I am SO delayed in this, but WIP Weekend it is! Recommended by the lovely @djarins-cyare, thanks friend!

I have not visited my drafts folder in sooo long, but I'm coming out of an unintentional writing hiatus and have fresh motivation to open the ole lappytop back up for a little sample to share. Part 1 of this fic was much beloved by yall apparently, so it continues here!

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x reader

Words: 1.9K (for now)

For my Star Wars | Mandalorian Masterlist, check it out here!

Paz watched the scene before him unfold; the heat of compassion bloomed in the gut like stoking a fire…

Din Djarin swore on the deed of his ship that he wasn’t exaggerating. He placed a flag solidly in her camp, and would go to arms for her as a returned gesture of loyalty. From that first meeting when the Hunter came back through the alcove to Nevarro’s covert, he spoke on his companion’s competence on several fronts. Namely, in all the ways that resonated with his people: creative thinking, handy know-how, and something more: empathy- a gift not to be ignored when it came to caring for others -himself included- in moments of high stress. 

He praised her talents ‘all across the board’, citing moments in their brief stint together on the Razor Crest as testimony to his Mandalorian clan for her to remain there in shelter– to be the exception to their rules regarding outsiders. Aruetti. 

A surprise to none, Paz Vizsla deemed that it would be up to him to judge such loyalties for himself; as a man more inclined to view actions as proof rather than words. 

But then he met her. Every bit of what Djarin said was true. Better yet, she proved every assumption of his wrong: allowed her to take him by the crook of his arm, surrendered her best vote of confidence, and let him lead. Acquiesced to his strength, protected it, and encouraged him at every turn. Saved him the first of her meals, the best of her scavenged findings. Took to tending to his wounds herself, because he wasn’t gentle enough to do so on his own.

A few weeks have passed since that day, but his fondness for her didn’t wane like the moon’s phases did. Paz Vizsla made it his mission from that moment forward to carry an extra ounce of gentleness, just for her. 

Then, the refugees came pouring in. Her arrival couldn't have been timed more perfectly, Paz thought; he’d only begun to see the full measure of little Song’s magic the moment he saw her skills at work. 

A smaller covert made a quick exit and raced to safety after a raid depleted their stores a few systems over. There had been some rumors of their hunter clans taking the bait of Guild membership in order to make ends meet, as they’d seen in Djarin’s success. The Way instilled a sense of belonging wherever Mandalorians crossed paths, so merging on his covert’s territory for the upcoming season out of necessity was a given.

But now, in light of Nevarro’s storm season, it seems their numbers would be doubling indefinitely. The situation proved to be a strain and test of everyone’s flexibility and resilience, to keep everyone content and organized on such short notice… but with a Vizsla as Alorad, they flourished with the change in plans and watched on as Paz steeled himself against Fear, and made everything suitable. Supplies were rationed and rooms were stuffed to the brim, but they would make do.

While they may not have resources with them in tow, they more than made up for it by pulling their weight in preparation for the underground shelters. And that, would benefit all. 

Song made herself indispensable, true to what Djarin had said. Moreover, she did so with caring smiles and solemn assurances to the migrating Mandalorians -young and old- who felt very out of place. To those men who lost their way in the bustle and found themselves turned around in the tunnels, she would give quick pointers about where to go– and thanked them for their service to the clan, each and every one. 

Learning fast. Paz was grateful.

Upon nightfall, there was less commotion than normal. As the common spaces gradually funneled down, bedchambers were lit and sealed for the night. For the most part, it was the heads of families -adults- who went to rooms for the night as a chance to let down and get their heads on straight after such a sudden move. Surely not all slept right away, but took to tending to their armor and delving into their meditation practices.

 Meanwhile, their children under ten or so were sent off to the creche where they could be watched over. The community room was next to the medstations, and as kids are often ones to complain of very little bout of aches, pains, or simple snotty noses, it was the logical choice. 

Two crechemasters stayed in the spacious alcove of the Medbay annex overseeing the creche, as well as one of the resident tribe’s kitchen aides, a few men as guards near the entrance and supply doors… and a certain someone -with a voice like the Coming of Spring- that Paz Viszla could never refuse pausing for a minute to listen….

Clearly tugged by the soft spot within him, Paz volunteered to serve first watch over the children for their first night, which made their parents feel that much more assured of their protection. So with blankets pulled from every corner of spare storage, canvas mats laid this way and that, and with juvenile excitement despite the circumstances, the children all got to sleep and the staff interchanged periods of rest until all was quiet by the early waning hours of morning. Even the covert’s local young ones came to join this slumber party of sorts. For the sake of welcoming and strengthening bonds, the crechemasters allowed it. 

Right after the 0300 guards changed out, Paz heard it. Inside the alcoves inset bunks, one of the smallest boys -nearly four years old- was making a steady and increasing amount of noise, until he startled himself awake and clearly didn't know where he was. He was calling for his babuir in their native tongue; but by his aimless flailing about, it’s clear he’s looking for just about anyone bigger than him that might come to his cry for help.

Before Paz could overstep one of the sleeping children nearest him to respond, he caught the woman he'd know to know as the 'Songbird of the Covert' slipping out of the window jumpseat like a sparrow off its perch, flying to the child's stuttering form up on the riser.

"Well hi honey, g'morning to you too~ Pretty early, isn't it?"

Seeing a soothing figure coming to his call, little threadbare arms immediately shot out and spoke brokenly in bits and pieces of a particular Sundari dialect. Basic wasn't his strong suit. Then again, it gave way to crying in minutes anyway, so his distress was clear and the language barrier mattered little.

"Hm?-- ohhh, aw c'mere bub..” the woman set the child on a hip as he clutched to her. She set them in a sway, “Yeah, you can stay up with me– I can always use some snuggles, too."

The toddler nuzzled in but by his whimpers, Song moved towards the open atrium with more room to walk around and hopefully not disturb the sleeping of any others. 

Paz met her there. She'd looked his way with a pitiful expression, traipsing about with the little one in her arms and keeping his little shoulders pressed in close.

"Bad dreams, I'd say," she murmured low to Paz, in Basic. "But I can't tell if anything else is wrong. Doesn’t feel too warm, not coughing. Seems trusting though, poor thing. " she shrugged, motioning to how easily the child was settling.

Through his careful watch of her across the room, he’d caught her sneaking the back of her hand to his forehead earlier in a move masked as just fixing his curls, but fortunately, he must not have been found feverish to warrant more worry. 

Paz came to bring a big, steady hand on the child's back. The kid turned his head from her neck to find the new Alorad tilting his helmet to match, and  made a big sniff to put on a brace face. Shy and no doubt aware of this elder’s importance, he snuck out a little wave back in acknowledgement.

"//Be at peace, young one. You're safe in the Reliable one's arms, that you are.//"

Whatever Paz said to this "adika" -as he seems to have called him- brought relief to the child, as he hugged her neck tighter and made himself comfortable again in her arms.

An amused whisper graced his ears as she looked up at him,

"What'd you say?"

"That he has nothing to worry about," Paz shared kindly. "He seems to like you."

 "I wouldn't think these kiddos would trust strangers so easily after what they've been through," she smoothed back the child’s hair gently- thankfully, his breathing evened out into sleepy sighs.

 "They've had quite the eventful last few days."

She kept humming away for a minute, trying to subconsciously lull the child the rest of the way. She looked absently over the nursery if other young ones, but Paz was captivated by her alone.

This instinct must have been what Djarin was talking about. She hadn't hesitated to jump right in, even though she must have been on the edge of sleep herself- if her state of dress was any hint. Shed opted for no outer protective layers for this reason perhaps- a source of comfort for the little ones, and though perhaps it was also to signify to them she was not a warrior or someone too formal for them to shy away from.

Finally seeing the child dozing back fully, Paz offered to take the child from her and set him back on his bunk above them.

 She let him, adjusting her loose cardigan back onto her shoulder. Shed opted for that over her cropped black body glove that acted as a breastband, and the loose comfy pants that honestly have fit Paz better, but she made do with her current wardrobe and didn't bother worrying about outfits too much.

Here, just over his shoulder, she watched the Big Blue tuck -yes, tuck- the child in. Stepping away only when he saw the child try to settle into his new sleep position did he step away and back towards her retreat to her watch corner.

"Teacher and carer? You're the dual package, Mr. Vizsla."

"I do what I can. It's not often I get to see our children be children- I would preserve that wonder in them if I could."

Childlike innocence: to hear the hardest-working, stoic soldier speak on such tender things was a thing of wonder itself. 

“I’ve only ever seen the little ones work their drills here– recitations, history lessons.” She looked about the room. “I haven’t seen kids this young in a year, much less so many crammed into one room.”

“Well, the rooming arrangement is common practice,” Paz explained, his trademark patience a soothing constant- even through the helmet, “You’ll find a nursery like this in every covert across the galaxy.”

Then, a more sobering thought, one that brought pity to the forefront of her mind:

“If– you weren’t all living down here, would they be going to a normal school? Making other friends? At least while they’re young?”

As if she expected any other answer, Paz’s reflex came through the form of his gentle whisper: “This is the Way.”

“That it is,” she firmed up a knowing smile. “There’s so many of them, going through so much newness at their age.”

Paz agrees, though knows no other way than the community that sleeps before them. To watch the woman’s empathy radiate from her being -those angel eyes- was to know the warmest ray of sunshine in the pit of winter. Such a calm presence… that’s what these youth need, after all. She’s exactly where she should be.

[catstroker]

This is Vakhmir, he's an old guy Devaronian Mandalorian who's a member of Cedee's clan.

He was there back in the good old days when they were hundreds strong. He fought in the Mandalorian civil war against deathwatch, lost one of his horns to a lightsaber during the battle of Galidraan.

He's grown into a quiet and contemplative man. The others in his much diminished clan consider him wise. When he speaks people tend to listen. Even on seemingly trivial things.

Also he has a little Tooka cat :3

I'm hoping Paz Viszla wasn't a one off and "Heavy infantry" Mandalorians were a thing. Because they are very cool looking and I plan on making another one or two heavy infantry mando OCs.

Seems there are no tags for Devaronian :(

[beskarblondie]

Big Blue

A Heavy Infantry Mandalorian Helmet for your Sims

My beautiful beefcake 😍💙

When I say this helmet took me weeks, I mean it, I learned so much more about meshing to make this, and I'm so proud of it.

That being said, it definitely has its flaws, but I'm so excited that my big blue got to be my first real mesh project.

No recolors this time, doing his texture alone about did me in and I almost gave up and 🚮 this project several times 😂

Download

You can find his armor that I also made, right here

[sp4ceboo]

His Song Has Been Written: Din Djarin x Reader

A/N: ok so paz is gone now and I NEEDED TO WRITE A TRIBUTE CHAPTER TO HIM - this follows the plot for episode seven season 3 but i tweaked some stuff

tw: SPOILERS FOR MANDO EP 7 SEASON 3, swearing, pain, death, violence, they really gave us ragnar just to orphan him, not proof read one bit, sad asf,

Translations: vod = brother/sister, vod'ika = little brother/sister, di'kut = idiot,

wc: 1930

You realise now, how fucking blind you were.

There was no reason for the Stormtroopers wearing beskar to retreat; they were overpowering you, killing at least a quarter of your group. They'd cut and run, anyway, and you'd been too blinded with rage that these people, these Imperials, had been squatting in your home planet all this time, spreading rumours that its atmosphere was unbreathable and the land was poisoned, to realise. The fires of the Great Forge had been extinguished, and the air was cold and empty, barren and lacking the clang of hammers, but kindled at the sight of it was a deep rage towards the Imperials; Imperials that you now chased blindly through the caverns of the once shining Mandalore, right into their trap.

Now, you stand, between one of the Nite Owls and Paz Vizsla, surrounded by dirty, Imperial walls, built in the rock of your planet, as if they own it. As if they own the beskar they use, as if they own the metal that your people are built around, lurking in the shadows of your rightful home as you and the other children of the Watch fled from Concordia, if only to preserve the Creed. You're certain Gideon's behind this - you've clashed with him many times while you travelled with Din, protecting the child you now come to think of as your son.

