#so. take the unpainted armour as you will

[hinderr]

would role swap grogu have painted armor or unpainted chrome armor?

Hmmmmm logically- im not actually sure. In my head its unpainted, but Grogu's been Mandalorian for a while, so the age probably does show on his armour nonetheless. I guess it maybe used to be painted, but the paint wore off and Grogu never repainted. So it's silver in a way that's sort of dull and coarse, not shiny like canon Din's, who had a new set just made yknow?

[thegreenlizard]

Bare beskar

On the eve of marching to war, Obi-Wan makes plans and digs out his old armour. Musings on Mandalorian armour and culture, the ethics of commanding slave soldiers and how that affects one’s self-image.

Could be the same AU as “Not Obi-Wan’s first slave uprising” and “What makes a military genius” (where Obi-Wan is presented with a battalion of slave soldiers, says please and thank you, and starts plotting how to take down the slavers).

Obi-Wan has Mandalorian armour, courtesy of the Kyr’tsad who failed to kill him when he was seventeen and running for his life on Mandalore. The Jedi frown on such soldierly things, so the armour has mostly gathered dust in his closet for the past decade and some. But Obi-Wan has fought in a war before and recognises that no matter how good one is, sometimes armour is all that stands between bleeding out in a ditch and living to fight another day.

So on the eve of marching to war, Obi-Wan digs out his armour to clean and repair and condition every piece. He looks at its light green for peace and green for duty, the order’s wings on one pauldron/over his heart. He strips it all off. He has no right to wear any of it now, and the bare beskar is a statement of its own.

Plus

- Feels about how bare unpainted beskar could be silver for seeking redemption, disavowing all ties (in that there’s no one and nothing to paint his armour for), for being an outcast (which in his heart, he has already decided to become), or all of them. Leading a slave army to war is really really not in the Jedi mission statement. Obi-Wan, having experienced his own stints as a slave, having brought up a padawan who was born a slave, and having already left the order once for an army of child soldiers—well, he has some feels about it.

- Obi-Wan’s closet doesn’t just have armour, it also has a veritable armoury of, ah, useful souvenirs from his various missions. Maybe it makes him a bad Jedi, but Obi-Wan has some difficulty with letting go of possessions that have saved his life. Such as the sniper rifle from Melidaan, a blaster from here, and a vibroblade from there…

- Cody’s/The 212th’s reactions to their Jedi whose luggage apparently includes a full set of arms and armour and little else.

- There’s a story that armour tells for anyone who can read it and I wonder if the clones could. There are only a few things that a completely unpainted beskar’gam could mean. Either it’s completely new and the owner hasn’t had time yet to paint it. But Kenobi’s beskar’gam isn’t new: the metal has scrapes all over it and some fittings are clearly newer than others. It could be second hand, but as the weeks pass, the metal stays bare. And even though some shinies joke about their shiny, very visible general, Kenobi won’t even put on a matte base coat, just thanks the men politely and keeps on shining. It has to be intentional.

- When Obi-Wan eventually repaints his armour, it’s in gold for the 212th and black for justice for the vode.

In the days between accepting his marching orders and shipping out to meet his battalion, Obi-Wan researches, plans, and packs. He sleeps fitfully and dreams of Melida-Daan, of Bandomeer, of Mandalore. He tears through the archives and with echoes of the Young in his ears, downloads anything that might help keep his men alive. With a growing cold like deep sea mines, he reads the clones spec sheets, reviews galactic law, and speed reads his way through the last few years of the senate’s bills.

He pulls out of his closet possessions unbecoming of Jedi—things he has kept because he has been unable to let go of the fear of . There’s his old XX sniper rifle from Melida-Daan. A blaster from here. A vibroblade from there.

And there’s the armour he got from Mandalore. It’s painted in green for duty and erin for peace, the order’s sigil on the pauldron. He can hardly stand to look at it. Standing here, at the eve of marching to war that is to be fought with slave soldiers, he has no right to wear any of it. Not the green of duty, for he has forsaken his duty to protect all sentient life in accepting command of an army of slaves. Not the erin of peace, for he is marching off to fight a war to force worlds to stay in a republic they don’t wish to be a part of. Not the sigil of the Jedi order, for he has already forsaken his vows in these actions—and has already decided to forsake his duty to the republic.

Obi-Wan strips the beskar bare. Before refitting the armour, going through the straps, buckles, replacing worn parts and reconditioning the rest. He spends sleepless nights in the salles relearning to fight in armour.

“Paint? I painted it when I was seventeen. I, ah, stripped it when I accepted the draft.” Kenobi grimaces, but sets his jaw and continues. “I couldn’t keep the paint I had after that.” There’s an odd, bitter clang to his words.

[thefrogdalorian]

Hiiiii can you please do a din djarin fic where he is helping the reader with her injuries and she is nervous and insecure

Hello there, dear anon. It would be my pleasure! I started off writing Din tending to your wounds and an actual plot sort of developed out of it. Might've gotten a little carried away, but I hope this is something like what you were looking for.

Hope that you enjoyed it and thank you for sending me a request! ♡

Word Count: 2398 Rating: General Summary: You have spent the last few months caring for the son of a mysterious Mandalorian who moved to Nevarro. Along the way, you found yourself developing a crush on him. However, when you arrive for your latest shift, you are stunned to discover that rather than caring for Grogu, Din wants to spend the day with you. Although it doesn't go entirely as planned, you both end up with a little more than you bargained for. Content Warnings: Brief descriptions of bloody injuries to reader's hands and knees.

The touch on your throbbing hand was so achingly gentle that it was difficult to believe the man currently tending to your injuries once had such a notorious reputation for violence and destruction throughout the galaxy, thanks to his time in the Guild. The Mandalorian that you so admired had assumed many roles throughout his life: first he was a son, then a Mandalorian foundling. During adulthood, he had been a mercenary and a Bounty Hunter long before he was a father. There was even a brief time where he was technically Mand’alor, before his current role working with the New Republic. But today, Din Djarin took on a new role: nurse.

The day had started off promisingly enough. You arrived at Din’s cabin on the outskirts of Nevarro for your usual shift, expecting to take care of Grogu while Din ran some errands in town. But instead of answering the door like he usually did, clad in a full suit of armour and holding Grogu in his arms, Din's appearance was noticeably different. While he wore his usual helmet and gloves, everything else was unrecognisable. Instead of his unpainted Beskar, Din wore a form-fitting brown shirt with matching brown shorts and what appeared to be hiking boots. You were instantly curious, fearing you had perhaps gotten the time for your shift confused.

But even more intriguing than Din’s appearance was that Grogu was nowhere to be seen. Before you could question Din on his son’s whereabouts, he explained that he had already left Grogu in the care of High Magistrate Karga. You turned to leave, realising that, clearly, your services would not be required today. But Din gently grabbed your wrist to prevent you from walking away so that he could explain his actions. It transpired that Din wanted to spend the day with you and that leaving Grogu had been the first step of his plan. Now, it was time for the two of you to spend the day exploring the volcanic planet you both inhabited.

As the two of you had set out on a hike across the lava flats of Nevarro, you found your head was spinning with questions. Why in Maker’s name did Din want to spend time with you? What had you done to be worthy of his time? After all, you were initially employed to look after Grogu because Din was often so busy during the brief time he spent between missions that he wanted to enjoy his time and run errands that could be difficult with a child tagging along. Why would he waste a day on you?

Despite the questions spinning around in your mind, you were too shy to vocalise a single one of them. It was to be expected, as you found that you were always nervous in Din’s presence. You found him equal parts intimidating and mesmerising with his hulking, looming presence as he shimmered in all of his unpainted Beskar glory. You loved his deep, raspy voice and the way he held himself so confidently.

After so many months of getting to know him and caring for Grogu, you found that you had developed somewhat of a crush on the mysterious Mandalorian who you had taken on childcare duties for. Although some of your nerves had dissipated the more time you had spent with Din, there was still a feeling whenever you were around him that you could not quite explain. You just knew that whenever you left him, you ached to be in his presence. Any amount of time with him would never be enough.

Was it a possibility, given his sudden desire to spend time with you, that Din reciprocated such feelings? It was a thought that had caused you to almost fall over your own feet several times, so giddy were you at such a prospect. You had mentally chastised yourself each time, reminding yourself that you needed to focus and keep your balance. There would be nothing more embarrassing than tripping over yourself because you were too busy daydreaming about what being on the receiving end of Din Djarin’s affections would feel like.

So, instead, as you followed Din across the planet’s surface, you tried to focus on the purposeful, even steps that he was taking by staring at his weathered brown boots. But even that proved difficult, given the fact that above his boots were his legs, which were, for once, bare. You found yourself unable to tear your gaze away from his muscular calves as he strode along Nevarro’s grey-black volcanic surface. The firmness of his skin and how tanned it appeared fascinated you. You wondered what such skin would feel like beneath your hands. Would it be soft and smooth or weathered like the leather of his boots? You wondered, too, whether the smattering of dark hair on his legs was any indication about the hair on top of his head. You knew that removing his helmet in your presence would violate his creed, but you wouldn't lie and say that you weren't curious about what he looked like. You often wondered whether Din's face matched his gorgeous voice.

You watched in awe as Din's muscular arms reached up to adjust the bag that was slung across his broad shoulders. You were just appreciating being in his presence as much as you were his physicality. Ever since you had first met Din, you had felt inexplicably drawn to him. You would follow him anywhere in the galaxy, should he only ask. 

As it happened, today he was asking you to join him on a hike up one of the volcanos that littered the Nevarrian surface. You had been a little daunted at the prospect of such an endeavour, but Din promised you that the views would be worth it. So despite your reservations, you began to follow him to the top of the volcano. 

Things had been progressing nicely for the most part. Although you had struggled to keep up with Din at first with the long strides he took, he had adjusted his pace and the two of you had fallen into step at each other’s side.

Your heart felt as though it was beating out of your chest. You weren’t sure if it was because of the exertion from hiking up a volcano or at the realisation of how close the man you harboured a crush for was to you. Although the temperature was beginning to rise as it approached the afternoon, you were actually starting to enjoy the hike. The frequent water breaks that you took were welcome, too. You and Din would sit for a few minutes and share sips from the canteen of water he had brought. Din used a long straw to take his sips, a sight that you found impossibly adorable. There he was, such a mountain of a man, using a small straw to take small sips of his drink.

As you set off from your most recent water break, it appeared that the path ahead of you narrowed. You and Din resumed walking in single file, treading a careful path across the surface. Din warned you to mind your step as there were rocks up ahead, but in the couple of seconds you took your gaze off the path to look at what lay ahead, your foot snagged something. 

Everything which followed seemed to happen in slow motion, you put your hands out to brace yourself, which proved to be a painful mistake.

“Din!” You screamed as you tumbled to the ground.

For a few moments, you thought that you had avoided any injury. Your pulse was racing, your heart pounding in your head as you lay there disorientated. The first thing you heard once your senses returned was the crunch of the gravel underneath Din’s boots as he raced to your aid. Then, the T-visor of his helmet came into view. Din placed his hands underneath your shoulders and gently helped you into a seated position. It was only then, with him in front of you, that you finally felt the extent of your injuries.

You howled in pain as Din held your left hand carefully in his. Finally, you felt the way it stung. Your palm throbbed, it felt as though you had just been cut by shards of glass. Although the cuts weren’t deep and, luckily, you had avoided any stones getting stuck in your skin, blood was seeping from the cuts on the palm of your hand.

“Oh dear. That looks painful,” Din offered sympathetically as he assessed the extent of your injuries. “Hold on, I have a medkit in this bag.”

As Din swung the bag over his shoulder, you looked down at the rest of your body to check for further injuries. You felt your stomach drop as you noticed more blood oozing from your leg.

“Din, it’s my knee, too,” You whined, as your left knee joined your hands throbbing with pain.

“It’s okay, I have some Bacta patches and spray. I’ll have you patched up in no time,” Din said softly.

You sat back and watched as this enormous, hulking man removed his gloves and began to tend ever-so gently to your wounds. Perhaps, if you weren’t in so much pain, you would have appreciated the fact that the two of you were touching skin-to-skin, with no barriers between you.

Din's broad shoulders hunched over as he carefully examined the damage and began to apply the Bacta spray to your hands. You had been privileged enough to witness the softer, caring side of Din Djarin on multiple occasions since you had met him during the time the two of you had spent together in his cabin. However, the caring side of him was usually reserved for his interactions with Grogu. But today, it was your turn to experience this tender side of the Mandalorian that you had once been so intimidated by.

Now the Bacta spray was beginning to take effect and lessen the thrumming pain in your hand, you found that nerves overtook you. Your heart raced with anxiety. You were so nervous that being in such close proximity would reveal the extent of your feelings for Din.

But you were distracted by such thoughts as Din applied the Bacta patches to your injured hands. You bit your lip to stop the tears that threatened to fall down your cheeks, moved by how much care he took with his ministrations. With your hands successfully cared for, Din moved to address your injured knee.

“You probably think I’m a clumsy fool,” You scoffed as Din tended to your knee, suddenly embarrassed at how careless you had been in his presence. The man just wanted to spend his day off hiking up a volcano, he had invited you to join him and you had ruined those plans by being such a bumbling idiot.

“Never,” Din shook his head with absolute conviction in his voice. Din raised his helmet to look at you and softly added: “I could never think such a thing about you, cyare.”

The tears you had been holding back then flowed freely down your cheeks. You found yourself so moved by his reassuring words and the kindness and warmth in his voice. The word Din had used meant nothing to you but you supposed it was from his native tongue.

“Come here,” Din sighed as he inched his way to sit closer towards you. He moved his hands to cup your jaw gently, wiping the tears that began to feel with his thumbs. 

The comforting words and actions had the opposite effect, however, as more tears trailed hot paths down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry for ruining your day, Din,” You sniffled apologetically as you struggled to meet his helmeted gaze.

“Ruin it?!” Din exclaimed, incredulous at such a notion. “Never.” He asserted. “Any day I spend with you is a day to be treasured. I enjoy your company.”

“Really?” You asked, stunned at his admission, wiping your cheeks with the backs of your hands as the tears finally began to subside.

“Of course,” Din nodded. “I’m sorry today didn’t work out. I wanted to show you the most gorgeous view on Nevarro. As it turns out, it appears it was right here in front of me all along…”

Your mouth hung open and your eyebrows shot up your face as you stared at the Mandalorian by your side in stunned silence.

“Oh, Din…” You whispered, voice full of emotion. But you were still a little confused. You furrowed your brow and sought clarity: “Do you… I mean…” You stammered, unable to form coherent thoughts following the implication of his words.

“Let me be clear: I intended for us to hike to the top of the volcano so that we could finally have some time alone,” Din took a deep, steadying breath before he continued: “And once up there… I could tell you that ever since I met you, I haven’t been able to shake you from my mind. I think you’re an incredible person and, if you’d allow me to, I’d like to get to know you better.”

“I’d love that, Din,” You practically squealed. “Although, perhaps for our first proper date, we should do something indoors,” You joked, the pain from your fall already subsiding after the rush of excitement that coursed through your body after Din had confessed his feelings for you.

Din laughed at that and wrapped his arm around you. The two of you shifted to a more comfortable position on the ground, swinging your legs out over the side of the rocky path and facing out to the rest of Nevarro. Even though you hadn’t made it to the top due to your unfortunate accident, you reasoned that it couldn’t possibly be as incredible as this. You were sure the view was even better from down here, especially with Din’s strong arm slung around your shoulders. You smiled as his hand rubbed the top of your arm gently as you leaned against his firm, warm chest.

You sighed in contentment as you gazed across the volcanic planet before you. It may have taken you falling flat on your face to finally force the two of you to address your feelings for each other, but it was undoubtedly a price you were willing to pay.

