#and those who gained the title of mandalorian warrior before that did it on their own and may not be the norm

[cienie-isengardu]

Cienie's Sidenotes: Human Mandalorians or vassals? (Pre-Mandalorian Wars era)

Up to the Mandalorian Wars, humans living on planets like Concord Dawn and Gargon, were part of Mandalorian society yet fulfilled the role of vassals to their Mandalorian (Taung) overlords, as was stated in "Industry. Honor. Savagery: Shaping the Mandalorian Soul” [The Essential Guide to Warfare, 2012]:

The Jakehans, for one, welcomed their new Mandalorian overlords, as did knots of worlds populated by humans centered on Concord Dawn and Gargon. Those worlds—along with the likes of Hrthging, Breshig. Shogun, and Ordo—became part of Mandalorian Space.

Bounty Hunter Code implies too that humans were officially accepted into Mandalorian ranks thanks to Mandalore the Ultimate and the Great Adoption:

“Of the ancient Mandalores, we hold none in higher esteeem than Mandalore the Ultimate, the Great Shadow Father of our clans. On Shogun, then as now planet of visions, Mandalore the Ultimate received a staggering prophecy: The age of Taung was ending, but their great work was unfinished. To survive, the Mando’ade must be transformed. It was a terrible burden, but Mandalore the Ultimate bore it with honor. He opened the clans to all who proved themselves in battle and followed the warrior code. Non-Taung were no longer confined to vassalship, but could be full-fledged Mandalorian warriors. Our forefathers were among these new Mando’ade, and soon proved that they were ready to lead the clans.”

The History of the Mandalorians (2005) also notes the "ethnic" uniformity of the original Mandalorians

"Though in modern times the Mandalorians have became a grab-bag of alien races, including humanoids, Togorians, and Kerestians, the Mandalorians were once strictly a gray-skinned warrior race. Xenoantropologists believe that this original Mandalorian species was descended from the ancient Taung Shadow Warriors of Dha Werda Verda legend."

and non-Taungs - beside Mandallian Giants - were just accepted and treated as equals in the period between Sith War and Mandalorians Wars.

"[...] the temporary defeat precipitated a frenzied conviction that the "Great Last Battle" was at hand. For 20 years, the Mandalorians zealously invaded small non-Republic worlds on the fringe of Known Space, raiding their resources and building up a powerful army. Anticipating an apocalyptic war, the Neo-Crusaders began accepting members of other species into their midst, treating these "converts" as equals."

However, Knights of the Old Republic Campaign Guide suggest that humans, like Ordo Canderous, fought in the Sith Wars already as Mandalorian Crusader - albeit Canderous himself would be pretty young from what I gathered about his history. In the KotOR game in one of his dialogues Ordo proclaimed “I've been fighting across the galaxy for 40 of your years” and the game was set in 3956 BBY. The Mandalorian Wars ended four years before, in 3960 BBY.  The Sith War ended in 3996 BBY.  The time difference between Sith War and the events of the game adds up to 40 years (and whether Ordo stated exact amount or rounded number, is up to debate). So even if his fighting experiences dated back to the Sith War, he would rather be a novice warrior than a seasoned veteran. Additionally, The History of the Mandalorians states that Ordo Canderous was "recruited or "converted" to Mandalore's the Ultimate's cause during Mandalorian Wars, where he was among those to serve as a battle tactician rather than a foot soldier. What confirms Ordo's great skills/war experiences in the later conflict, yet implies the not-equal status during Sith War.

At the same time, as Taung were already dying species, it makes sense to enlist human members of Mandalorian clans as additional troopers, as vassals usually are bound to support their lords in time of war. There is also a possibility that humans living in Mandalorian clans were naturally assimilated into culture through the ages - if they were considered to be part of Mandalorian society each human wishing to earn the warrior rank should only need to prove themselves in fight to gain Taungs’ recognition as Taungs in general didn’t care for species, only for skills, loyalty to clan and Mandalorian creed (honor). 

This is especially important as the Crusaders (traditional Mandalorians) did not proselytize people around them,as was stated in KotOR Campaign Guide:

The traditional Crusaders do not proselytize; rather, they attract others to their cause throught the examples they set. Veterans see the later Neo-Crusaders movement, which actively converts outsiders in its hurry to conquer the galaxy, as a perversion.

which suggests the will to join warrior ranks needed to come from an individual human/non-Taung - and who knows, maybe those who didn’t want be warriors were simply allowed to life in peace as farmers, blacksmiths, artisans and any other job that supported the warrior culture of their Taung lords? Especially since some Mandalorians are known under the Fett surname (originally written as Vheff) and the word means literally a farmer. In contrast, the Mandalorian movement known as Neo-Crusaders that started in the period between Sith Wars and Mandalorian Wars and who became the majority part of Mandalore the Ultimate’s army actively converts humans and Aliens alike to warrior culture, even against their will, as could be seen in Knights of the Republic and KotOR:War comics series. 

Thinking about the issue more, in those two mentioned comics, only Mandalore the Ultimate is recognized as Taung in tie-in materials, so the Neo-Crusader movement may be itself a result of the Great Adoption (change of traditional laws?) and made by former vassals who spread the culture further than Taungs would normally did.

Personally I like to think that individual human members of Mandalorian clans could earn the warrior title before Sith War, especially since humans (vassals) slowly grew into numbers while Taung species was dying out. This may be supported by Knights of the Old Republic Campaign Guide that states:

“The traditional Mandalorian Crusader - from the days before the Neo-Crusader movement - lives like his ancestors. Many are born into the clans. The majority are Human, although members of the Taung species remain, as well as some alien converts.”

My conclusion at this moment is that the relationship between human vassalship and Taung lords naturally grown into clan dynamic between those two groups and those who proved themselves in battle earned the respect of Mandalorian warriors yet from a legal point of view and/or commonly recognized customs there still was a distinction between Taungs and human members of the society, at least until Mandalore the Ultimate officially abolished the division by opening the rank to anyone willing to join.

This could also affect the type of weapon and its dependence on social status. Thus the right to carry traditional and/or ceremonial Mythosaur axes could be for some religious or social reason restricted solely to Taungs (especially the experienced warriors?) and that is why we do not see officially recognized non-Taung carrying mythosaur ax, beside Ulic Qel-Droma while dueling Mandalorian the indomitable.

Of course, there is not enough data to make a proper analysis of the social-economy situation of human vassals and those voluntarily converted to warrior religion. However the mass indoctrination to Mandalorian Way for sure happened during Neo-Crusaders era which was the starting point for human dominance that lasted to modern time, as now there are few Aliens in Mandalorian ranks, while axes (Taung traditional weapons) gave way to swords more commonly used by humans, like Darksaber or beskad (sword made out of mandalorian iron).

#star wars #cienie's research #cienie's take on mandalorian culture #cienie's sidenotes #i was going put in in main text about kad ha'rangir but then decided to divide the monster-meta in smaller pieces #so i guess i'm gonna stick to the humans officially were accepted into mandalorian rank thanks to mandalore the ultimate #and those who gained the title of mandalorian warrior before that did it on their own and may not be the norm

[littlemisspascal]

The Last Mandalorian

Chapter One: The Warrior in Carbonite Part 3

Fandom: The Mandalorian / Pedro Pascal

Eventual Pairing: Din x Togruta!Female!Reader

Word Count: 4,320

Rating: G

Summary: A series that is a mixture of Mandalorian, Star Wars, ATLA, and my own imagination. The Imps have seized control of the majority of the galaxy, including your homeworld Shili. You and your sister Ahsoka have developed a daily routine despite the stormtroopers keeping your village imprisoned. One morning you make a startling discovery that will change the course of your lives forever.

Warnings: I don’t know much about starship mechanics so probably nothing in this is accurate but it’s fanfiction people so cut me some slack please, reader gets a nickname 🥳, plot plot plot, discussion of loss of loved ones, worldbuilding, dialogue heavy, this is a slow burn but it’s also ridiculously self-indulgent so I’m including as many cute getting-to-know-you scenes as I can, reader is 17 and Din is 19 so I’m going to warn this as underage even though nothing sexual or even vaguely romantic happens in this chapter.

