#tristan wren

[aspiring-spellcaster]

“Your family died on Mandalore”

Rip to the Wrens :((

[inthefaceofadaffodil]

Baylan: Your family died on Mandalore because your Master didn’t trust you.

Rebels Fans: I’m sorry WHAT

Filoni:

[duchess-of-mandalore]

Can we talk about the fact that in her portrait, Ursa Wren is wearing a dark-green, off-the-shoulder dress that is very similar to Satine’s “butterfly” dress? If you don’t think that one is supposed to evoke the other, look at the identical chokers. This was definitely a conscious design decision, even if we aren't given the significance behind it.

Depending on when Ursa’s portrait was done, I like to think that either a) Satine was considered a fashion icon and clothing inspired by her wardrobe was made for others, or b) Bo-Katan gave Ursa Satine’s dress after her death and Ursa made it a bit less conservative by removing the bit around the shoulders and shortening the sleeves.

Either way, it’s a really interesting connection that suggests that while Ursa Wren was a member of Death Watch (perhaps conscripted by Pre Vizsla as a vassal clan leader within his House), she may have appreciated Satine or even supported her during her reign. (The fact that her husband, Alrich, is not a warrior and may even be a pacifist could also support this as well.)

[darth-memes]

HAPPY STAR WARS REBELS REMEMBERED DAY!!!!

[tobytost]

save me tristan wren....tristan wren....

[iszapizza]

This ship is really funny and really cute BAHAHAHSH

[padawan-snack-packer]

Hey snackpacker!!! I read all of your clones headcanons and they are sooooo adorable!!! Can I ask for Mando clans ones please?🥺

Hey Anon!!! Oh gosh, sure sure there you go!!!!

⚠️ TW: Not a Lore Purist, Just Vibes™ I love Mandalorians with my whole chaotic heart but I’m not a walking Chronicles of Mand’alor PDF. These headcanons are powered by ✨emotion, vibes, and space chaos✨ more than textbook canon. If something’s not lore-accurate, please don’t come at me with a vibroblade (kinky though-)—I’m just here to emotionally adopt found family and throw glitter bombs with Clan Wren. 💖

This is the Way (but also, This is the Fanon).

NOW LET'S GO-

🛠️ Clan Ordo — (Tough Love, Duct Tape Edition)

Their love language is "I fixed this for you but insulted it the whole time." Example: “Your jetpack’s garbage. I upgraded it. Don’t die.”

No one says “I love you” out loud. Instead, they hand you soup and complain about your aim.

Armor polish is sacred. If someone else polishes your armor? You’re basically married now.

Family dinners are loud, full of arguments, and end with at least one person crying—but it’s always because of pride, not pain.

They absolutely have a thousand tiny clan traditions no one remembers the origin of, like giving newborns a mini hydrospanner “for luck.”

Secretly very sentimental. They keep the worst drawings their kids ever made... inside their chestplates. Under the beskar.

🖤 Clan Fett — (The Myth, The Mess, The Legacy)

Every child raised under this clan grows up under a ridiculous amount of dramatic pressure to live up to the legacy of Jango.

There are so many family debates over whether Jango would’ve wanted to be remembered as “That Cool Bounty Hunter Dad” or “The Guy Who Accidentally Created a Galaxy’s Worth of Emotional Clones.”

They have a tradition of forging "Memory Blades" — knives with etched names of those lost. Every Fett carries one. Some carry dozens.

At feasts, they always leave an extra seat at the table. For Jango. Even now.

Their humor is DRY. Like, “We took a bounty on a Sith Lord for fun” levels of deadpan chaos.

Boba won’t admit it, but he calls old clone commanders “uncle” under his breath sometimes.

👑 Clan Kryze — (Tea, Trauma, and Terribly Controlled Emotions)

Everything is Very Formal Until It’s Suddenly a Knife Fight. “Cousin Alric insulted the tea set? Pistols at DAWN.”

The tea ceremony is a full military-grade operation. You wear armor. You pour with honor. You do not spill.

Every Kryze is passive-aggressively dramatic. They’ll say, “You always do this, mother,” right before throwing a thermal detonator at someone.

Their lullabies are weirdly sad and haunting and about the fall of ancient Mandalore and the inevitability of loss. (“Sleep, little warrior, the stars burn cold / Our home was fire, our story old…”)

Once a year, they gather in complete silence and light sky-lanterns for every family member lost to war. The sky is full.