[ranahan]

Cin, white

Colour of new beginnings and endings, birth and death—inextricably linked in the Mandalorian psyche, like two sides of the same coin. White symbolises the natural cycles: for something new to be born, something old must die. Death in nature makes room for and fertilises new growth; it’s neither good or bad, it’s necessary—without death, there’s no new growth but stagnation. White is the colour of cin vhetin, lit. ‘white field’. Like snow falls on the field and covers it, like winter kills the nature only for it to be born again in the spring, so cin vhetin symbolically kills the past so one may be reborn as a Mandalorian. It’s the traditional colour of New Year’s celebrations, funerals and births. In art, it is often used to depict stars, especially in the context of the Ka’ra.

Ge’tal, red

The colour of honouring a parent. It could mean a specific person, like a parent or a mentor. It could mean honouring the whole clan, and recalls that specific part of the Resol’nare. Or it could have the more general sense of honouring all that have come before you, i.e. honouring the culture and cultural traditions of Mandalore. That also makes red the traditional colour of lore-keepers, like gorane, archivists, reporters, historians, archaeologists, poets and song-smiths—which also might come with its own set of connotations, like associating the colour red with the act of creation (like the smithing of armour and weapons).

Saviin, purple

Other parts of the fandom have given purple the sense of “luck”. I’m a big fan of the “adaptability, survival in adversity” meaning. Depending on how you want to view it, it’s either an additional meaning or a specific kind of luck. English-speakers might not view it as luck at all, but for Mandalorians it might be the most salient kind of luck of them all: the adaptability to take advantage of opportunities, the indomitability to make opportunities where there are none, and the tenacity to keep going until either one is possible. It’s the ultimate “the gods help those who help themselves” kind of luck.

I like the idea that saviin is a kind of a wildflower, not necessarily any relation to wild violets on earth besides the colour. And I think that wildflowers are actually the most revered kind of a flower in Mandalorian culture post-Dral’Han. Not the fancy roses and lilies, but the little weeds that can grow even in the unlikeliest of places and make their way even through concrete and stone (or the glassed surface of a planet).

I think that the tropical jungle flowers that grew on Mandalore before Dral’Han have collectively taken on a meaning a bit like cherry flowers in Japanese culture. They’re beautiful, but ultimately fragile and ephemeral. Traditional Mandalorian species are especially significant because of their disappearance/rarity.

So calling someone sarad’ika (“little flower”) as a pet name could mean that they’re precious. But it could also be used sarcastically, rather like “a special little snowflake” is in English, implying they’re a fragile tropical flower that can only survive in the artificial conditions of a hothouse. But calling someone saviin’ika (or another wildflower/weed) unambiguously means they’re tenacious and thrive even in adversity.

Besal, steel-grey (silver)

So English has “silver” as the prototypical metal colour. But I think for mandos, that would be the colour of beskar, not silver. So besal < bes (steel) + sal (colour), or beskar (as an adjective, meaning beskar-coloured).

So the colour silver symbolises, and in the case of beskar’gam is, unpainted metal. Depending on context, having unpainted beskar’gam could mean several things. Mourning like grey, but also specifically the kind of mourning where you have nothing and no-one to paint your besk for, being the last one of your clan or suffering another kind of devastating loss. It could also mean seeking redemption: when you can’t use the other colours because you feel you have lost your honour and the right to claim the values the other colours symbolise, but instead of hanging up your armour, you’re determined to keep going and redeem yourself. It could also imply stripped paint, as in the case of inherited beskar (see mourning), or signify a great change (one being in the process of repainting their armour).

Is there anything you can tell me about Mando colour symbolism that isn't already on that "armour colour" post? I'm planning out a Sabine POV story where it would be relevant.

Well, yes and no. I went over the “facts” of colors and mandalorian color theory. What I can do now is kind of dig deeper into the actual mando’a words for colors, and maybe extrapolate more on the etymology of each word as they’re relevant to colors. If anything, it’ll give you an idea of how to break down the colors and maybe play with the meanings, or even the construction of the words themselves. Hopefully that helps?

I got a little carried away (again?) so I apologize for the length and time it took to put this together … and also you can take everything I say with a grain of salt as I’m trying to make sense of the etymology of these words. I’m also skipping orange as there’s no word for in the dictionary as of yet, and including violet since it is.

So, let’s go in the order that I went in the original post. Forewarning that black is going to be the longest section as I’ve thought about it maybe way too much.

ne’tra — black 

Ne’ is traditionally one of the negative prefixes of mando’a. It’s meant to indicate the opposite of what it’s attached to, or the not-thing. Tra means space, void … but it also translates to starfield, or field of stars. 

So. Black. Justice. Not the void of space, or, alternatively, Without stars, a starless night. 

However way you want to interpret that is up to you, but to me? From what I understand of mandalorian history? They were once a truly nomadic people, who voyaged across the stars. They were, arguably, wayfinders. More than just warriors, or conquerors, or however most would like to put it.

I originally wasn’t going to do this, but because you mentioned (elsewhere) that you’re focusing on dusk, I want to take a moment to extrapolate on this thought. The reason I say this is because of how they view stars. 

Mandalorians are generally not considered to be religious. But the language they speak is still very deeply steeped in poetic concepts — grasping at the enormous and unthinkable with words as clever and broad as a people can attempt to embody them. Stars is my personal favorite.

Ka’ra — stars, ruling council of fallen leaders. Mandalorians still speak of those who pass as not being dead, but marching far far away. The origin of the word stars is the belief that the Mand’alore ascend to the stars, to watch over the people and to guide them.

The word for breath is kar’am. Hyperdrive is karbakar (star to star). Kar’ta is heart. Kar’taylir is awareness, knowledge, lit. to hold in the heart. Karyai is the main communal living room of a communal home, where a family convenes to spend time together — and often the last bastion against an invasion.

Jate’kara, luck, destiny, literally good stars, a course to steer by. 

All of these words stem from stars.

Black, the color, is literally a starless night. But, while the impulse is to go for something negative, I would actually pull away from that. Mandalorians, in general, also view adversity (something difficult, something terrible, something terrifying) as something to challenge and overcome as a way of life. A starless night is not to be feared but to be met. 

A starless night may also be indicative, poetically, of a place or a people or an event without justice. And that void, that emptiness, that lack? Must be filled. Whomsoever wears black has taken it upon themselves to fill a void and reinstate justice in whatever manner that may mean.

But also consider: a night without stars evokes a specific sort of image and feeling … which may also be completely different depending on the person in question. Someone who lives in a bright city and experiences light pollution would be used to a night without stars, versus someone living out in the wild (like Krownest) or who is dependent on the stars to travel, would be used to a night full of stars and may find it distressing or strange.

ve’vut — gold

This one is a little less straightforward. Vut, or vutyc, indicates special. Unique, precious. Ve’ (pronounced vay or veh) is unclear as to what it’s meant to indicate, but often when we see ve’ as a prefix, it’s usually from ven (future tense), but in this case it may be from vheh, earth, soil, dirt. 

Gold. Vengeance. A precious future, or, precious metal.

Maybe evocative of the sun rising after a long and difficult night. The gold of the sun rising is a promise of a future — or at the very least, the feeling of surviving to tomorrow. This might be too poetic though lmao, and tbh … I really like the simplicity and the directness of precious metal (lit. special dirt, lmao).

The funny thing here is that though I have gold and yellow listed together for meaning (as they are, generally, considered under the same banner of Vengeance), the word for yellow is different.

shi'yayc — yellow

So. I’m not really a fan of this word, to be perfectly honest with you. I’m of the opinion this is less an actual color and more an adjective meant to describe something else. But regardless, here it is.

From shi, just/only, and yayc, which may be from oyayc, meaning alive (or oya! which carries many meanings and generally overwhelmingly positive). Generally though, with the yc added to the end, it’s less a noun and more an adjective, so it might actually be meant to be a descriptor (ie. yellowing of skin or eyes etc). 

Yellow. Vengeance. Only just alive, or barely dead.

Maybe comparison to, say, a recently deceased person — but that only really works if one assumed that all dead persons are pale and turn yellow when they die, and that’s a weird assumption to make in the context of mandalorians.

Also consider: yellow is dull compared to the shine of a metallic gold. Less intense in that way. My question is what becomes of a person after they’ve enacted vengeance? What becomes of a life devoid of a perpetual motivating force like that? What happens when gold loses its sheen and fades, dulls? 

Am I just taking this too far, to the next level it doesn’t need to go? maybe

EDIT:: w/ points from anon through a later ask, I’d like to also add what they said: 

you pondered about the connotations of yellow regarding ‘just/barely alive’ and its comparison to gold. I thought maybe it’s about flames/light - like a bright vivid flame is a bright gold, while the flame, when it’s only small and ->barely alive

I hadn’t even consider that it might have been referencing intensity of light/fire? But the way you put it, that may actually make more sense than the direction I was going in. I was definitely perplexed somewhat, like I was missing something. This sounds like what I was missing.

That could also apply for the heat of a flame, too. Like, referring to the intensity of the light, or the intensity of the heat, or both, depending entirely on context, and related to the below.

Lust for life

So, there’s no word for orange in mando’a at this time.

Consider: Yellow is sometimes indicated to also mean lust for life, depending on who you ask and what source material you’re comparing it to.

It’s entirely possible that mandalorians don’t have a way to differentiate between yellow and orange. Some cultures do display a limitation in language, seeing what we would consider a range (yellow to orange) as all one spectrum under the same banner.

So while Yellow may mean barely alive/barely dead, yellow may also mean nothing but life.

Something to think about.

genet — gray

Gray/Silver. Mourning lost love.

Ge’ for almost, by proximity (literally or metaphorically). Net, we can assume, comes from the word for black, ne’tra. So, in this case, gray is literally almost black, but not quite. Reaching towards it, maybe, but not quite there.

I’ve used overcast before to describe gray, or the feeling of a loss, of grief, and it still applies here. Almost, not quite, as a starless night sky. Duller, paler, than a starfield. That kind of thing—perpetually in comparison to black.

Also consider that it may infer obscuring the target, instead of almost reaching black, it may act like a filter, a translucent overlay to take away or obscure intensity of (in this case from black, or night sky). Mandalorians, who are (or once was) so used to navigating by/the stars, suddenly having to deal with their guidance obscured? There’s loss, there, too.

kebiin — blue

This one’s a little … less straightforward. Ke’ is used as an imperative prefix, usually to indicate that this word/sentence is a command, but keb may also come from kebbur, meaning to try or make an attempt. Biin, or bii, may come from abiik, air (interestingly, kebii’tra indicates sky, so it’s literally blue starfield, blue space).

What is reliable? What is faithful? Following through, or making the attempt again and again—someone consistent, trustworthy. To stretch the meaning, as trustworthy as the air. 

Blue. Reliability. Faithful. As consistent, or trustworthy, as the air.

I wonder if that was ever a phrase in use. “As trustworthy as the air” might ring true on a planet where they can breathe without their helmets … but what if they so happen to land on a planet that they cannot?

In hindsight, that sounds like a very mando joke to make. B’)

“Who ever is reliable all the time?” Both a joke and a very serious question.

ge’tal — red

Ge shows up again. Almost. Tal, blood. Almost blood, or nearly / like blood. 

From what I understand, the Taung did bleed red, and since they were the original mandalorians, it makes sense for them to make the simplest association for the color.

Red. Honoring a parent. 

This is kind of a call back, imo, to the saying “the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” as chosen family ties are stronger than that of biological ones, and consider that mandalorians are expected to shed blood for their chosen family if it ever came to it.

But also consider pointing at a rose and, quite literally, calling it like blood. 

vorpan — green

Vor, figuratively, is to thank. Literally, it’s to accept. Pan… is a little difficult to discover what it might indicate, or where it may come from, but from the two other words it’s a part of (epan, for guts, entrails, and sapan for electromagnet) we can kind of infer that it’s meant to indicate core, or insides, the interior of a thing.

Metaphorically, vorpan can be understood to be accepting a task to fulfill with one’s whole being. For context, vorpan’oy is the word for vegetation, as in bringing life to green.

Green. Duty. To embody one’s accepted task. 

Not really sure why, but let’s go with that.

saviin — violet

This word is actually very close to Sabine’s name — they’re pronounced the same, just with a v instead of b. In some dialects or accent, one might say they are the same. I would argue they are.

So. Violet. Saviin. Sa’ most likely comes from sarad, meaning flower, bloom. Viin is from viinir, for run. 

Running flower. Wild violets are considered weeds in some places, and so instead of run as in flee, run may lean more towards running wild, an overgrowth — or a plant that can live, even thrive, anywhere, in spite of adversity and outside forces attempting to eradicate them. 

Survival in adversity.

And, maybe unintentionally maybe not, given the above I would argue it’s a perfect name for Sabine under the circumstances. 

EDIT:: referring again to points brought up by anon in a later ask:

saviin sounds a lot like Sabine, which seems very very likely to me, considering the long i (or rather e - from an anglophone perspective) and that [v] and [b] are very similar sounds, so maybe Sabine is like a basic transcription or a dialect form of Saviin. Regarding the meaning of the colour/name

My etymology for it would be the following: “viin”/“bine” being a degenerated/shortened form (or even the root?) of kebiin - blue connected with “sa” - as, like, it gives “sa viin” - “like blue”, what is kind of a good description for purple/violet, implying the standard shade in mandalorian perception would be a darker bluish purple ALSO implying that the concept of purple cam up comparably late in the language, similar of the color orange getting it’s name rather late in germanic languages 

I was going color by color so I missed the connection in the effort to complete the post, which was an oversight by me sadly. 

It might also then directly connect the connotations of blue (reliability) with purple (adaptability, survival in adversity). They who are reliable can be depended on to adapt and survive adversity, or so on, kind of like orange (lust for life) from yellow, as thought about from above (the intensity of the flame).

Definitely some interesting things to think about.

[inkformyblood]

[Written for Canon Divergence prompt for BobaDin Bingo, past established BobaDin reuniting]

When Din tries, he can mostly remember his husband. 

 The armour is the clearest recollection, a blended version of beskar with a different kind of metal to stretch it further. The green paint would chip over the dent in the helmet revealing the starting layer of blue paint which would be covered up quickly with dark green paint. The green never quite matched itself, darker on the breastplate but lighter over the vambraces and the leg plates, always coming close to what Din thought was the original paint colour around the neck but never quite reaching it. Din’s final memory of the armour carries with it the scent of salt from the most recent mixture, his husband’s helmet drawn up just enough for him to bite at the leather of his gloves to pull them off and the paint stained his crooked smile and the tip of his tongue before Din had turned away. 

 The rest of Din’s memories are scattered, disjointed; the heat of tinglaar offered on a wooden spoon with a bare hand hovering beneath it, his husband’s helmet pushed up enough to lick the sauce from his palm with a hum; the wide-set sprawl that his husband would settle into on any given surface that he would immediately correct so Din could curl up next to him; a laugh ringing clear above the innate static of the vocoder, warm and smoky and rich enough to cut with a blade and be preserved forever. He wishes he had something tangible now. 

 Grief is a slow-moving thing, a wave that ebbs and flows around his ankles until it catches him unaware and sends him sprawling. It hadn’t in years until Din turns the corner in a small market on Tatooine and sees his husband’s armour strapped onto a stranger. 

 They’d been children when they’d parted last, still unaware of the magnitude of the vows they had spoken. Din curls his hand around the cool metal of his vambrace, pressing his thumb into the latch that never quite closed properly until it dug into the hardened skin and he could feel it. He doesn’t know if that man is his husband; he’d never seen his face. 