Author Note: Thank you anyone and everyone who has read even a sentence of this story! Special thanks and love to @dindja for creating this stunning, fantastic, amazing piece of fanart for me 💖💖💖 I still can’t believe how perfect it is. I mean, I’m such a sucker for pinky promises it’s not even funny and this is just beautiful 😍😍😍

Part 2

Cross-posted on AO3

For as grand and wide-reaching as the Galactic Empire has become in its ten years of existence, it had relatively small beginnings. A group of radical Force-wielders banded together under the leadership of an old, beady-eyed man named Sheev Palpatine who believed it was his divine destiny to seize control of the entire galaxy, rewriting the ancient laws to match his own beliefs. His cult, the Sith Order, gained attention by attacking Jedi temples, capital cities, places with large populations until every corner of the galaxy had heard of them. Most regarded them with fear, but over time they began garnering a startling amount of followers who were discontent with the status quo and willingly drafted themselves as soldiers in Palpatine’s fight for control.

At first everyone in your village thought Palpatine and his cult of followers weren’t worth worrying about—after all, Shili was a peaceful planet that never drew much attention to itself. But within the first year of its inception, the Sith Order captured Ryloth and the similar peaceful characteristics between the Twi’lek planet and Shili were too glaring to overlook. A seed of anxiety took root in every Togruta’s mind after that, and continued to grow with every planet seized as the years progressed.

The Decimation of Alderaan didn’t start as a tragedy, believe it or not. The Mandalorians, Jedi, and Alderaanians combined their numbers in an all-out fight against the Sith Order. It was the largest battle ever fought in the history of the galaxy, thousands of souls willing to die to defeat Palpatine’s followers. For the first three days of warfare, the fight seemed to be in favor of the allies with many noteworthy Sith members reportedly killed in the fray, such as Palpatine’s second-in-command Dooku and lethal Zabrak assassin Maul. You remember there was a sense of hope felt within your village as everyone listened to the news reports blaring across the Holonet. A belief that things were finally, finally going to return to normal after so much chaos.

But on the fourth day, the Sith Order brought their own ally onto the battlefield.

At the time there wasn’t a name for the droids that slaughtered every opponent they faced. They were described as indestructible, unharmed by blasters and the intense heat of Mandalorian flamethrowers. Not even lightsabers could damage them. The allies didn’t stand a chance, brutally murdered one by one, their dying screams echoing across the Holonet, forever haunting listeners far and wide.

The Dark Troopers were unleashed upon Mandalore afterwards and out of the ashes rose the Galactic Empire, except, in a twist nobody—not even the Sith Order—saw coming: Palpatine died before taking on the title of emperor, passing away in his sleep. A mediocre ending for the monster who permanently altered the foundations of the universe. One of his loyal followers from the cult’s early beginnings took control in his place, a vile man with a penchant for spilling blood and a deceptively bland name: Gideon.

Only seven years-old then, you didn’t understand the unbalance in the Force your aunt kept referencing. You didn’t understand the meaning of the word genocide either. But you did understand the galaxy would never be the same ever again, and the lesson was only further established as truth when the Imperials seized your village. 

There is no normalcy to return to anymore.

And as long as Emperor Gideon remains in control, there is no future to hope for either.

__

Silence reigns in the aftermath of Maar’s explanation as the long list of tragedies hangs heavy over the four occupants. There is tension in the air as you await the Mandalorian’s response to the extinction of his people, whether that be an outburst of anger or tears, and each passing minute only intensifies the nervous energy thrumming through your veins. Your leg starts to bounce restlessly, a bad habit you have had since childhood.

The Mandalorian stands eerily motionless. Your eyes keep flicking from your lap to his visor though you know it is rude to stare. His helmet hides his expression, but you don’t need to see it to know he is floundering right now, mind scrambling to piece together all the details thrown at him. From personal experience, you know the loss of a loved one hits like a tidal wave, hitting you over and over again until you must decide if you are going to stand up or surrender to drowning. Grieving the loss of your parents is the hardest experience of your lifetime to date.

But this...this is vastly different. The Mandalorian didn’t just lose his loved ones. He has lost his friends, neighbors, comrades, acquaintances, everyone all at once. This loss isn’t a tidal wave. It is a kriffing avalanche, burying him ten feet under in total darkness, and there is no one he can count on to save him. 

Finally, after the longest five minutes of your life, he shifts, resting his hands upon his belt with an unexpected air of seriousness. “I need to go.”

You frown, head tilting. That is his reaction?

“Go?” Ahsoka echoes, sounding as incredulous as you feel. “Go where?”

“To look for survivors,” he answers, blunt and harsh, the words forced through clenched teeth. 

Ahsoka is struck silent, and you feel your heart break on his behalf. Your mother’s stories about the Mandalorians had always included, one way or another, their lifelong bonds with each other. You had felt those ties when you had connected with the Mandalorian, believed for a moment as strongly as he did that his fellow warriors would come search for him, that his absence would be noticed and missed amongst them. And here he is now, still desperately clutching to them, unable—or, perhaps unwilling is more apt—to believe a stranger telling him those bonds have been cruelly severed. 

“What you need is to rest,” Maar says, gentle yet firm, letting her authority as the eldest in the room seep into her tone.

He shakes his head, not backing down. “I’ve been asleep for ten years. I don’t need any more rest.”

“Your ship, it, uh,” your shoulders hike up defensively when his visor snaps in your direction, pinning you with its blank stare. Clearing your throat, you continue with a slight grimace, “It’s going to need some repairs before it can take off. I can help you fix it.”

Ahsoka looks over at you in surprise, and then in worry. You don’t blame her, especially since the offer had slipped out without you consciously meaning it to. Once again, the Force is calling the shots and you are just along for the ride, a passenger in your own body.

He considers you for a long moment, then asks, “What do you know about the mechanics of a gunship?” 

If anyone else had asked you that same exact question, you would have bristled at their condescension and retracted your offer in the next breath. But with the Mandalorian, there isn’t even the slightest hint of patronizing courtesy. It is a serious question prompted from genuine curiosity.

You sit up straighter, smiling at him now. “Enough to confidently say I’m your best shot at getting off the ground.”

__

“What’s your plan, exactly?” Ahsoka asks you, braced against the wall with one eye on you and one on the Mandalorian across the garage, patiently waiting for you to finish assembling your tool kit. 

“Huh?” You reply distractedly, trying to decide if you should bring your carbon chisel or not. 

“You don’t have one, do you?”

Not. There are bigger concerns than a bit of carbon scoring. You move to grab your favorite screwdriver with a tapered socket, only for Ahsoka to snatch it away, holding the tool hostage.

“Hey!”

“Have you thought about what you’re doing?” Ahsoka asks slowly, staring you directly in the eyes. “Once you fix his ship, he’s gone. And he’s taking our best chance at escaping Shili with him.”

A quick glance over your shoulder shows the Mandalorian studying the scattered BB unit parts on your workbench. You are missing a few vital components needed in order to bring the little droid back to life after a stormtrooper shot a plasma bolt through it for accidentally bumping into his leg, and haven’t had any luck convincing the village traders to track them down for you when they went to the capital. 

“We can’t keep him here against his will,” you manage at last, turning back to your sister. “Otherwise we’re no better than the Imps.”

When Ahsoka doesn’t say anything, you shrug a shoulder, adding, “Besides, I think I’m supposed to fix it for him. The Force seems pretty insistent about it.”

She makes a face at that. “I liked you better when you ignored your Force instincts. You didn’t make me worry as much.”

A laugh escapes you, embarrassingly loud in the otherwise quiet space, and your cheeks immediately start burning. Ahsoka’s lip twitches like she wants to smile, but instead she schools her features into a blank expression when the Mandalorian’s head turns at the sound. Only once he diverts his attention elsewhere again does her stare lose some of its intensity, looking less like she wants to dissect him beneath a microscope. You can practically see her protective-older-sister-instincts buzzing, reacting to the warrior’s presence. 

As much as he is a chance at providing an escape, he is also first and foremost a complete and total stranger. Even worse, he is a complete and total stranger who knows how to handle weapons. 

“I’ll be fine, I promise.” You squeeze her arm reassuringly. “Shouldn’t take longer than a couple of hours. You’ll be so busy smoothing the Elders’ ruffled feathers you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Ahsoka finally relinquishes the tool, exhaling a quiet sigh. “You shouldn’t make promises you don’t know for certain you can keep.”

