#manifesting pedro in regency era clothing becaUSE YES

[newtie-patootie-bootie]

Masquerade (Prologue)

Summary: This is your third season and your aspirations on finding love are dwindling but news on Lady Whistledown’s society pages say that there is to be a foreign royal in attendance to the season. Could this royal dignitary be the one you’ve been waiting for, or could there be a mysterious stranger lurking in the shadows, waiting to pluck your heart for his?

Disclaimer: I do not own Bridgerton nor The Mandalorian- all rights go to the owners and creators of their separate stories.

Warnings: None just yet, enjoy my writing as I lead up to the story!!

|| Please do not repost or plagiarise my work ||

| Chapter 1 |

“Dearest, have you read the newest Lady Whistledown?” Your mother burst into the drawing room with a flurry of her skirts, clutching the article in her fist as you, your brother and your father took in her frazzled form. 

Her eyes were alight with excitement and she was nearly vibrating with delight, “no, Mama. I haven’t.” You answered her, eyebrows pulling together gently and she barrelled forward, slapping the scandal sheet in your hand. 

You abandoned your needlepoint on your lap and opened the reports gingerly, perusing the freshly printed words with increasing distress:

‘In related news to this year’s promising season, my dearest reader- my sources say that a discreet candidate was called on by the Queen herself!

In a show of good faith and generosity to the newly signed trade agreements between the Crown and the elusive, yet breathtaking realm of Mandalore; it seems that this mysterious suitor has touched foot on our verdant lands in search of one of this season’s blossomed flowers to pluck for his own. 

I have heard that this particular aspirant is eager to secure an acceptable match, perhaps with the season’s named Incomparable? 

Or, perhaps there will be a sweet winter blossom that bloomed so richly as she was presented to Her Majesty, the Queen for her third season. Could the magnificent daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Wintere snatch such a lucrative title from Miss Daphne Bridgerton?

I so do adore a good rivalry between two influential families and as such, I would like to express my most exuberant notions of good fortunes to each family and may the best woman win.

This intrepid author would also like to disclose that there should be a number of severe competitors at the Danbury Ball this evening- and even worse, bloodthirsty mama’s charging forward with energetic hopes to secure the prospects of such an exceptional suitor.

After all, it is not everyday you are offered the chance to become a Queen.’

“She has named our dearest daughter a ‘winter blossom’, no doubt in reference to our family crest, darling!” Thomas’ eyebrows lifted at the high praise and yes, it was true. The family crest consisted of blooming hellebores and a snowy owl taking flight. “She also named our daughter to be a worthy adversary of the season’s Incomparable, Daphne Bridgerton!” Elaine gushed, taking a seat beside her husband and her skirts pooled with the air trapped but she seemed nonplussed as did Thomas who watched her with an adoring smile. “Isn’t that wonderful, darling?” 

“I’d consider that a high honour indeed!” Thomas boasted proudly, raising his teacup to you and a sigh left your lips, ever world-weary. 

“Looks more like a wilted weed to me.” Your brother teased and earned a reproachful stare from your parents, Ryder shrugged off the blistering glare from your mother before turning back to his book. 

“Mama,” you implored, the paper crinkling in your tight grip, “do not put any stock into Whistledown’s scribblings- she has a tendency to exaggerate and her words incite challenge when there is no need for it.” You scoffed, tossing the offending scrap on the plush cushion beside you, “she has surely just made Daphne and I targets for the 200 other girls for the entire season!” 

Ryder stood from his place across the room and moved closer, snatching the crinkled sheet from the pillow and plopped himself down, taking in its contents for himself, “Cressida Cowper is going to eat you alive, dearest sister.”

“Please do not remind me of Cressida Cowper, do I not appear distressed enough for you to cease your mistimed jibes, brother?” Your tone heightened, echoing somewhat in the drawing room.

Ryder’s smirk softened into a worried frown and took your hand in his in a soothing fashion, soft thumb massaging the space between your knuckles, “apologies, sweet sister. I only wished to make light of your situation for your own piece of mind.” 

Sighing, you whispered your own apology at your sudden snap and you hummed softly in thought before a mischievous grin curled against your lips, “if anyone should feel concerned about Cressida Cowper’s intentions, I would think you to be more perturbed than I, older brother. The heir to the Duke of Wintere, a monumental promise of success to any willing debutante, I’m certain.” Ryder shuddered at the thought of the ill-mannered girl setting gladiatorial eyes on him and the notion of the high prospects he would bring to the mart. Immediately abandoning your hand, he burrowed himself deeper into the seat beside you and flicked the sheet out dramatically.