 It’s a nice face, made for smiling, he thinks, and the grin the other wears suits him well, broad enough to make Din’s cheeks ache in sympathy. He’s golden, caught in the sunlight like an embrace, and half-turned away to speak to the woman at his side and Din takes the moment to run. He doesn’t get far, a few paces back into the shadow of the alley he had just emerged from before he collapses against the wall, letting himself drop to the ground. His chest feels too full, his head too twisted with every thought he’s ever had, and the grief he hadn’t thought about in years crashes over him. He scrabbles for his vocoder, turning off the external speakers with a click of his teeth, and he screams until he has no breath left in his trembling body. 

 Din has lost his family. He has lost his home. Now, he’s lost another constant before he had even realised. 

 A shadow passes over him, hesitant almost, withdrawing the moment Din scrambles to his feet with the whistling birds notched into his armour humming into life. His husband stands in the mouth of the alley, his face still bare, still beautiful, his hands spread although whether to placate or misdirect Din couldn’t say. 

 “Beroya? Is that you?”

 Din doesn’t answer, doesn’t move. He doesn’t trust his body to support him, his knee a ruin that he has only made worse by his abrupt collapse, and his breath catches on the shattered pieces of his chest with every trembling gasp. Instead, he tips his head to one side, stretching out to press his hand into the wall, aching to feel something beyond the narrow confines of his gloves. He hasn't touched anything properly in days.

 “I hope it is you,” his husband says. He fumbles at his vambrace for a moment, the metal unpainted and Din’s gaze locks onto it. He’d almost forgotten the design of his old armour, the lines of his vambrace drawn tight and sharp to try and change his shape just enough when he had still been as slight as a fresh-grown sapling. He hadn’t needed those tricks in years. 

 Din raises his arm to display the dark green vambrace. The paint doesn’t match, it never did, but he had kept it neat and as close as he could mix the paint colour and reactivates his speaker. “I never could get the latch to work properly.”

[cabezadeperro]

Hi, for the prompt game, can I suggest 8 with either foxlan or jango & cad bane? (both suggestions can be / or &, whichever you prefer)

hiiiiii

i went with cad bane + jango (could be read either way 😈)

first job they work together, right after jango escapes from the freighter, T.

---

The kid is too quiet. 

He watches from his seat at the back of the shuttle, helmet on and elbows on his knees, and he has yet to say a single word. Cad listens to the bickering, joins in now and then, and keeps an eye on the boy. He’s young, but his armour—unpainted beskar alloy, the helmet the only piece that’s pure—is scuffed, well worn, and he moves like he knows what he's doing. 

He doesn’t like them. He joined their crew because that’s what the employer wanted, and that’s how it goes with mercenary work—you do what your employer tells you to do and keep your mouth shut. 

Cad doesn’t like him either: if not for Bossk’s recommendation, he would have told him to fuck off. 

But the old lizard likes the kid, and Cad’s boss wanted a fourth man for the job, so he bit the bolt and then bullied the other two into accepting Fett as well. And now the boy does nothing but sit there, quietly watching them, hard to read behind his beskar helmet. Cad sucks on his cigarette. He could get quite a lof of money off that helmet—beskar’s hard to get. The kid tilts his head in Cad’s direction, like he can hear what Cad’s thinking: Cad smiles at him, taking care to hide his teeth. Fett snorts, loud and crackly and obvious through his helmet’s speakers, and says nothing.

Cad scowls. He flicks his cigarette away, takes half a step in Fett’s direction, and then the shuttle’s proximity alarm starts blaring, and it’s all go go go go.

The kid says nothing while they make their way through the mountains, says nothing when Carrigan tries to makes a pass at him, clearly also thinking about beskar and credits; he says nothing while he wipes bright green Rodian blood off his vibroknife; he says nothing when Cad shoots Morrick in the back.

The two of them make it through the mountains in one piece, and Fett has yet to say a single word or to take his helmet off—he sleeps in the thing, barely lifts the lip in order to drink and eat. He waits and he keeps his silence, and Cad keeps putting it off, keeps moving his hand off the butt of his blaster, and he does not know why. Because Fett’s just a nobody. He has no friends, no contacts—he’s young and desperate and good with a gun, but so is half the galaxy. 

It might be that Cad knows that Fett’s expecting it—it might be Fett’s silences, and the knowing way he watches Cad, attention heavy and dense despite the fact that Cad has yet to see his face.

In the end, Cad doesn’t see it coming. Fett leaves Cad for dead, bleeding out among the shrubs, hole in his gut and sun shining cruelly over his head, and Cad didn’t see it coming but he should.

[harrylee94]

In the Footsteps of Luminous Beings - Chapter 15

You can also find this on AO3!

Summary: There’s a stranger in town, Marshal,” Jo said, peeking her head through Cobb’s door. “He’s headed to the cantina.”

“I’m comin’,” he replied, pulling his helmet to him from the kitchen table with a tug of the Force as he walked towards her, leaving the remainder of his lunch uneaten. “I’m sure Taanti’ll keep him busy for a minute.”

“You sure this guy won’t just blast a hole in him?”

Cobb smirked, bumping her elbow against her arm before donning the helmet. “I’d already be there if he was, wouldn’t I?”

Notes: Another shorter chapter but I'm so excited!!! 'Chapter 9: The Marshal' begins...

TW for mentions of slavery.

Chapter 14

——————————————————————

The Stranger

“There’s a stranger in town, Marshal,” Jo said, peeking her head through Cobb’s door. “He’s headed to the cantina.”

“I’m comin’,” he replied, pulling his helmet to him from the kitchen table with a tug of the Force as he walked towards her, leaving the remainder of his lunch uneaten. “I’m sure Taanti’ll keep him busy for a minute.”

“You sure this guy won’t just blast a hole in him?”

Cobb smirked, bumping her elbow against her arm before donning the helmet. “I’d already be there if he was, wouldn’t I?”

She grinned back at him and patted him on the back, heading off to let him ‘do his thing’.

Jo had grown a lot over the years, in more ways than one. She was a strong young woman, a born leader, taking after her mother in so many ways, but, from the arguments he heard from their home every so often, different in just as many. She still called him a Nerf Herder from time to time, and he still saw her as that little girl he’d seen in Mos Espa every so often, but he would never mistake her for that child.

The walk to the cantina from his home was a short one, as it was from every home in Mos Espa, but with each step he took the very air seemed to tremble in anticipation, a static charge that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He shivered as he stepped up onto the boardwalk and up to the door.

“— Marshal wears Mandalorian armour?”

The stranger. Their voice was deep, gruff under the modulation of their helmet, which Cobb could see was unpainted beskar, the same as the rest of his armour. He was broader than Cobb, perhaps about as tall, and armoured to the teeth. The whole image of him screamed ‘dangerous’, from the way he held himself to the way he spoke, but then a slight movement down by his boots caught Cobb’s attention.

What looked to be a child, perhaps even a baby, with green skin and large ears looked up at him with big eyes. Cobb didn’t recognise them, so they must have come with the Mandalorian, and yet while the Force moved around the stranger much as it did most others in the town, around the kid it seemed to glow.

“See for yourself,” Taanti said, drawing Cobb’s attention up again before he could look too close, and then he was suddenly the centre of the Mandalorian’s attention.

It was a little intimidating.

“What brings you here, stranger?” he asked in form of a greeting, though his hand remained resting  his blaster.

Where was Ben when you needed him?

He could remember from the lessons Ben had given him that a Mandalorian’s armour — or beskar’gam, as he’d called it — was akin to their soul, so he knew his wearing it, as a non-Mandalorian — aruetyc — would be sacrilege to the being before him. When he’d learned this he’d wanted to stop wearing the armour, but the Force had been quite persistent. There had been a few times since then that he’d been lad he’d listened to it.

“I’ve been searching for you for many parsecs,” the Mandalorian said, and while the phrase would normally have made Cobb feel nervous, the way he said it implied something more.

This felt like a conversation that needed alcohol, especially since this Mando didn’t know he was aruetyc yet.

“Well, now you’ve found me,” he said, heading towards the bar. “Weequay, two snorts of spotchka.” Taanti complied, knowing Cobb would pay him back later once the air had cleared, and he took the bottle and clay cups towards a table. “Why don’t you join me for a drink?”

He caught the hitch in the Mandalorian’s step as he led the way towards the table — something he’d said or done probably not what he was expecting — but he didn’t exactly know what else to do. Most cultures didn’t deem sharing a drink as unusual, so perhaps it was a personal preference. Either way, it would be rude to continue to talk to this Mandalorian and the (their?) child with his face hidden away.

Settling himself down, he removed his helmet, which drew the stranger to a stop.

“I’ve never met a real Mandalorian before,” he said, a smile on his face even as the air between them stifled. He wasn’t expecting any different for what he’d just revealed though. He poured the drinks. “Heard stories. Know you’re good at killin’.” He slid one drink closer to the stranger, the other he held between his fingers. “Probably none too happy to see me wearing this hardware. Now, I’m grateful you didn’t just shoot me, probably somethin’ to do with that little guy over there, but I swear to you, there’s good reason I’m wearin’ this.”

The child cooed, and Cobb couldn’t help but smile at him, which drew out a pleased, happy squeal, plus the most adorable little wave. His light sparkled in what must have been delight, but it became muted again when the Mandalorian shifted.

“Who are you?” they asked.

“I’m Cobb Vanth, Marshal of Mos Pelgo.”

“Where did you get the armour?”

“This won’t sound good but… I bought it off some Jawas as a means to save my town! ” He held up his finger to forestall what felt like the build up to a confrontation.

The Mandalorian hesitated, but his fists curled at his sides. “Hand it over.”

“Listen, I understand this armour’s important to your culture, but out here, we do what we have to to survive,” Cobb said, his frustration building.

The Mandalorian was unmoved, hand moving to his side-arm. “Take it off, or I will.”

So much for peaceful negotiations. “We gonna do this in front of the kid?”

“He’s seen worse.”

What had this kid seen that was worse than—? Actually, no, stupid question. “Right here then?”

“Right here.”

Cobb sighed. He didn’t want to hurt this guy, but if he wasn’t going to listen, what else was he supposed to do? He threw his spotchka back, the salt of the liquor hitting his tongue, and he rose to his feet.

He’d been in stand offs once or twice, practised enough to get pretty good at it, but he’d never been up against someone who looked like they could take on half an army alone before. He wasn’t sure what his chances were, didn’t want to die, didn’t want to shoot, not with that kid glowing like a small star and so many questions left unasked, unanswered.

His hand hovered by his blaser, waiting for the man across from him to make his move.

The Force giggled around them, circling and dancing in the space between, the kid whimpered and…

The ground shook.

There had been no warning of the approach, only the alarm set off by the tremors which was already too late. It had been a week since its last visit, but he knew the effects of a krayt dragon when he felt them. They’d have to put a pin in this for now. At least the Mandalorian seemed to agree, allowing him to lead the way outside.

He focused, looking around to check where his people were before coming to stand at the edge of the boardwalk, head turned towards the direction of the rumbles. The road was clear, empty of anything except the speeder bike the Mandalorian had arrived on, but now it was about to become the pathway of a leviathan.

Its roar would have shaken the ground had it not already been quaking, and the sand, once tightly compacted, bubbled and shivered until an enormous form slid through it.

It had become bolder and bolder as time had passed, drawn in by the increasing number of townsfolk. Its visits went from once a year at most to almost once a week now. They’d lost some of their friends to its giant jaws, and any plans for good homes dug into the ground were postponed indefinitely, and yet every time it had granted them a visit there had been something about it that had, somehow, called to him.

This time was no different.

As it breezed by, swimming through the sand as though it was nothing more than air, he heard it whisper to him, the call strongest when it emerged to swallow the bantha they’d started keeping for fibres.

With another roar it disappeared back under the sands and continued its journey back to its lair.

The Mandalorian, still stood at his side, stared after it, body tense from what Cobb assumed was shock, and he hummed.

“Maybe we can work somethin’ out,” he said.

He kept watch over the ground, keeping an eye out for patches of sand that hadn’t fully settled and pointing them out when his people started to emerge from the safety of their homes, sticking markers next to them as warnings for anyone who might wander the street before it was safe.

“The krayt dragon’s been terrorising these parts since long before Mos Pelgo was established,” he said, the Mandalorian following him and helping him set out the markers. “Thanks to the armour—” and a few other reasons, “—I’ve been able to protect this town from bandits and invaders. They look to me to protect ‘em, but a krayt dragon is too much for me to take on alone.”

He looked around again to ensure all the unstable spots had been marked before turning to face his guest. “Help me kill it, I’ll give you the armour.”

The Force rang its approval and he smiled; he’d finally found the reason the Force had wanted him to run for.

“Deal,” the Mandalorian said easily. “I'll ride back to the ship, blow it out of the sand from the sky, use the bantha as bait.”

Cobb was already shaking his head before he’d finished talking. “Not so simple. The ship passes above, it senses the vibrations, stays underground. But I know where it lives.”

The Mandalorian tilted his head. “How far?”

“Not far.”

——————————————————————

THEY'RE HERE! THEY'RE FINALLY HERE! WHOOP!!!!

Chapter 16

[famouskittychild]

Cheeky Mandos

(Ok I might be making a mistake with this title but whatever. I live in the UK and I barely even know what the meme was, and haven’t been to a Nando’s for like a decade, but it used to be delish :) So anyways. This will be a spicier collection of fics. This prologue is bland, though, no spices. (I gonna have to put up a Minors DNI for the rest though... if I’ll have the courage to post them.))

Another thing. 

This pairing is  Din Djarin x gn reader / tall reader.  I’m short. There’s so many short reader stuff out there, I wanted to write for people on the other end of the “why is your height not normal” spectrum. If I make mistakes later on please tell me! 

Or if you have an idea, prompt, advice etc for this planned collection, based on this and my other three little one-shots, send me a message. I’m awkward but I’ll do my best to answer.

Word count: 526

Summary: You’re an armourer and some shiny guy shows up. This is just a prologue / fluff piece in itself. 

Rating: suitable for babies. Ok, ok, G. 

CW: mentions of mandalorian history. Playing somewhat loose with canon lore.

.

***

You hear about him first over lunch. People talk about the new visitor. A bounty hunter, with plain armour, who keeps to the Old Tradition of never taking their helmet off in front of others. The facts end there; the rest is gossip. He is from the Leader’s inner circle. He is their bodyguard. He is the Leader himself. There’s some talk about the Darksaber although the details are even more sketchy on that.

Then you see him. His armour is almost a full set, and most of it is beautifully made. The colour is missing, though - not a speck of paint, not even a sigil in sight. Interesting.

The man himself is tallish, and with the unpainted armour and dark clothes, has a grim simplicity to him that is rarely seen. Most people have colours, sigils, patterns. Your people live in your armour and your armours look lived in. The stranger is something of a blank slate. You follow him with your eyes as he walks past the rows of tables with some of the elders. Than they vanish off to a corridor, and you wonder who he is.

He stands motionless and is quiet until asked to speak at the evening assembly called to hear him out.

He speaks about Home, about gathering, about chasing off the remnant of the empire that still sits on the ore-mines of Home. He doesn’t ask anyone to join him, just to think. To try to imagine, to hope that something could be done. He only asks one more thing: he wants to reach other groups, to tell them the same message.

The covert is reluctant, which isn’t surprising. He expected it too. The elders promise to talk about his information. As for reaching other groups, they can’t help much. The People are scattered.

That’s when you stand up.  You look at the elder of your clan, and her nod is an understanding and a permission. You are an armourer, and as the most junior master at your covert’s Forge, you travel around, offering services to any of the People who might need it. The groups you meet inform you of others they might know of and those in turn send you further to others.

You tell the stranger about these, and his excitement is visible. He turns towards you as he listens. He shifts his weight on his legs, he gestures as he asks you questions - he comes alive. You are exactly the person he needs. You warn him that often you only meet a handful of the People; a settlement as large like this is very rare. Most are nomads, mercenaries, in hiding - suspicious. Diminished. They keep to those closest to them.