__

Walking side by side with the Mandalorian in silence isn’t awkward, per se, but it definitely isn’t comfortable either. He is close enough your arm keeps accidentally grazing against his, the cold brush of metal against your skin startling you each time. You would have considered his nearness strange if you hadn’t heard Ahsoka threaten to castrate him if you wound up hurt before she sent him flying at the juni tree branch outside your window with an unnecessarily strong push of Force. 

To his credit, the warrior handled her rough treatment with the same ease he has handled everything else thrown at him. You are beginning to think Mandalorians don’t just wear beskar—they are made of it too. Other than the few glimpses of frustration earlier in Maar’s office, he keeps his cards close to his chest, impossible to read. 

He watches everything though, reacting to the slightest of movements and sounds. Constantly alert. You are certain he is watching you right now, despite the fact his helmet is facing forward, your nerves prickling in response to the sensation of eyes upon you.

To your surprise, he is the one to break the silence first. “You sneak out often.”

It is a statement, not a question. 

You suppose the dots are easy enough to connect to reach that conclusion. Still, the certainty in his voice has your heart skipping a nervous beat. He hasn’t even known you a day and yet he is privy to secrets no one outside your community is aware of. “Yeah,” you nod your head after a brief lapse of silence, “Ahsoka can’t train in the village. Not with the stormtroopers around.”

“Has your village tried to run them out? Fight back?”

It is only because you know he is just trying to understand your village’s predicament with the little bits of information he has that you don’t snap at him for being so insensitive. He has no idea what these past five years have been like for you all. No idea the amount of losses and sacrifices the community has suffered. 

Your grip on your tool kit tightens. “I was twelve when they came. The community is mostly traders and hunters, not trained fighters. The few weapons we had were nothing compared to their blaster rifles, but some of the adults tried to defend the village, including our parents. They...” You swallow, or try to, at least, your throat suddenly dry as sand. “Our aunt looked after us until last year we woke up one morning to find a note she’d left to join the rebellion. We haven’t had any contact with her since.”

The Mandalorian’s gloved hand brushes against your knuckles. This time you think it might have been on purpose.

“I lost my parents as a child, too. There was a riot and they died protecting me,” he offers his own private details with the same reluctance as one volunteering to have their teeth pulled out. “The Mandalorians took me in, raised me as one of their own.”

You say nothing about the way his breath slightly hitches when he says Mandalorians, appreciating his openness as it puts you both on somewhat equal footing with each other. 

“I owe it to them to look for survivors,” he tells you, and your montrals detect the quietest hint of a plea in his voice. 

“I understand,” you answer, keeping your tone light to preserve the fragility of this moment. This kind of situation doesn’t happen often—two strangers on the same wavelength, exposing their vulnerable underbellies, desperate to be heard and yet skittish at the same time—and it is oddly therapeutic. 

A decision is made right then and there in the span of a heartbeat. And even more significantly, it is 100% your own choice without any intervention or manipulation from the Force. 

You stop walking, causing the Mandalorian to halt as well. He scans the area for a threat, then visibly jerks when he turns back to find you have your hand held out towards him, pinky raised high, reacting as if you are pointing a weapon at him.

“I don’t understand,” he says, blunt and almost suspicious sounding. Are you just imagining it or can you actually hear him frowning? “What are you doing?”

“Haven’t you ever made a pinky promise with someone before?”

“...A what?”

You snort, ducking your head to hide your smile, and then reach for his hand. Surprisingly, he doesn’t protest your touch.

“A pinky promise,” you repeat as you make his hand form a fist, curling his fingers towards his palm, and then adjust his pinky so you can wrap yours around it. He watches the whole process wordlessly. “It’s a sacred vow shared between two people. The Elders say once it’s sworn, the promise can never be broken.”

He cocks his head, skeptical. “Never?”

“Never,” you reaffirm with a nod. Licking your lips, you look at his visor, right where you instinctively know his eyes are staring back. “I promise I’m going to help you. No matter the odds.”

And something leaks into your voice then, something resolute and binding and otherworldly. A tremor shoots down your spine, too quick for you to make sense of it.

Your sister’s words echo in the back of your mind, ‘You shouldn’t make promises you don’t know for certain you can keep.’ 

You try to pull away, self-doubt gnawing a hole in your stomach, only for the Mandalorian to wrap his pinky tighter around yours, holding you still. A gasp escapes your lips, muffled by the bleeding sincerity in his voice as he swears:

“I promise I will be there when you need me. No matter the odds.”

And although your sister could undoubtedly provide you with a long list of reasons why you shouldn’t, you believe his promise to be true.

__

The Mandalorian heaves a heavy sigh at the sight of his crashed ship. 

“I can’t do much about the landing gear,” you inform him, believing honesty to be the best policy for cases like this. “And I brought some foam-jet for the cockpit viewport, but it’s not a permanent fix. You’re going to have to find someone offworld to replace them.”

“Right,” he agrees absently without turning his eyes away. It occurs to you then that this ship is the closest thing to a home he has now. One of the few precious relics from his past he can still physically cling to. 

“Does your ship have a name?” you ask.

He looks at you, as if coming back to self-awareness, and answers, “Razor Crest.”

A good name, you think. Strong. A bit mysterious. Just like its owner.

You nod decisively. “I like it.”

His modulator crackles faintly, a quiet noise produced from a sudden exhale of air. You blink at the unexpected sound, surprised to realize you recognize it. A laugh. The Mandalorian just laughed at something you said. What is next in store for you? Are akul going to sprout wings and start flying?

He steps around you, heading for the side entry door still open from yesterday with its ramp laying on the ground, pebbles shifting noisily beneath his boots with each step. You don’t realize you are staring, oddly entranced by the swish of his cape and his purposeful strides, until he calls out your name to ask if you are coming.

You nearly drop your tool kit in your haste to follow after him into the Crest’s interior, ignoring the flaring heat radiating from your cheeks. 

For the next few hours, you and the Mandalorian work in companionable silence, engrossed in rerouting wires and welding damaged components with your trusty hand torch. The gunship is older than you initially assumed, perhaps even as old as yourself, and you idly wonder if the Mandalorian found it in a scrapyard somewhere or maybe inherited it from another Mandalorian. You notice the way he handles each piece with an experienced and respectful touch; the same kind of care someone reserves for their most cherished possessions. Anyone with eyes can see how much he loves the Crest just by watching him.

Once you have finished sealing the numerous cracks dissecting the cockpit’s viewport like a spiderweb with foam, you approach the Mandalorian to see his progress on returning power to the dashboard. He is on his back beneath the steering controls, rearranging a mess of wires, and barely acknowledges your presence when you squeeze yourself into the tight space next to him.

“The red wire goes before the white one,” you point out, noticing the mistake immediately. “Fire hazard.”

He pauses, looks at where you have gestured, and corrects his error without criticizing your intervention. You bite back a smile, pleased to be heard. Within your community, even though you have proven your skills time and time again, some of the villagers, usually men, don’t always adhere to your advice, thinking you are too young and too female to know about technology, until they inevitably make their problems worse for themselves and come back to you with their metaphorical tail between their legs. 

You help him reattach the cover plating once he has finished, screwing the bolts back into their corners, and then watch, fingers crossed, as he attempts the ignition sequence, flipping a series of switches.

None of them light up with even the faintest flicker of life.

“Dank farrik,” he growls under his breath, slamming a fist upon the console.

You take a tiny step forward, hesitant to direct his frustration your way. “Can I try?” 

He tilts his head, probably thinking he knows this ship better than anyone and if it doesn’t work for him then you aren’t going to have any luck either.

Eventually he steps back with a shrug, uttering a simple, “Sure.” 

Although you can’t remember the last time you were on a ship, it doesn’t take long to refamiliarize yourself with the various controls and screens once you take a seat in the pilot chair. When your hobby for fixing broken machines changed into a passion you wanted to pursue as a future career, you started memorizing any reading material you could find on the Holonet, including the flight manuals for different classes of starships. You flip through the stored information in your mind about gunships as you press a few buttons on the panel overhead, trying out different sequences for a response.

When your third attempt fails, you bite your lip, racking your brain for a solution. You think about Huno’s kitchen droid and how you had been on the verge of ripping off one of your head-tails trying to repair it after one of its fuses blew, causing it to malfunction. Your tools and knowledge hadn’t been able to fix it in the end. It had required a special remedy to bring it back to life.