It was an indiscreet attempt to occupy his mind elsewhere as he kept his eyes firmly on the black print, yet he took not one word of the information in.

“Darling, this is good.” Your mother’s voice gently eased you from you and your brother’s banter as she reached forward and took your hand in hers, “this means that suitors will now take notice of you, and if this king hears word of your beauty in Whistledown’s musings, then I believe we should all be thankful to the woman, do you not agree?”

Your fingers curled around hers but your eyes remained downcast at your half-sewn needlepoint and you sighed softly, “I don’t see the need for such articles to be published. There will be enough dramatics to satisfy the weak-minded all season.” 

“Your mother and I only want what is best for you, little owlet.” Your eyes raised to meet Thomas’, his gaze warm, tone loving as he levelled you with an adoring smile, “if it eases your mind, I have come across some news of this new ruler during my time at the club. I have heard he is just and fair. An honourable gentleman if somewhat mysterious as Lady Whistledown reports. You have nothing to lose by dazzling him with your grace and charm- but you have everything to gain if you succeed in wooing him. You have no need for tricks or deception to win the attention of any suitor, for you are perfect just the way you are.” Tears blurred your vision, threatening to slip down your cheeks. Your frown turned into a watery smile as your father placed his warm, large hand over you and your mothers, “and I shall be there to protect you and only agree to a match deserving of a jewel such as yourself.” 

You sniffled back the forming tears before smiling warmly, “thank you, Papa.” 

“There is no need for gratitude, dearest. This is a father’s duty; one I aim to fulfill to the highest regard-” Your father’s words were cut short as one of the servants walked into the drawing room.

“Your dresses have arrived, Your Grace, my Lady.”

“Ooh!” Elaine shot up from her seat, clapping in excitement before grabbing your hand and hauling you upstairs to your room, “we must find the perfect gown for tonight’s fete!” 

Your sputtering and half formed protests carried down the hallway as Thomas opened the newspaper that had been sitting untouched in his lap, chuckling indulgently, “ever the child, your mother.” 

Ryder shook his head in amusement, a smile curling his lips.

"Have you read the newest Whistledown? Foreign royalty searching for a suitable bride? I suspect this season will turn out to be exemplary.” 

"I heard that this King's treasury is one to rival the Crown itself."

"I heard he has a son, yet there is no mother that has come forward to claim the child. A most scandalous affair, indeed!"

"I heard that their land is rich in minerals. Some type of iron that is nigh indestructible! I'd wager it'd fetch a high price."

"Daphne Bridgerton locked in a violent competition with the Duke and Duchess of Wintere’s daughter? How delicious."

"I have never heard of this Mandalore, is it near Scotland?"

You were barely able to contain your ire for the gossiping hounds polluting the air of the ballroom. 

Your jaw ticked imperceptibly and you fought the urge to roll your eyes so hard you would be able to see the back of your head.

Their whispers were anything but that as you walked past each intrusive mama and daughter as they revelled in the rumors etched in the latest scandal sheet authored by Lady Whistledown, containing information of a supposed king attending the ball. 

Your eyes scanned the ballroom and made contact with the youngest Featherington- carving a path for her, her rounded figure swathed in a bright, eye-catching yellow gown that suited her complexion and figure little, yellow beads and jewels glittering in the lights overhead.

You caught her eye and her shy demeanor slipped somewhat as she smiled, excited to see a familiar face and you curled your arm through hers and locked them together, “why have I not seen you on the dance floor, Miss Featherington?” You asked and Penelope sighed. 

“I am just admiring the view, Lady Dalton,” you raise one brow at the title and her tiny frown curled into an indulgent smile as she corrected herself and called you by your given name, “you seem to have taken the room by storm when you joined the dance floor, every bachelor here has his eyes on you and Daphne tonight. I would think many of the suitors here are bursting at the seams for your hand- and it is your third season as well.” 

“No doubt to Lady Whistledown’s meddling, I’d wager. I have already entertained enough male suitors tonight. I shall take my leave of them for the time being,” your tone changed to a slight whine which served to incite Penelope’s rich giggles, “have you taken your turn about the room?” 

“I’m afraid I am not as carefully provided for as you, my Lady. Father has decided to forego these events and my mama is not quite so attuned to my aspirations to ensure a well-rounded tour.” 