He doesn’t mind. He’s willing to go with you, on your terms, under your rules. Now that you stand too and have a better look at him, you notice the sigil on his pauldron; welded on and made from beskar, an unusual practice. It’s a mudhorn: strong and stubborn, fierce and protective. It’s a good sign.

You still think he is a bit too naive to offer his services like that.

.

.

.

[yoditorian]

lacuna- part 8

din/reader

SURPRISE DROP!!!!! there’s only one more part left after this can you bELIEVE???? i’ll leave the emotional spiel until then and for now i’ll just apologise for the pain you’re about to go through in such a short amount of time💛

series masterlist // main masterlist

word count: 2.3k

warnings: angst angst angst, some swears, no seriously this is just pain they don’t even bang, a confession

“Have you ever removed your helmet?”

“No.”

“Has it ever been removed by others?”

“Never.”

He’s lying.

Din has always been so careful with his words. Lying makes his voice tremble, it always has done. So he is careful, he never says more than he needs to, thinks on the phrasing of the promises he makes. He has only outright lied once in his adult life, to you. To protect you. Maybe that’s what keeps him steady now. Even with a blade at his throat and half the covert watching on. He does not falter.

You’d think they would make engine parts easier to clean. 

You’re perched on a crate in the hangar at your old work station, legs crossed beneath you, as you scrub away at the dull metal of the second-hand hyperdrive motivator that some vendor in a backwater scrapyard had, frankly, swindled you for. The stupid thing isn’t worth the credits you’d paid for it, but it’s still a hell of a lot more useful than the one that sits completely dead in the transport’s engine. But this was your decision, and you have to live with it.

What’s the alternative? Spend the rest of your life working your way around the galaxy, flying for whoever’s paying? Settling down in the little house on the edge of the Damerons’ farm? Going back to the New Republic? None of your options sound appealing enough to move on. You know this place, you know how it works. That’s enough.

“Wasn’t just me who stuck around either,” Ran’s voice pulls you from a particularly stubborn lump of grease, “You remember this one?”

Your heart leaps into your throat, when he’d told you he was expecting company you’d assumed it was another one of his contacts. A black market buyer or seller, they usually are. Not him. You were expecting anybody but Din.

His armour shines under the lights, sparks reflecting off the unpainted beskar. It’s beautiful. But your stomach lurches at how new it is, that his old armour had somehow gotten damaged enough that he needed an entirely new set. Except one of his thigh plates, dented to hell and back but still usable. There’s something of the man you know, the man you thought you knew, under all that.

The way Ran talks about you like you’re not even there is enough to calm you. He has no idea about your history with Din. Good, one less thing he can hold over your head. It’s far from the most dangerous situation you’ve ever been in, but you’re not about to let your guard down. Not with the team you know is heading out alongside him. Although nobody’s told you where they’re heading off to, which alone is enough to confirm that you wouldn’t approve of whatever it is. 

You’re grateful you’d tucked your old blanket into a drawer in your workstation, the hangar gets cold. Especially when the Crest returns and brings the chill of hyperspace with it. The knit of it loose with age now, but it’s the last of your life before. The last remnant of a time when you thought you knew who you were. 

You don’t expect Qin to be the prisoner they’d gone to break out. Although, now that you look back, who else could it have been? Who else did enough people on the station give enough of a shit about to warrant sending a team after? The old team, specifically.

Nobody follows him out. 

You’re moving towards the ship before you’re even really aware of yourself. Qin looks surprised to see you, but you bypass a greeting to glance into the Crest’s hull. Empty. Did no one make it out? Did Din-

He’s there, suddenly, walking down the ramp and catching the pouch of credits that Ran tosses him. You try to cover your sigh of relief with a cough, but you’re not sure how successful you are. 

“Something the droid said, about the hyperdrive. Could you come take a look?” Din turns to face you, and for a second it’s like neither of you left the station. You’re rocketed right back to before everything as you nod and pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders. You don’t quite catch what Qin says when you disappear into the hull and unlatch the access panel, you’re not sure you really want to know, but you don’t miss the hatch closing up behind you.

“Mando?”

If Din hears you, he ignores your question, and the rumble of the engines lifting off almost takes you off your feet. You hurry to latch the access panel back up and wait until the ship steadies to shoot up the ladder and confront him. 

Stars. Stars and three X-Wings dropping out of lightspeed right ahead of you.

Oh.

“Tracking beacon. They wouldn’t have let me leave alive.” So he did hear you. 

He’s saved you. He risked precious seconds, ones he didn’t really have, just to make sure he got you out before the fighters got there. Something twinges in your chest when you think about your A-Wing sitting in the corner of the hangar, abandoned without a second thought and now blown to pieces. Suddenly your blanket feels a lot heavier around your shoulders. 

You go to sink into a passenger seat, before you notice a pair of big brown eyes staring up at you. A child, not like any species you’ve seen before, but a child nonetheless.

“Who’s this?” You hate the way your voice comes out all squeaky, like you’re afraid of the answer. You are, there’s no doubt about that. But you don’t need either of them to know that.

“He’s a friend.” 

There’s more to it than that, obviously, but you’re satisfied. One of your best friends is a six year old after all. 

The child chirps as you take the other passenger seat, holding out a little metal ball in his three fingers. He waves it around, desperate to show it to you. It’s the knob from the landing gear shift. You’d know it anywhere, you were the one to screw it in the first time. Now that you glance out at the console, there’s not anything that’s changed about it at all. Even your A-Wing, in all it’s years of service, had had bits and pieces pulled out and replaced, and that had been brand new when you got it. So why hasn’t the Razor Crest?

“What were you doing back there?” He asks, and you’ve half a mind to tell him it’s none of his business. But you’re tired, and he’s using that soft tone that you only ever hear in the dark. You’re powerless against it.

“I went back after the war. It’s good money,” You frown, “It was, anyway.”

“You’ve been there since then?”

“Everybody belongs somewhere, Mando.” You don’t spit the nickname the way you might have wanted to in the past, but he recoils like you do.

But you don’t belong there, you never did. No, you belong in that little room at the inn in Mos Espa. You belong in the sky in a starfighter. You belong in some busy Yavin marketplace chatting with your friend, with the kid on your hip and Din by your side. You belong wherever you want to, he knows that’s not Ran’s station. And Din? He belongs with you. But it’s too late now.

He punches in the nav code for Yavin IV without even needing to ask where you want to go. It stabs the knife a little deeper, the way he knows you so well. The way he always has. 

The child scrambles off of his seat and toddles over to yours, determined to pull himself up onto your lap by your bootlaces. Din doesn’t tell you not to let him up, so you haul the little green thing up and settle him on your thighs.

“Hi.” You introduce yourself, although it feels a little silly. You’re not sure how much he understands but he chirps in place of a reply before he gets distracted by the blanket around your shoulders. His little claws disappear into the wool and he drops his ball, utterly fascinated. You catch the discarded ball with your foot before it can roll too far and snap it up with your free hand. Din’s relieved you’re preoccupied with the little one, at least you don’t notice him staring. 

“Is there a-?” The child snores softly in your lap, buried in the blanket he’d pulled off of you and wrapped himself in. You don’t mind. It should be used to comfort a kid again, the same way it’s provided for you all these years. Letting this baby borrow it is the least you can do for him. The kid has a history, if the way he twitches in his sleep is any indication, and you’re not about to deny him something he might never have had. 

“In the hull, I’ll take him. You take the wheel?” Din easily, naturally, takes the child from you as you slide into the pilot’s seat. You don’t expect the easy domesticity to hurt quite so much. It feels like the galaxy is taunting you, forcing you to live a moment of a life you always knew you’d never get to have. You let yourself heave a shaky sigh when you hear Din’s feet hit the floor of the hull. 

It’s been a long, long time since you sat in control of the Razor Crest, but it’s just as familiar as the day you told him to take it. You flick the autopilot switch off. Any idiot can fly in hyperspace, all you need to do is keep the ship straight, but you need to feel the controls under your hands. Anything to distract from the gaping hole in your chest.

Din doesn’t ask to swap back when he returns. He only settles in your abandoned seat, and you can feel his eyes heavy on your back. If he has anything to say, he keeps it to himself.

You hope he doesn’t notice how the house is exactly the same as when he was last here, when you were last here. There’s a fine layer of dust that’s settled over the furniture but two sets of footprints, one about your size and another smaller set, lead to the fridge. Several new drawings have been stuck up among the others. You might cry if you were in different company. 

“Will he be alright?” You ask. Din had elected to leave the baby sleeping on the ship, as you’d touched down in a disused field across the track. He nods, trailing a gloved finger through the dust on the table. 

“Will you?”

He’s not expecting that. But maybe he should have. You’ve never not been worried about him, not since the first time you let him touch you, but it takes him out at the knees every time. Even when he’s pushed you away, even when you’ve been suffering yourself, you have always opened your arms to him. He doesn’t deserve it. 

“You could,” The words almost get stuck in your throat, but you know you’ll regret it if he leaves before you ask, “Stay.”

Din reels back. He can’t. You know he can’t, but you asked anyway. It’s enough to make his blood boil. He’s not angry with you, he never is, it’s his fault he can’t say yes. That’s all he wants. To stay.

“There’s schools, and other kids. You’d both have protection here. You’d be safe.”

The sun starts to disappear behind Yavin, plunging the kitchen into a red glow the way it did last time, but there’s none of the peace it brought before. It glints off his armour as the hope in your eyes starts to die. 

“I love you.”

How can the words he’s always wanted to hear make him so angry?

“Please! Every time I think I’m over you, you come back and turn everything upside down again. Please just give me something.” You can’t hold back anymore. You can’t stand here and pour your heart and soul out to a man who says nothing.

“You already have far too much of me!” He’s never raised his voice at you before, that alone stuns you speechless. So you just stare, chest heaving, waiting for anything to break the tension. And Din does another thing he never has with you, he fills the silence. 

“You have my name. You have my creed. I have nothing left to give you.” 

He leaves without another word, for the last time, and you can’t help but heave a choking sob before he’s even shut the door. His absence is everywhere.

He hurts.

Hurts like nothing’s ever hurt before in his life. Walking away from you, disappearing out of the door and knowing it’s the last time. You won’t let him back in after this. 

He can’t get back to the Crest fast enough.

Din practically falls through the side entrance of the hull, ripping his armour off before the door’s even fully closed. His guts twist and his lungs burn and he wrenches his helmet off, sends it scattering into a corner. He’ll find it later. Right now he needs to find the hole he knows is burned into his flight suit. A blaster bolt, a stab wound- something. But he only finds old scars and skin where your touch still lingers. 

No smoking hole in his side. No blood or wound. Just the absence of something important in his chest. An unfilled space. A gap between his ribs, something missing. He knows what it is.

His veins are somehow filled with fire and empty at the same time, knowing that would be the last time. The last time he gets to see you. And even though the hatred was so clear on your face, even though you were merciless in the words you hurled at him, he still thought you were beautiful. He’ll always think you’re beautiful, no matter how angry you are. 

Because he loves you. And now it’s too fucking late.

-

TAGLIST (add yourself here):

@brothersdrxke @rebloogggs @keeper0fthestars @remmysbounty @sirianisrock @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me @ew-erin @chatterbean​ 

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Star-Crossed: Bound by Blood

Chapter Three

Master List / Read on AO3

Previous Chapter

Warnings: Canon divergent during Chapter 13 of The Mandalorian, serious pining

A/N: I make this stuff up as I go along, if I screw something Star Wars-y up, apologies in advance, I didn’t do it on purpose, but I’m new to this Fandom. I will be cross posting this story between AO3 and Tumblr except the smutty bits. Those chapters will only be available to registered users on AO3. (I’m trying something new for people who want to read here on Tumblr, but to also avoid the smut for minors controversy. We’ll see how it goes.)

*I do not have a tag list* Please follow the story on AO3 if you want email updates, or follow @tilltheendwilliwrite-library where I post the new/latest chapters of all my stories.

***

The trip to Nevarro was hell. 

The Razor Crest now smelled like Baast, and after using his soap, their two scents had blended, and Din was going out of his kriffing mind. He'd taken to sleeping in the cockpit, having given up his cot, but it did little good. 

It was like the essence of her had invaded every part of his home.

He'd started having dreams. Dreams of a world with sand dunes and plains of long grass, where towering forests of old wood grew and swayed in gentle, fragrant breezes. He dreamed of walking the rock and sand trails of jagged mountains, of climbing steep cliffs to drink from sweet falls that appeared out of the clouds.

And when he reached his destination, a rocky outcropping high above the world, a cat leapt over the rocks to land before him. She was sleek lines and dense muscle, her coat tawny, darkening to black over her muzzle and legs. Long tufts of fur drifted in the wind from the tips of her ears, and green eyes watched him with a thousand years of ancient wisdom.

He knelt before the regal creature and pulled off his helmet. She padded closer, circled him once, sniffed him curiously, and began to purr. The rumble soothed his soul, and Din closed his eyes as her sleek, furry cheek rubbed against his.

"Mine," he whispered as he reached for her, waking himself from the dream every time.

By the time they landed on Nevarro, he was desperate for air that didn't smell like Baast. A few more parsecs, he may have done something stupid.

He met her at the gangway with a heavy cloak. "Put this on, draw the hood, and try to remain inconspicuous."

She arched a brow before handing over Grogu. The kid stuck to her like glue, eager to be at her side whenever he was awake. It was a relief to know someone else was watching him, but at the same time, he missed the kid's continual company.

Baast shrugged into the cloak and pulled the hood over her hair before laying her hand on his arm. "Are you well?"

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You have been distant."

"Just busy." He held out a silver bar roughly three inches long. "Extendable staff, at least until the Alor can get you those sabres."

She smiled at him, the light just catching her fangs. "Thank you, Mando."

He tilted his head but tugged the hood farther forward. "Let's go."

They'd landed well after dusk, assuring a quiet, uninterrupted trip through the streets. Those that lingered paid them no mind used to seeing the silver beskar of an unpainted Mandalorian.

The bar was fairing better after the fight with Moff Gideon. Walls had been repaired, and the damage painted over. 

He walked in and headed straight for the back booth, ignoring the eyes that followed. They knew better than to mess with him, and the music stayed lively.

Karga, however, wasn't alone.

"Karga. Dune," he stated, tossing three pucks on the table. 

"Only three, Mando? I sent you out with four," Karga teased. "Did a quarry finally escape the famed Mandalorian?"

"She's dead; body recovery was impossible."

He watched Cara's eyes flick to Baast and down to Grogu, a smile growing as she pushed from the table. "There's the little womp rat!"

Grogu squealed his happiness, but Baast growled.

The low sound set his hair on end, causing Din to step back, between the woman and his clan. "Cara, not now," he said, no explanation, not sure he had one to give. 

Baast placed her hand on the back of his neck, a place without beskar but covered by his cowl. Still, he felt it like a live wire jolt.

"Usenye!" Baast growled.

"Udesii," Din murmured, turning just enough to know he meant Baast.

"Whoa, someone's touchy," Cara muttered.

Mando didn't need this right now. The longer he stayed here, the more twitchy he felt, like something beneath his skin was itching to claw its way free. "Karga. If they ask, you tell them she's dead."

The man stared at him a long moment, assessing, processing before he gave a short nod. "I will log the information myself." He reached into his pocket and pulled out an ingot of beskar. "For your trouble and the three on your ship."

"Where did you get that?" Din asked, picking up the ingot.

"Took it off some Imps after that last clean up." A second pile of credits, smaller than it should be, landed next. "Consider us even."

"Done," he agreed, hyper-aware of Baast's hand still light against his neck.