You grit your teeth, widening your stance as you shoot at the Stormtroopers, Paz to your right, gunning them down with his heavy infantry gun. Somewhere to your left, Din fights too, and although you can't currently see Grogu in IG-12, you know Din must have an eye on him, because the way he stays in a certain radius of you informs you that he's acting as a sort of beskar shield around your son.

'Watch out, vod'ika,' Paz calls.

The sound of more jetpacks sound ahead, and you feel him grab the back of your shirt, tugging you backwards as a new wave of troops enter the hangar. Glancing at him over your shoulder, you retreat with him as he returns his hand back to his blaster, the deeper, rhythmic sound of his infantry gun almost comforting over the high whine of the Imperial blaster bolts and the familiar resonance of your own shots. Scanning the battle for Din, you catch him at the head of the retreat, his armour shining under the harsh lights, his back to you. A quick look behind you confirms that the third, smallest but probably oldest member of your clan is sheltered by a group of Nite Owls and members of your tribe, his eyes squinted against the light of the blasters.

'Din,' you yell, shooting a few of the troopers around him. 'Fall back!'

He turns his head; the red light of blasters reflects off his armour, like smears of crimson blood. Another jetpack sounds, and you yell Din's name again, dread settling in the pit of your stomach, heavy as a rotting corpse coming to rest on the murky sea floor. You balk at the sight of a man, clad in all black, a cape on his shoulders and a mockery of a Mandalorian helmet on his head; the cheeks are stained vermillion, the visor tinted in the same colour, Zabrak like horns rising from the top - there's no doubt who that is. Rage seethes within you: you knew it was him, you knew it was Gideon. Raising your blaster, you lurch forward, ready to protect your riduur, ready to -

The blast door slams shut, a few inches from your face.

Shock filters through your system, and your momentum carries you forward, slamming you right into the blast door, your helmet smashing into the glass window built into it. Curses leaves your lips, and you ram your fist into the metal, fear sending frigid chills down your spine; Din's out there, alone, with Gideon and about twenty Stormtroopers, all wearing beskar sacred to your people - the irony of it is almost as cutting as the self satisfied smirk on Gideon's face once he removes his helmet. You see the way Din's chest heaves, the way he clenches his fists, lifting his chin: he knows he's fucked, but he's ready to fight anyway.

The troopers on his right lunge for him, and he cuts them down, spinning to take on the next batch as they pile up before him. The smile on Moff Gideon's face grows wider and wider. You slam your fists against the blast doors, blood red oozing into your vision as rage warms your bones and burns away at your fear until all you want to do is cram the Imperial's face into molten beskar. Paz grabs your wrists, pulling you back from the blast doors and holding you firmly in his grasp, his arms tight around you, unescapable, and you growl, struggling, but he doesn't let go, his voice low in your ear.

'Don't - don't do this to yourself, vod'ika,' he says, his own anger prevalent in his voice. 'You're hurting yourself. I'd rather you break your knuckles across Gideon's face than against Imperial metal.'

You sigh, falling limp in Paz's arms. 'Okay. Let me - let me go, vod, I - I'm fine.'

'We'll think of something,' he assures you. 'We always do.'

Paz embraces you tightly, and you gladly wrap your arms around his waist, your fingertips barely touching from around his broad back. He knows you need this, he knows that you need something to anchor you, to calm you before you can think of a rescue plan. You've known him and Din as long as you can remember, and while Din became your riduur, Paz became your closest friend; he's as close as a brother, someone who would listen to your lovesick rants about his vod, someone who never failed to make you smile with his bold quips and bolder laugh. Peering up from his shoulder, you glance through the window in the blast door, and your heart drops. Gideon smiles on, smug as ever, as the troopers shove Din to his knees, and he continues to struggle, taking another down in a last attempt to break free.

'No,' you whisper, tearing yourself from Paz's grip. 'No!'

'Vod'ika,' Paz says measuredly, laying a hand on your shoulder. 'He's - ' You shrug him off, an idea forming in your mind. 'That's my riduur there,' you growl, voice low and wrathful. 'That's my fucking riduur. I know what to do, vod. Don't try and stop me.'

Amused, he huffs. 'That's my vod'ika.'

You turn to Bo-Katan, and you swear that the strength of your glare melts the beskar straight off her face. 'If you don't use that fucking Darksaber to get through the bloody door, I'll challenge you for it. Right now.'

She cocks her head; maybe she's surprised by the venom in your voice, or maybe she senses the undercurrent of desperation, but she obliges your words, cutting through the blast door. Darkly, Paz chuckles, cracking his knuckles, ready to fight again as the troopers turn their attention back to you, some of them jumping a little as if they forgot that there's a small army of wrathful Mandalorians behind the blast doors, their honours smarting from the sight of Imperials in their home world. Glancing at Paz, you give him a nod - he knows what to do, he's seen your stupid manoeuvres during the hunts you've been on together. He returns the gesture, and once you turn back, Bo-Katan has a hole through the blast door.

'Ready, vod?' You ask, checking the whistling birds on your vambrace. 'As always,' he answers.

You don't hesitate. You know he's got you covered, so you just dive straight through the hole, activating your whistling birds in a heart beat as Paz sticks the barrel of his blaster out, taking out any remaining troopers as you advance. Vaguely, you're aware of Gideon pressing a few buttons on his vambrace and shooting upwards, borne by his jetpack; you're aware of Paz slipping through the hole behind you, but you're not here for them. You're here for your riduur.

'Din,' you gasp, skidding to a halt in front of him.

'Cyar'ika,' he greets, and you hear the gratitude in his voice as he clutches you tightly to his body. 'He's calling for back up. We have to go.'

You turn your head to Paz. 'Vod?'

'Behind you,' he replies.

Bundling Din through the opening in the blast doors, you turn to follow him, but something tells you to glance back. Your heart drops. Paz stands there, his infantry gun ready, and you recognise the determined set of his shoulders with a settling feeling of dread drifting over you; you grab his arm, tugging him backwards, but he's stubborn as always, shaking you off and jerking his head towards the others.

'Go.'

You snarl. 'Not without you, vod.'

'You won't make it unless someone delays them,' he answers, tilting his head up at the sound of more jetpacks. 'They're almost here.'

'Who fucking cares,' you snap. 'I'll stay with you, then. We can hold them off.'

'Din waits for you, vod'ika. Go to him.'

'And leave you? My vod? Nice try.'

'He's my vod too,' he replies, voice level. 'I do this for both of you. Better me than you two, for your kid's sake.'

'And what of Ragnar?' You ask, desperation leaking into your voice.

'Tell him I love him.'

'Vod,' Din calls. 'Get back here, di'kut. What do you think you're doing?'

Suddenly, Paz grabs you, and you yelp in surprise as he physically shoves you through the opening in the blast door and into Din's arms. He stands in front of the hole, blocking it with his legs and body, and you grunt in frustration, knowing that he's won but not ready to let him go; you know he's right, you know he's doing this because he loves you and your riduur, but it still fucking hurts. It still hurts as he begins to fire at the first Stormtroopers coming into land, it still hurts as Bo-Katan begins to usher the other Mandalorians back, it still hurts as your riduur's arms tighten around you, holding you back.

'If you love me, don't let them go,' Paz yells at Din. 'I love you, my vod. I love you, my vod'ika.'

He hurls himself into the midst of the Stormtroopers, and as he does, he takes a bleeding piece of your heart with him. You hear Din's shuddering breath, feel the way his grip strengthens around you, and you swallow thickly, eyes smarting - it's like digging shards of glass into your heart to take your riduur's hand and run, but you do anyway, tears streaking down your face from under your helmet.

His song's been written, you tell yourself. His song has been written.

You find that you're saying it out loud, and maybe Din is saying it along with you, his fingers clenching around your own as the two of you run, away from your vod, a brave man who fights with deadly strength and honour, a loving father who protected his son with his life, and a brother, in spirit if not in blood. Grief blends with the burning hatred in your heart; you curse Gideon for orphaning Ragnar, for taking away your friend and your brother, for spilling yet another Mandalorian's blood.

Once you stop running, you vow with Din that you'll avenge him. His death will not be in vain.

Paz Vizsla's song has been written.

But yours has not.

[elisemscott1122]

List of Mandalorian Armor Color Meanings (Canon and Fan-Made included in this list)

* Black: (Canon)

- (Quest for) Justice

* Famously Worn By:

- Boba Fett

- Tarre Viszla

- Members of Clan Eldar

* Blue: (Canon)

- Reliability

* Famously Worn By:

- Jango Fett (accents)

- Mandalorian Neo Crusaders: common/lower ranks

- Bo-Katan Kryze

- Paz Viszla

- Heavy Infantry

- Nite Owls

- Koska Reeves

- Axe Woves

- Army (lower ranks)

- Popular among Mandalorians

* Yellow: (Fandom based)

- Remembrance

* Famously Worn By:

- Higher ranks of Mandalorians

- Members of Clan Rook

* Gold/Sand: (canon)

- (Quest for) Vengeance

* Famously Worn By:

- Mandalorian Neo Crusaders: Field Marshals

- The Armorer

- Clan Wren

- Ursa Wren

- Tristan Wren

- Boba Fett (pauldron)

- Clan Vevut’s Sigils

* Copper: (fandom based)

- Unknown

* Famously Worn By:

- Unknown

* Gray: (canon)

- Mourning a Lost Love

* Famously Worn By:

- Jango Fett

- Pre Viszla

- Din Djarin (the Mandalorian)

- The Mandalorian Guard

- The Mandalorian Royal Guard

- Boba Fett (jumpsuit)

* Green: (canon)

- Duty

* Famously Worn By:

- Boba Fett (chest plates)

- Popular among Mandalorians

- Members of Clan Eldar

* White:

- A New/Fresh Start (canon)

- Purity (fan based)

* Famously Worn By:

- Imperial Supercommandos

- The Clone Army

* Orange: (canon)

- a Lust for Life

* Famously Worn By:

- Mirta Gev

- Sabine Wren

- Members of Clan Eldar

* Red: (canon)

- Honoring a Parent

- Love

* Famously Worn By:

- Boba Fett (helmet/vanbraces)

- Ghes Orade

- Revan

- The Armorer (accents)

- Maul’s Supercommandos

- Higher ranks of Mandalorians

- Members of Clan Jeban

* Maroon: (fan based)

- Power

* Famously Worn By:

- Boba Fett (helmet/vanbraces)

* Crimson/Scarlet: (canon)

- Defiance

* Famously Worn By:

- Mandalorian Neo Crusaders: Rally Masters (mid commander rank)

* Brown: (fan based)

- Valor

* Famously Worn By:

- Din Djarin (The Mandalorian, early season 1)

* Pink: (fan based)

- Respected or Respecting Someone

* Famously Worn By:

- unknown

* Silver: (fan based)

- Seeking Redemption

* Famously Worn By:

- Din Djarin (the Mandalorian)

- Mandalorian Neo Crusaders: field veterans on the front lines

- Members of Clan Rook

* Custom Painted:

* Famously Worn By:

- Sabine Wren

* Purple: (fan based)

- Luck

* Famously Worn By:

- Sabine Wren

- Members of Clan Rook

[anonymousewrites]

Clan of Three (Book 2) Chapter Sixteen

Father Figure! Mandalorian/Din Djarin x Teen! Reader

Chapter Sixteen: The Separation

Summary: It's been a year, and Mando is still dealing with the separation from his adike.

A year later…

            As Mando walked back to the new location of the covert, he felt a familiar heaviness upon him. Not even the Darksaber’s injury to his leg drowned out the constant feeling of emptiness and being lost. He still felt Grogu and (Y/N)’s absence keenly, and each job he completed felt wrong without (Y/N) eagerly joining the fight beside him or Grogu excitedly waiting for him to return to the Razorcrest and pick him up.

            Mando sighed and focused on his climb down the ladder to the Armorer. There was nothing to do but focus on his work and help the covert rebuild. After all, he couldn’t get Grogu or (Y/N) back. They were with the Jedi, their own kind

            They are your Clan. They are your kind, said a small voice, and Mando quickly stamped it out.

            He nearly collapsed as he approached the Armorer where she knelt overlooking the galaxy and stars spread out around them.

            “Tend to him,” she said calmly, not even having to look back.

            Paz Vizla, the Heavy Infantry Mandalorian, walked over to where Mando sat with a Medkit. “I didn’t know if I would ever see you again.”