“Well, then, allow me, Miss Featherington.” You hummed politely, smiling brilliantly at the shy girl who returned the gesture just as brightly and you led the way about the hall. Nodding your head politely to every suitor that greeted you, you curled closer to Penelope, “I see your mother is surveying the hall with Lady Cowper and Lady Edgecomb.” Penelope’s world-weary exhale betrayed her true thoughts and you ran a soothing line along the back of her hand with your thumb, “the determination of rumormongers is indeed boundless, are they not? Perhaps, we shall next be blessed with the sight of them suspended from the rafters with ear trumpets to survey even the most meagre pieces of gossip.” Penelope giggled, covering her mouth with her hand daintily as she did so, bowing her head. 

“Ah,” Anthony Bridgerton exclaimed, his arm encircled with Daphne’s as they stepped in front of you, “Miss Featherington, Lady Dalton.” 

“Penelope,” Daphne spoke your names warmly, her bright smile widening as she curtseyed perfectly.

“Lord Bridgerton, Daphne.” You and Penelope greeted in unison, curtseying elegantly though you felt your arm tense as Penelope teetered on her feet in an attempt to keep her balance. You rose rather quickly to save her any embarrassment, “how fares the hunt, Daphne? Many of the most eligible suitors have presented themselves at this fete, don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes, my Lady.” Anthony spoke over his sister, answering for her. “Quite a well-rounded affair. Why, I can count every worthy bachelor on each finger of my left hand.” Daphne stared at her brother, aghast but your tinkling laughter could not be hidden with a well-placed hand over your mouth.

“I could only hope that you could spare a finger for my own brother, my Lord? Is he not worthy of your high praise? I would hate to inform my father of this scandalous news!” You teased slyly, a sparkle of mischief in your eyes as Anthony chuckled.

“Of course, my lady. Ryder Dalton, heir to the title Duke of Wintere is honest and true. A man worthy of the title he will one day inherit.” You bowed your head gracefully at the praise.

“Did you read the latest entry of Lady Whistledown’s scandal sheet?” Daphne asked, head inclined slightly in question and your lip curled in irritation, earlier humor forgotten.

“Unfortunately, dearest Daphne. What does this author hope to accomplish by sowing dissension among peers? It is only going to be harder for us if we are to be locked in this invented rivalry until the season ends. Not to mention that all other 200 fine young women will see us as common adversaries to quarrel for a desirable bachelor.” You shook your head and sighed wistfully.

“Perhaps, Lady Whistledown’s sources were incorrect in their counsel. I have yet to see a comely King from a foreign land in our midst.” Daphne teased and you chuckled, nodding as you looked about the room but gazed over no fanfare nor buzzing enthusiasm.

“Nor a royal guard. What do you think, Penelope?” You hummed and the young woman beside you almost wiggled with excitement to be counted.

“I believe that Lady Whistledown is breeding a development early in the season to incite challenge.” You voiced a wordless agreement and Penelope continued, her fingers still clinging to yours, “Her Majesty is one to be enthralled and I would think that the public invitation to this monarch of Mandalore is an attempt to bring about said excitement.” Penelope’s curls bounced around her rounded face as she spoke and you took her words in with great thought. 

“A compelling view, if I ever heard!” Anthony complimented and Penelope bowed at Anthony’s flattery, “if you ladies will excuse us, we still must take our view of the room.” 

“Ah, we shall keep you no longer! Happy hunting, my Lord. Good luck, Daphne.” You sympathised genuinely and Daphne huffed in agreement as her brother pulled her away. “That was excellent, Penelope. Sharp wit, indeed!” 

Your words were met with sweet giggles from your friend as you continued your turn about the room, dance cards dangling delicately from your gloved wrists in and quizzed Penelope on the memory of her miniatures, impressed with her skill to point out each suitor with ease.

Once Penelope tired of walking, she took her rest by the edge of the dance floor and you bid her luck before striding to the refreshments table in search of a beverage to quench your thirst.

Your eyes remained locked on the small glasses of lemonade, unbothered with taking care in your surroundings- you were shocked to feel someone knock into you rather forcefully. You stumbled, unable to right yourself and you could feel your traitorous feet tangle around each other. 

Time seemed to slow to a complete stop, though your mind ran freely and aware. A frisson of fear crackled down your spine at the premature embarrassment of the predicament you were just about to drop yourself in just as you felt strong hands slip against your back, righting you almost as quickly as your legs betrayed you. 