"And congratulations, Mando. It isn't every day a Mandalorian takes a riduur."

He felt Baast's fingers twitch but didn't correct Karga's assumption.

"You got married!" Cara gasped, loud enough to cause the bar to pause and look their way. 

One long stare over his shoulder had them minding their business again. 

"Baast'mal. Cara Dune, former shock trooper, now Marshal for the New Republic. Greef Karga, head of the Bounty Hunters Guild, and Magistrate of Nevarro."

"A pleasure," Karga grinned. "Is it true wives put off their armour when they decide to have little warriors?"

Baast snorted. "Di'kutla. Anade knows gar ke barjurir gar'ade, jagyc'ade kot'la a dalyc'ade kotla'shya."

Din couldn't help but chuckle. "She says, foolish. Everyone knows you train your sons to be strong, but your daughters to be stronger. My woman is all warrior."

The words slipped out, and he couldn't bite them back. Baast's hand dropped from his nape, but only to lower and slide in at his waist, sneak past layers of beskar and again find flesh barely covered. She pressed closer, a low rumble vibrating between them, and Din felt approval wash from her like a wave.

"Ibic taap, Ni cuy' bat Kyr'nakil," she murmured, low enough only Din heard, informing him she didn't like it there.

He looked down at her, into the deep shadows of her hood as she clutched Grogu to her and found her eyes. This place had her on edge. With her Force sensitivity, he believed her, but he wanted to know why. "Tion'jor?"

"Too many bad feelings," she whispered. "There are hunters, many of them."

He gave a small tilt of his head. "Vaabir val olaror par gar?" he asked, wondering if they came for her.

A slight negative shake. "For news of the child."

Din was instantly enraged and leaned over the table toward Karga. "You're taking a bounty on the kid again?"

"What? No! Of course not!" the man cried in outrage.

"Mando." Cara laid her hand over his. "He hasn't, I swear."

Baast growled, causing Din to move his hand out from under Cara’s and block Baast in the same action. "There are hunters here for news of the kid. Get your cargo off my ship so we can leave." He swiped the credits off the table and turned to go, Karga already barking orders.

Din wasn't surprised when Baast's fingers snuck to the crook of his elbow. Or, he wasn't as surprised as he should be. A riduur walked where her mate could protect them and any children they might have. Her position kept her secure against him while hiding them behind a wall of beskar and weapons, handled by a highly dangerous predator.

"Mando, wait," Cara said, blocking their path. "Come to my place. You can rest, eat, and I can see the kid. I missed him."

Baast's fingers twitched. 

"Cara," he hesitated.

"Please. We're friends. Let a friend toast your good fortune."

Another low warning growl rippled from Baast when Cara touched his arm.

"She has nayc staabi!" Baast snarled.

Din looked down at her. "Technically, neither do you."

Her hand snapped off his arm like he'd burned her, shock and disappointment so profound it hurt, hit him like a rampaging mudhorn. 

She took a step in retreat, Grogu clinging to her, the kid looking just as devastated. 

What had he done? Kriff! Why would he say that?

"Baast!" he shouted but was too late as she spun on her heel and raced from the cantina. "Kriff!" he bellowed and gave chase, Cara hot on his heels.

"What the hell was that, Mando?" Dune demanded as they slammed through the doors only to find a deserted street. 

"Not your concern."

"Mando!" She grabbed him by the vambrace. She had no way of knowing how close he came to putting her through the wall. "What's really going on? Who is she?"

"You wouldn't understand. It's a Mandalorian thing." He shook her off and looked for Baast's tracks. 

It didn't surprise him at all when they went up a wall and over the roof.

Din took off after her, climbing as if his armour weighed nothing, leaving Cara behind to curse and swear. He followed long strides for some distance as she ran across roofs, finally leaving the residential district to head into a more industrial area. 

Again her tracks went up, and he followed, climbing the narrow ladder to the top of a tower that looked out over Nevarro. He found her there; knees pulled to her chest, the hood thrown back, clinging to Grogu as the kid did his best to stroke the tears from her face.

"Baast." 

She jerked but didn't move. "Go away, Mandalorian."

"I can't." He went to her and knelt, intent on taking her in his arms, only to have deadly claws close around his throat. 

"You have not the right," she snarled, her eyes piercing him through the beskar.

Grogu huffed and sighed, appearing at once both annoyed and exasperated.

"Nayc staabi. No right, that's what you said about Cara."

Baast snarled. "If you want the shock trooper so badly, have her!" she snapped, pushing him back with strength, causing him to rock on his heels.

"I don't, and she doesn't want me. She would be more inclined to go for you," he chuckled.

She blinked big green eyes. "Oh…" Her hand slowly relaxed until it lay on his chest.

This time when he gathered her close, she didn't resist. "Forgive me. I said something stupid."

"But true," she sighed. "You did not dispute the claim of riduur. I knew it meant nothing but got caught up in my role. You are free to do what you wish with whomever you wish," she sighed.

Din didn't think. He didn't plan his next move. It was like instinct demanded he act, and so he did.

"Baast. Close your eyes."

She did so without hesitation or question as Din stripped off his gloves. The helmet hissed when he released it, causing her brow to twitch. Before he took it off, he wrapped his arm around her and covered her eyes with his hand.

"Din?" she whispered, her uncertainty clear. 

"Trust me," he murmured, lifting his helmet free with his other hand. They were too high up for anyone to see, and the moons had yet to rise, leaving them bathed in shadows. 

Grogu cooed and sat down a few feet away, apparently content to let the adults sort this out on their own.

Din gave him a last look before setting his helmet down and raising that hand to lightly, tenderly, stroke her face. "I don't want just anyone," he whispered, unable to deny what was written in his heart. "Just you," he sighed and lightly brushed their mouths together. 

He'd never kissed anyone before, but he wanted to kiss Baast. 

***

Din woke with a jolt and a clang of beskar as he fell out of the pilot's chair and onto the floor. 

He lay there confused and disoriented until he realized the entire thing had been a dream. 

He groaned softly enough that it didn't leave the safety of his helmet and pushed to his hands and knees before sitting back on his thighs. This trip was going to kill him. The dream had been far too real.

He picked himself off the floor and looked up to find Grogu smirking at him. "Don't start."

The kid gurgled a noise that shouldn't in any way have been cute but somehow still was.

"Hungry?" Din asked.

Grogu waddled closer, arms up.

"Of course you are. When are you not hungry?" he chuckled, picking up the kid and heading for the ladder down into the belly of his ship. 

He was just getting Grogu situated when the door to the fresher opened, revealing Baast in nothing but a towel. 

She jolted in surprise. "I did not expect… you… I…" A bright blush bloomed darkly across her cheeks. Then, she straightened, lifting her chin like a royal, firming her composure. "You have not joined us for meals as of late. I did not expect you and have washed my clothing."

His mouth was desert dry when he attempted to speak, but no words emerged, and Din was grateful for the helmet that hid his gaping mouth. He stared for too long before stepping away from Grogu and his gruel toward Baast. She stiffened, hand flexing where she clutched the cloth closed, but the Zentari didn't back down.

Din moved with cautious steps to the crates piled against the wall and shoved two over before picking up the third and setting it down on top of the others. From within, he pulled out blue silks. "I have this if you want it."

A regal brow arched, her wet hair sleek and sticking to her now brushed the tops of her thighs. "Why does a Mandalorian have a courtesan's dress in his belongings?"

He flinched, having hoped she wouldn't recognize it. "Because an assassin dressed as a courtesan attempted to kill me, but not until after she'd taken her clothes off."

Baast eyed the cloth a moment longer before gliding forward to pluck it from his fingers. "Did she succeed in the seduction?"

"No. That's why she was naked. She made a poor courtesan."

"Hmm," purred from her as she walked back into the fresher, and the door closed behind her. "And you have simply kept it lying around?" she called through the door.

Did she sound jealous, or was he still dreaming? "It's not something a Mandalorian can walk into the market and sell without garnering a second look."

"You were not, perhaps, keeping it for your riduur?"

The door opened, and Din forgot how to speak. Blue silk fell in sleek lines from the golden band that bared the under curve of her breasts. She swept out and headed for Grogu, sailing past him, her damp hair leaving a dark stain on the skirt. 

"I haven't thought much about a riduur." Before now. 

He followed her like a Bantha would a Tuskin Raider, and when she sat to help Grogu with his food, Din came to a stop behind her. 

She looked up, but he knew the beskar made it hard for her to read him. "Is it that terrible? Do I not make a passable courtesan?"

"More than passable," escaped his mouth, his brain still malfunctioning. "But your hair is dripping."

"Wet hair does that," she teased him with a smile.

"May I?"

She blinked as he began to strip off his gloves. "Din?"

"Let me," he murmured, running his fingers like a comb through her thick locks. He sat on a crate and worked free what few tangles had formed before splitting the mass in half. He began the plait high, working it smooth against her scalp and down behind her ear. When his fingers brushed the pointed tip, a shudder raced through her, but a low, happy purr followed. He made it to the end and used a scrap piece of leather to bind the long braid. 

"How is it that a Mandalorian knows how to do a woman's hair with the skill of a maid?"

He froze, fingers full of sand-coloured silk. "My mother," he murmured. "I once did it for my mother."

Her hand closed gently on his knee, Baast reaching back, otherwise staying still for him. "A good memory, I hope."

"One of my only good memories," he murmured, finishing the section close to her skull and swiftly plaiting the rest. Once he tied the end, she turned to look up at him and left him breathless. 

He'd never seen a more mesh'la creature. Men would spend their entire fortune for one night with her. But Din looked at her and saw her dressed in the ornaments of a riduur. Beskar bands for her braids, the cuff that would circle her upper arm and proudly display the mark of the mudhorn, proclaiming her part of his clan. The beskar breastplate that would be hers the moment their first child was born.

"Then, I am pleased to help you remember it." She stroked one of the thick plaits. "I am happy to offer myself to your ministrations in the future, should you so desire to assist me again."

Vital portions of his anatomy tightened, causing him to rise swiftly and step away from her tempting allure. "We'll be in Nevarro soon. I'll see about more suitable clothing when we get there."

He climbed the ladder back to the cockpit, knowing damn well he was running away.

***

riduur -  spouse

Usenye! - Go away!

Udesii - Calm down.

Ibic taap, Ni cuy' bat Kyr'nakil - This place, I am on edge

Tion'jor - why

Vaabir val olaror par gar - do they come for you

 nayc staabi - no right

 ***

Next Chapter

[serelia-evensong]

All Possible Truths

Serelia’s head pounds.  Pounding isn’t the right word.  It throbs.  It squirms and twists.  In her several hundred years of life, the woman who was once Quel’dorei, then Sin’dorei, now Ren’dorei, has experienced many sorts of headaches.  The minor aches and pains of every day life.  The withdrawal of caffeine.  The dull ache of too much to drink, and waking with a dehydrated body.

Nothing ever felt the way the Void feels.  Headaches can be described in so many ways, but the one she experiences today feels like a nest of worms writhing and squirming at the base of her neck, where spine meets skull.  The kind of pulsing moving ache that makes a person want to dig nails into their skin and attempt to rip out whatever can be found beneath.

It’s controlled, most days.  Since she lost her natural sight, since the Void ‘augmented’ the woman it claims as its own, she has focused her life on strict structure.  When you can see every possible reality all at once, it becomes difficult beyond measure to know what is true.  So she walks the same paths.  Trains the same places.  Drinks at the same seat in the bar.  She keeps eyes squeezed shut often, when the magic in her glasses can’t filter out the truths the Void wishes to show her.

In these ways, she stays sane, keeps the headaches and confusion at bay.  The Mage District.  The Canals.  The Golden Keg.  The Brawlpub hidden beneath it.  Old Town.  Training grounds.  The stall at the market that sells baking supplies.  She has an acute mental map that keeps her stable, filled with immutable facts that hold the Void’s madness at bay.

Today, she is in Westfall, a place she hasn’t been since she fought Percival what feels like a lifetime ago.  In truth, in her long lived life, it was barely a flicker, two years, give or take.  It feels longer, but regardless, Westfall is not a part of her mental map, so the headache writhes.

Going through her flows, the methods of control of body, mind, and spirit taught by the Panderan helps.  At least until a voice calls out, breaking through the meditative calm of her practice.

“Well, and here I thought I had come across something valuable,” the voice is echoed and metallic, altered by the metal mask the Warlock wears.  “Instead, it’s just one of the filthy pets of the crown who had the stupid idea to come after me.  On another bounty hunt to reclaim something that now belongs to me?”

In the space between where Serelia moves from pose to pose, eyes squeezed shut, and the Warlock calls out to her, she can tell there are Demons.  The pair of stalkers makin space between them, perhaps just his defense, or perhaps meant to menace.

She finishes her current sequence, a series of strikes at the air meant to keep an opponent off guard and off balance, before she lets her body ease.  She turns towards him, empty eyes opening, feet slightly apart, hands clasping at her mid back as she adopts a Military parade rest and takes in Percival.  “Come after you to reclaim something?  No, and of the crown?  Not in years.  I left my service to the Holts long ago,” a smile curves on her unpainted lips.  “Not many noble houses with a lot of need for a blind guard, though it turns out, even when you can see every possible reality, you’re still the scum at the bottom of a barrel in all of them.”  A hand leaves her back, moving to glide fingertips along the right arm of her glasses, dialing in the magic that helps focus her vision.

“Ha,” the barked laugh reverberates and echos with Percival’s mask.  He makes a gesture, any number of gestures, and the hounds, imps, succubi, eyes, whatever demons escort him, enter a state of rest.

“Blind as you may be, seems you finally see the truth of Stormwind; of humanity.  Once they see your darkness, you’re something to be thrown away and forgotten.  It’s almost poetic.”  He too adopts a position of comfort, one of either bravado or ease with hands behind his back.

What she tries not to let show is how badly she’s trembling.  The shudder in her body, the pain at the back of her head.  Having eyes open and putting on this little show of bravado is exposing herself to chaos.  She sees the man in the metal mask.  An old man.  A young man.  A shambling corpse.  A Nathrezim.  He walks amongst lush fields of wheat.  Of dead and dying grasslands.  Amidst bowing and adoring followers.  Amidst the dead and dying, bodies on stakes.  Her trembling hand continues its movement along the arm of glasses, attempting to dial in the things she knows are true.  The man in the metal mask.  Golden dying fields.  The pain at the back of her head squirms in protest.

Hand drops from the arm of glasses, settling back into Parade Rest.  There’s nothing more she can do to focus her vision, settling for occasionally closing her eyes to quiet the void.  "I was surprised when Stormwind took us in at all in the first place...but then, they needed soldiers for the fight they wanted to spin up for the Horde. Our so called leaders seemed eager enough to give them that so...smart move."

None of this banter is why she’s here.

“It’s been a long time Percival, though not nearly long enough in my years.”

“Not long enough, and yet you’ve come back to the last place we crossed paths.  So either it’s mere coincidence that we happen to be in this wasteland of a region at the same time.  Or you’ve come lookin for me.  As a gambling man, my money is on the latter.  What do you want?”  Percival sees through Serelia.  It’s true, there’s no reason for the blind mother to be in a place like this, other than to seek the man who still hunts it.

“You’re right, I sought you out.  Much as I hate you...and in particular the...little gifts you had sent my way over the last few years.”  She shudders a little, though tries not to show it, thinking on the parts that arrived on her doorstep.  The man has a sick sense of humor.  “I still think you might have value to me.”

“And here I was worried they’d be lost in the mail,” Percival’s reply is marked with another laugh reverberating from within the metallic mask that hides his face.  “At least Stormwind’s postal service is reliable!”  The laugh becomes a veritable cackle.  