You lay your palms flat on the console, just as you had held onto the droid’s square torso. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the Mandalorian fidget, as if he wants to come closer but is hesitant to crowd you. You ignore him, pressing your fingertips harder against the metal, visualizing in your mind the unseen gears, cables, and components stiff and powerless. You imagine the parts working properly, a current of electricity running through each wire, life ultimately returning to the entire ship, and whisper under your breath a request to the Force.

“Please work, please work, please work…”

An invisible pulse of energy burns down the length of your arms and discharges through your fingertips, strong enough you jerk backwards against the seat. Every button and screen on the dashboard lights up all at once, beeping with alarm at being so rudely resurrected.

You sit there helplessly, stunned and breathless, hands twitching in your lap. The kitchen droid hadn’t required even half as much energy to restart, barely a pinch. Now your body feels like you have been thrown against the electric fence a dozen times. Wordlessly, the Mandalorian comes to your side to help, punching buttons and turning knobs until the alarms quit blaring. A distant part of your brain thinks the Razor Crest as a whole seems strangely soothed by his presence, not quite as cold and dark, but it is hard to follow that train of thought due to the distracting pain throbbing along your temples.

“That’s quite a spark you’ve got,” he says, not unkindly or accusingly, just a statement of the obvious. He looks down at you, not outright asking for an explanation, but giving you the opportunity to open up if you wanted to.

“Yep, that’s me,” you reply, forcing a cheerful smile, praying it doesn’t resemble a grimace. “Sparks Tano at your service.”

He chuckles again, oblivious to how your heart stutters at its raspiness. “Thank you, Sparks. I appreciate it.”

“Well, we’re not done yet.” You rub at your temples under the guise of adjusting your headband. “I need to take a closer look at the engines before we attempt flying out of here. I—”

“I’ll do it,” he cuts in, already heading for the ladder. “You stay here, see if you can update the navicomputer settings.”

You know he knows that updating the navicomputer is child’s play for you. Clearly you aren’t as great at concealing your pain as you thought you were and this is his way of giving you a break. A small part of you is irritated at being treated like a porcelain doll, but you push those negative feelings aside as quickly as they develop. Your aunt always used to remind you and Ahsoka it was okay to accept help when it was offered, that needing support didn’t in any way make you weak. 

“Hey, wait a second,” you call out as you spin around in your seat, freezing him right before he disappears from view into the hull. He holds onto the ladder, waiting patiently for you to continue.

“Back at Maar’s place you didn’t introduce yourself and it’s weird just calling you Mandalorian in my head,” you say, awkwardly drumming your fingers on top of the armrests. He doesn’t answer, eliciting a sigh from your mouth after a drawn-out beat of silence. “What’s your name? You do have one, right?”

“I do, but I can’t tell you it,” he admits at last. “By Mandalorian Creed, only other Mandalorians or my riduur—my spouse,” he corrects, seeing your confusion, “are allowed to know my name and see my face. This is the Way.”

He doesn’t linger to hear your response, dropping down into the hull with a resounding thud. You slowly turn back around, staring absently out the glass. Every culture is unique, including your own, but you think there is something especially interesting about the Mandalorians’. It sounds like a lonely existence, only able to show your face while in select company. What would have happened if he had been unconscious and you had slipped the helmet off his head? What consequence would he have faced? 

And if there truly aren’t any Mandalorians left besides him, his spouse will be the only one to ever know him completely. It almost sounds like a love story, if not a little bit heart-wrenching. 

Two high-pitched dings from the console jerk you out of your thoughts with a wince. You look for the source, finding the radar lit up and actively scanning the area, and bristle when you see a pair of red dots moving across the screen. 

Not even a minute later you are sprinting out of the cave, ignoring the Mandalorian’s alarmed shout from the roof of the Razor Crest. They’re early, you think with panic, looking towards the sky where two starships with Imperial logos are heading straight for your village. Why have they come back so soon?

You push your legs to run faster, your surroundings a blur beyond the trail in front of you, but the effort is meaningless. You won’t make it back home before they land.

And when your absence is noted, bloodshed is not a possibility. 

It is a guarantee.

Series taglist: @pedro4ever @cannedsoupsucks

Din Djarin Taglist: @a-skov @pedrosbisch @quica-quica-quica @stevie75 @iamskyereads @banga-sama @dincrypt @ohlawdthebirds​

Permanent taglist: @promiscuoussatan @vintagesaph @over300books @chibi-yuki @theocatkov @oh-no-a-whovian @absurdthirst @freeshavocadoooo @you-and-i-deserve-the-world @lin-djarin @happiestsparkleofall @randomness501 @gallowsjoker @coaaster @captain-jebi @leilei-draws @disgruntledspacedad @melobee @stilllivindue2spite @pointy-sharp @artsymaddie @waywardmando @asta-lily @thisshipwillsail316 @mylifeofcalculatedchaos @grogusmum @sherala007 @mejswho @uncle-kenobi @rogertaylorsfalsettogivesmehives @tacticalsparkles @mandocrasis @littlebopper96 @you-got-me-starry-eyed @kiss-evans @writeforfandoms @pbeatriz @anaaaispunk

#my fic #my writing #Mandalorian #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian fanfic #Din Djarin #din x you #din x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #togruta reader #ahsoka tano #the last mandalorian #pedrostories #art

[subbing-for-clones]

The Alpha and The Omega Part 2

Alpha Maul x Omega Reader

Summary: Darth Maul becomes Maul and has to figure out how to both survive and thrive in the galaxy on his own. It’s more difficult than he thought it would be, especially after being thrown into a mix of bounty hunters with a unique gene that he also shares that are more than willing to allow him into their pack. Can he learn to trust those around him after a life time of near solitude?

Word Count: 4.9k

WARNINGS: Mentions of death and injuries, hints to slavery. A/B/O dynamics. Maul’s injury is not the canon one

PREVIOUS         NEXT          MASTERLIST

  No.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

    Maul was falling, plunging into the depths of a reactor shaft on Naboo. He had killed a Jedi Master; finally, after all his years of training and harsh lessons, he had succeeded in this long-awaited trial. He didn’t plan for the Master’s padawan to be so strong and so quick. Right when he had started to celebrate his victory by taunting his opponent who had hung from the very shaft he was falling into, he was caught off guard. The padawan had leapt up, used his fallen Master’s saber and plunged it straight through his chest before kicking him down into the abyss.

    Maul could still feel the padawan’s rage billowing through the surrounding force, his pain and sadness and he took pleasure in it. The fact that he had cracked the padawan’s resolve was a consolation to his failure. He had failed his mission, he had failed himself, he had failed his Master; years wasted. His life, wasted. His eyes widened in a realization and harnessing his physical pain, Maul was able to take hold of an air vent, hoisting himself up and into the tight tunnels and calling the working half of his saber into his grip with a burst of fury through the force.

    Every time he had thought he was able to keep something from Sidious it was revealed that his master had planned his movements long before he made them. No, he had not failed his Master, he had followed his plan accordingly. Sidious wanted him to fall on Naboo; he wanted the Jedi to believe they had once again eradicated the threat of the Sith and take on a new apprentice. Newfound anger at his betrayal fueled him to climb through the ventilation until he finally reached the surface. The wound in his chest was not fatal, it had passed between both of his hearts but still ached and throbbed; the burning of the instant cauterization kept him from bleeding to death. He should have died from the impact of the fall.

    He had to leave, he couldn’t let the Jedi or his master know he had survived. Concealing his force signature like he had had to master years ago, he kept to the shadows. He feared the Jedi would recognize his ship; he knew his master would, so he almost regrettably left it behind. The citizens were still celebrating their false victory drunkenly in the streets so it was far too easy to steal a small ship and escape the planet since the blockade had been eradicated.  

    He made his way to the furthest reaches of the outer rim on the boarder of wild space to evade his master’s detection. He spent a year bouncing between planets, nursing his injury and keeping up his original training by fighting fearsome beasts. When he had returned to his full strength, he dared inch slightly closer to civilization. He had returned to Tatooine in hopes of gathering some supplies despite his almost empty purse.

    He had fallen into bounty hunting by accident. He came across a small moisture farm and with the intent to rob it, had found himself face to face with an utterly terrified Twi’lek male. Maul was about to unsheathe his weapon but stopped when the man before him dropped to his knees.

“Please! Please don’t take me back to Jabba! I know he has a price on my head but I can’t go back there!” sobs cracked through his words and Maul grimaced in disgust at the man’s weakness. “I- I don’t have much but I’ll pay you what I can if you leave me alone and forget you ever saw me. Please.”