            “Thank you for saving me on Nevarro,” said Mando. He knew that although they had their differences, they were both Mandalorians and would support each other. “I am sorry for your sacrifice.”

            “There are three of us now,” said Paz as he sprayed bacta on Mando’s cut leg. “We’ll put you to work soon enough.”

            “What weapon caused such a wound?” questioned the Armorer.

            Mando held out the hilt of the Darksaber he had attempted to use. It didn’t seem to like working with him, if a weapon could have a mind and opinion on who held it. “This.”

            “Paz Viszla, bring it to me,” said the Armorer, still kneeling and facing the galaxy’s constellations.

            Paz took the weapon gently and carried it to the Armorer. She stood calmly and turned to take it and examine it.

            “All this talk of the Empire, and they lasted less than thirty years,” she remarked. “Mandalorians have existed ten thousand.” In one smooth motion, she ignited the Darksaber, and the inky blade extended, blazing with power. “What do you know of this blade?”

            “I am told it is the Darksaber,” said Mando.

            “Indeed,” said the Armorer. “Do you understand its significance?”

            “Whoever wields it can lead all of Mandalore,” said Mando, repeating what Bo-Katan and Gideon had said of the legend.

            “If it was won by Creed in battle,” agreed the Armorer. “It is said, one warrior will defeat twenty, and the multitudes will fall before it. If, however, it is not won in combat and falls into the hands of the undeserving, it will be a curse unto the nation.” She deactivated the blade. “Mandalore will be laid to waste, and its people scattered to the four winds.”

            Mando forced himself to stand as the Armorer approached. “The hilt is a quality of beskar I have never seen before.”

            “It was forged over one thousand years ago by the Mandalore Tarre Viszla. He was both Mandalorian and Jedi,” said the Armorer.

            Mando found himself thinking of (Y/N) suddenly, and a sharp pain in his heart forced him to ignore the thought. “I have met Jedi,” he said.

            “Then you have completed your quest,” said the Armorer.

            “I have,” said Mando, keeping his voice carefully calm and hiding the pain of lacking his children.

            “Then you may join our covert as we rebuild,” said the Armorer.

            “This is the Way,” said Mando.

            “This is the Way,” said Paz.

            “This is the Way,” said the Armorer as she handed back the Darksaber to Mando.

            Paz watched him holster the weapon quietly.

l

            “Where did you come upon the Darksaber?” questioned Paz as he and Mando worked on fixing the Armorer’s furnace.

            “(Y/N) disarmed Moff Gideon so I could defeat him,” said Mando. He would not hide (Y/N)’s help. They had been strong and worked hard. That’s my ad’ika, he thought, and then he immediately regretted it as his heart ached.

            “Did you kill him?” asked Paz.

            “No,” said Mando. “But he was sent off to the New Republic for interrogation, and he will face justice for his crimes.”

            “Death would have been justice for his atrocities,” said Paz.

            “This is true,” said the Armorer, appearing in the room silently. “The blood of millions of our kind is on his hands.”

            “Then he will be executed for his crimes by the New Republic Tribunal,” said Mando.

            “We shall see,” said the Armorer. She pressed a button and nodded in satisfaction as the furnace roared to life. “The songs of eons past foretold of the Mythosaur rising up to herald a new age of Mandalore,” she remarked as she procured her tools. “Sadly, it only exists in legends.”

            The Darksaber suddenly felt heavier on Mando’s belt, and he glanced down, wondering if he’d imagined the sensation.

            “Where did you come upon the beskar spear?” questioned the Armorer, moving on from the spiritual speech as if it had never happened.

            “It was the gift of a Jedi,” said Mando, unstrapping the staff from his back. “It can block a lightsaber. I used it with (Y/N) to defeat Moff Gideon.”

            “It can also pierce beskar armor,” said the Armorer. “Its mere existence puts Mandalorians at risk. Mandalorian steel is meant for armor, not weapons.”

            Mando held out the staff. “Then forge it into something new.”

            The Armorer took it. “The Darksaber is a more noble weapon for you to wield.” She placed the spear partly in the furnace, allow it to begin melting.

            Mando sat and watched it. “Have you ever heard of Bo-Katan Kryze?” he asked.

            “Bo-Katan is a cautionary tale,” said the Armorer. She poured a liquid into the water pot beside her. “She once laid claim to rule Mandalore based purely on blood and the sword you now possess. But it was gifted to her and not won by Creed. Bo-Katan Kryze was born of a mighty house, but they lost sight of the Way. Her rule ended in tragedy. They lost their way, and we lost our world. Had our sect not been cloistered on the moon of Concordia, we would not have survived the Great Purge.

            “Those born of Mandalore strayed away from the path. Eventually, the imperial interlopers destroyed all that we knew and loved in the Night of a Thousand Tears,” said the Armorer. Even with the helmet obscuring her gaze, her solemnity was clear. “Only those that walked the way escaped the curse prophesized in the Creed. Though are numbers were scattered to the winds, our adherence to the way has preserved our legacy for the generations until we may someday return to our homeworld.”

            The Armorer raised the melting staff from the flames, once again changing topics and addressing the issue at hand. “What shall I forge?”

            “Something for foundlings,” said Mando, unable to not think of (Y/N) and Grogu.

            “This is the Way,” said the Armorer.

            “For two specific foundlings,” said Mando. “Grogu and (Y/N).”

            “They are no longer in your care. They are with their own kind now,” said the Armorer.

            “I want to see them, make sure they’re safe,” said Mando. He had stayed away for long enough.

            “In order to master the ways of the Force, Jedi must forego all attachment,” said the Armorer.

            “That is the opposite of our Creed,” said Mando. Would Grogu and (Y/N) forget me that easily? “Loyalty and solidarity are the Way.”

            “What shall I forge for the foundlings Grogu and (Y/N)?” For all her declarations that they were no longer in his care, the Armorer accepted Mando’s regard for the foundlings either way.

            “For Grogu, a bit of armor, to keep him safe,” said Mando. He paused before continuing. “And I request that a single weapon be made.”

            “Oh?” remarked the Armorer.

            Mando removed a small dagger from his belt. It was bent, twisted, unusable, but it was unmistakably Ushti. (Y/N)’s dagger. “If this could be repaired with beskar for the foundling (Y/N), I believe they would wield it well.”

            The Armorer considered for a moment. “Very well.” She held out her hand, and Mando placed the Ushti dagger in her hand. “Would you like the Ushti style of crafting conserved?”

            Mando nodded. “I wish it to be their culture as well as ours.”

            The Armorer nodded. “This is the Way.”

            And she went to work. Mando watched in patient silence as the Armorer smelted the chainmail and dagger for Grogu and (Y/N). She even tied cloth around the two gifts and handed them to Mando for the foundlings. Mando nodded in thanks.

            “Now, you must learn to wield the Darksaber,” said the Armorer, turning away and heading towards a training room.

            There was no room for argument, and Mando followed.

            They faced each other, and the Armorer used her smelting tools, pure beskar, to attack. Ordering his movements, she moved Mando through the proper form of using a blade such as the Darksaber, the Mandalorian usually accustomed to short blades or blasters.

            “Solus. T’ad. Ehn. Solus. T’ad. Ehn. Solus. T’ad. Ehn. Cuir.” Each hit forced Mando further back, and he grunted with the effort of keeping the blade under control. “T’ad. Ehn. Cuir.”

            Mando furiously tried to attack with the blade, and he fell over the side of the platform. His jetpacked back up, but he was panted as he held the Darksaber. It was pulling towards the floor.

            “You are fighting against the blade,” said the Armorer.

            “It fights against me,” remarked Mando. “It gets heavier with each move.”

            The Armorer was silent as she observed it. Mando seemed to be attempting to work with the blade, and although he had defeated Gideon, the Darksaber seemed to reject every movement he wielded it with.

            “Fight your opponent. Stand up,” said the Armorer. Perhaps more drills bringing the two together would help. “Solus.” Mando grunted and swung the blade. “T’ad. Ehn. There. Feel it. Do not fight the Darksaber. It will win if you fight against it.” Still, she easily won the struggle, and Mando was forced to his knees by the weight of the blade in his hands. “You cannot control it with your strength.”

            “I want to try again,” said Mando.

            “Persistence without insight will lead to the same outcome,” said the Armorer. “Your body is strong, but your mind is distracted.” That was the conclusion the Armorer had come to.

            “I am focused,” said Mando, but his claim held little weight.

            “The blade says otherwise,” said the Armorer.

            “Maybe the Darksaber belongs in someone else’s hands,” said Paz, appearing on the platform behind them.

            Mando stared Paz down. “Maybe.”

            “It was forged by my ancestor, founder of House Vizsla,” said Paz.

            “And now it belongs to me,” said Mando.

            “Because you won it in combat,” said Paz.

            “That’s right,” said Mando.

            “And now I will win it from you,” said Paz.

            The Darksaber thrummed in Mando’s palm, and he was struck by the impression it seemed to be ridiculing Paz’s assumption that he could win it.

            “Do you agree to this duel, Din Djarin?” questioned the Armorer.

            “I do,” said Mando.

            The Armorer walked off the platform to leave the way clear for Paz and Mando. In accordance with duel protocol, both Paz and Mando removed their jetpacks while keeping a keen eye on the other.

            Mando ignited the Darksaber. Paz brought out his vibro-blade and a small energy shield on his arm. They advanced on each other and attacked. Paz blocked an attack from Mando and returned it with his vibro-blade. The vibration slightly stunned him, but Mando pushed back and managed to break the shield Paz had on his gauntlet. The pair traded blows and ended up grappling around the Darksaber. Mando pushed Paz back, and they fought over the blade until Mando pushed Paz to his knees. Paz pushed back up, headbutted Mando, and threw him down to another platform where he and the Darksaber landed.

            Paz jumped down before Mando could get up. He grabbed the Darksaber as Mando tried to stand up. “Fate has brought this blade back to my clan, and now fate will end yours.”

            He swung the blade at Mando, but it was clumsy as the saber resisted his direction, and Mando rolled out of the way. Mando jabbed Paz in the side to create an opening to get out. He was quick to draw a knife and slash Paz in the leg and arm. As Paz lifted the weighty blade and struck down, Mando ducked around him and held the knife to his throat.

            “It is done,” declared the Armorer. She would not have either Mandalorian killing the other. “Paz Viszla, have you ever removed your helmet?

            “No,” said Paz.

            “Has it ever been removed by others?” questioned the Armorer, continuing the formalities.

            “Never,” said Paz.

            “This is the Way,” said the Armorer.

            “This is the Way,” responded Paz.

            “Din Djarin, have you ever removed your helmet?” questioned the Armorer.

            Silence as Mando wrestled with the truth that he had sacrificed everything in order to find his foundlings and protect them.

            “Have you ever removed your helmet?” repeated the Armorer.

            Still silence. Mando had done what he had to. He had protected his kids. But he had also broken the Creed.

            “By Creed, you must vow,” said the Armorer.

            Mando stood, removing the knife from Paz’s throat. “I have,” he admitted, his voice without its usual calm and strength.

            “Then, you are a Mandalorian no more,” said the Armorer.

            “I beg you for your forgiveness. How can I atone?” asked Mando. He had lost his children. He couldn’t lose his covert and his people.

            “Leave, apostate,” spat Paz.

            “According to the Creed, one may only be redeemed in the living waters beneath the mines of Mandalore,” said the Armorer.

            “But the mines have all been destroyed,” said Mando, his heart sinking.

            “This is the Way.” There would be no more words from the Armorer on the subject.

            Mando solemnly picked up the Darksaber and walked across the platforms to the exit. He strapped his jetpack onto his back once more, walking past the Armorer in silence. He had to redeem himself.

            And first, he needed a ship, so it was time to take a trip to Tatooine.

l

            Mando shouldn’t have underestimated Peli’s ability to put together a new ship out of old N-1 starfighter pieces. It was sleek and silver, but Mando’s heart ached as he saw that two seats and a little glass domed seat instead of a place for a droid were sat in it. Those were places for Grogu, (Y/N), and him. But Mando was alone.

            Still, at least the test flight distracted him as he adapted to the new ship, and he had a new quest, this time to redeem himself. Hopefully, giving the gifts to his foundlings and then having a new quest would give him the closure he needed.