It cuts off abruptly though like a switch shut off, all seriousness retaking him as his mask focuses squarely on Serelia.  “So then.  What do you want?”

“Knowledge,” Serelia replies, remaining at comfortable ease, even as she trembles and writhes inside.  Her headache squirms.  “The rumors say that on top of whisking away innocents, and stealing the journals of young maidens,” as if anyone would actually call Rian that, “that you amass knowledge of all sorts of magic.   You’re not my first choice, but where others have failed, maybe you won’t.”

“The rumors are true,” Percival confirms as he closes the distance.  No longer wishing to shout, or perhaps continuing to show bravado in the face of one of the few people on this world who have gotten close enough to do him real physical harm.  “Unlike some wizards you might have spoken with, I learn about all magics.  Taboo or otherwise.”  The hounds part to flak the Ren’dorei, pincering her, creating a half circle of danger around the woman, but conspicuously leaving her rear free.  Perhaps a push to make her flee, to test her resolve.

“What makes you think I’d share anything with the woman who stabbed me?  You say I’m of value to you.  What value are you to me?”  The words don’t surprise Serelia.  She was prepared for him to try to make a deal of this.  It doesn’t stop a hint of a smirk at the memory of her hand razors sinking beneath his armour.

“If you have the knowledge that helps me control this,” Sere briefly lifts a hand from her back once more, indicating her eyes as they open wide again, revealing in full the dark endless nothing like bottomless wells in her face, “I would be willing to consider sharing my sight with you.  The Void shows reality in its fullness.  I see through illusions, through disguises, through hidden things both magic and mundane.”

Her hand returns to her back, and she ignores the threats around her, holding her ground.  Serelia has lived a long and dangerous life, survived every War that has hit Azeroth in the last two hundred years.  “I’m sure someone of your means and breadth could find a use for that.”

“Clairvoyance in exchange for control, an interesting proposition.”  Percival nods, seeming to truly consider the offer on the table.  “Well I can tell you now.  I don’t have the answer you’re after with me.  I may be a polymath of magic, but I’m still a summoner first.  But I may have something of value that could help you gain some sense of control over your dark powers.”

There’s every impression the man must be hiding something, but whatever it is isn’t visual, not on any spectrum the Void sighted woman can see.  It doesn’t matter, she always knew this deal would come with strings and complications.  It’s why he’s a last resort.

“You have your deal with this devil, Miss Evensong,” Percival proclaims, extending a hand out to her to shake and bind it.

For the briefest moment, Serelia considers attacking.  It would be easy to take advantage of their proximity.  Her vision shows it to her too.  She sees her hand lunge out, razors snapping into her palm.  Sees the spurt of blood fountaining in her vision as it slips beneath his jaw.  Into an armpit, through a weak joint at the hip.  None of it is real, and she doesn’t act on it, at the end of the day while she might kill him, there’s no assurance she wouldn’t get herself hurt in the process, and she won’t risk denying Zara of her mother.

“I don’t see that we can ever be allies,” her hand clasps with his, firm and calloused from a lifetime of combat, “but the knowledge I need comes from darker places than I have access to, and I’m comfortable paying for it in service.  So we have our deal.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Percival’s words are curt, and he turns on his heel, giving her his back.  She doesn't act on it.  “I’ll meet you here, at this exact spot, in two days time,” his voice carries back towards her, he holds up a hand and what she can guess is two fingers, in spite of the magical tuning of her glasses starting to lose further focus as possible realities splinter off.  “And feel free to bring a bodyguard or two.  I certainly shall!”

A sharp whistle pierces the air, and the demons that follow Percival rustle the dried grasses of Westfall as they heel to his side, and he walks from view.

Serelia sees him leaving too, and in every possible way.  Dozens on dozens of Percivals in different shapes and sizes and forms mount, and portal, and sprint, and walk.  Multitudes on multitudes, but in common...all of them leave.  None turn and attack, none stay to kill her.  The void doesn’t seem to consider that that reality existed in this moment.  Interesting.

“Two days,” spoken quietly to herself as she turns from the spot to head up the road towards Elwynn, and home.  

One card has been lain on the table.  There’s still another to pursue during the two day wait.  A name whispered and rumored amidst underground fighters and illegal combat rings.  A woman who fights unlike any other, who whispers say fights like she has precognition, like every movement of her opponents is visible and known to her before they even make them.  ‘Darah’.  It’s not much to go on, and legends rarely prove to be as true and as large as stories make them.  Serelia though, is sure her time is limited, and wild rumors make firm allies of the desperate.

Her headache squirms.

[ Written alongside @thalsianiii; vague allusions to @kat-hawke​ ]

[darthrevan-lord-of-the-sith]

After Malevolence

The Malevolence gone meant a lot for what remained of the 104th, not in the least Wolffe, who watched four Jedi (and a little Jedi Shiny) avenge his fallen brothers. He was grateful, in awe of them.

And then he learned about Amidala, how she had been on the blasted ship and that was why Skywalker and Kenobi had run headlong into the fray.

They hadn’t been thinking of avenging thousands of his brothers. They had been rescuing the pretty Natborn Senator from the idyllic Naboo.

It hurt. Badly.

He was sitting in the quarters he’d been assigned on the Resolute, not avoiding everyone no matter what Sinker and Boost might think. No, he was finishing signing requisition forms for...for new men. New soldiers to wear the 104th red on their armour and never replace the men they had lost so senselessly.

He’s locked away so he can repaint the armour Cody had delivered with a paint set.

He’s barely even looked at it. Every time he tries he remembers seeing dead brothers floating in the cold empty ruins of their fleet, 104th red marking them as brothers Wolffe knew. Brothers he tries to remember. Brothers he never got the chance to meet.

There’s a knock, and before he can tell whoever it is to fuck off, the door opens and the imposing form of Lord Revan steps in carrying a tray of food that isn’t from the Clone Mess.

“Boost said you’ve been missing meals,” Revan says. Wolffe never really understood the strange Jedi who occasionally showed up to work with the 104th and other battalions in the GAR. But Rex likes him, and Cody respects him, so he can’t really dislike the armoured Jedi.

And ever since they were rescued by Revan and Tano, ever since Revan used his Force abilities to heal Wolffe of a bruise easily treated with Bacta and time, ever since he fussed over the three of them personally, he’s had a hard time even being annoyed with how very Odd the Jedi is.

“Why’d he tell you, sir?” Wolffe asks, and Revan sets the tray of actual food down on the desk and leans against the wall, arms folded over his burnished beskar chestplate.

Revan knocks his knuckles lightly against the face plate of his helmet as he says “statistically I was the least likely you’d injure if you threw something at me” and Wolffe snorts despite himself.

He eyes the food, stomach growling, and can’t remember the last time he ate.

Oh right, he thinks. Before the attack.

“How are you?” Revan asks. “You must be happy that monstrous ship is gone.”

Wolffe shrugs, picking up a fork and digging into the roasted veggies in one of the compartments. “Only got blown up because Amidala was on it,” he says, bitter.

“I rigged the engine to explode,” Revan tells him, and his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline in shock. “Skywalker was too busy making out with the Senator to do much else other than get the hell off. Someone needed to avenge your brothers, Commander.”

Wolffe swallows what’s in his mouth before he chokes on it. “Thank you,” he manages, and Revan shrugs.

He wants to know what expression is on the Jedi’s face, to know if he’s angry or sad or genuine. He wants to know if he really cares.

“Is this your new armour?” Revan asks, moving towards the case resting on Wolffe’s bunk. With a wave of his hand it clicks open, and the pieces assemble neatly on the bed. It’s the closest Wolffe’s ever been to what he’s sure General Plo would call “frivolous” use of the Force, but Wolffe thinks it’s quite amazing how easily Revan uses it

“No paint?” Revan asks.

Wolffe swallows. “I uh,” he says. “I see them. Every time I see that colour.”

Revan is still for a moment, and then his head tilts slightly. “Have you ever heard of Mand’alor the Preserver?” He asks.

Wolffe nods. “He ruled Mandalore after the Jedi-Sith Civil War,” he says. “Immediate successor to Mand’alor the Ultimate.”

“He wore grey armour instead of the customary gold of the Mand’alors before him,” Revan tells him. “Because he mourned his fallen brothers in the Mandalorian Wars, killed senselessly because both sides were manipulated by a Sith Emperor.”

Wolffe’s breath catches. “I didn’t know,” he says. “Fett only ever talked about the Conquering Jedi.”

“Of course he did,” Revan sighs and shakes his head, as though disappointed but resigned. “Regardless, Preserver wore grey armour to show the galaxy he mourned those no one else would. Perhaps you could follow his example, Commander?”

“I...I think so,” Wolffe says, and grabs the paints.

The paint set Cody had dropped off contained both black and white paint along side the primary colours, and before long there was a pot of metal-grey paint that was being applied to his armour.

“Sir?” Wolffe asks, and Revan’s helmet tilts, acknowledging Wolffe’s words from where he’s sitting stock still on the floor by the bunk.

He hands Revan his gauntlets, unpainted but with his lines marked out in graphite. “Could you...” his voice catches. “I’d appreciate it if you would help.”

Revan takes the gauntlets, and Wolffe wants to rip off his helmet and know, in this moment, what his expression is.

“I would be honoured,” Revan says, and takes one of the brushes from the pot.

[reydjarinkenobi]

Love love love your time travel fic! It’s so good!!

Thank you! Here is another chapter.

Here is the link to a03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25051612/chapters/62477014

Rey's heart leapt to her throat at the question, and her eyes widened.

 "I don't… not much."

 Master Windu frowned and Rey's gut twisted. She lowered her eyes, trying to stamp down the vaguely nauseous feeling the look inspired. She'd known she wouldn't be good enough to be a Jedi, but she didn't think she'd be disappointing her master this early.

 "Do you know their names?"

 Rey jerked, her mind immediately putting it together. "Kenobi is a common name on Stewjon. I didn't assume…"

 Master Kenobi smiled smally. "You are correct. It is common. However, we ran your blood and it seems that you are, in fact, related to me."

 Rey stared at him.

 "What?" Poe asked, glancing incredulously at Rey.

 Rey cringed. She hadn't told either of those two what she'd found on her mission with Jess almost two months ago. She honestly felt like she was still processing all that she'd found on the ship, in the large chest that she'd found hidden in a smuggler's compartment, so well hidden, surrounded by Force dampeners and anti-scanner tech, that the only reason that Rey found it was that D-0 had showed it to her after he'd verified her identity.

 "I discovered much information about my parents… Anaya-Lan Kenobi and Din Djarin."

 "You know their names!" Poe asked, grinning. "That's amazing."

 Rey shrugged, not quite managing to give him a convincing smile. It had been strangely relieving to learn that her parents had died. That they hadn't left her. And then she'd been sickened at her relief. She'd cried and Jess had held her. Now, all she could feel when she thought of them was a mess of sorrow and guilt that no amount of meditating had helped her make peace with.

 She looked between her master and her, she supposed, uncle.

 "They were… There was a recording. What they left me revealed a lot about my history."

 The three Jedi masters glanced at each other whilst Skywalker's scowl deepened.

 "If we go back to the Millenium Falcon, I can show you. I think it will be easier than explaining."

 Master Windu nodded. "That sounds reasonable, Rey. Master Unduli, I am sure that you, Knight Skywalker and your padawans are capable of overseeing the senators' safety and comfort."

 The older Mirialan Jedi bowed. "Of course, Master Windu."

 Skywalker's scowl deepened for a second and Rey set her jaw against the wave of anger and frustration that clashed against her shields.

 However, he turned on his heal and joined the other Jedi in leaving, the two troopers who had followed them in shadowing them, both sporting new scars on the sides of their heads, which they covered with helmets before they went through the doors.

 Master Kenobi inclined his head forward. "Why don't we go?"

 ----

 Obi-Wan stood shoulder to shoulder with Mace, Cody Ponds, Finn, Chewbacca and Poe as Rey knelt in front of them. D-O was sitting in front of, in between them and a chest engraved with a Rancor surrounded  by a long, thin, winged dragon, who's tail was hooked around its head.

 She pressed her hand against D-O's head and the droid went very still, a flickering hologram projecting in front of him.

 A pale woman with deep red hair, pinned around her head in a braided crown, and grey eyes came into focus.

 Obi-Wan stifled his gasp as he realised that she was his niece.

 He was given to the temple too young to remember his family. Some Jedi had contact with their families, and many visited their home planets to stay in touch with their cultures. Obi-Wan had never had the desire; he'd preferred to learn about Stewjon from afar. Seeing the woman's face, her smile warm, even as her brow creased in worry, almost made him regret the decision.

 He could see the connections between her, him and Rey. They had the same small features, the same pale skin, and the same stormy eyes. Rey even had a similar cadence to her voice, the unique Stewjoni accent that was so often mistaken for a refined Coruscanti one.

 "Rey, my dear, if you are watching this, then your farther and I are dead."

 She gave a shaky sigh, blinking her eyes rapidly.

 "I am so sorry," her voice was husky as a tear fell down her cheek. "Your farther and I did not want to leave you there, but it was the only way. There was no other habitable planet within range where we'd be assured of your anonymity."

 Anaya-Lan swallowed. "You are… special, my darling. Your light shines so, so bright. We thought… we thought it would be safer to part you two. We didn't think that we'd be found. Not so soon."

 "I'm so…" her voice broke. "I'm so, so sorry, little one. You don't… you don't deserve any of this."

 She paused, looking down at the ground before she glanced back up. "D-0 will show you all that you need to know of us, of your history and of what you are. Please, please, know that you are wanted. I love you more than I can ever put into words. And I am so sorry for what I have done with you."

 The recording picked up the groan of the ship around her, the familiar sound of a hyperdrive being pushed to its limits rattling around Obi-Wan's head.

 "Goodbye, my lightbringer," Anaya-Lan whispered, before she stood up from the chair she had been sitting on.

 A few moments later, a man with tanned skin and dark hair replaced her.

 He gave a sigh, his deep chocolate eyes filled with a kind of grief that Obi-Wan wished he couldn't relate to.

 "I don't have much time, Rey," he began. "But there are things you need to know."

 He held out his hand, showing a pendant of a horned skull on a black corded necklace. Obi-Wan instantly recognised it as the symbol for the true Mandalorians.

 "This will be in the chest. When… if you find any Mandalorians show this to them, they will take you in."

 The man's eyes lowered. "Wren has the dha'kad now, and I cannot put my helmet on again, but my armour is your legacy. I know you will wear it well."

 He leant his elbows in the table, clenching his fists together as he stared back into the camera.

 "If you can, find Fulcrum… you must find her. She will have a baby with her that has a necklace which matches yours. She will train you."

 He ran a hand through his hair. "Gods, we should have left you with her… We thought you would be safer apart from your brother. She said that you are both so powerful… more bright than she could ever imagine… but we were fools, thinking we could outrun the Empire, and the galaxy was blind to think its terror was over."

 He refocused on the camera, as if he could reach across and touch the viewer. "Rey, you are meant to be a Jedi. And I…"

 A tear fell down his face. "It will forever be my greatest regret, in this life and beyond, that I could not watch you and your brother grow into the fierce protectors you will become."

 He breathed a sigh and the tears flowed more freely. "I'm so sorry Rey'ika. I wanted so much more for you… If you ever find your brother… and I hope to god you do, you may be shocked by his appearance… he's a little, well, green."

 He broke off with a humourless bark of laughter. "If you ever find your brother, tell him that I'm sorry too, and that I wish I could have said goodbye, that I could have told him I loved him one more time."

 The ship shuddered around them and the man, Din Djarin, swallowed. "We should get the chest hidden."

 He a watery smile. "You will do great things, Rey Kenobi of Clan Djarin. I love you, more than I will ever be able to show."