     Maul did no such thing. With the promise of credits, he ignited his blade and took the man’s head in one fell swoop. Carrying his head over his shoulder by one of the Twi’lek’s lekku along with the credits he had offered him for his freedom, he made his way to Jabba’s palace to collect a reward. Sure enough, he was promised a handsome sum for killing the thief and presenting his head to Lord Jabba.

    He sat at a small table in the corner of the cantina while he awaited his pay. He scanned the room, taking note of every patron and exit while the band played music he didn’t care for. His eyes met the visor of who he assumed was a bounty hunter under Jabba’s employ. The Mandalorian warrior strode over to him slowly after muttering something to one of the servant girls. The man pulled the only other chair out from Maul’s table and settled himself down in it, followed quickly by the girl carrying two amber bottles. She gave a dainty bow before she trotted away, leaving the two men in a heavy silence.

    Maul could smell him; he didn’t feel like a threat to him per say as he could tell the Mandalorian wasn’t a force user, but he did waft a heady scent that made the flesh on the back of Maul’s neck raise up. He bared his teeth to the man and growled before taking a swig of the bottle; never taking his eyes off of the stranger in front of him.

“Easy there Alpha. I’m not here to start trouble.” Maul pretended like he wasn’t confused by the title he had been assigned. Some bounty hunter lingo perhaps.

“I haven’t seen you around here or around the guilds before. How long have you been hunting?” the man never removed his helmet to drink his beer, rather placed a metal straw in the opening and sipped it from under his helm.

“Not long,” Maul wanted to give this man as little information as possible without rousing suspicion. He had interacted with bounty hunters before and was under the impression they didn’t ask questions, unlike the Mandalorian. Maul watched intently as the man reached into his utility belt and pulled out a card before sliding it across the table in his direction. He quirked his brow ridge at the man waiting for an explanation.

“We tend to take care of our own. Guild Master on this card has a set up on Corellia. She’s a mated Omega, she’ll help you get started up, might be able to pull a few strings and get you into the Guild,” he rapped his knuckles once on the table and stood as a Gamorrian Guard approached with Maul’s payment. He took the purse quickly and made his way to the exit but not before shooting the stranger one last glance.

“Good luck out there brother,” he rasped through his vocoder and giving a lazy two finger salute.

      Maul made his way back across the desert as night was starting to fall, a relief from the blistering heat. He had some strange exchanges in his life but none that had left him so confused. Why had the man called him Alpha and referred to him as a brother? What in the name of the force was a mated Omega? He had never heard of that species before despite his Master’s thorough tutelage. He sat in the cockpit of his ship holding the card in his crimson and tattooed fingers, lost in thought. He hadn’t considered what his life would turn into with his newfound freedom.

    He knew he wanted revenge and the notoriety he was promised, how he would achieve it on his own he had no clue. He considered how he might be able to gain influence in the underworld and high contacts should he become a renowned bounty hunter. He had the skillset for it. He needed the credits too. Sighing, he punched in the coordinates to Corellia, confident in the idea that his Master was convinced of his demise and made his way there.

    He never much liked Corellia, he had been here several times before. Despite the fact that it was easy to get lost in a crowd, it was also difficult to perceive incoming threats if he dropped his guard. He wandered through the streets, keeping to the alleyways when he could with the hood of his black cloak pulled over his head, obscuring others’ ability to see his face. He glanced down between the card in his hand and the neon signs above the various businesses. Trying to locate a cantina called The Den, supposedly in Coronet owned by a Theelin named Zeni.

    Sure enough, after rounding a dozen corners he finally found a hole in the wall with a little sign that read The Den, in red lights. Two characters he didn’t recognize from any languages he was familiar with, unlit, one painted on either side of the basic neon lettering. He pushed open the heavy door and was pleasantly surprised to find it larger than it looked on the inside. The room was dark, lit by low glowing lights. Cigar smoke wafted lazily through the air but not so much that it made you choke. Various tapestries and flags decorated the walls along with photographs of people he wouldn’t have been able to recognize if he had cared to try.

Only a few patrons sat scattered around the cantina, their attention on data-pads and bounty pucks. He spotted a dark blue haired, purple skinned Theelin behind the bar chatting flirtatiously with a large Chiss male.

    A scent, different but akin to the one the Mandalorian had permeated the room, swirling with a strong flowery one. The odd pair’s eyes snapped up to him the moment the door closed behind the Zabrak. He took a bar stool a few seats down from the Chiss and stared straight ahead, feeling the man’s eyes narrow in his direction. The Theelin woman he assumed was Zeni strode over to him after patting the Chiss’s arm affectionately.  

“Don’t mind him, you know how Alphas get when unmated ones come around their Omega,” she was absentmindedly wiping down the dark bar with a damp rag before setting a glass down, “what can I get for you?”

Maul reached into the pocket of his robes and pulled out her card and set it down on the counter.

“I was told you were the one to come to if I wanted to join the guild.”

“You got a sponsor? Proof of successful hunts?” she quirked a brow at him as the man he assumed was her mate kept a close eye on him. Maul was confused.

“I wasn’t aware you needed a sponsor to join the Guild.”

“Not the collective no, but if you wanna join this house you’ll need someone to vouch that you’re not an over aggressive Alpha or too submissive Omega,” the Chiss answered before Zeni could. Leaning across the empty space he extended a hand, “Call me Coth, Zeni’s Alpha.” Maul hesitantly took the man’s hand and gave a firm, curt shake, “Maul.”

“You’re unmated,” Coth stated, it wasn’t a question. Maul at least understood what that meant.

“I do not have a mate no. Is that important?”

“No,” Zeni cut in, “we’ve quite a few lone Alphas in our ranks, few unmated Omegas too, as long as you don’t give the girls too much trouble, we won’t have a problem.”

Maul was getting frustrated with the terms he didn’t understand, “What are these Alphas and Omegas? I’ve only heard of them over the last few days from another bounty hunter. Is this some kind of title?”

The mated pair exchanged a bewildered look, “You don’t know?” Coth asked. Maul simply stared at them while Zeni sighed heavily and reached behind her, pouring a massive amount of liquor into the empty glass she had placed in front of Maul. Coth had scooted over to sit next to him.

“He wouldn’t be the first,” he started, “do you remember when ‘Meg first came around with Bane? She didn’t know hardly anything. Terrified of every Alpha she smelled, poor thing.”

“Of course I remember, I wouldn’t let her catch you referring to her as a ‘poor thing’. She’s probably our best Omega, she does work for the collective too now, not just our house. Still don’t know where she came from. I think Bane knows but you know how he is. Moves around a lot that girl, just like he does.” Coth nodded at Zeni’s words before turning his attention back to Maul who was only half listening at this point as he nursed his liquor.

“Long story short, it’s a gene. It’s why you can smell me and my honey there. You’ve got the Alpha which makes you stronger, faster and a bit smarter than the rest of your species.”

Maul mulled over Coth’s words. From what he had learned, most of his kind from Dathomir had some kind of connection to the force, perhaps this added gene was why he was chosen to be Sidious’s apprentice.

“And what of the Omega?” he turned to Zeni and she grinned. “Same deal for the most part but we always fall in line behind our mighty Alphas,” she leaned over the bar pinched her lover’s cheek and gave him a playful growl before turning her attention back to the Zabrak.

“Listen I’ll cut you some slack, if you got this card, it means someone in our house gave it to you so you caught someone’s eye. Who gave it to you anyway?”

“I never got a name, he was a Mandalorian at Jabba’s palace.” Coth’s eyes gleamed, “Interesting, he’s never recruited anyone before.” Coth stared off into the corner of the bar while Zani spoke up again.

“Like I said I’ll cut you a break Maul, I can’t just grant you instant access to the guild’s bounty list; especially without a sponsor but if you can consistently turn in public bounties through us for six months and prove to be reliable, I’ll grant you membership and you can start taking some pucks,” she looked to her mate for a final approval. He gave her a curt nod and she refilled Maul’s drink with a pleased smile, “what do you say?”

Maul shot back the last of the liquor and stood, “prove my worth, join the ranks. Sounds reasonable..”

Coth also stood and retrieved a data-pad with a list of public bounties, “good, here. Take your pick, bring em back to us and you’ll get the reward through our broker.”