“Oh, goodness, please do excuse my-” your apology trailed off into stunned silence as you took in the unfamiliar man you could call your savior. This stranger that had his arms around you in a most improper fashion and you know you should untangle yourself from his touch immediately but the heat of his large, ungloved hands bled into the exquisite material of your gown, through your corset and seared directly into the flesh of your arched back.

His clothing was much the same of every suitor attending, nothing unique or flamboyant to stand out amongst the countless other candidates. The slight crinkles in his suit brought an air of indifference- as if he cared little for the state of his dress. What persuaded you to fully take in his form, was his sun kissed, bronze skin that shone deep in the synthetic light of the chandelier accompanied by the ornate lights mounted on the wall; so striking and different from the many men that boasted pale complexions and youth.

You could see the ruggedness in the etchings in his skin, the lines that betrayed his advanced age compared to the others in attendance. The hair atop his head was rich and dark with slight streaks of gray, airy soft curls that adorned his head like a crown, wild and untamed. The same dark hair that graced his head, also carved around his jawline and upper lip, small patches of hair scarce in some places- so unlike the pronounced fashions in high society and you found yourself preferring the unkemptness. His eyes were a harsh change from the softness of his hair, striking and bold. They glittered like dark gems in the gentle lights as he perused your features, intelligent yet curious as he took you in with a cool countenance and thick brows pulled together in an expression of concern.

A prominent nose curved down with a hooked slope, rather large but it suited him and you fought the urge to caress the curved bridge with your fingertip. Pink lips parted, thin but pillowy as the tip of a red tongue slipped between to hydrate the slightly chapped flesh. 

It set him apart from the rest, a beauty you so desperately wished to explore.

Just as you studied this unfamiliar man, he also took your form in. 

His gaze was not leering like many of the bachelors loitering about the room- nor a lecherous grin curved those sinfully soft lips as he drank in your appearance with ease, noting every detail and micro expression with rapid ease and forced himself to cease the ever growing notion to tighten his arms around you, drag you closer to his chest when he felt the way your body curled into his touch, seeking the warmth he provided on a subconscious level. 

Clearing his throat softly, he righted you on your feet and took a step back, bowing at the waist and a soft curl slipped in front of his handsome features, concealing his left eye, “forgive my impropriety, my Lady,” his voice was deep, rasped and foreign and those same lips curled around each word with an elegance none of the men here could hope to match, “my intentions were pure, I assure you. I did not mean-” 

“-t-the apologies are mine, my Lord. I did not see you.” You cut off his apology, your usual confidence abandoning you and curtseyed softly before you both straightened in tandem, “please accept my most sincere apologies.” 

“Only if you accept mine, my Lady, as I was the one to knock you.” This man raised his eyes to meet yours, a small smile playing on his lips at your stunned expression. 

Realising how unladylike you seemed, you quickly smoothed your expression into a serene smile and bowed your head gently, “well then, I accept your apology, my Lord.” 

“And now, I shall receive yours.” He bowed once again, though his eyes never once strayed from yours, his hand coming to brush back the curl that slipped in front of his face, freeing his eye from the obstacle. “Quite an affair, is it not?”

You turned to look upon the room and the dozens of bodies packed in the lavish ball and the bodies moving in rhythmic synchronisation as they flounced around the dancefloor, skirts billowing and waistcoats whipping. “Yes, my Lord. It is certainly a promising fete.” You ripped your gaze from the dancers and you looked back to the mysterious suitor that you know for a fact his profile has never graced your miniatures. “I do not believe I have had the pleasure, my Lord.” You introduced yourself and he bowed his head in a nod to your status. 

“Din Djarin, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my Lady.”

You did not miss the way he left out his title, not many men did. It was refreshing to meet someone unbothered by status and titles. You smiled brilliantly and for a moment, he had trouble remembering how to breathe. 

How did people do this?

“What brings you to London, Lord Djarin? I do not believe I have seen you here.” You certainly couldn’t recall seeing those mesmerizing, yet prominent features etched in your miniatures.

“I’m in town for business, mostly- but I thought I would attempt to join the fray of finding a beautiful woman to make my bride.” Din’s eyes found yours when his lips curved out the word ‘beautiful’. You could feel your cheeks heat and quickly brought the tiny glass to your lips and took a long draught- almost emptying the glass entirely. It was unseemly on your part but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care, you needed to soothe your drying throat and tame the butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

“And what better place to be than a cotillion for ambitious debutants who are searching for the perfect match?” Betraying your inner emotions, you struck up kind conversation, performing an air of confidence and strengthened your resolve. A wide smile stretched his lips, revealing perfect, straight teeth and the act of a simple smile brightened his features. Your heart slammed against your ribcage in response, your steely courage cracking in half with little to no effort.