 The last thing that was heard as the man reached forward to turn the recording off, was the blaring sound of an alarm and a whispered. "I wish we could have done better."

 Obi-Wan wasn't the only one who had to blink tears out of his eyes when the projection flickered off.

 Rey was openly crying as she stepped forward and slowly opened the chest before anyone could say anything.

 This time, Obi-Wan could not hold back his slight gasp.

 Stacked in one corner, taking up about a quarter of the space, was full beskar armour, unpainted. The shoulder puldrons and the helmet were laying on the top. One of the shoulders had the same racor as on the front welded onto it.

 The rest of the chest was filled with a motely mix of weapons, datasticks, books and other small bits. One of them was a smaller wooden box that was latched with a Force lock.

 Rey stared unseeingly at the contents, as she slowly stood. As soon as she'd straightened, Finn wrapped her in a tight hug, quickly joined by Poe and Chewbacca, with the two droids bumping into her legs.

 Obi-Wan sent out a thin vine through the Force, suffusing it with a delicate comfort. He was surprised when Rey soon acknowledged it, sending her own thrum of thanks through the Force. He hadn't thought that she would notice it. Anakin still failed to pick up on many of the subtle Force interactions that Jedi shared; or, rather, he refused to. He didn't understand that communicating through the Force rather than in the physical world was more natural and genuine for most Jedi, since they were all often called upon to be the calm mediators. The silent communication was only for them, and ensured a level of truth and earnestness that could not be assured in the physical world.

 Anakin was so powerful, everything around him was so loud, that he often didn't grasp the fact that small interactions in the Force could have a large meaning, and he had always been obstinate about listening to Obi-Wan when he attempted to explain them.

 The group pulled away shortly, Rey rubbing the last tears out of her eyes as they turned to face them.

 "I have read through many of the books and datasticks in there. They were mostly learning modules for history, language, art and battle tactics," she admitted. "But I haven't touched the armour. I… haven't been ready for the memories it holds."

 "Memories?" Obi-Wan asked.

 Rey shifted uncomfortably. "I can see what has happened to an object when I touch it."

 "You have psychometry?" Mace questioned.

 Rey shrugged. "If that is what it is called."

 "It is," Mace confirmed, before he gave a small smile. "I believe we are quite well balanced. Do you have visions?"

 Rey nodded. "We both do."

 Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows. That would be interesting.

 "I believe it is time that we each talk to our padawans, alone," he announced.

 He looked into Rey's eyes and she smiled slightly, sending a thrum of understanding towards him. There would be time for them to talk later. They would be training together more often than not, after all.

 Then he cast a glance at Chewbacca and Poe, who both nodded.

 "We understand that Rey and Finn need to train," Poe explained. "Chewie will probably want to work on the Falcon but I want to try and find someone who can show me around the fighters. I'm not used to the older model."

 Cody stepped forward. "I can do that."

 "I'll join you, vod," Ponds agreed.

 Poe grinned. "Good. Let's go then and leave the Jedi to their Force business."

 They all nodded their goodbyes and the astromech, BB-8 followed them out.

 Chewbacca said goodbye as well before he disappeared into the Falcon and Mace quietly lead Rey off into the ship once they'd exited the freighter.

 Obi-Wan turned to Finn, smiling. "I know a rather lovely garden that nobody aboard this ship visits. Shall we converse there?"

 Finn returned his smile with a slightly uncertain one of his own. "Yes, master."

[thefrogdalorian]

Welcome Home, Son

Word Count: 4,166 Rating: Teen Summary: Din Djarin finds himself back on a mysterious planet that is strangely familiar to him, despite the years that have passed since he last stepped foot on it. A visit to the cabin he once shared with his family brings Din face-to-face with someone he never imagined he would again encounter for the rest of his days. Content Warnings: Grief, PTSD, survivor's guilt, grieving for parents. Author's Note: I started writing this last month, but a conversation with @djarinmuse inspired me to finish it tonight. When reading back after I finished I was like "oops this is emotional, who hurt you" so I'm sorry, and the answer is Jon Favreau, I guess. But I'm also not sorry... writing Din like this (weirdly) sparks joy.

Read on AO3

My Masterlist

It was seemingly early evening. The sun had apparently already set, as the sky was a striking shade of rapidly darkening blue. Yet, the mysterious planet was not yet plunged into the blackness of night. The man's eyes began to adjust as he surveyed the scene before him, looking for clues as to where exactly in the galaxy he currently found himself.

As he gazed around at the strangely familiar architecture, he realised in disbelief that he had somehow returned to the planet of his birth.

Several small cabins lining the main street were already glowing a pale orange from the small windows that offered a peek inside. A few of them had smoke slowly snaking their way into the serene sky from the chimneys. It was a galaxy apart from the condition the planet was in the last time he had stepped foot here. The smoke he had observed rising back then had been from the devastating destruction; that utter carnage that had robbed him of everyone he had ever loved and everything he had ever known. 

The sound of tiny feet pattering against the ground as a few children passed next to him, scampering down the road and giggling playfully as they went, caused him to turn his helmeted head and watch them closely. He noticed that they were still dressed in the distinctive dark red robes that, he too, had grown up wearing. The looming, solitary figure watched as the children disappeared into a cabin, feeling a pang of grief and longing for the life he had lost. Their carefree nature caused his eyes to fill with silent, unshed tears – known only to him thanks to the helmet he wore – as he stood there, taking in the sight. He had been just like them once, running through these streets without a care in the galaxy.

It had been so many years since Din Djarin had stepped foot on this planet. But it was as familiar to him as the day he had left all that time ago, wrapped protectively in the arms of the warrior that had saved him from certain death here on Aq Vetina, as they jetted upwards, towards a different life. Now, somehow, fate had brought him back to this very place where everything had changed for him.

If anyone here who remained remembered the small dark haired boy from all those years ago, they would not recognise the form he took now. The hulking Mandalorian's features were hidden by the helmet which perfectly matched the rest of his unpainted Beskar armour, still gleaming despite the low light. A satchel was slung casually across his shoulders, resting against his side, slightly obscured by the dark, tattered cape that he wore around his neck. Din placed a protective gloved hand on the satchel, for it contained the most precious thing in the galaxy to him.

Din stood there quietly for a few more seconds, taking in how surreal it was to be back. When he had departed this place, barely anything remained. On that terrible day, most of the planet's recognisable landmarks and features were reduced to smoking piles of rubble. But it appeared they had mostly been rebuilt over the time that had passed. Standing here, in this street, was the most surreal sensation, as though Din was seeing a ghost. He shook his head slightly and finally moved, finding his feet guided as though by some immovable force. That day, he had never had the opportunity to spy what happened to his cabin. His eyes had watered from the cold air that rushed around him as the Mandalorian carried him far from the battered surface, and he had not been able to get a good look at what remained. But now, perhaps he would get the answers to its fate that had haunted him for so many years.

Despite the decades that had passed, Din found that he remembered the route to what had once been his cabin perfectly. It was set slightly back from the main street. As Din traversed the path that led to his home, he felt his pulse rate quicken. His heart pounded in his chest, he heard it reverberating in his ear drums. What if he did not receive the answers he was so desperately searching for?

The street was slightly secluded from the hubbub of the main thoroughfare but it was still in a convenient location. Din’s friends lived dotted around the various cabins that lined his route to his former home. As he passed the memorable locations, he recalled how easily his group of friends had been able to assemble for days of fun in no time at all. They would dash from cabin to cabin, weaving between the crowds of bemused adults, calling for their friends to join them for what were, at the time, seemingly endless days of fun. Until they had ended.

That was something that had always struck Din, whenever he was reminiscing about his past life during those formative painful, lonely nights in the covert on Concordia where he had been taken – how perfect his life on Aq Vetina had been. A child should never have to contend with the number of burdens that Din at such a tender age. Reminiscing as an adult gave Din a new perspective on that devastation; he frequently found himself grieving for his younger self. That small boy did not deserve a single one of the terrible things that had happened to him. 

Din strode down the street purposefully, despite his nerves. But as he approached the end of the street, where his family's cabin was once located, Din felt all hope leave his body, the spark cruelly extinguished.

The cabin was dark. 

Clearly, no one lived here anymore. Imagining that his parents had survived such carnage had been an absurd notion and Din was momentarily disgusted with himself for ever being delusional enough to believe such a miracle could actually have been possible. 

Then, he was angry. Furious that this golden opportunity to get answers would yield no such outcome. How unjust that fate had caused him to step foot here, yet they would not allow him to gain closure. He would leave here none the wiser to the fate of his parents.

Din allowed the sorrow to sweep in then. He felt profound sadness that there were to be no answers; that he would never find out what had happened to his beloved parents. For a moment, when he had arrived here, he had visions of his mother gathering him in his arms, holding the back of his head with her hand just as she did on that terrible day. Except this time, her face would not be lined with anguish and terror at the impending doom that was exploding all around him… this time she would be able to appreciate the man he had become. 

Din had imagined his father placing his large, warm hand on his cheek, his face inches away, their identical brown eyes gazing into each other’s as Din explained the facial hair he kept was his way of honouring him. Din’s voice would crack as he spoke, telling them that all these years he had thought they were dead. But he had never stopped missing them, or loving them, not for one single second.

But it was not to be.

Din stood there for a few more seconds, the anguish squeezing his inside until he almost felt as though he was going to suffocate from the agony. He was about to turn on his heel and walk away, when something inside him stopped him and made him turn towards the cabin. Even if there was indeed no one inside, Din could at least step foot in the first place he had ever called home.

As Din approached the cabin, he knew with absolute certainty that this was the place where he had been born. It was unmistakably the place where he had spent such a happy childhood, with the parents who were entirely devoted to him and to each other. Before their futures had curelly been snatched away by the Separatist battle droids. The doors and windows were exactly as he remembered; the domed roof matched with the rest of the traditional architecture on Aq Vetina.

Din took a deep breath as he raised a gloved hand to the door. Then he pushed the polished wooden surface, and stepped over the threshold, simultaneously unprepared for and desperate to see what lay beyond.

In the darkness, it took a few seconds for Din’s eyes to adjust to make sense of the sight before him. There was no light coming from outside the cabin, and with no lit fire, there was certainly no light emanating from within. But once Din’s eyes had adjusted, he noticed a shock of maroon belonging to a form in the main room of the cabin. 

There was a figure hunched over the fireplace. Whoever was there appeared to be placing some wood on it to light the fire. Once Din’s eyes adjusted further, he noticed how impossibly tiny the figure appeared. The slender figure was frail, clearly of an advanced age. Could it really be her?

Din was about to call his mother’s name into the darkness, to check that it really was her. But a small sound cut him off. 

“Who is it? Who’s there?” A shaky voice asked into the darkness as its hunched figure straightened.

“It’s… me, Ma,” Din replied, swallowing thickly and forcing his shoulders back, to stand tall in front of her, despite how much he was trembling.

“Din? Is that… is that really you?” The woman asked in disbelief, as she shakily shuffled through the cabin and approached the door, where Din stood, unmoving.

“Yes, Ma. It’s me,” Din nodded. “I never thought I’d see you again,” Din whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling thickly with the emotion of the moment. 

“You were just a little boy the last time I saw you, now look at you. You’re a man,” The elderly woman said admiringly, as she came to stand in front of the hulking frame of her beloved son, with his broad shoulders accentuated by the meticulously polished armour that he wore. "Oh, Din. I wish I could have started this fire, so I could get a proper look at you."

“Would you like me to help you light it?” Din asked, nodding in the direction of the fireplace where his mother had been hunched when he had made his surprise entrance into the cabin. 

“Please,” Din’s mother nodded appreciatively. “I always struggle with the matches,” She grumbled.

As Din made his way towards the fireplace, his hands instinctively came towards his helmet. If he was going to put some fire into the room, he didn’t want his mother to be greeted with only the unrelenting blackness of his T-visor. He wanted her to be able to gaze into his eyes, the brown eyes that were so much like her own.

At that moment, thoughts of the Creed he had sworn, of his redemption in the Living Waters beneath the Mines of Mandalore, were forgotten. Din could not pass up on an opportunity like this. Besides, wasn’t family a fundamental part of what it meant to be Mandalorian? How could a way of life that taught that above anything deny a mother and son bonding again in this way, after so many years of torturous separation?

Din noticed the wood that had already been neatly placed in the fireplace, he reached for the box of matches on top of the mantlepiece. It was strange, the last time he had been here, he had looked up to the mantlepiece, it towered over him as though it was the largest thing he had ever seen. Now, though, Din was a hulking man, who loomed large over the mantlepiece, dwarfing everything else in the room. 

The match sparked as it struck the textured paper, before catching light. Din lowered it down to the woods, blowing on it to get the fire going, mimicking the memories from childhood of his father lighting a fire in this very place so many times. Din’s father had made it look so effortless, even when his hands were trembling from the cold that necessitated lighting a fire. The three of them would then huddle by the fire, Din, his mother and his father. 

His father.

Din had been so taken aback by his surprise reunion with his mother that he had not even considered his father's notable absence. Perhaps he was out running an errand in the town? If his mother had survived, then surely his father had, too? The last he had seen of them, they had been together after they pushed him into the below-ground cellar, where he had sheltered from the destructive rampage. Where was he now?

But before Din could ponder his father's fate any further, the fire caught, and a warm orange glow filled the cabin. Din stood up from the crouched position by the fire, careful not to disturb the satchel still slung around his body. 

He turned around and could now freely gaze at the face he had been convinced he would never see again. Now his helmet was no longer darkening the already poorly-lit cabin, Din could look at his mother properly. The last time he had seen her, she had been so young, probably even younger than Din was now, a thought that was strangely disturbing to him. Din could not even contemplate the horror of losing a child at such a young age.

Even though the years had altered some of his mother's features, so much of her was instantly recognisable to Din. From her long, wavy hair that trailed down her back and around her shoulders, once the same shade of brown as Din’s but now greyed with age; to her deep brown eyes and distinctive nose, shaped so much like Din’s. It was a rare nose shape that he had not often encountered, but seeing his mother share the features made Din feel less alone in the vast galaxy. There were heavy wrinkles lining her forehead and deep bags underneath her eyes. Din thought his mother looked as though she had lived with a great deal of pain for a long time. He felt terrible, knowing that most of it was undoubtedly his fault. He cursed himself for not returning to her sooner. But Din had been so terrified that his worst fears would be confirmed: he was the last, the only survivor from that torrid day on Aq Vetina. So he ran from job to job, through every corner of the galaxy. Until he met Grogu.

As Din had been taking in her mother’s face, she, too, had been gazing at the son she idolised and adored. She was mystified by his sudden arrival, her eyes widened and her lips parted in awe. Din’s mother had long feared that her son had never survived his ordeal in the cellar; to the best of her knowledge, he had vanished without a trace from Aq Vetina. The woman consoled herself in the immediate aftermath with visions of Din getting away, growing into a handsome and strong young man, a fantasy that she had continued into her old age, that had wrapped its arms around her and comforted her when there had no longer been a physical presence remaining to do so. 

“Oh, you look so handsome. Look at you.” Din’s mother murmured, as she gently cupped the stubbly cheek of the son she had believed was long dead in her frail left hand.

Her hands were wrinkled and weathered with age, but they still felt as soft as Din remembered them from his childhood. Din squeezed his eyes shut at the contact, unused to feeling the warmth of another human being on his face in this way. It was overwhelming, almost painful.

“You look so much like your father,” Din’s mother said as she stood back to admire him. “He would be so proud of you.”

“My father?” Din’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Is he here?” He asked hopefully.

“No, Din… that day. He didn’t make it.” Din’s mother said simply, feeling that it was best to get to the point. Her face dropped from the proud, stunned expression she had been wearing as she gazed at her son to one of deep sorrow.