🦴 Clan Vizsla — Drama, Duels, and Delusions of Grandeur

Has a 200-slide holo-presentation titled "Why We Should Still Rule Mandalore." No one asked for it. They show it anyway.

Will duel you over literally anything. The last one was about soup temperature.

They're the type to say “we’re not dramatic” while igniting a Darksaber and monologuing.

Family game nights are just strategic combat simulations with a scoreboard and someone always cries.

Wear so much black armor they look like they’re attending a funeral at all times. (They might be. They’re dramatic like that.)

Lowkey keep backup capes. In case their first one doesn't billow enough.

🎨 Clan Wren — (Art Is War, and So Is Family Game Night)

If you can’t graffiti while doing backflips, are you even a Wren?

Sabine may say, “I don’t do art anymore,” but Tristan absolutely still has a sketchbook full of emo poetry and helmet redesigns. (One of them says “PEW PEW EMO BOY” in Aurebesh. Sabine keeps it.)

They have a tradition where each child gets their first paint set before they get a blaster.

Weddings involve throwing glitter bombs into the air and yelling “THIS IS THE SHADE.”

They once staged an “artistic protest” by painting the clan elder’s speeder hot pink. The elder loved it.

The phrase “Wren family therapy” is code for a paintball match where the winner gets to yell at everyone else. They do it weekly.

🧬 Bonus: Little Traditions That Hurt (Just a Little)

Some clans pass down lullabies, others pass down the frequency to old comm channels. They keep them on, just in case someone out there is still listening.

Every Mandalorian learns how to dance—not because of ceremonies, but because when the wars are over, they want to remember joy.

If a Mandalorian dies without family, another clan will claim them posthumously. They will engrave their name into the wall and say it out loud during honor rites. “You were one of us. You are one of us still.”

[jessicas-pi]

Okay awhile back I saw someone suggest Tristan Wren and Shin Hati as a crackship and I can't get that out of my mind so can I have them (either romantically or platonically, just in any way interacting) in a No Order 66 AU? 🥺

this is without question the most hilarious ask i have ever received, kazzy you're the best

---

"So," said Tristan.

"So," said Shin.

They left it at that, for a minute.

He was considering asking her why she grabbed him and dragged him off here when she spoke again, crossing her arms.

"I don't like you."

"Obviously," Tristan agreed.

"You don't like me," Shin went on.

"Also true."

"Both of us dislike your sister's new boyfriend with a burning passion."

Tristan made a face. "Got that right."

"I wouldn't mind ruining his life, and you'd be thrilled if they broke up."

"Oh, yeah."

"Well, then." Tossing her hair back out of her face, Shin took a half-step forward and offered him one hand. "Allies?"

He eyed her hand for a minute, then took his own half-step forward and smacked his palm against hers, giving her hand a firm shake. Funny; her grip was stronger than he'd expected. Kinda felt like the only reason the bones in his hand weren't crushed was sheer self-restraint on her part.

(Attractive, but whatever. Unlike some people, Tristan was not going to bring shame upon the family by hooking up with a Jedi.)

"Allies," Tristan agreed, and dropped her hand.

Shin smiled, showing all her teeth. "Excellent. Now, let's—"

But before she could finish her sentence, the door opened, and Tristan was nearly bowled over by his older sister, who wasn't looking where she was going at all. Instead, she was looking back over her shoulder, at the Jedi with the dreamy eyes that Sabine had been stupidly pining about for the last six months. His hand was in hers and she was dragging him behind her, which meant that when she slammed into Tristan, he slammed into her, and they would have all crashed to the ground if Shin hadn't intervened, jumping over and bracing Tristan up from behind.

"Ugh!" Tristan snapped, grabbing Sabine by the shoulders and pushing her (and her Jedi) back. "Get out of here, Bean!"

Sabine gaped over his shoulder at Shin, wide-eyed. "Tristan, what—"

With a final shove, he got her and the dumb Jedi guy all the way out the door. "Go find some other closet to be mushy and gross in! This one's taken!"

And with that, he ducked back into the storage closet, letting the door slam shut behind him.

"You see what I live with?" he sighed, turning around to look at Shin, and finding with some surprise that she looked massively unimpressed with him.

"What I see," she replied flatly, "Is that you just told your sister that we needed this closet for unspecified purposes, and she is going to make assumptions."

"Oh," said Tristan, the consequences of it all revealing themselves to him in an instant. "...oh, no."

Shin heaved a sigh of resignation.