He took a sip of his own lemonade just as a pair of gossiping mama’s walked past you both, talking loud enough for you to overhear their conversation with minimal exertion- if any, “and where, pray tell, is this so-called king?"

"Perhaps, Whistledown's sources were wrong. You can never trust a scandal sheet these days, I wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to be a charlatan." 

You swallowed the sigh you desperately craved to release and inwardly shook yourself free from the coils of irritation that started to constrict around you before turning your attention back to the mysterious lord, only to notice his eyes were following the rumormongers and you helped yourself to a portioned sip of lemonade in an endeavor to quell the heat burning within you. A certain dark fire heated his gaze, stoking a reaction in you. Something deep and primal you had never experienced before and you suppressed a shudder at the ferocity clearly displayed in those deep, dark eyes.

“What are your thoughts on this foreign monarch, my Lord?” You barely managed to choke out, Din’s eyes snapped back to you as your question hung in the air and you swallowed subtly as his piercing gaze burned through yours.

“My thoughts?” He rasped, shifting on his feet in a show of subtle anxiousness. His earlier fire dissipating and awkward trepidation took the forefront.

“What do you make of the rumors surrounding the arrival of a ruler of a distant land coming to London to participate in the season?” You tilted your head in innocent curiosity, “surely, you have heard of this mysterious King hailing from his distant realm?”

“Rumor articles and gossip do not interest me, but yes, I am familiar with the topic you wish to discuss.” His smile twisted his lips into a forced stretch- barely passing for genuine and you weren’t sure as to why he seemed so uncomfortable when just moments earlier he was quite at ease conversing with you.

“And what do you make of his scarcity when his arrival was rumored to be a most certain guarantee? I should think the King would be thankful for not attending. Overbearing mothers and their equally simpering daughters have proven to be nuisances at the best of times.”

“Is that so?” Din looked at you, surprise colouring his pleasing features at your unfiltered response, “are you not disappointed that you may not meet this ruler and further your prospects on the mart?” His hand gestured subtly at his side, the barely touched lemonade sloshing dangerously close to the rim, “it would be a high honour to catch the eye of a king, now would it not?”

You chuckled, ducking your head for a moment, reflecting on your answer before opening your lips, “as silly as it may sound, I wish to marry for love.” You raised your hand, noncommittal waving it about, “I realise it will never happen, you do not endure two seasons with silly notions of love intact. I must maintain a status beholden of my title and secure a proper, advantageous match. But I can operate under the illusion of hope, can I not?” Din’s eyes cast down in thought, your words were soft, spoken quietly as if you were afraid another may overhear- whether by accident or on purpose, he could not say.

But the sincerity in your eyes could not be overlooked, the innocent yearning for a future that could very well be out of your reach sparkled against the hues of your irises. 

“Perhaps your aspirations will be met, my Lady.” Din smiled kindly and you hummed in thought, but your brilliant smile was dim. Working up his courage, he set the small glass of his barely touched lemonade on the refreshment table and vaguely gestured to the dancefloor, anxiousness twisting his features almost comically, “w-would you care to dance?”

His hand was large, rough with thick fingers. They were working hands, familiar with hard labour and you shivered imperceptibly at the thought of those hands running down the expanse of your naked flesh. 

You took a few steps forward, maintaining a respectable distance for propriety’s sake. With a smooth movement, you gently leant around him- his eyes never left yours as you placed your glass on the refreshment table beside his.

A gentle scent curled into your nose, blessing your senses with the subtle hints of sweet spices, oak and . . . a touch of gunpowder.

A heady, peculiar scent and it suited its wearer perfectly.

You slid your gloved hand into his, fingers slipping against his palm. The gossamer material caught on the rough skin of his palm and his lips upturned into a grin. “It would be my pleasure, Lord Djarin.” He grinned and you helped him by pointing to the card around your wrist and he made a soft ‘oh’ sound before taking hold of it and let go of your hand to grip the tiny pencil- thick fingers swallowing the dainty stationary and you smiled as he filled the Canon Galop Quadrille with his name in sharp, messy strokes.

“Shall we?” He let the card and pencil drop as his fingers snaked up your wrist slowly, feeling every dip and hollow before clasping your hand gently and leading you to the dance floor. “I must confess, I’m not accustomed to dancing all that much. I pray you forgive me if I fumble.”