“Oh…” Din said, his brow furrowing as the news he had feared was relayed to him. “Then, how did you survive?” Din questioned, struggling to process how she had possibly made it out alive, when his father had been cut down so brutally.

“Yes, after we put you in the cellar that day he… he lingered just a second too long after we shut the door. He was closer to the explosion,” Din’s mother explained. “There was nothing that could be done. I’m sorry, Din. He loved you so much, with his dying wish… he wanted you to be safe. If he could see you now… he would be so proud.”

“I know. I understand that kind of love for myself, now,” Din nodded. But before he could dwell on his parental pride, Din’s thoughts turned to concern for his mother. “What were you doing without having a fire lit?”

“Oh, Din,” Din’s mother sighed, looking towards the floor in shame. “The nights get so cold, my hands don’t work the same as they used to. I struggle to gather the wood, to light the fire.”

Din shook his head and stepped towards the tiny woman, suddenly feeling a strong protective urge blossom somewhere deep inside him. Din reached out and placed his hand on the top of her arm, his gloved fingers reaching out to grip her arm tightly, as though afraid she would slip away from him once more. 

“I’m here now, Ma. I’m going to take care of you.” Din pledged solemnly.

“Thank you, Din,” The old lady nodded in gratitude, before wrapping her arms around his waist, searching for the warm, fleshy parts of her son that she could feel between the cold, hard armour. Din’s mother leaned in for a hug. 

For the few seconds the two remaining Djarins spent standing there, bodies close together in the small cabin on Aq Vetina, Din felt all the hurt beginning to lessen. The years of suffering, of agonising over her fate, had been replaced by gratitude that his mother had survived, despite all the odds against her. Din would properly process the loss of his father in the time to come. But for now, he relished the warm embrace of his mother. His chin resting on her thick grey hair, as he inhaled her familiar scent. It did not last, though.

“Maker, that’s cold!” Din’s mother exclaimed as she took an alarmed step back, out of the tight embrace.

“I’m sorry, Ma. I don’t often… hug people in this thing,” Din shook his head as he gestured towards his armour. 

“Well, I suppose I should ask about the story behind you wearing all of that,” Din’s mother returned the gesture, her hand reaching out in the direction of his impressive Beskar’gam.

“I was rescued by Mandalorians. I was taken to a moon called Concordia, by their homeplanet of Mandalore. The Mandalorians that rescued me adhered to a strict creed. I was required to hide my face behind a helmet from a young age,” Din clarified the reason for his elaborate armour.

“My son, a Mandalorian…” Din’s mother murmured as she shook her head in shock. “I cannot believe it. I always knew you would do great things, Din.”

Din swallowed thickly, knowing that his past was far more complicated than his mother could possibly imagine. It was true that he had done a great many things she could be proud of, but it was equally true that she would probably not be able to look him in the eye if she knew the destruction and depravity he had been known to unleash throughout the galaxy.

But there was one thing above all else, that Din was undeniably proud of. That he knew would make his mother proud, too. Din knew it was now time to introduce them.

“There’s… there’s someone I want you to meet.” Din said nervously, as he moved the satchel he had been periodically placing a protective hand on throughout their conversation around to his front. 

Din’s hands were trembling as his gloved hand opened the bag. The brown material was lifted, and familiar green ears of the child who had changed Din’s life suddenly poked out.

“This is my son, Grogu.” Din said proudly, feeling his eyes burn with tears, as he introduced his adopted family to the final surviving member of his biological family.

Grogu’s head peeped up beyond the bag where he had been comfortably resting, accustomed to being carried around in such a manner. His big brown eyes blinked a few times, adjusting to the light after so much time spent in the darkness of the satchel.

“Oh, Din. He’s precious,” His mother clasped her hand over her mouth at the sight of her grandson. “I always hoped that you would be a father, have a family of your own.”

“I never thought I would be a father, myself. I used to be a bounty hunter. Grogu was actually a target of mine. After I turned him in, I realised how innocent and defenceless he was,” Din said, swallowing thickly as he looked down at the tiny, innocent baby who he had once so callously betrayed. Indeed, the heavy armour that his mother had admired had been the spoils of his sin. “I had to go back to get him. We’ve been together ever since. I adopted him, he’s my son now.”

“Din, that’s wonderful. I don’t blame you, look at him. What an adorable little thing. How could anyone ever want to hurt him?” Din’s mother stepped towards them. “I’ve never seen anything like him.”

“Neither had I,” Din added in agreement. “He used to be a Jedi. Grogu had the chance to become one again but he chose…” Din swallowed, suddenly overcome with emotion when he remembered the enormity of Grogu’s decision. “He chose to come back to me.”

“The Jedi… I know them,” Din’s mother nodded. “I thought they were all long dead.”

“So did I, but I have encountered them throughout my travels,” Din recalled. “They are few in number now, but there are some left. Just like Mandalorians, they have survived.”

“Can I… would you mind if I held him?” Din’s mother asked nervously.

“Of course you can,” Din nodded encouragingly. 

But as he moved to take Grogu from the satchel and carefully place his son into his mother’s arms, the child began to whine furiously. As Din lifted Grogu up, all the warmth placed into the room, thanks to the fire he had just lit, was rapidly sucked out of the cabin. Din felt cold. His mother’s face swirled, distorted before him.

Suddenly, everything faded to black.

*

Din awoke with a start. He was still in a cabin, but it was not his family’s cabin on Aq Vetina. He was on Nevarro, in the little home he shared with his son. 

It was the middle of the night, there was hardly any light, but Din could hear Grogu’s steady breathing and the weight of his child slumbering peacefully on his chest. Din also felt the way Grogu’s tiny claw was splayed against his cheek.

There had been no reunion on Aq Vetina, Din realised. The thought distressed him, but it did not surprise him. His parents were still gone. Grogu was all he had. 

Din leaned down to press a kiss to Grogu’s wrinkled forehead, feeling the fine white hairs tickle his upper lip and nose. Their bond, their closeness… it was just as profound as the love he had felt for his parents. Time had not diminished that, and Din knew that for as long as Grogu lived, for the centuries the child would likely outlive him, Grogu’s love for the Mandalorian who had rescued him and taken him in would never diminish. Din understood that the love a child had for their parents was a force more powerful than anything else he had encountered, in all of his travels throughout the galaxy. It was more powerful than anger, or hate, or fear.

With that in mind, Din placed his hand on Grogu’s back and hugged his son a little tighter than usual. Grogu was all the family Din had, he was all the family Din would ever have. It was a thought that had brought Din to his knees and humbled him countless times over the years since he had encountered Grogu on Arvala-7.

Tonight, as Din felt the little boy nuzzle into his broad chest, it did so again.

[andallhisausterenhost]

After Action Report: Abate the Edge of Traitors

After going to all the effort* to write a fluffy intro to this battle, I then have had zero interest in writing a fluffy after action report. I think the problem is taking unpainted miniatures - it’s a bit hard to get worked up or invested in the death of Senor Greyskin and his trusty sidekick, Lady Dull Metallic, when I could instead get really into the clash of arms between, say, Brother-Veteran Hitoshi, warrior of the Mantis Warriors, and Matthias the Vicious, the dread serial killer of Nužudymas, cultist of Qyn Kraugeriškas, pirate-slave of Malachi the Surly, ya know?

It doesn’t help that @littlemangsofwar​ has some of the worst luck in recorded history.

My writer’s block is especially frustrating when Mangs puts a great deal of effort into his lists. Task Force Vengeance is fully named, from Librarian Cassiel down to the Land Raider Redeemer Purity Rolling.** I need to step up my game, both in terms of painting and in terms of, you know, writing. Things.

Anyway, this clash was really fun on paper. Mangs’s Dark Angels list is pretty mechanised, featuring a Nephillim Jetfighter (Caliban’s Wrath), a Predator, Razorback, a Rhino, scouts, a pack of Deathwing as well as officers. It’s not the most optimized list for 8th edition Dark Angels, as they actually really want to stand very still and get free re-rolls, but it is cool as hell to look at.

The Ravenwing were just here to scout the battlefield, then peeled away for another, more important mission elsewhere (he didn’t actually include them in the list! A mistake we’ve all made.).

I had a really bizarre list, swelled with unpainted units to try and match @littlemangsofwar​‘s cool Dark Angels. In the centre of the board, I massed my marines in cover, as well as some slightly forward scouts (including the new snipers and the Crusaders, who took up stances around an old console in the ruins). I had some attack bikes waiting in reserve, hidden behind buildings. On the right flank, the Radical Inquisitor took up position in his commandeered Razorback, behind a Tactical squad and some... uh... ash-camouflaged Assault Marines.

The blocks are actually a Daemonhost containing a warp spirit of Order, which I have some very cool ideas on, but they can wait until I paint more of the Inquisitor’s band of acolytes. The new Blackstone Fortress actually has a bunch of models that I was planning on converting for his gang, so that is going to be very hard to resist.***

I also had two squads of Ratlings, led by a Squat commander and accompanied by an Astropath, part of the Inquisitor’s extended retinue. The Mantis Warriors marching into battle accompanied by xenos, a daemonhost, and semi-humans! Not a great look, but they were here to fight the Dark Angels, who themselves have a less than savoury reputation.

We played a variation of Cleanse and Capture, which I’ll drop below the cut. Essentially it was the same scenario but we each had some bonus Tactical Objectives we wanted to achieve to give the thing a bit of flavour.

The objective markers were intended to represent archaeological sites that may contain information on + + + REDACTED BY INQUISITORIAL EDIT 7532/ω + + + which obviously the Dark Angels also sought.

I know I just wrote a lot of words about the scenario, but I’m afraid that I’m not up for a prolonged blow-by-blow of the game, so here are some highlights:

Despite a tremendous amount of possible mortal wound output from my three squads of snipers (two Ratling and one Mantis), I only killed about three Tactical marines from them all game. Of course, Ratling squads are only 45 points, so it’s still not a bad choice.

Early in the game, my attack bike with a multi-melta swung out and nearly one-shotted the Predator Silencer. In anger at this, @littlemangsofwar fired nearly his whole bloody army at the little bikers, only finally killing them with a plasma rifleman who then died in the explosion. What heroes.

There he is, tucked behind that barricade there.

The advanced (and second-most recently painted) sniper scouts that were holding the objective in the ruins were brutally cut down in a single round by a combination of Redeemer flamers and a Dark Angels Tactical Squad. Said squad would then hole up in that ruin for the rest of the game, sniper fire plinking off their power armour and holding my Assault Marines at bay.

The Inquisitor and his minions did very little. I’ll admit that I strongly dislike their rules in the Index - they get almost no character and kind of encourage the worst kind of spam. Take lots with plasma guns! Each one man unit is an Elite choice! And you can’t have cool models with twin swords or twin pistols actually count as those weapons! Lame.

Purity Rolling gets assaulted by the Mantis Warriors officer cadre.

In a pitched fight that goes to show why tanks don’t like urban battlefields, Purity Rolling got swarmed by my entire HQ and my teleporting Terminator Squad and got chipped to death. I was very lucky, getting off that 9″ charge, and it did come down to the power sword of the Sergeant, but it was still brutal.

Brother-Apothecary Jiyuna wimping out and refusing to charge Purity Rolling which is fair enough, really.

@littlemangsofwar kept the pressure on my Devastator Squad, but his fucking appalling dice rolling in this game meant that they lasted most of it. I don’t believe they did anything useful, but they just kept absorbing his fire.

pew pew

Beneath the Devastators, in the same ruins, were a Tactical Squad, which got assaulted by one of the Dark Angels Tacticals. The battle was fairly even, frustratingly, for several battle rounds, despite the assistance of my Brother-Apothecary Jiyun, Lieutenant Khan Nguyen Thi Kim, and the abhuman company commander in service of the Inquistion. The latter had a powerfist! He didn’t hit once!

His brothers cut down around him, Brother-Sergeant Kiraman fights against overwhelming odds.

An absolute beast who would. not. die. This caption refers to Kiraman, and not anyone wearing green, white, or blue. Jerks.

In the centre, my command squad and both units of Terminators kept wailing on one another for several turns. Between adroit use of psychic powers and @littlemangsofwar‘s gross luck, I came out on top, although my First Company warriors were annihilated to a man.

A glorious melee.

Chief Librarian Ahazra Redth channeling the Warp.

On the right flank, there is nothing much to report. Caliban’s Wrath was pretty wrathful, taking out my Inquisitor’s Razorback. Scouts and fire from various other tanks took down most of the acolytes, including the Slann and the exiled Aeldari ranger, but the Inquisitor himself was able to channel the powers of the warp and take out the scouts. The glowing cubic forms of the daemonhost did something between ‘nothing’ and ‘waste time’.

A rhino burns in the distance as Mantis Warriors Tactical Marines advance.

Overall, this game wasn’t as much fun as I would have liked. Don’t get me wrong, @littlemangsofwar is always cool to hang out with, but his luck was just so awful. It’s no fun watching your opponent roll ten dice and get two hits. 

I was using Raven Guard rules for the Mantis Warriors, as I do feel that it’s the best feel for their hit-and-run tactics in the fluff, but it’s also a very strong Chapter Tactic. Certainly light-years better than the terrible ‘you hit harder if you charge out of cover... for some reason’ rules they are reputed to have had two editions ago.

Hopefully, the next time @littlemangsofwar and I have a full game of 40K, our luck will even out. We did have two Kill Team games on Sun 28 Oct, and those went very differently!

I’ll leave you with at atmospheric**** photo of Squad Nakir of the Dark Angels...

Final score: Victory, Mantis Warriors. (Dark Angels withdraw.)

Men of the Match: Attack Bike with multi-melta. Toughness five, four wounds, baby!

Lesson to Remember: Dark Angels infantry get to re-roll ones if they don’t move that turn.

+ + + Thought for the Day: By the manner of their death we shall know them. + + +

Scenario: Maelstrom of War scenario Cleanse and Capture (see p.230 of the rulebook).

Modifications:

Terrain:

As traditional, whoever gets there first places terrain; second-comer can choose deployment side.

Placing objectives:

As I'm picking the scenario, you can choose whether to place the first or second objective. You may also choose which deployment type (p.216) we want to use.

Tactical Objectives:

As written (that is, we generate Tactical Objectives until we hold three), but we start with some at the beginning of the game in addition. Unlike regular TOs, we can't discard these, but they don't count against the maximum of 3 anyway.

You (Dark Angels) will start with 13 Confess! and 14 Seize and Interrogate in addition to rolling up/drawing three more.

I (Space Marines) will start with 12 Honour Your Chapter and I also have a made-up version of the Dark Angels 14 Seize and Interrogate by the Inquisitor (see below) in addition to rolling up/drawing three more.

(special) 14 Seize and Interrogate by the Inquisitor   Score 1 victory point if any enemy CHARACTERS, DEATHWING UNITS, or RAVENWING BLACK KNIGHT UNITS were slain by an INQUISITION unit in the Fight phase of this turn. If your opponent’s Warlord was slain by an INQUISITION unit during the Fight phase of this turn, score D3 victory points instead.

First Turn:

Rather than whoever finishes deployment automatically getting first turn (which can be brutal in this edition), I suggest we go with the system used in the Chapter Approved scenarios:

The players roll off, and the player who finished setting up their army first adds 1 to their result. The winner can choose to take the first or second turn. If they take the first turn, their opponent can roll a D6; on a 6, they manage to seize the initiative, and they get the first turn instead!

Everything else is the same as a standard Cleanse and Capture: Warlord, First Blood, Linebreaker; highest victory points is the winner; 5 turns and then start rolling for extra turns on a 3+; etc etc.

* Literally like five minutes before going to bed. ** A great blend of the sorts of names US soldiers give to their tanks and the 40K hellverse. *** Ratlings!!!!! **** Bad.

[barkhapahuja]

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