      Over the next two months Maul proved to be an almost mechanically reliable hunter. He only ever took bounties that were listed with the option to bring them in dead, made his job easier. He found that it wasn’t as lucrative as he had hoped but he was only taking public bounties at the moment. They tended to be cheap but there were a lot at his disposal. The jobs were too easy for him, he was a born hunter and a trained killer yet he was hunting down mostly thieves who stole from the wrong people. His strength through the force came to every advantage, he enjoyed toying with his victims; making them run, giving them a false hope that they would escape but they never could.

    To say he liked the other hunters at the Den would’ve been an overstatement but he didn’t necessarily dislike them either. Zeni was always friendly and welcoming when he came to drop off the bodies and collect his pay. Coth was as pleasant as an Alpha could be to another. He slowly started picking up social ques about the sub culture. Alphas were fiercely protective of their Omegas and although the Omegas were a force to be reckoned with all on their own; he realized how true Zeni’s earlier statement had been. They always fell in line behind their Alphas and their Alphas took great care of them. He still hadn’t met an Omega that wasn’t already mated and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to; the bond looked like an anchor, a distraction.

    After collecting a series of quarries, he returned once again to Corellia to collect. When he entered the familiar cantina, a new scent almost knocked him out with its intensity. It was soft and earthy, lightly floral but incredibly strong. Noticing that Zeni was preoccupied talking to a woman at the bar with Coth by her side he took a seat in one of the empty booths and started looking through the newly available bounties from the public database trying to push through the fog that clouded his mind. He could just barely sense an individual in his proximity that had a strong connection to the force and it made him bristle.

 ~~~~~

      Your pupils blew out the moment the scent hit your nose. You had been around your fair share of unmated Alphas by now but you had never been so affected before. You turned away from Zeni to scan the bar and your eyes fell on someone you had never seen in the cantina before. A crimson Zabrak’s eyes bored into yours for only a moment before he turned back to whatever it was he was doing. Zeni had to wave her lilac hand in front of your face to bring your attention back to her while Coth chuckled, obviously aware of how you were affected.

“Who the fuck is that?” you asked nodding your head in his direction. Coth quieted down long enough to answer you.

“Name’s Maul. New to the game, Fett gave him the card but he doesn’t have a sponsor.”

“Never heard of Fett handing out your card,” you quirked your brow over to Zeni.

“As far as I know he never has. Maul must’ve had some crazy strong pheromones going off to catch that Alphas attention,” she chirped, “since it was Fett who extended the invitation and he’s obviously an Alpha I told him he can take public bounties and cash em in here for a while ‘till he proves to be a good addition to our pack.”

    You nodded pensively before downing your drink. His scent was heady, a strong woody and musty, lightly smoky smell that heated your muscles under your skin. You had finished your heat recently so you were confident that the only pheromones you were releasing were your normal Omega ones. Still, you felt his eyes on you and you could feel the dark side of the force surrounding him. Interesting.

“How’s he doing? Why doesn’t he have a sponsor?” you tried to ask nonchalantly while you looked through the pucks Coth had set out for you to take your pick from.

“He won’t ask for sponsorship and no one’s offered. He’s doing great considering he didn’t have a clue he was an Alpha when he first wondered in here.”

“He didn’t?” the mirrored déjà vu was not lost on you.

“Nope, but he’s taken care of the most dangerous thieves that have been posted publicly, finds em quick too,” Coth praised, “plus he’s left the mated Omegas alone, hasn’t challenged any of the other Alphas either. Keeps to himself, still doesn’t have a mate as far as I can tell,” he gave you a not-so-subtle wink and jab with his elbow.

You glared at him from under the rim of your hat. “So he needs a sponsor..” you turned your attention back to Zeni picking up three of the pucks and sliding the rest back to Coth.

“I’m way ahead of you ‘Meg,” she set two glasses with a few ice cubes in front of you and a full bottle of whisky; the spicy kind you liked, and turned her love sick gaze back to the Chiss she called her mate. You took the glasses and the bottle and turned to walk towards the strange Alpha.

    You watched a scantily dressed Twi’lek slide into the worn booth next to him and try to mutter something into his ear, you smirked when he made an effort to scoot away from her but this woman was persistent. She had no scent, she wasn’t an Omega, she had no business trying to woo an Alpha. Fucking Betas, you thought. They made up the majority of the population and couldn’t tell the difference between Alphas, Omegas and their kind. She didn’t notice you while you set the glasses down softly on the table; bottle still in hand. When you cleared your throat, she looked up at you with an annoyed huff. You swept your coat to the side, showing the blaster strapped to your thigh, “beat it bitch,” your voice was sultry and smooth but carried an authority only a respected Omega could.

    You watched her scurry away looking frightened and ignored the snorts of amusement coming from the bar. Every patron in the Den knew you and your reputation. You had no problem challenging anyone who stood in your way. Whether that came from the skills you had learned as a Jedi or an attitude you picked up from Bane; you didn’t know and didn’t care. It worked.

    The Alpha said nothing as you glided into the black booth opposite him and slid one of the empty glasses over to him; passing him the bottle once you had poured yourself a generous serving. You allowed yourself to enjoy the spicy malt liquor and watched as he also poured the amber liquid over the ice cubes in his glass. His scent was over powering, it turned your insides into butterflies; something the other Alphas had never done. The pheromones he released told you he was vaguely interested in your presence, welcoming it, almost. But his force signature told you he was wary, waiting to see why you had approached him in the first place.

    For a few minutes the two of you sat in silence, eyes locked on one another while you basked in the other’s aroma and sipped your drinks until you broke the silence.

“So, you’re the new Alpha in town,” you cocked your brow at him.

“That’s what I’ve been told, yes,” he poured himself a second drink and you hummed.

“I hear you’ve been taking up the public listings and doing fairly well for yourself,” you leaned back and stretched your free arm over the back of the booth.

“Is this going somewhere or did you just want to buy me a drink?” the corner of his mouth quirked up and his golden eyes narrowed slightly as he also leaned back, spreading his legs to a more comfortable and dominant position.

You nodded your head, respecting the fact that he valued his time. Still, you made him wait till you finished your drink and sighed. “I also hear you might be in need of a sponsorship.”

“As you said, I’m doing quite well for myself. Not so sure I need one.”

You poured yourself another glass and hummed again, leaning forward towards him and resting on your elbows with your drink clasped between your hands. “That maybe the case but without one it’ll be a while before your granted membership. Even then, new initiates only get last picks.”

“Are you offering me something?” he leaned forward slightly, searching your face for your intentions before you could speak them.

“As a matter of fact, I am. The hunter who sponsored me was high ranking so when I got in; I got better pickings by affiliation. I’m giving you the same chance I had by offering you, my sponsorship.”

“What exactly would I have to do?” he growled. Obviously not keen on the idea of owing anyone anything.

“Nothing you’re not already doing,” you placed the three pucks you had gotten from Zeni on the table and pulled a fourth out of your pocket you had gotten from a private hire. “Come with me and help me take care of these four, come back and collect fifty percent after fuel costs. Simple. After that you’ll have full membership and higher paying bounties to choose from. Few weeks instead of a few months, thousands instead of hundreds.”

    You leaned back and gave him time to look over the information each puck carried. Even if he decided to try to run off with the info and catch them on his own, no guild master would cash him out without a membership. You barely caught the slight widening of his eyes when he saw the cash reward. You felt his need through the force and smelled it from him. You knew he would accept your offer but you allowed him to drag out his answer for a few minutes while he mulled it over.

“Alright,” his voice was velvety, “I’ll play along. When do we leave?”

“Is your ship somewhere you can leave it unattended? We’re taking mine.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Good, meet me at the refueling station by night fall, docking bay number 7. I have to resupply. Bring whatever you’ll need for a few weeks,” you stood and collected your pucks, tucking them safely into the bag that hung from your shoulder, “don’t keep me waiting Alpha,” you cooed before sauntering out of the cantina.

    Maul poured himself a third drink from the bottle you left, he had more than enough time and was hoping to drown out the strange thickness your scent left on his tongue. The seat you left open was quickly filled by none other than Coth. He was grinning dumbly, wide and toothy; his red eyes gleaming.