"Well, I guess we're pretending I'm your girlfriend, now."

"Is—is that necessary?"

"Absolutely."

[loth-creatures]

Oh how I miss the days when I was confidently waiting for Clan Wren to eventually pull up in Mando. How naive I was...

[carcasstohounds]

i’m obsessed with the mandolorian/jedi dynamic because it’s. just this.

also follow me on tiktok for the same bullshit i post here, but less of it, less frequently.

[kazoosandfannypacks]

summary: sabine and ezra finally share their first kiss. unfortunately, it’s on a broadcast to every rebel cell in the galaxy. chapter word count: 1131 a/n: hey remember back in november when i said "wow based on how long it took me to post chapters 3 & 4, we'll probably get chapters 5 & 6 around March 2025. apparently, that wasn't a joke; it was a prophecy. shoutout to the funny and clever @kanerallels for betaing! taglist: @laughingphoenixleader @accidental-spice @kanerallels  @piraterefrigerator @jedi-nurse @dootchster  @lucasbridger @redroverrider  @light-umbra   @commander-tech  @jedimandalorian @notanodinarygirl  {if you’d like to be added to or removed from my Sabezra taglist, let me know!}

also on ao3!

Jetpacks and Sketchbooks Are An Introvert's Best Friend

 Leaving a party is hard enough when you're just a guest of honor, but when you're a guest of honor and also the main focus of the hottest tea the rebellion had spilt since the second fulcrum revealed his identity? That's even worse.

 Fortunately, Sabine was not only a guest of honor and also the main focus of the hottest tea the rebellion had spilt since the second fulcrum revealed his identity, but also, she had a jetpack.

 The jetpack, combined with her Mandalorian training in stealth, provided her a perfect opportunity to make a hasty escape back to The Ghost, and the ship's empty corridors would've provided her a perfect opportunity to plan out the conversations she'd have to have once the ship was no longer empty.

 It only would have, though, because it was interrupted by a message on the comms— not just her regular commlink, which she'd been ignoring entirely in light of the days' events, but the direct frequency for her family on Krownest, used for special emergencies, or plans for upcoming banquets, and the like. Today was a rare exception where she hoped for a family emergency, hopefully one that had knocked out their base's entire network except for this comm specifically, meaning they'd heard nothing of the day's events, and required her to return home as fast as possible and avoid, for the foreseeable future, any more conversations with certain blue eyed Jedi padawans that made her weak in the knees.

 Unfortunately, the minute she saw the smile on her brother's holo-face, she knew her family was perfectly fine— and she wasn't.

 "What is it, Tristan?" Sabine asked.

 "Nothing," Tristan said, "Just wanted to see my big sister one last time before the ol' buirs get to her."

 Sabine covered her face behind her hand. "I take it you saw the broadcast."

 "Are you kidding?" Tristan laughed. "Mom and dad got the whole base together to watch it; thought a message of hope would boost morale."

 "And?"

 "Well, some people's morale has definitely been lifted." Tristan smiled. "Bo Katan and Rau haven't stopped talking about it. Mom, on the other hand, well, she'd like them to stop talking about it."

 "I'm toast." Sabine said, her arms crossed across the holotable. "I'm more than toast. I'm burnt uj'alayi with bas neral sauce."

 She slammed her face down and buried it in her arms.

 "Look on the bright side." Tristan said.

 Sabine looked up at the projection in front of her.

 "The rest of the clan has a head-start on getting used to things." Tristan said. "They won't be surprised in the slightest once you and your jetti cyar'ika send out the wedding invites."

 On instinct, she grabbed her helmet off the seat next to her and threw it at the hologram, and even though they were thousands of parsecs away, he still flinched.

 "That's my cue to leave." Tristan said. "Make sure you tell your meshl'a jetti I said hi."

 He signed off before Sabine had any chance to throw any more of her armor across the room, and, as worried as she was about the aftermath of her parents and entire clan having watched her first kiss, she still liked the way meshl'a cyar'ika jetti sounded.

 She couldn't help but smile as she glanced down the hall to Ezra's room while on the way to her own. Her painting of Ezra and Zeb from all those years ago was still undisturbed on the wall, and several new doodles she'd added had joined them.

 She sighed a little, rolled her eyes a little, then went back to her room and pulled out her sketchbook, flipping past sketches of her cremates, her eyes catching on every hint of that perfect mix of midnight and navy blue staring back at her, skimming past plans she'd laid for murals that she'd planned to hide traces of the Empire's echoes on the streets of Lothal, turning instead to a new, blank page: a fresh start.