            “Whoo!” cheered Peli as Mando arrived back. “Well? How was it?”

            “Wizard,” said Mando, throwing her words back at her.

            She chuckled. “Those J-type pulse engines really tighten the old evacuation port, don’t they? Oh, by the way, an old friend of yours dropped by, said she was looking for you.”

            “A friend of mine?” Seems like trouble, thought Mando.

            “Don’t worry. I told her I didn’t know where you were,” said Peli. She knew the drill. “Then I locked her out and engaged the hangar security system.”

            “She tell you her name?” asked Mando.

            “Fennec Shand,” said a new voice.

            Peli shrieked in surprise, and Mando reached for his blaster until processing the name. Fennec sat on a beam above them all. Peli glared at her droids.

            “I thought you said that the hangar security system was on,” she reprimanded. “Don’t get away from me. You come right back here. This is the third mistake this week. Someone’s getting deprogrammed.”

            Fennec smirked in amusement as she jumped down to the hangar floor. “By any chance, are you looking for work?”

            “I could be,” said Mando. Until he figured out where the living waters were on Mandalore and whether he could even get to them, he would need some credits, and he didn’t have the Mandalorian covert for now, if ever again.

            “The pay is good,” said Fennec, smiling and tossing over a back of credits.

            “What’s the bounty?” asked Mando.

            “No bounty. We need muscle,” said Fennec.

            “Boba Fett,” said Mando.

            Fennec nodded. “He sure would appreciate it.”

            Mando tossed back the payment. “Tell him it’s on the house. But first, I have to pay a visit to some friends.”

            Fennec arched a brow before nodding in understanding. “Say hello to your ‘foundlings.’ They showed promise once. I hope the Jedi haven’t made them soft.”

            I don’t think anyone could make (Y/N) soft, thought Mando. Still, his heart felt a bit lighter, albeit with a bit of trepidation at seeing his kids for the first time in a year (if he could still call them his kids. Perhaps they had moved on…) Mando steeled himself. It was time to visit them. He had waited long enough.

Taglist:

@im-making-an-effort

@gr33n-d00dles

@alexpangender

@painstakingly-juno

@treehouse-mouse

@theurbannoodle

@pedropascalsidechick

@dmitrytherat

@dilfsaremyfavourite

[alienbeeusa]

Added the Heavy Infantry Mandalorian, from The Mandalorian, to my Star Wars collection. This is another one of the figs I picked up on Star Wars Day in May.

Happy to finally add this big guy to my collection and I’m still gonna pick up the Paz Vizsla version too. It’s pretty much the same fig with different names on the packaging. Maybe I’ll get the carbonized one?

[sytortuga]

Deafening silence (Chapter 2/3)

General summary: Pre-canon. Din goes to the Wild Space on a mission to capture a Kaleesh bounty. He knew it wasn't going to be easy, but he didn't expect the mission to have permanent consequences on his life.

Warnings: poisoning, general violence, animal attack, animal injury, depictions of sickness, vomiting, hallucinations, permanent nerve damage, permanent consequences on way of life. Some warnings are omitted to avoid spoilers. Proceed with care if any of the above are triggering subjects.

Author's notes: Here's chapter 2 for this fic that was intended as a contribution to @ailesswhumptober. As I already mentioned for chapter 1, this work wouldn't have never happened without @itzagoodthing. Check out the work of this talented writer if you haven't already! 🤩

You may read this chapter in AO3 if you prefer.

Chapter 2/3: The confrontation.

Chapter summary:  Din makes it back to the covert. He confines himself to his alcove to try and ride out the effects of inhaling the Divvik's gas. Some misunderstandings won't make things easier with the process.This will take him on to revive some painful moments of his life.

Since the elders had determined that they should only leave the Tribe one at a time, training the foundlings had become one of Paz Vizsla's favorite tasks. Daily, he would gather a group of younglings for lessons. Some had sworn the Creed and wore their helmets, while others didn't, be it for age or lack of fighting skills. But that didn't make any difference. They were all motivated to learn, to grow and become Mandalorians, and that was all Paz needed to know from them. It didn't matter where they came from. They were all destined to become fierce warriors, loyal members of the Tribe.

That morning he was making the children work on close combat and he was teaching on the use of the shield and vibroblade. 

"When you're deep in the fight, it will occur that you'll need to rely on close range combat skills. In these situations, more than ever, using body, mind and heart, in synchrony and balance, becomes essential. What I mean is that in close combat, physical condition is of essence. But if not used with concentration, dedication, and strict discipline, a fighter cannot be expected to win." 

Paz watched another foundling join the group as he talked. Without giving it more relevance, he continued. "In the same manner, an intelligent and patient warrior will not succeed without strength and speed. Melee weapons should be on you at all times, regardless of your weapon of choice. It will save your life more times than you'll imagine. Now, when dealing with close range combat, one thing you should always… " 

Paz interrupted his speech when the foundling who had entered the training room last, was whispering something to other foundlings. Annoyed, and before he could react, another tribe member came into the room and approached Paz.

"Paz," the other Mandalorian whispered in the infantryman's ear. "It's the beroya. He just came back but he's returned empty handed. No rewards and none of the supplies were required. Everyone is talking about it," he continued. "Walked down the main corridor, swaying and bumped into me. He seemed drunk, if you ask me. He didn't even bother answering when I asked if he needed any help. Without any word, he just disappeared down the tunnels, towards his quarters."

Lost in his thoughts, the heavy infantry Mandalorian fixed his gaze downwards, pondering on his brother's words.

"You know Djarin best, Paz. I thought you should know."

"Stay with the foundlings," Paz said. "I'll go check on him."

With this, the infantryman took his leave, determined to understand what was going on. He navigated the maze of tunnels towards the hunter's alcove, finding other vode whispering among them. That behavior didn't sound like Djarin. He also knew him well enough to know that he would have never come back to the covert empty handed.

Arriving at the hunter's appointed quarters, Paz found the curtain separating the alcove from the corridor was drawn closed, indicating, as it was customary, that someone was inside.

"Beroya, are you in there?"

Paz got no response. Knowing that Din must be inside, he hollored,"Hey, Djarin!" 

Again, no response, and Paz felt himself quickly losing patience. After waiting what he considered enough time for Din to put on his helmet and come out, he pulled open the alcove's curtain. Paz found Din laying on his cot, immobile.

"At least he's spared me the drama of finding him helmetless,'' he murmured to himself as he stepped into the alcove. The fact that Din hadn't even noticed that he had stepped into the small room had Paz suddenly worried. He looked around and didn't see anything out of the ordinary. He didn't see any obvious injuries on the man, no apparent blood or damage to his armor. He then shoved the Mandalorian's feet off the bed. He had clearly caught Din by complete surprise, as the man jumped awake.

"What the hell, runt?” Paz balked. “What's up with you?"

Just slightly raised from the bed, laying on his right side, Din looked at him in silence. 

"Everyone is talking about your entrance back there. Care to explain what is going on?"

Din seemed completely oblivious to what Paz was saying. 

"Least you can do is answer when you're being talked to!" said Paz. "Come on," he continued, gesturing for him to get up. 

The way Din continued to lay there, not making an effort to get to his feet made Paz snap. 

"Get up!" Paz  finally said as he grabbed the smaller Mandalorian by the collar of his flight suit, forcing him to stand up. 

"So, are you going to tell me what happened?" Paz noticed the other man could hardly keep his balance. 

"Speak, di'kut!" said Paz, giving Din's shoulder a shove.

To Paz's surprise, that soft move of aggression had Din swaying. Instinctively, he grabbed Din by his left arm to prevent him from falling. He then noticed how Din's left arm was floppy under his grip, and was solely relying on his right leg to keep himself upright.

"Are you injured, Beroya?" Paz said, now getting worried again that there was indeed something wrong with his brother. The large Mandalorian bent, aiming to find Din's gaze through the visor.

Din jerked away from Paz and had just enough time to turn around. Clumsily falling on his knees against the far end of his alcove, he lifted his helmet enough to empty the contents of his stomach. 

"Is it possible?" Paz asked,  incredulous. "Would you spend credits to get yourself drunk and then have the courage to come back to us empty handed?"

Watching Din continue to retch, Paz no longer expected an answer from the other Mandalorian.

"I understand your mentor's death is still recent, and I know how important he was to you, how much he helped you since your cabur marched away.” Paz continued. “But you need to get back on your feet. Deep inside you must know it wasn't your fault."

Pausing, Paz looked down at his brother. “Look, I get it. I can only imagine the pressure you must be under. Having been appointed Beroya, especially e these trying times, it must be challenging. Honestly I'm not sure I'd be able to do what you do. The pressure to provide, spending all that time alone in space, away from the Tribe. But there used to be a time where we would confide in each other. You needn't be alone.” 

The other Mandalorian gave still no sign of acknowledging him, and Paz said, "You know I can help, just like when you were brought to us."

Still silent, Din panted as he remained on his knees with his back turned to Paz. 

"I don't know you anymore, Djarin. What made you become… this?" Paz continued, but the sight before him just ended up mading Paz burst out in anger.

"DANK FERRICK, DJARIN! JUST SAY SOMETHING!"

Din remained silent and looked like he was  trying to look around while  slowly getting back to his feet. 

"Fine. You want to be alone? Then be alone." Frustrated, Paz kicked him in the side, sending him clattering into the wall of the alcove before falling back to the ground, unconscious. Paz took a moment to look at Din, laying ungracefully next to a pool of his own vomit, passed out from inebriation. 

Disgusted, he stormed out.

— 

Din woke up to someone shoving his feet off his bed. Cracking his eyes open, he looked up to see a blurry blue-clad Mandalorian. He didn’t need to see any more to know it was his old training instructor, Olis, at the Fighting Corps, standing there looking down on him. Din felt confused. Olis had died five years before. His foggy mind couldn’t work out what was going on, but he couldn’t deny that the instructor was standing next to his cot. And he knew what that meant. Training time. Din felt so tired, he didn't think he could get up. But he knew he needed to get on his feet. 

Midnight training sessions were common within the Fighting Corps. They were used to condition warriors to operate with little rest, and taught to stay alert whenever they could afford resting during a mission. He needed to train his body to make small tactical naps whenever possible, despite the conditions. 

It was essential to stay alive in the process while avoiding going beyond that threshold where body and mind would no longer properly function. He already knew by experience that weakness and hallucinations would set in when he didn’t get enough sleep, endangering not only himself but his brothers and sisters on the mission. But today he felt so tired. It wasn't the first time. At 12 years of age, it wasn't the first time he thought to himself that he couldn't possibly get up, and used the momentum of his feet being shoved off the bed to lean on his right side, a significant step forward in reaching verticality. But everything changed when Olis made him stand up by grabbing him by his suit's collar. 

Even though his feet were on the ground, Din felt himself sway. His heart skipped a beat when he realized the effort it took him to not fall. There was something wrong with him. He was exhausted, yes. His muscles ached and he couldn't find the strength to keep his eyes open. All that he was used to, it wasn't anything he hadn't experienced before. But not being capable of properly standing was not normal, and that worried him. 

Din looked back at the blue Mandalorian trying to find some answers. Could this be part of the training? Had he been drugged? But all he could gather was the aggressiveness in his teacher's posture, body language telling him he wasn't happy. But why wasn't he saying anything? 

Unexpectedly, Olis shoved Din's shoulder. The small action made Din’s head turn. Suddenly feeling nauseous, he barely had time to turn around. Falling on his knees, he lifted up his helmet and spilled the contents of his stomach on the floor. With his heart suddenly pounding faster, Din started to get nervous. He couldn't understand what was happening. He had never felt like this during sleep deprivation training. He was exhausted, yes. Nauseous? Occasionally, when he trained or worked past  rest threshold. But never to the point of losing his food. Was he sick? 

He lowered his helmet back in place and tried to make out his surroundings. Alarmed, he realized he wasn't in the apprentices' quarters anymore. He was in his own private quarters. He knew that, but he also knew apprentices didn't have private alcoves. A sensation of panic started to overwhelm him. Confused, he looked up to find Olis gone. Similar blue armor, but this was a much wider man. 

Paz. 