“Did she offer you a sponsorship?”

“Yes, we’re leaving tonight,” he didn’t quite understand why he felt so comfortable talking to Coth. Perhaps it was because of the pack mentality this house seemed to have, maybe it was something to do with the unique gene they all shared. It could just be because he spent his whole life alone besides his master and although he would never admit it, he marginally preferred occasional company. He wasn’t a threat to this Alpha’s mate and thus Coth wasn’t a threat to him; so, he pressed on, “why is her scent so much… stronger than the other Omegas?”

“Who ‘Meg? She’s unmated. Hasn’t even been scented by another Alpha. Not that no one’s tried. Usually, Omegas are mated shortly after their first heat but she’s been around for three years or so now and she’s a force to be dealt with. Probably the least submissive Omega I’ve ever met. Cad Bane sponsored her and even he respects her.”

“Why did she turn down the others’ advances? I thought Omegas were supposed to be pliant.”

“They are with their Alpha. She’s especially headstrong though. I overheard her chatting with Zeni one time when she actually got pretty smashed, going on about how it would be an honor to submit to an Alpha but it had to be one worthy of submission.”

    Maul nodded and was pleasantly surprised with what he was told. He of all people could understand being willing to fall in line but it had to be to a greater power than the one possessed by the follower, not just anyone. He finished his drink and thanked Coth for the information and gave Zeni an uncharacteristic wave before he left the cantina; much to her delight.

    He made his way back to his ship and gathered a few pairs of extra clothes and the rest of his ration bars in his pack before paying the caretaker of the of the ship yard enough credits to dock his ship there for six weeks. He hoped that would be long enough, Corellia wasn’t exactly cheap to store your ship on for long periods of time. It would be worth it if he really could come back to better prospects. He never sensed that you had lied to him, neither through the force or through your scent. He took his time and bought a few meat kabobs from a vendor on the street before heading to the location you had given him.

    Sure enough, when he arrived at dock 7, he saw you chatting with a Quarren while one of his employees loaded a few crates into your cargo bay. He took a moment to admire you, your scent wasn’t nearly so intoxicating at this distance. He silently appreciated the way the glow from the setting sun lit up behind your silhouette and cast a slight shadow over your face under the brim of your hat but your eyes never lost their glow. How your posture was relaxed and friendly yet carried an air that demanded respect from those around you. You had smiled brightly at something the supplier said and let out a melodious laugh that rang through the cooling dusk. He felt a pang of jealousy that almost startled him. He had no reason to be possessive of you. Still, when you turned to him, a smile still across your lips and motioned him over to you he held a sense of pride with being beckoned to your side. He was utterly fucked, wasn’t he?

 As the two of you walked up the ramp and closed the hatch behind you, you turned to face him.

“You ready for some big game Alpha?” he nodded.

“Maul, my name is Maul.”

“Alright Maul, if that’s what you prefer. Call me ‘Meg.”

Yes, he was indeed fucked.

#Maul x reader #Darth maul #TPM #TPM AU #maul fluff #a/b/o #a/b/o dynamics

[pascalsky]

Pedro Pascal is flying high on The Mandalorian, but defining success by his earthly bonds

The Wonder Woman 1984 and The Mandalorian star is one of EW's Entertainers of the Year.

Human connection. It’s vital. Especially in a year like 2020. Especially for Pedro Pascal. So it’s ironic that the 45-year-old’s highest-profile success to date is working with an adorable animatronic puppet, inside a chrome helmet he famously can’t take off. "It is why I wanted to do this show. Selfishly, I knew [the Child, a.k.a. Baby Yoda] was likely to make people fall in love with the show," says Pascal of tackling the title role on The Mandalorian, the Emmy-nominated hit Star Wars series, which returned for its second season on Disney+ in October.

The Chilean-American actor has an eye for choosing projects where he’ll stand out, from popular network procedurals including The Good Wife, The Mentalist, and Law & Order to his breakout roles as the charming — and horny — Oberyn Martell on Game of Thrones and, soon after, DEA agent Javier Peña on Net­flix’s Narcos. But it’s the stoic bounty hunter safeguarding a frog-egg-eating 50-year-old toddler that’s made him a house­hold name. The new season of The Mandalorian followed Pascal’s galaxy-traveling warrior as he searched for the home of the Child, generating countless memes in the process.

Playing the Mandalorian has been one of the hardest and most unique experiences of Pascal's career to date. At this point, it's no secret that he wasn't physically under the helmet as much as he would've liked in season 1 and recorded his dialogue in post-production to match what his doubles, stunt actors Brendan Wayne and Lateef Crowder, did on set in the armor. Giving a largely vocal performance was a challenge for a physical actor like Pascal, who is almost unrecognizable when you compare his turns on The Good Wife and Game of Thrones, for example, because of how he carries himself. Yet, being on set way more in The Mandalorian season 2 didn't make his job any easier because he still had to figure how to make Mando compelling while also being as economical as possible in his physical movements and vocal performance.

"I'm not even sure if I would be able to do it if it weren't for the amount of direct experience that I've had with being on stage to understand how to posture yourself, how to physically frame yourself into something and to tell a story with a gesture, with a stance, or with very, very specific vocal intonation," says Pascal, who believes his collaborative relationship with creator Jon Favreau and executive producer Dave Filoni, a.k.a. his "Mandalorian papas," also helped him inhabit the role in season 2.

Speaking of collaboration: Working with comedian Amy Sedaris, who plays gruff Tatooine mechanic Peli Motto, was one of the highlights of The Mandalorian’s sophomore season. “I followed Amy Sedaris around like a puppy. [I was] like, ‘Hey again. I’m not leaving your side until you wrap,’ and she’s like, ‘Cool,’” Pascal says. “I love the Child — it really is adorable — and it is so fascinating to see it work, but somebody who makes you spit-laugh right into your helmet will always be my favorite thing."

Pascal longed for those kinds of interactions during quarantine, which proved difficult for the actor who was living alone in Los Angeles. But he lights up, is even giddy at times, when the conversation turns to bonding with the Community cast right before a charity table read back in May (he filled in for Walton Goggins), or FaceTiming his friends to celebrate Joe Biden and Kamala Harris' election victory on Nov. 7. "Ahhhh! Ahhhh!" Pascal exclaims, reenacting the joyous calls with buddies like Oscar Isaac that Saturday morning. "It was screaming and jumping and dancing and crying…. I very arrogantly took screenshots of everything and [shared them], like, 'I am a part of this!'”

"I'd be less nervous playing tennis in front of the Obamas than I was seeing a reunion of these people that I think are brilliant and have this incredible chemistry with each other and stepping in and having really, really, bad technology in this new space that I had moved into. I really resented having to actually participate acting-wise because there were instances where it was way too much fun to watch."

- PEDRO PASCAL ON SHOOTING THE COMMUNITY TABLE READ.

His appreciation for those around him has only grown during the pandemic. Before flying to Budapest to film The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent with Nicholas Cage, Pascal leaned on his bubble for support. Community's Gillian Jacobs, for example, hosted him for an outdoor socially distanced pizza night every Saturday in the early weeks of lockdown. (He suspects that's why he was recruited for the sitcom's table read when Goggins couldn't participate.) "The friends that got me through it are absolutely everything to me and very beautifully marked in my head. I've got old friends and new friends that literally did nothing short of parent me through the experience," says Pascal, who has "survivor's remorse" for being in Europe right now. "I feel guilty not being [in the States] with my friends through [this tumultuous time] but also grateful that, individually, I was able to gain a little bit of separation from the stress of it."

Those tight bonds helped redefine, or at least clarify, what success means to him. "I want to make sure that my relationships are right, and I want to make sure I'm nurturing meaning in a sustaining way, and that won't necessarily be related to getting good jobs and making lots of money," he says. But he'll take them — as he did for both of his 2020 projects, about which he's thrilled. And how could he not be, starring in two of the year's most feverishly anticipated properties?

Besides The Mandalorian, Pascal appears in Patty Jenkins' superhero epic Wonder Woman 1984, which has endured a Homeric journey to its release (read: several pandemic-related delays). Thankfully, the odyssey is almost over because Warner Bros. recently confirmed that it will open in both theaters and on HBO Max on Dec. 25. Pascal is stoked audiences will finally see his turn as the villainous Maxwell Lord because playing the greedy dream-seller pushed him out of his post-Game of Thrones action role comfort zone.

"With Wonder Woman, [Gal Gadot and Kristen Wiig] are doing the action, baby, and I'm doing the schm-acting!" he says, hilariously elongating that final syllable. "I am hamming it up!" (Indeed, Pascal reveals Cage inspired his performance in one particular scene.)