 She missed the days when the streets were full of bucketheads and Imperial factories to let out her unhealthy coping mechanisms onto— she still hadn't found a distraction that gave her that same kind of rush. If she sat alone with her emotions, she'd go insane. If she tried to pace the floor, she'd end up wearing holes in her shoes. If she did something dramatic with her hair it would be way too obvious that the day's events had meant something to her. The only thing she had left to do to stay sane was to make something.

 Her hand trembled before the empty page. For several minutes she sat staring, coming up with an idea, sketching it, realizing how bad it looked, ripping the page out, throwing it at the wall, and starting again.

 Finally she brought herself to draw the only thing on her mind, something she knew well enough to draw from memory without any difficulty.

 First came the basic sketch layer. Usually when drawing this subject, she'd write it off as a study of different poses, oftentimes in combat, occasionally studies in lighting, and in how the lightsaber in his hand cast its hues and shadows across him. Today she settled on his typical clueless shrug.

 Next was to add a body to the skeleton of a sketch. Today he'd cleaned up a little for the ceremony, and she could still remember the perfect fit of his jacket and the cut of the neckline of the shirt underneath. She could still feel his arms reaching around her, his fingers loosely ambling through her hair.

 Finally she sketched his face: his hair just starting to grow back again, eyes that always found their way to her, scars from a fight he was lucky to walk away from, a smile both innocent and guilty, complete with the lips that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

 Then she took to the sketch with paints and ink, choosing each color with intentional fervor, spending almost as long to mix the right blue as it had taken to do the rest of the drawing combined.

 At last, it was finished, and she gave herself a moment to appreciate her handiwork, holding it up in front of her. No artist could've done him justice, but she'd done her best, though she couldn't remember at which part of the process she'd surrounded his face with pink and red hearts, least of all ones with their initials inside.

 She smiled and rolled her eyes, then set her masterpiece down. She was surprised to see that, even when her sketchbook was no longer in front of her face, its subject was still in her line of vision, standing in her doorway with that same smile.

[mandalorianfleshenjoyer]

Reasons for why the Wren family should be alive:

-bunch of nameless mandos survived on their shitty scrap skiff, so I don't see why the Wrens couldn't

-they were already implied dead in Rebels (when Duchess is first used), and I think it'd be funny if that happened a second time

-kindly imagine Ursa Wren crawling out from under a rock and seeing everyone willingly cooperating with the eternally-bucket-wearing cultists

-Sabine has already suffered enough

-I didn't see any fucking bodies

-please.

[kanerallels]

Tumblr I love you but please fix the link function instead of changing what the notification tab looks like

New chapter of Diamond In The Rough, out now!!

I'm actually gonna put both tag list and first lines under the cut, cause it contains a description of recovering from nearly drowning and it just occurred to me that could be potentially triggering

One minute, there was nothing.

And then he was breathing and choking and coughing, the cold wind searing his icy skin. Rolling over, Ezra gasped for breath, feeling himself shudder violently. He wanted to stand up, to move—but his soaked clothing was weighing him down, and he was so, so tired…

“Ezra! Ezra, are you okay?”

Kanan’s voice pulled him back to reality, and he lifted his head. He was laying in a wide expanse of snow, and Kanan, Ahsoka, and Jacen were standing over him. “Hey,” he said—or croaked, rather, his voice rusty and painful as he pushed himself into a sitting position. His head spun, but he still managed a grin. “What’s up?”

Taglist: @accidental-spice @seleneisrising @cassie-fanfics @jedi-nurse @selfish-giant

@tarisilmarwen @ana-cantskywalker @lothalnyx

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

“It’s basic colour theory.”

(For the Drabble ask game)

18. “It’s Basic Colour Theory”

How’s about something set in a happy little universe where the Wren Clan survived the Purge and Krownest is selected to host the annual Mandalorian banquet/cookout/whatever they call it?

The sun was up, the snow was sparkling, and the Wren Stronghold was abuzz with activity.

Anticipation thrummed in the air, excited as it was anxious. It was understandable: there hadn’t been such a large gathering of Mandalorians for well over a decade, and such a large gathering with the absence of a war? Near unheard of… but a welcome change of pace, nonetheless.