He was towering over him. He wanted so desperately to ask Paz for help. He had always been one to help Din through training, but their relationship had degraded during the last few years. He knew Paz disapproved of some of his merc jobs and the team he had joined, but he knew the heavy infantry Mandalorian would not deny him help should he ask for it. Trying to get in control of his emotions, he took a couple of deep breaths and tried standing. But before he could get very far, he felt himself hit the wall and Din's world went black.

—

Din woke up to his head pounding. Incapable of finding the strength to open his eyes, he tried to listen to his surroundings, trying to figure out where he was. But the strong ringing in his ears made it impossible. The explosions that detonated around him as he ran with his parents across their hometown, still made his ears hurt.  He just laid there, on his side, on the ground. He felt the cold surface taking the little body heat that he seemed to have left. 

For an unknown time that’s all he could do. He could feel the pounding of footsteps, reverberating on the ground. Strong footsteps. The battle droids had killed most of the people he had ever known. Probably also his parents, and now they were coming to finish him as well. He pressed his eyes closed even harder, waiting for the droids to open the hatch to the bunker his parents had hidden him in. He knew a droid eventually found him, but the droid never came.

Eyes still tightly shut, he continued feeling the vibrations of footsteps on the ground. But these were now lighter, and more numerous. He knew where he was. That small vent line in the covert he liked to hide in when emotions became overwhelming. Like now. Losing his cabur had become a traumatic time for him. Anger filled his heart. Anger against whomever or whatever had decided he deserved to lose his parents and his rescuer shortly after. There was no possible way he could forgive this, and even though he knew it was nobody's fault, he felt ok hating everybody for it. 

He felt the footsteps of the other Mandalorians looking for him. But he knew that only his cabur would be able to find him, just like he found him in that bunker. But his cabur wasn't there any more. And he knew he would be safe to process his emotions in privacy. He just wanted to be alone.

More time passed and eventually he managed to open his eyes. He was indeed laying on the ground of what he could tell was his sleeping quarters at the covert. He was alone, that much he could tell. He tried getting up, but he couldn’t make his arms or legs move, making him panic. The strong steps he could feel pounding on the ground must be those of his brothers and sisters. He tried speaking, calling out for help. Being in the covert, surely someone should be able to hear him. But that seemed to be harder than he thought. No sound came out of his mouth, although he couldn't be sure it was just that he didn’t hear it with the strong ringing in his ears.

A feeling of loneliness invaded him. He rarely felt lonely while in the Razor Crest, among the stars, crossing the galaxy over and over hunting for the most profitable bounties to provide for his tribe. But there, laying in his quarters, probably not far from many of the Mandalorians he provided for, he felt lonely. Lonely and scared. Scared that whatever had happened to him would be his end. 

—

Din didn't recall having closed his eyes but the difficulty in breathing woke him up. The paralysis was probably now spreading and making it harder to breathe. No, that wasn't it. Because he looked down on himself to realize he was pinned down by an enormous slab of concrete wall laying on his chest. He felt himself starting to hyperventilate, making the task of breathing more difficult. In desperation to find help, he looked around, but found only destruction: Buildings reduced to ruins, some of them on fire. Smoke invaded the air around him, not making it any easier for him to draw a breath. Bodies, Mandalorian and Imperial alike, were scattered for as far as he could see. 

He closed his eyes, trying hard to control his breathing. His chest felt like it was being crushed under his armor, but he concentrated on decreasing his ventilation rate and getting more meaningful breaths. He knew he would quickly pass out if he didn't. He was startled to see someone running between the ruins, screaming his name. But it was so hard to breathe, his vision started slowly to fade. He put all his strength in getting air in his lungs. A large blue blurr was moving towards him. When they finally became closer, Din realized who it was.

"Din! Thank the Manda I found you," he heard a younger Paz say.

The relief of seeing his brother broke all the progress Din had made at keeping his breathing under control. He felt overwhelmed by the emotions.

"Hey, Din. Hey! Look at me," he heard the big Mandalorian say as he grabbed Din's helmet to make him look at him.

But all Din could think about was how he couldn't breathe. He was trying hard, he was desperate to fill his lungs with air, but it was getting increasingly difficult. Prey to his fears, his breathing was now just a very superficial panting. 

"DJARIN! Slow down, vod. I'm with you. You're not alone," Paz reassured him. "I'm going to get you out of there ok? But you need to calm down. Controlled breaths. In and out."

Din once more closed his eyes and focused on Paz's words: "In … and out…, in… and out…" he heard. "That's it, brother. Good job."

Paz disappeared from his line of view only to quickly return. "I'm going to try and move the slab. You think you can get out of there on your own if I lift it enough?"

Din couldn't be sure, he barely felt anything below the point where the concrete pinned him to the ground. He looked around as if expecting someone else to come and help.

"There's nobody left, vod." Paz explained, reading Din's mind. "The last evac transport left the moon a while ago."

"You stayed…"

"I've known you since you arrived at the covert, Djarin. I know you're hard to kill," the infantryman chuckled. "I was not ready to leave you alone and dying in this karkin' mess."

Tears welled up in Din's eyes, but Paz didn't give him a chance to dwell on the emotion, asking, "So, ready?" 

They both knew that if they wanted to make it out alive, he'd need to get out by himself. The big blue Mandalorian got up, and without any further comment, he took his blaster cannon and prepared to use it as a lever to move the concrete slab.

"Din, are you ready?" 

As Din nodded, Paz put all his strength at lifting the slab. Din grunted in pain as he felt the pressure in his chest slowly decrease. Feeling he was nearly free, he started pushing with his elbows to crawl from under the concrete block. He had barely moved some centimeters when the cannon lost grip, making the weight fall violently back on Din's chest. He didn't have the time to scream with pain before this world went black.

Din woke to the smell of smoke and burnt skin. Paz was using the force of his jetpack to lift up the concrete wall that was pinning him to the ground. Out of sheer stubbornness and blunt force, his brother managed to displace the slab, setting him free. The fire from the jetpack's exhaust filled Din's lungs with smoke, not helping him with the difficult task of breathing. The fire also caught his flightsuit, reaching and burning the skin of his chest. The pure agony made him scream. 

—-

When he next opened his eyes, he was expecting to see Paz, looking triumphantly down on him before he helped him get to safety, out of the Purge's battlefield. At least, he knew that was how it actually happened. But no, he was alone. Very far from Concordia. On Nevarro, laying on the ground of what his covert had determined to be his alcove. He could barely move anymore, the paralysis fully set. He was barely capable of looking down on himself to see his beskar chestplate slightly smoking. The AED system integrated in his armor had activated, and that would only happen should the biomonitors indicate the absence of a sinus rhythm. His heart had stopped. But he had no more energy to fight whatever he had inhaled back at Nirauan. Breathing was already difficult enough. 

Feeling cold and lonely, he gave in and prepared to join the Manda, or whatever, if any, karking thing there was after this life.

[the-kittylorian-writes]

"Only One Creed"

Rating: General Audiences

Type: One-shot

Word Count: 1k+

Summary:

Ragnar has just sworn the Creed, and yet the boy still has so many questions. On the night Din and Grogu have flown off-world, Ragnar seeks Paz for answers.

or: Paz struggles to make every shot at fatherhood count

Another “missing scene” from s03ep01. Potential spoilers.

Read first part but can be stand-alone on AO3 or Tumblr.

Read on AO3 or here:

"Only One Creed"

Ragnar found the Mandalorian clad from head to toe in blue and gold-yellow armor hunched over his blaster canon. 

Paz Vizsla. That was the Mandalorian’s name. He had a position—their heavy infantry gunner. Many times, Ragnar had noted the many blaster bolt dents over Paz’s armor. He was their most powerful, most reliable source of firepower. The other kids told him so. In battle, they’d said, the enemy would try to take Paz down first. Without their ruthless heavy gunner, they had no cover. They’d be defenseless.

But Paz also had another title… but somehow it’s slipped Ragnar’s own world of thinking. The other kids told him that Paz was something like a prince, but those days had long gone. In that vein, Ragnar stopped pursuing that lone trail of breadcrumbs.

This Mandalorian had taken him in. Now Ragnar had come of age and he’d just sworn the Creed that very morning. His coming-of-age ceremony may have been a little too eventful, and he’d hoped it wasn’t an omen portending bleaker times… but no. In this moment, Ragnar had only one thing in his mind as he beheld this towering warrior, almost larger than life: he had a father. 

“Dad,” called Ragnar. He respectfully stood a small distance away from the blue-clad warrior.

Paz’s visor gleamed in the warm light of the cave as it turned to him. 

Ragnar could see the pieces of Paz’s blaster canon cast on a low table in painstakingly neat order. His father had been cleaning his weapons again. Paz would do that ever so faithfully, like clockwork. Sometimes Ragnar would wake up with Paz maintaining his amor; at night, it was cleaning every weapon strapped on his person. They were like prayers every morning and every night.

Weapons are part of our religion, Paz taught him. Ragnar’s heart was full of wonder.

Paz made no sound; only a motion of his helm for the boy to approach him. 

Ragnar’s heart bloomed. This gesture had become so familiar to him. Paz would sometimes speak to him with expressive body language and Ragnar would catch Paz’s meaning right away.

Ragnar eagerly stepped closer.

Paz, however, continued with his reverent work. It would be Ragnar’s initiative to begin conversation. 

“Who were they?” Ragnar abruptly asked. “The—Mandalorian in silver. And that green baby…”

“The baby is his son,” Paz replied to him quickly, his voice a low, gentle growl through the vocoder. “As for the other… we do not speak of him.”

Ragnar clenched a fist and bit his lip underneath his newly forged helm. He was still getting used to the novelty of it all. His first day as a sworn member of the Tribe… he should be content. But the questions just kept racing over and over in the boy’s head. Over and over until he had to fall silent and sit still just to wrangle all these jumbled, noisy thoughts.

“Dad,” Ragnar ventured, too boldly. “I would like to speak of him, with your permission.” As an afterthought, the boy immediately concluded with a, “Please.”

Paz halted his work. The hulking Mandalorian seemed pensive for a moment. Ragnar could see his father’s chest rising and falling with a bit of effort. Paz’s breaths through the modulator were measured; they sounded a little pained.

“Very well.”

Paz’s full attention was on Ragnar. The child couldn’t believe his luck. His father gestured to sit beside him on a low bench before his work table. 

What happened next was surreal. It was a rapid fire back-and-forth, everything succinct and boxed in.

Ragnar began. 

“Who is the silver Mandalorian?”

“He used to be our Covert’s Provider,” said Paz, voice gruff and contained.

“Why do you outcast him?”

“He’d broken the Creed.”

A small distressed gasp fell from Ragnar’s lips. His limbs suddenly felt cold. 

So there were those who had indeed broken the Creed. Ragnar had witnessed how his father treated the silver-clad Mandalorian coldly, at an arm’s length, so noncommittally. The other Tribe members avoided him as well, never meeting his gaze or treading too close to where his footsteps marked the sand.

“Will you outcast him forever?” Ragnar heard the cold fear in his own voice.

“Yes, if he doesn’t atone,” replied Paz. “He would need to atone, and we will welcome him and his son back to our Covert.”

Ragnar couldn’t bear it. He wasn’t deaf or stupid. 

(Perhaps he was reckless. Paz had given him a stern earful about freezing on his feet on harm’s way when the warrior had trained him to stay alert and work on his reflexes. The boy’s cheek still smarted from where Paz’s elbow guard had knocked him clear off the range of the monster’s jaws.)

His father seemed hurting, deep inside. Ragnar knew. He just knew. 

The child would dearly like to believe that Paz had his own special way of communicating with him. A parent and child usually formed a hidden language only known to both. No one else could ever decipher it. When Ragnar closed his eyes and he listened to Paz’s voice during the times his father would lecture him, teach him of the Way of the Mandalore, he noted the inflections, the curls, the dips and strains and peaks. Paz’s voice was full and rich and regal. Maybe the kids were right: he was a prince, after all.

This time, however, Paz’s voice sounded fractured, wounded.

Ragnar hadn’t seen his father’s face yet. He would, someday, when Ragnar had further completed training. He would earn the right to see Paz Vizsla’s face. This sacred uncovering was permissible between and restricted to close clan members.