You chuckled softly as you joined the other couples on the dancefloor and took your places. You smiled at Din who shuffled in place subtly, waves of anxiety pouring out of him, “I will not judge you, Lord Djarin. You have my most sincere promise and if you have any issues with the steps, I shall guide you. Do not worry.” He looked at you, your soothing tone calming the raging storm of distress inside him and he reciprocated with a smile of his own. 

The music began to play as you curtseyed to the other couples and took your place in front of Din, your hand slipping into his and a strong muscular arm wrapped around your back, large hand splayed across the expanse of your skin and you suppressed another shudder at the addicting heat he emitted. With a gentle nod, the tempo in the set increased and you began to skip about the room with practiced ease.

You gently tilted in a different direction, silently alluding to the next movement and he carried you effortlessly through the throngs of couples, winding around the dancefloor perfectly.

Giggles erupted from your throat, this particular dance always brought out the child within you and Din smiled at the sound, finding that he wished to hear it more often. “I dare say, my Lord, that you move quite well for not being accustomed to this particular dance.”

“I’m rather accustomed to a life outdoors, perhaps it has aided me well.” Din murmured, tightening his hold against your back.

You twisted and twirled around the dancefloor, weaving around bodies and as you separated to complete the next act of the dance, your eyes never left his and the mysterious man seemed more than content to hold your gaze and then you were back in each other’s arms.

“Perhaps, we could discuss the matter of dancing etiquette further, at a more. . private venue?” You asked quietly, alluding for him to call on your home. 

Before he could open his mouth to reply, a loud thump hit the ground and the music paused abruptly and you both stopped, all the guests' gazes swivelled to the ballroom doors as they were thrust open violently.

Gasps and shrieks rippled across the room as two armoured warriors marched forward, spears in hand and their features concealed by unusual helmets, stark colours streaked across the material in a wash of deep reds, browns, yellows and teals along with similarly handprints. A dark- completely opaque visor stretched across their helmets before spanning down, splintering the armour in half.

The curve of their coloured breastplates indicated their feminine physiques, pieces of vibrant painted plates clung to the thick, almost tribal clothing they wore beneath- sharp hues of red and brown adorned their bodies, hems tied tight with pieces of dark leather around their wrists and calves. Fur lined the capes around their shoulders as the thick material flowed to their booted feet, the leather scuffed and worn- creased from years of dedication and physical labor. 

Yet your eyes remained trained on the pure silver spears they held at the sides, pointed ends lifted straight in the air as they slammed the butts of the weapons down against the polished floors in tandem. 

A loud metallic ringing filled the ballroom and harsh bootfalls began to echo. 

Din stiffened in your arms before gently extricating you from his hold, the both of you turning to face the open entrance.

You swallowed harshly as a hulking figure took the space of the doorway, silver armour gleamed in the lights above, clearly displaying the pure gold accents weaved through the chest plate and accompanying pieces- dark clothes thick and concealing any form of skin to be shown, brown gloves worn, flaxen tips stark against the deep colours.

Just like his guards, he was not unarmed. But unlike carrying a spear of his own- you did not miss the pure obsidian claymore sheathed around his back. The hilt was brilliant against the darkness of the blade- made up of what seemed to be the same material that adorned his body. 

His helmet was simple- unlike the tribal colourings of his people, his was silver- notes of gold bled through the seams of the visor, framing it with its simplistic beauty and fur lined his shoulders, gold chain clinking against the silver metal and the crimson cape billowed behind him as he continued with his heavy gait. 

“Is it him? Surely not!”

“I expected a fanfare- yet this is not what I had imagined.”

“Do they dress like this in Mandalore? Will I have to?!”

“Look at them, so primal!”

“Why do they carry weapons? So uncivilised.” 

Whispers filled the hall as the foreign stranger stopped, his helmet scanning the room.

“The twenty-fourth monarch of our sovereign land,” The guards called, demanding silence from all in attendance, “The First of Clan Mudhorn and sole ruler of Manda’yaim. We present our king, the Manda’lor.” Their fists beat against their breastplates as they turned and faced their leader and bent their knee to the floor, heads bowed in respect. “This is the Way.”

The dark visor continued to survey the hall until it stopped-

-directly onto you.

Your breath caught in your throat as your eyes caught your reflection staring back at you from across the room, you could no longer feel Din’s presence beside you. A quiet, rasping voice rang true from beneath the ornate silver helm, so familiar and yet completely unplaceable.

“This is the Way.”