Tristan couldn’t even remember the last time the Wren Clan had had the privilege of hosting a peaceful convocation. Growing up, he witnessed many clan and house leaders coalescing in the cavernous formal rooms of his home along with officials and representatives from the Empire, the occasions characterized by tensions wound tight and blades figuratively pressed to throats. Being as he was then just a child (and a quiet, unobtrusive one at that), he was often allowed closer than he ought to have been, young ears exposed to dignified words veiling threats and insults.

But now the Empire was gone and the only ones on the guest list today were true Mandalorians.

(Plus a few Jedi.)

(But they were family, too.)

Tristan was in charge of preparations, as per the Countess’s instructions.

He was beside her now, keeping in step as they wound their way through the stronghold, ensuring all was set right.

“Mand’alor Djarin should be arriving soon,” Tristan relayed, pulling up the message confirming the Mand’alor’s ETA on his datapad. “He’s insisted there be no escort and no welcome party.”

“That’s fine,” Sabine said, mildly, pausing to inspect (or, rather, admire) the little paper lanterns their cousins had strung along the perimeter of the dining room, a neat pattern of yellow and silver glowing soft for decoration rather than illumination. “He doesn’t like all the ceremony. But he’s not getting away with sitting anywhere other than the head of the table again.”

Tristan shook his head slightly, mentally assigning himself the charge of ensuring the Mand’alor did not fade into the background, regardless of how much he wished to.

(They had hosted him once before and while he seemed quite pleased that they mistook him for just another guest, their mother felt they would never live down the embarrassment.)

(So, really, for her sake, Tristan was going to have to make sure the Mand’alor was accorded due respect and notice this time.)

“Actually, I do have some questions about the seating chart,” he said.

Sabine turned to him and raised her eyebrows. “Okay. Shoot.”

Tristan pulled up the chart on his datapad. “You’ve made a note here that the representives from House Mereel and Eldar are not to sit next to each other.” To confirm, he turned the datapad around and pointed to said note. “Is there some bad blood there or something else I should know about?”

Sabine frowned. Coming closer, she took the datapad from her brother, the pale light reflecting in her eyes as they darted over the chart.

“I didn’t make this note,” she told him, blankly.

“Before you go on a witch hunt, I’ll confess: that was my contribution.”

The siblings’ heads snapped up in unison, gazes shooting to the other end of the dining room as their father came strolling leisurely in.

“And you’re interfering with my arrangements because…?” Sabine left the question hanging in prompting.

Alrich Wren breathed out a light chuckle as he crossed the vast empty space between the hallway entrance and where they stood by the serving tables, passing through the rays of morning sun streaming in through the expanse of glass walls. A soft clack accompanied every other uneven step he took, his cane and the polished wood floors old friends ever since the Purge.

“Because the representive from House Mereel wears mostly green, and the leader of Clan Eldar wears mostly orange,” he offered in answer.

Tristan rolled his eyes. “So?”

“So?” his father repeated. He nodded and pointed to the datapad in Sabine’s hands. “You put them next to each other, you’ll throw out the whole colour wheel!”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Tristan mumbled but he knew the only time his father was more serious than when it came to colour was when it came to shape language and symbolism.

“He’s right. It’s basic colour theory, Tristan,” Sabine said. “Look. When you arrange the Eldars to sit beside the Vizslas, it really brings the whole table together. You’re sure he’s gone orange?” she asked their father, utterly serious. “Last I heard, he was sporting bronze armour.”

“He was. But the orange is the Eldars’ traditional colour. When he heard the Mand’alor was to be present at this gathering, he opted to restore tradition.”

“Makes sense.”

“Wait, so you’re really arranging the seating charts based on what colours go nice together?” Tristan couldn’t say he was surprised.

“I took other things into account,” Sabine protested. “The Alor of the Hawk clan has been known to flip between gold and white armour, depending on their current mood and mission in life. The white can work just about anywhere but the gold will look hideous if they sit too close to the Kast chief. But I do know they don’t get on well with the Vizslas at the moment, so I’m sitting them by the Rooks, just to be safe.”

“We’re lucky the Mand’alor’s armour is silver,” Alrich said, sounding genuinely relieved. “Not only does he match our colour scheme, we don’t have to worry too much about who we seat beside him.”

. . . . .

Drabble Prompt List

[tobytost]

when the freaky force you don’t understand is trying to translate the whole vastness of the universe to your cool wizard boyfriend but his body is still a fragile thing and the knowledge is like a star turning supernova so he’s shortcircuiting and you don’t know what to do and-