Now, it was just his voice. Yet Ragnar had to press on despite the hurt. The questions would just keep cornering him until bottling up would certainly backfire on him. 

“Dad,” Ragnar went on. “Do you still care for the silver Mandalorian? Does he have a name?”

Paz was silent; even as the cave echoed with ambient noises, Paz’s reticence added an oppressing weight to it all. Time stretched and wore thin.

Ragnar was pushing his luck. The child bowed his helmeted head. 

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Ragnar choked the words out. “I—thank you for accommodating me. I’ll go now. I’ll help the others with the evening meal.”

The boy was about to get up from where he sat, from the place beside Paz under the comforting canopy of his father’s shadow.

“Ragnar,” Paz suddenly called.

The boy stopped in mid-motion. Facing the hulking warrior, Ragnar patiently waited for Paz to speak again.

Ragnar didn’t see his father’s huge, gloved hands move at first. It was so faint—gentle and reassuring and firm, as Paz reached out to grasp Ragnar’s much tinier gloved hand.

Paz gave it a squeeze.

“It’s not my place to tell you his name,” relayed the large Mandalorian at last. Ragnar then caught it—the dip of his father’s voice that meant that he was contrite, and even respectful. “But… do I still care for him?”

Paz’s beefy hand gave Ragnar’s little one another squeeze. This time, the pressure on Ragnar’s hand lingered. It was gentle yet held the weight of a million words, perhaps even a lifetime’s worth.

A childhood’s worth.

When Paz spoke no further, Ragnar thought that his curiosity just needed to stop. At least, for now. 

Ragnar had taken his free hand—his young boy’s hand whose grip that would still infinitely improve, a grip which would hold many years’ worth of weaponry as he grew older—to cup Paz’s massive hand which had been over his other one.

Paz’s visor moved to look into Ragnar’s own. 

“It’s okay, Dad,” Ragnar whispered at length, the modulator scarcely registering his voice. “I’m done with my questions. I’m grateful for your time.”

For Ragnar, they sounded a little perfunctory. His politeness and his detached manner of interaction which oftentimes felt ritualistic had grown into him. He saw how others spoke and moved. He’d need to do the same.

However, in this instant, the boy meant it. He fully meant it.

Paz let out a long sigh that carried the worries of long, arduous years. 

“If you want,” interjected Paz, lending the air around them with the earnest warmth of his deep voice, “we can start reviewing your Mando’a tonight, ad’ika. Would you like that?”

Ragnar’s head shot up. Paz’s offer had caught him off-guard. Usually, his father would indeed send him off to help others of the Covert until it was time for bed, while Paz finished the work on oiling up his munitions. 

“Yes, Dad,” said Ragnar, almost greedily. He was too elated over every minute he managed to spend with this Mandalorian who could be a prince, but now was simply his father. “I’d like that very much.”

Ragnar didn’t care if Paz’s voice wavered from time to time. He didn’t care for the lapses in discussion as his father paused in thought. There would still be the pained air around him. Ragnar thought of the Creed, and how breaking it would completely shatter his father’s heart. 

Right now, Ragnar cared only for one Creed. It was in his father’s voice and unspoken words and the small gestures only Ragnar can understand. Ragnar had seen it on the silver-clad Mandalorian too, as he spoke with his small green son.

There was only one Creed for a child, when his father’s love was the entire universe to him.

*****

A/N: Tmw Paz starts to feel a little bit (just a little bit) guilty about treating Din the way he did. I have my 5ever headcanon that Paz and Din may have grown up together in the Fighting Corps. While Ragnar being Paz's foundling (or even bio son, who knows?) is all still speculation at this point (check date ^^), I'm one of those wondering if Paz caring for a foundling would change his perspective about Din's own dedication to Grogu. B'aaawwww. (or... as Vizslas go, this might not go too well but I'll just be expecting the best. *tears*)

BTW I'm getting invested in this possible father-son connection lol I'm already two fics down. Halp

Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed. <3

[frogblast-the-ventcore]

Bongoverse AU Bounty Hunters & Jedi OCs

A collection of OC bounty hunters & Jedi I plan on featuring in the Bongoverse fic.

In no particular order:

Arya Rook: Shistavanen Mandalorian bounty hunter, also a Jedi Knight who used be a Padawan of the Old Order.

Jiva Desh: Thakwaash heavy weapons specialist bounty hunter, married to Athiya Desh, 2.75 meters tall. A walking armory, goes out on the job energy shields-only. Muscular semi-cyborg full of fun & sexual confidence. Space Insta celeb (streams while on the job), slightly airheaded.

Athiya Desh: Talortai melee specialist bounty hunter. 2.03 meters tall Murder Birb. Dual-wields vibrosword . Married to Jiva, extremely High Class, 100% of Jiva's impulse control, definitely Force-sensitive but Does Not Use It due to Talortai cultural traditions.

Had-A-Name-For-Him-But-I-Can't-Find-It: male Ssi-ruu ex-bounty hunter/current GFFA SPECTR (SPecial Counter-Terrorism & Reconnaissance), basically Commander Shepard as a dino-man, related to Admiral Ivpikkis from Truce at Bakura.

Rip Tamson: male Karkarodon knife nut bounty hunter/eventual Jedi Knight; related to Riff Tamson from the Clone Wars (hates being confused for him). Has a tail because I headcanon Karkarodons have them (they look better that way).

Epona Delwesh: female Thakwaash ex-hunter turned Jedi Knight, user of a lightclub.

Iosunko'vu Kass/Iosun Kass: Mandalorian Rutian Twi'lek bounty hunter. Giant blue beef brick wearing heavy infantry armor. Married to Kuryai, sometimes does Organized Crime Things. Favors ballistic weapons over lasers for 9/10 applications. Adopted like 6 Jedi Padawans that got lost once. He is their buir now. Mess with them, you die.

Kuryai Sudaex: Sith Pureblood ex-Jedi from an entire family of Purebloods who were all Jedi themselves. Kuryai himself is not good with a lightsaber or the Force. In response, he set himself up as a minor crime lord legitimate businessman on Coruscant. Also a giant beef brick, just red flavored. Sharp-dressed man with a space Tommy Gun. Slightly less thrilled about having 6 Jedi kids, at least at the start. Eventually is also firmly in the "mess with my adopted kids, you die" mode.

[callejondelinfierno]

Funko Pop! Star Wars: The Mandalorian - Big Tom - Heavy Infantry Mandalorian - Figura de Vinilo Coleccionable - Idea de Regalo- Mercancia Oficial - Juguetes para Niños y Adultos - TV Fans

Precio: (as of – Detalles) Funko Valoración media de los compradores: 5/5 Estrellas De la marca Compra nuevos lanzamientos ¡Descubre Bitty Pop! Versiones pequeñas de tus Pops! favoritos ¡Descubre Bitty Pop! Descubre Loungefly Mochilas, carteras, ropa y accesorios con licencias oficiales y temáticas de la cultura pop Descubre Loungefly Descubre nuestra línea de ropa Descubre nuestra línea de…

[erikacousland]

Finally, I added these to my minifigures collection:

WM6174 Ahsoka Season 1

I've wanted to buy this set for a long time (since I knew it existed), but my favorite store hasn't been stocking it, and I contacted them recently, it seems they have no plan to stock it at all. Maybe they believe G0161 would be more appealing to the fans. But I'm here for Morgan.

WM6121 The Mandalorian Season 2

Actually, I already had half of this set before this shopping. And I have at least three of Din, the plated armour is so detailed and true to the original! But I never seen full set of them in any store (Have no idea why people love that Scout Trooper so much.), untill I find the one when I looking for WM6174. So I bought them all.

WM975 Heavy Infantry Mandalorian (Paz Vizsla)

My favorite non-LEGO Mandalorian minifigure. I had one, now I have three, happy about it.

***

I want to buy this set, but lack of enthusiasm:

G0161 Ahsoka Season 1

Thrawn looks so miserable. But the zombie Night Troopers good enough for me. Also Baylan and Shin have better hair pieces than WM's.

GHO0482 Sabine Wren

Honestly, I just want this Sabine.

***

I'm not sure should I buy this set:

TV6110 Star Wars

It's nice to see the old protagonists in their A New Hope ending appearances.

TV8076 Ahsoka

And this Ahsoka looks great with the cloak. But the legs and feet part prints are wrong.

More inclined to NO, so.

[brikzzinfo]

Star Wars Paz Vizsla Mandalorian Heavy Infantry Minifigures Set

You can buy Star Wars Paz Vizsla Mandalorian Heavy Infantry Minifigures Set with Weapons & Accessories at just $10.00 – $43.00 from Brikzz

[corellianhounds]

The Exodus

Media: The Mandalorian

Rating: Gen.

Word Count: 5,674

Warnings: Canon-typical violence

Art Credit: Christian Alzmann, The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Summary: Mandalorians are adaptable by nature but often nomadic without choice. The covert on Nevarro wouldn’t have risked the entire tribe to save only one of their own, not without contingency plans in place.

Set during “The Sin,” retconning the canon idea that only Paz Vizsla and the Armorer escaped Nevarro. Mando’a translations are at the bottom.

“In the years to come, when the balladeers of Nevarro spoke of the day the Mandalorian broke the Code and signed his own death warrant, there were as many different versions of the events as there were ears to hear it.

“But it always started with the explosion.”

— The Mandalorian Junior Novel, adapted by Joe Schreiber

An explosion rocked the city above. Barely a minute of cautious, alert networking had passed before the slight frame of Jenryk Lokatta flew down the subterranean antechambers of the hidden Mandalorian enclave, fleet-footed messenger to every tribe member he saw.

The detonation had gone off somewhere beyond the marketplace, calling to it a hurrying fleet of Stormtroopers. Word travels fast on Nevarro, and as tracking fobs blinked to life in dim corners and shadowed streets, civilians and hunters alike traded news in whispers that someone was back on the Guild radar.

The thing about the Bounty Hunters Guild is that listings are largely posted based on who the ISB deems a criminal. Whether laws themselves are just or not matters little to most hunters and good money is the fastest way to find someone on the run: despite the outcome of the war, Imperial credits still spend.

A heavy infantry Mandalorian stalked through the sewers of the black market outpost, bracing for yet another battle and hasty relocation effort that ran the gamut of every possible risk. In another life the bulwark of Mandalorian tradition lived in palatial dwellings with tribute given to his family’s honorable name, his days spent facilitating trade and overseeing the expansion of infrastructure. In another life he trained cadets in green fields and laughed heartily with his comrades-in-arms, swapping tales over tihaar long into the night.

This was not that life, and now as he stormed through the tunnels he mentally spat a curse at those who had driven him and his kin underground in every sense of the word.

Despite those bitter, percolating thoughts, there was a glimmer of something mean at the back of the blue Mandalorian’s mind, raring for a good fight.

From the innermost refuge of their hidden home came the sound of sizzling slag and the *ring* of an iron forge. Steam permeated the chamber as the Armorer, civil and religious leader of the diasporic warriors, worked tirelessly at the millennium-long craft that safeguarded her people.

The silhouette of Paz Vizsla filled the doorway.

“Djarin’s in trouble,” he said. “Topside.”

The Armorer’s hammer stopped mid-swing. Her brass-toned helm swiveled to lock on him, the hum of blue flames filling the forge as he awaited her orders.

“What happened?”

Vizsla’s hand flexed, agitated. “The western scout said he blew a hole in the Stormtrooper safe house and shot his way out. They’re all dead. He’s— He took something—”

“Brevity, Vizsla.”

“We think it’s a child.”

For a singular moment the Armorer felt every muscle coiling to pounce. Clamoring echoed in the tunnels. Decisions had to be made, and they had to be made now. Their brother would not have done something so rash as to take on a squadron of Imperials by himself unless he had a very, very good reason for doing so.

And even then, he had not called for help.

”Let’s move.”

She strode out into the corridor to the assembled brigade awaiting her command with Paz behind her. “Barycir jiila,” she ordered, and the group began to split under her direction. “Tsad Solus, ready the ships for relocation— Take only what can be carried once beyond the flows and get the foundlings out. The rest of you to the south exit past the bazaar. Find him. Follow on Vizsla’s command.”

The remaining Mandalorians beat their right bracers against their breastplates in a sharp *clang* of acknowledgement and turned on their heels to leave for their stations. Shouting from above and the beginning of a firefight echoed from the street level. Foundlings darted through the corridors, hastily grabbing sparse belongings and following orders from those focused on evacuation.

“Reroute the civilians,” she told Paz as they strode through the tunnel. “Get to higher ground and do what you can to contain the firefight— Send the Phoenixes in first. Clear a path for the others and funnel his adversaries back towards the square.”

The infantryman nodded, retreating and clicking the comm on his bracer to relay the message.

“And Vizsla—”

He turned back to her, at the ready.

“Buy him some time. And keep the skies clear.”

—

Working with martial efficiency, the remaining members of the covert crammed supplies into every spare satchel and duffel available. The children crèched together under the emergency lanterns as they packed the barge, helping one another don cloaks and filters as needed while the cadets moved weapons and gear. The Nautolan boy’s hands shook with the effort it took to strap on his vest, his fingers slipping on the latches, and one of the older cadets stooped to help him. The Mandalorians moved quickly, arranging what they could onto the barge that would reconvene with them out past the lava flow at the edge of the flats. The hidden cargo shuttles camouflaged within the caves had been maintained far beyond the city walls, and with luck the fight in the streets would keep all eyes turned inward long enough for the first ship to depart.

The children were antsy, most having been woken from sleep by the urgent call to attention. The adults could hear their murmurings as they shuffled into formation.

“But why do we have to leave now?” one of the foundlings pleaded. Petulance didn’t dictate their inquiries; the children were familiar with the plans laid out for their escape if it ever came to it, but curiosity and frustration were to be expected regardless of age. The youngest just happened to be the most vocal.

Hartek, an older Mandalorian in bronze, glanced at the group from where he stood at the mouth of the cavern. He clasped his sister’s forearm in a reluctant bid farewell, then came over to address the children, kneeling to their level.

“Beroya is in trouble and he needs our help,” he explained calmly. “And he would not need our help unless it was absolutely necessary to reveal ourselves. We have to leave.”

Whispers spread amongst the children before one of the older boys hushed them, and the foundlings exchanged solemn looks. They knew secrecy was the key to their survival; too many had known guardians and kin killed for their armor or hunted for their weapons. The Empire wasn’t the only entity responsible for the destruction they had seen wreaked across the galaxy— The vacuum of power it left behind was filled with mercenaries, warlords, and syndicates of every kind. The Mandalorians protected them, and the bounty hunter had never let them down.

They understood the gravity of what was to come.

Hartek nodded in approval and turned to finish hauling the last gunlocker up onto the hovering sled.

“Remember,” he said. “Stay quiet so you can listen for instructions, stick together, and keep out of sight. Keep low, and stay calm. We’ll protect you.”

Two Mandalorians finished lashing down the barge and shoved off for the exit tunnel following the lava flow. As the cadets filed back in towards the forge the alor waved the group inside. Hartek finalized the head count as the Armorer heaved the grate over the tunnel shut behind the barge. The bronze Mandalorian tugged the end of a leather cord from the collar of his tunic and unhooked the Mythosaur pendant, beskar glinting in the rippling forge light. Another explosion rocked the street above, the Mandalorians tensing as dust and gravel fell from the ceiling. Gritting his teeth, Hartek slotted the pendant into the ridge along the back wall and twisted the latch: an invisible seam in the basalt parted with a grating slide, and the hidden passage came into view on a gust of damp air.

“Move out.”

And on his lead they followed.

Bringing up the rear, Jenryk could feel the course of adrenaline in his veins as he saw the last of the evacuation head out the tunnel that would circumvent most of the attention of the town. Once assured the passageway closed up behind them he rejoined the Armorer as she secured the tripwires beyond the forge. Down at the end of the corridor that would lead them to the bazaar, Vizsla motioned for the troop to clear out. Jenryk hesitated for only a moment before approaching the Armorer, her sharp gaze watching the last of the offensive squads split off into the hidden exits far down the tunnels.

“Alor, will you be accompanying us?”

She shook her head, not looking at him. “My place is here until those remaining are ready to depart. The forge needs dismantled, and I will stay until the rest return.”

Jenryk shifted uneasily. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he said. “The Imperials weren’t the only ones firing at him.”

“… There may be other forces at work,” the Armorer hedged. “Once you’re in the air, keep the transponders off en route. We will regroup offworld and signal for you once we’ve settled at the second camp. Do not wait for us: the second ship will depart once Vizsla confirms the Crest has made its escape.”

“… Will do.”

The Armorer glanced his way as she holstered her hammer. “Do not deviate from the plan, Jenryk,” she warned him. She started to gather her tools, retrieving the last piece of his cuirass from the forge and clasping it to his backplate. “Hartek will need you as medic.”

He nodded reluctantly as she assessed her handiwork, securing the conduit latches for the durasteel jetpack and ensuring the suit’s circuitry had fully integrated into the system. Alfi approached from her setup at the false tunnel, signing that all was set as she grabbed the last rucksack. Jenryk rested a hand on her pauldron as she passed, the two of them exchanging a nod before she took off, racing to the exit.

The Armorer returned, holstering her sidearm as she listened over the comm channel. “The firing team will reconvene from the butcher’s entrance,” she said. “Move out.”

Jenryk activated the chameleon cloak on his suit and departed from the smithy, slinking out to the pyroduct under the west side of town. He spiked into the rock face above him with the climbing gaff on his boots and ascended the winding, eroded tunnel up to the street, his heart thundering in his ears. The natural ventilation shaft spit out past the slums up above, and though it was a more densely populated area of the city it had fewer Imperial scouts stationed between streets.

Smoke and brimstone filled the air, the clamor of civilians weaving through the streets as they bolted themselves indoors. Buildings of stone covered with volcanic earth rippled around him in a near-imperceptible mirage as he cut through town, mapping the fastest route between alleyways and cataloguing potential threats once the covert had finished aiding the bounty hunter at the docking yard.

There was a scout trooper leaning against a speeder bike near the canal, but he was far enough out of the district it seemed like the original safehouse hadn’t commed for him. Two Trandoshan guards for one of the wealthy families had broadened their post outside the townhouse to include the courtyard connecting the intersecting side streets, and the lights of the banking district blazed green and bright.

Blending into the twilight, Jenryk slipped past all of them to the outer edge of town. He cleared the canal, rocking the gondolas as he leapt to the other side. Carefully, he picked his way up the dark, pitted defensive wall, slipping over and out of Nevarro’s starport city and into the night. Once they were on open ground and trekking across the flats they would be vulnerable until they reached the freighter. Dusk brought with it reptavians and other nocturnal predators, and with the cover the cloak gave him, he was the most suited to clear a path.

There were six adults, three cadets, and seven foundlings coming from the flows, himself and Alfi making up the remainder of their group. Alfi would station herself as sniper and watchman while the freighter was loaded, her and Hartek waiting on him to voice the all clear before they departed. Vizsla would be the last to leave with the Armorer on the second ship if all went well, and hopefully they would hear from each other once they were out of New Republic airspace.

This was the third relocation Jenryk had seen. The uncertainty that came with dividing their numbers was not one he missed.

A shot rang out from the street leading to the docking yard far behind him, and a volley of blaster fire followed. Jenryk steeled his nerves, ignited his jetpack, and sped out across the flats.

—

Vizsla led the firing team through the narrow alleys of Nevarro. Doors and windows shuttered at the first sign of blaster fire, and the ground shook with the aftershocks of another detonation. They honed in on the smoke emanating from the shipyard entrance, footsteps weighted down with ordnance and determination. He motioned for the squad of foot soldiers to break off from the jet team, seeing them cut smoothly down to the buildings behind the main street. The remaining troops clambered silently up rock-hewn walls, creeping across balconies and roofs to get a bead on Djarin’s location.

There was a brief pause in gunfire when they were still three streets away before Paz heard the unmistakable sound of a particle disruptor atomizing its targets and reducing them to cinders. As he rounded a turret above the market district he scoped in on the street: bounty hunters of every kind scattered as a fellow hunter disintegrated to nothing, all of them now clamoring for cover. A third shot resounded, disintegrating a Rodian as the Mandalorians advanced, then all fell silent.

Paz held up his fist, signaling for those on the rooftops to halt as the gunfire came to a momentary standstill. He turned up the audio feed on his helmet, tuning it carefully. The Guild broker’s voice projected from the archway entrance and called out to Djarin, wherever he was on the street beyond them.

“That’s one impressive weapon!”

Paz dimly heard their brother respond, tuning in again. “Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to my ship, with the kid, and you’re gonna let it happen.”

The broker barked a venomous order, this one loud enough to be heard by everyone in attendance:

“No— How about this: We take the kid, and if you try to stop us, we kill you and we strip your body for parts.”

The truth of the threat reverberated against the chest of every Mandalorian who heard it. Hackles raised, they advanced as one, their net drawing tighter with the impending ambush hidden by the cacophony of blaster fire. The ground team drew up sharp behind archways and corners, visages grim beneath the mask. Vizsla jabbed two fingers in a directive to ready themselves for the assault: the air team was in position. The footmen waited for his signal. He just needed to find Din so they could clear the path to the dockyard.

A plume of fire burst from a speeder on one side of the street. Vizsla narrowed his scope, adjusting the feed and impatiently waiting for the air to clear.

As hunters fell back from the blaze, the fire stuttered and dissipated, sputtering to a failing halt. The figure behind the smoke ducked back down into the open speeder out of firing range, but the armor it wore was unmistakable.

Finally, Vizsla grinned.

—

It wasn’t his reclamation of the child that deemed his actions a sin, but the initial transaction. No matter what he did in this life, Din Djarin would forever be a man who had at one time traded the life of a child to known enemies for payment. That was an immutable fact he would spend the rest of his lifetime atoning for.

He just thought the rest of their lives were going to be longer than this.

The Mandalorian looked down at the little boy he wanted to protect, stricken with the grief of his sin. He had known their chances of a hasty retreat were narrow when he left the ship to retrace his steps, but his prior confidence was founded in his determination to remedy the sacrilege of a tenet he had always held true.

Now though with plasma and fire flashing above them, the gravity of his decision was evident in the tragedy of his shortcomings. Despite his best efforts, he was unable to secure a future where the boy was safe, happy, and free. He was the one responsible for the child’s place here and now in the middle of a dark street on a blighted planet, surrounded by enemies hellbent on killing them both. The sense memory of his own father carrying him through a city filled with destruction refused to leave his mind’s eye, mingling with the guilt of knowing his circumstances and the child’s fate were of his own doing.

He had no right to pray for a painless end, but he hoped whatever life came after this one would grant him mercy for his greatest misdeed.

The child looked up at him with quizzical, sleep-filled eyes. Din stroked the boy’s head and wished he could apologize in a way he would understand.

—

A sharp whistle streaked overhead, following a streaming cascade of sparks. When the missile connected with the corner of the stone archway above the public house it exploded, sending a gunman from above toppling to the street below.

All eyes turned skyward as a figure rose above the crowd like a hawk, a dozen like it soaring up over rooftops and descending in a hail of precise, deadly gunfire.

Din couldn’t believe his eyes.

Laserfire streamed from above, hunters falling in the street. As they fired back the Mandalorians wove through the air, evading and deflecting every shot as they drew the Guild members’ attention to themselves, firing again with unparalleled accuracy into the street. More hunters appeared from alleyways but proved no match for the Mandalorians’ numbers, blaster shots finding their marks in the hearts of those now terrified by the descending ambush.

The covert had appeared from nowhere and rallied to Din’s defense, picking off assailants around him. For a singular, shining moment he was stricken with the same awe he felt when he’d first encountered the warriors as a child.

Another missle screamed from the gauntlet of a Mandalorian firing in mid-air, dodging the shots returned by the panicked and disoriented mercenaries and hunters littering the street. A fuel reserve from the docking yard exploded in front of a salvage shop and blazed up in a fireball that scattered a pack of mercs, three Mandalorians rerouting them to the square south of the bazaar. A Mandalorian in green landed behind an unsuspecting Nikto and wrapped both arms around him, jetting up beyond the buildings as the mercenary cried out in terror. Two more hunters ran for alleyways, shooting wildly behind them at the armored gunmen in the street who then gave chase, boots thumping on stone as their kin covered their backs.

In a stuttering, rapidfire flash of light, an infantryman landed near the speeder, gunning down any hunter foolish enough to have remained out in the open. The bulk of his imposing figure blocked the stone archway to the dockyard, his own aim still precise in its destruction as he cleared swaths of bounty hunters from the black market port in seconds.

Out of everybody, Din had expected him the least.

Paz jerked his head to Din, hollering, “Get out of here! We’ll hold them off!”

Din kept his aim level at their assailants as he hollered back. “You’re going to have to relocate the covert!”

Paz paused in firing for only a moment, nodding in affirmation. His voice was level with assurance. “This is the Way.”

And for the first time in a long time, Din felt something akin to hope.

“This is the Way.”

Din scooped the small child protectively into the crook of his left arm before ducking from the firefight and running to the Crest.

—

The Mandalorians moved quickly. The cargo shuttle was primed for takeoff, Hartek swiftly finalizing their pre-flight checks. He could see the firefight off in the distance as night fell, the rest of their crew moving around the hold below and securing the foundlings and the covert’s supplies. Time was running out.

“How many?” his co-pilot, Sapsen, barked over the headset.

Jenryk’s voice crackled over the comm’s frequency. “Twenty, more— on the way. Alfi’s— karking hell— Alfi’s pinned down, you— need to leave, now! We’ll regroup and— on the second ship!”

Hartek pressed the transceiver’s relay on his vambrace. His voice transmitted over the open channel to the helmets of the others belowdeck. “Who has the most fuel reserve?”

Two lights responded instantly over the head-up display. Hartek weighed his options but knew there wasn’t time to deliberate.

“Kyden, Whyt, jet out to the cliff and get her out of there. We’re nearly ready for takeoff. Jenryk, stay on the ground; we’ll come to you.”

“— long range repeaters,” Jenryk’s voice cut through. Laserfire screamed over his voice on the other end. “TL-50— scout troopers on bikes. They’ll see— coming, you won’t be able to get low enough— the hatch—”

The two Mandalorians following Hartek’s directive blasted from the bay doors in a stream of fire. The engines rumbled to life; Hartek pressed the command for the docking ramp to ascend, flipping the toggle to transfer control to the co-pilot. “Get us in the air. I’ll lock into the harness from the hatch— When we get to the firefight drop as low as you can and I’ll grab him from the starboard side.”

Sapsen’s voice was strained as he pulled on the yoke and leveled them with the horizon. “Hartek, it’s too risky—”

Hartek snapped the tether from above to his belt, yanking himself upward hand over hand.

“So we’ll just have to be careful.”

—

Jenryk’s lungs screamed with the effort it had taken to race over the plateau on foot. His jetpack sputtered and he could smell the fuel leak now soaking into his suit— The pack was damaged by one of the trooper’s heavy blaster bolts piercing the tank. Rendered immediately useless, he’d raced in the direction of his comrade, conveying what information he could to the others in the hopes that they could escape before the scout troopers on bikes caught up. Now camouflaged with the sparse brush, Jenryk crouched out of view, firing at the troopers when he could before pressing on.

Up on the ridge he could barely see Alfi’s red helm peek out in the twilight as she shot at the firing team below, but every time she revealed herself the heavy repeating blasters rattled the cliff edge and broke off more of the upper rock face, sending intermittent rockslides down the cliff. Even though she had the high ground, she was back-to-back with a lava flow that had broken open with fresh magma, effectively trapping her and keeping her from descending to the ravine on the west that would take them to the ships. Any time she rose higher than knee height she caught the troopers’ attention and they opened fire. If she exposed herself on a run to the ravine she’d be riddled with holes.

Jenryk’s cloak on the suit had given him a slight advantage as he shot unseen from the brush, and knowing Alfi she was just as much buying the shuttle time to escape by keeping the troopers occupied as he was. It was her idea to relay the decision to stay, and he’d never been able to tell her no.

Jenryk shot another Stormtrooper in the neck and kept moving. He switched his comm to Alfi’s frequency. “Why haven’t they left yet?”

Alfi signaled back in Dadita: “N-E-E-D-T-I-M-E.”

The remaining troopers advanced towards the trail to the outcropping. Jenryk picked up his pace before he heard one of them yell; he ducked, only narrowly missing a shot that flew by his helmet, and he heard the recoil of Alfi’s sniper rifle echo across the landscape. The heavy repeating blasters picked up again, rocks scouring the earth as they fell in a crashing wave not sixty feet from where Jenryk hid.

As the dust settled he knew he had to face the reality of the situation. By his estimate, Alfi was only a scant forty feet from the magma flow and likely cooking beneath her armor. He wasn’t going to get there in enough time to cover her escape.

He took a deep breath, his nerves settling to resolve as his mind cleared of distractions.

Jenryk spoke again, knowing she would hear him. “Move on my signal, Ori’vod. I’ll see you again someday.”

The Mandalorian armed the last two grenades in his arsenal and stepped out from the brush. He stalked toward the firing team on the ground, the waning light refracting around his figure like heatwaves in the desert, and as he drew near he upped his pace to a sprint. Two cluster grenades sang up through the air and exploded high above the trail to the ridge, eight concussive blasts following as they rained down on the troopers clinging to the rock face. Blaster drawn, Jenryk shot the heavy infantryman closest to him and leapt into the fray.

—

Alfi felt the explosions rock the cliff seconds after Jenryk’s comm went silent. Fear struck like lightning up her spine as she realized what he had done; she yanked herself up over the outcropping to scope in on the ground, seeing only a haze of smoke and blaster bolts firing in every direction. The idiot had given her the opportunity to get to the ravine at the cost of himself, and he had the audacity to keep the lenticular mirage up.

She had never been so angry with him.

Jenryk’s voice echoed in her ears, the reassuring tone doing nothing to calm her in those final seconds as she registered his farewell. Far below, the firing squad was in a disarray, at least a dozen still standing as they fired wildly around themselves while Jenryk cut through the smoke in the confusion.

Dimly, she heard the whine of a jet approaching from behind, and she whirled around to see two of their kin descending from the sky. Whyt and Kyden landed hard next to her as she jumped to her feet, signing quickly with her hands. Three laser bolts shot past their shoulders and they ducked out from range.

J fighting the group. Jetpack damaged. Need to help, she said.

Whyt shook his head and grabbed up her rifle, handing it to her. “Hartek’s on the way. We’ve got to go.”

Alfi violently shook her head, taking a step back, only for Kyden to wrap both of his thick arms around her from behind, pinning her own arms to her side as his jetpack ignited again and lifted both of them into the air. Alfi reared back in anger, a strangled yell escaping her as she struggled against his grip. Whyt followed after, flying with his back to them and firing his carbine rifle into the troopers below.

“I’m sorry, Al,” Kyden said over his headset. “We’re going to get him, just hang tight.”

Heat blazed under Alfi’s armor that had nothing to do with the river of lava streaming beneath them. She swore if Jenryk didn’t make it onto the ship alive she’d crack both their jaws.

—

Jenryk parried another blow, ducking beneath the trooper’s arm and jamming his blade into a crevice of their armor, twisting between their ribs with a snap. He yanked it free and immediately threw it into the chest of another, just as the butt of a blaster rifle came down between his shoulder blades. The fall knocked the wind out of him— On reflex he jerked his boot back, drawing a hard line in the dirt as he swept the legs out from beneath his attacker. He tried to right himself, still struggling to draw air, and a second trooper took aim, finally spotting him in the haze.

With weakening strength Jenryk pulled his arm up to deflect the shot with his bracer, the momentum of the bolt still jarring his forearm and jerking him to the side. Pain radiated from the right side of his chest, a lancing stitch pulsing with his every move. The Mandalorian tensed just as another shot hit his breastplate, sending him back several feet. The smoke was clearing from the basin beneath the cliff, and his camouflage flickered in and out across his suit.

“There he is!”

“Grab him! Don’t let him get away!”

He dearly hoped the covert had made it to safety.

Finally gasping a lungful of air, Jenryk dodged into a side roll, landing in a crouch. He shot his whipcord at the farthest trooper and yanked him into the two closing in on him and sent them clattering to the ground. A scorching volley of shots rattled his bones from the ground up as the last rapid fire gunner swung wide, coming around in an attempt to pin him against the cliff.

His eyes widened and he turned to leap up the rock face, bloodied gloves grabbing a ledge and vaulting him upward. The heavy repeater shook the volcanic earth and it broke apart as quickly as he scrabbled for handholds, barely gaining purchase against the rock. He spiked harshly into the substrate with his boot and yanked himself up. Every shot threatened to shake him off the cliff face, but still he climbed.

A loud, shuddering ripple of wind approached from behind him. Every wave of force felt like it displaced muscle from bone and it took every ounce of his remaining strength to turn his head.

Jenryk was struck with complete astonishment as he looked over one bloody shoulder to see the silhouette of a Mandalorian, illuminated by the waning sun and holding a grappling line on the outside of a cargo freighter. Bewildered hope washed over the resignation harboring in his chest, revitalizing him in an instant.

Without a second thought to anything else— not the height of the cliff side, not the blaze or gunner below, not every Imperial rat on that vile planet— he leapt off from his place against the earth crumbling beneath his hands.

And for a moment, Jenryk hung suspended in midair, one arm raised aloft as he reached for the hand of a friend.

—

Three successive shots rang out over the lava flats. Three troopers fell.

Alfi grimaced, seeing the final two run for the speederbikes. Whyt yelled something she ignored, the din of the engines drowning out the clamoring noise of the Mandalorians waiting tensely behind her as she followed the Imps with her scope. Craning out of the docking ramp, held only by Whyt’s grip on her belt, she fired again.

The speederbike in the lead crashed, digging its nose into the earth and throwing its rider up and over itself, just in time for the second rider to crash into him and for his own bike to explode on impact. Outside the outer hull Hartek clung one-handed to the grappling line and held fast to the forearm of their bloodied comrade.

Alfi handed her rifle back to another Mandalorian and gestured for Whyt to edge them down to the end of the ramp. Whyt carefully maneuvered the two of them as far as he could, still holding onto the railing as Alfi waved to catch Hartek’s attention. The older Mandalorian nodded, managing to get the message across to Jenryk that they were moving. Wind whipped around them as the freighter climbed, pulling Jenryk’s weight against the line, but Hartek’s grip never wavered.

Alfi squared her stance as Hartek heaved them both towards the ramp. Whyt’s grip on her belt tightened as the pilot’s grappling line pulled taut, and a sharp nod from Hartek was all the signal she got before he rocked back and used their forward momentum to swing Jenryk into the hold.

The three Mandalorians on the ramp crashed back into a pile, Alfi with both arms fiercely secured around Jenryk’s middle.

Whyt hauled both of them back as another Mandalorian raised the ramp, Hartek retreating to climb the hull to the hatch above the canopy. Alfi could feel her heartbeat in her ears as the hydraulics hissed and the rest of the covert behind them cheered.

Alfi lay there for several long moments, breathing heavily but grateful for the solid weight of the Mandalorian in her arms. She wished she could verbally tell him how much of an idiot she thought he was, but he was still clinging to her flight suit as his labored breathing struggled to find stasis, so she settled for knocking her helmet against his, perhaps a bit harder than necessary.

Jenryk chuckled through the mask, returning the gesture more gently. “I’m sorry,” he said, warmth suffusing his tone. “I missed you too.”

The intercom in the lower deck crackled to life as Hartek’s booming voice filtered through. “All present and accounted for. Hitting atmo soon so strap in. Lightspeed in three minutes. We’ll hear from Vizsla when they’ve made landfall. Over and out.”

The Mandalorians tucked into the cramped rows of bench seats, securing the cadets and checking again on the foundlings before finding their way to their stations. The rumble of dual engines hummed throughout the ship, but for the first time since the first explosion on the streets of Nevarro, those of the covert could finally breathe easily. Triumph in the face of calamity was a rare find these days.

It wouldn’t always be like this, but for now it was enough.

Mando’a

Tihaar: a strong alcoholic spirit distilled by Mandalorians

Barycir jiila: “Deploy immediately.”

Tsad Solus: Group One

Beroya: bounty hunter

Alor: leader

Dadita: The equivalent of Morse code for Mandalorians

Ori’vod: a stronger term for a beloved friend or family member