But Pascal felt he was up to the challenge because everything he needed was right there in the screenplay, which Jenkins co-wrote with Geoff Johns and David Callaham. "I didn't have to take something and figure out how to put more flesh onto it. I had to achieve getting into the skin of what was being presented to me," he says, contrasting the experience with playing a DEA agent for three seasons on Narcos. "For me, Colombia was almost the central character, and then I was allowed to make him depressive and to tonally interpret what the character was. And in this case [on Wonder Woman 1984], there was just so much for me to meet rather than to invent."

He continues: "That was an incredible delight and challenge because Patty Jenkins is a director who loves actors and when she sees she can ask for more, she does. And there isn't anyone better, in my experience, to give more to."

In 2021, he rejoins the good guys as an aging superhero and father in Robert Rodriguez's kid-friendly Netflix drama We Can Be Heroes. The inherent optimism of the Netflix film's title also complements Pascal's hope for the new year. Says Pascal, ”If [fear] can take a little bit of a backseat and not be the main character in everybody’s life, that would be great.”

SOURCE

#omg he looks so damn good #entertainment weekly #pedro pascal #the mandalorian #din djarin #max lord #maxwell lord #wonder women 1984 #ww1984 #oberyn martell #prince oberyn #the unbearable weight of massive talent #javier pena #narcos #javi gutierrez #we can be heroes #marcus moreno

[nicad13]

Din Djarin is Not a Good Man

Hear me out:

First, I want to make it clear that I find Din Djarin’s character enormously fascinating. He is compelling to watch, and I adore Pedro, Brendan, and Lateef’s portrayal of him. What makes him compelling, I think, is the complexity of who and what he is: he’s trying to be an honorable person, but he’s also clawing his way out of a dark past where he did some BAD THINGS. However, the vast majority of fanfic I’ve read (at least the samples of it that manage to catch my eye) focuses on his honorable side. That’s all well and good, and I understand that folks wanna write what they wanna write. (Particularly at a time like this – please understand that I am not raining on the fluff parade. A lot of folks need that right now, and by all means it should continue.) I do think, though, that we’re missing a huge opportunity to investigate the Whole Mando. The first season sets him up as someone with a lot of problematic facets to his character, most of which are likely a result of his upbringing and subsequent environments. This man is damaged, and I feel like we could do more with that. Some grist for the mill:

Din sold his baby to Imps for beskar. Yeah yeah, he went and tore the city apart to get the baby back, but the fact that he followed through in the first place is a huge red flag for a number of reasons. 1) Adopting foundlings is a common, normative thing for Mandalorians. He knows this! He was one! But he still sells the baby, despite the fact that 2) the baby saved his life against the mudhorn. Life Debts are a thing in the Star Wars universe, and Din owes the baby his life for this. But, nope, he still fills the contract. 3) Din knows the people he sells the baby to are bad, evil people, and he’s not stupid – he knows they want the baby for the power he has. 4) THAT ADORABLE BABY HOW COULD HE IGNORE THE ADORABLENESS. In all seriousness, adorableness is an evolutionary adaptation to promote protectiveness and resource gathering in adults, and Din just shuts that part of himself down and ignores it. Given all of this, a reasonable person in Din’s situation would have contacted the covert and said something along the lines of, “Hey guys, the Imps sent me after a baby. I had no idea – 50 year old baby, WTF? Anyway, I obviously can’t turn a baby over to them, but they’ve got a huge bucket of beskar over there. Let’s evac the baby and the covert, knock over the Imps, grab the beskar, and blow this popsicle stand.” [Aaaand the season is over after 3 episodes.] The fact that he doesn’t do this tells me that he doesn’t fully grasp the implications of selling the baby, doesn’t think the covert would help him out, or both. Either way, this all speaks to Din as a damaged person. What happened to him to make him ignore all those red flags? Why is his relationship with the covert so tenuous? Well…

Din was [possibly] raised by a terrorist organization. In the final episode of the first season, we see that Din was rescued as a child not by just any Mandalorians, but Death Watch Mandalorians. Fans of the Clone Wars series will recall that these are bad people. The short story is that Mandalore experienced an ideological split after being devastated by millennia of war – the peaceful New Mandalorians gained control of the planet and had to exile the folks who still clung to war as a way of life to the moon of Concordia. Those folks became Death Watch and later came back to cause all sorts of trouble in violent ways, including staging Separatist droid attacks so they could step in and “save the day” to gain political favor. (Sound familiar? Check the link below for a chilling theory.) Death Watch itself experienced a split between the still-wanna-be-bad folks and the maybe-we-shouldn’t-be-so-bad folks, and we don’t yet know if Din was rescued before or after this split, and if after, which side picked him up. The fact that he was raised in something called a “Fighting Corps” does not bode well. Our Hero was potentially stolen, brainwashed, and raised by a terrorist organization, which may well help to explain his actions described above and to follow.

Din murdered everyone on Ran’s station. At the beginning of Episode 6 (The Prisoner), the fact that there are a bunch of relatively regular folks on this station is made clear as Din strolls through. Before he makes it to Ran, there are folks walking around, welding, doing all the things that need doing on a space station. Guess what? They all die. Din knows they’re all there, and after he leaves Mayfeld, Burg, and Xi’an alive in a cell, people who well and truly meant him harm, he leads New Republic X-wings right back to Ran’s station and has it and everyone else who never lifted a hand against him blown to smithereens. Did they get what they deserved, Din? Did they? I found this absolutely bone-chilling and I’m surprised that no one talks about it.

Din chose dying for his religion over living for his baby. Ah yes, the sacred helmet rules. So sacred that Din would rather die of a head wound than allow the removal of his helmet to treat it. So sacred that he would rather die with his helmet on than live for his baby. In an episode titled Redemption, of all things. Yes, he does his best to ensure the baby will be cared for, and he makes some noises about “dying a warrior’s death” by holding off the Imps, but the fact that he turns around and tells IG to end him the second everyone leaves puts some doubt on that one. (Din has a tendency to pull 180’s throughout – something I may write more on later.) Din’s upbringing in The Way was apparently so harsh that the extremist practice of keeping his face hidden was more important than giving his baby every possible chance at a life. Of all the questionable decisions he’s made, I can almost give him a pass on this one. At the very least, he’s got a decent concussion and he’s probably not thinking clearly. More broadly, he’s dying, he’s scared, he’s lost everything, and for a devout man, this one last shred of religion is the only thing he has left. The heartbreaking thing is that last shred would have meant the end of his life had IG not pulled some logic trickery, and he was all set to ride it off into oblivion.

All of this being said, I would love to see any of this get addressed in the coming seasons and fiction (both official and fan) as a continuing arc of redemption. What made him the kind of monster who would sell his baby in the first place? Who did this to him? We do see a good person rattling around in that armor on a number of occasions, but he still has a long way to go. Let’s see some struggle! Let’s see what put him there in the first place! Show us some angst!

#din djarin #the mandalorian #death watch

[spectral-musette]

The Worthy Partner

Set in an AU in which Duchess Satine Kryze asks Obi-Wan Kenobi to stay on Mandalore with her (before TPM). The couple attends an official function on Satine’s homeworld a few months after their marriage.

~ 3000 words

I used a little Mando’a (based on the dictionary at Mandoa.org), but the meanings of the words and phrases hopefully should be clear from the context. A couple of endnotes are included as intended translation notes in case I messed up, though.

Cross-posted on AO3

(Written when I got carried away working on a sketch of the scenario.)

*     *     *     *     *

           “How are you enjoying the meal?”

           Satine glared down her officious host, the Minister of Arts and Culture of Kalevala, but Obi-Wan merely nodded. “Your spices are extremely flavorful,” he complimented.

           “Be sure to try the tiingilar with the sauce.”

           He obligingly took a spoonful from the serving dish onto his plate. Satine tried to cast a warning glance in his direction and refilled his goblet with the cold ulik milk from the pitcher.

           She watched his face turn crimson as he tried a bite, but he smiled pleasantly. “Thank you for pointing it out.”

           He did, however, empty his goblet quickly.

           “Are you all right?” she whispered, leaning close as the Minister moved to the next table of dignitaries. “That stuff will peel the paint off a starship hull.”

           “No harm done. Hazing the Offworlder is to be expected, isn’t it?”

           She let out a hiss of disapproval. “They’re deliberately trying to humiliate you.”

           “Let them. I’ve had far less palatable meals than overspiced Mandalorian cuisine.” He dipped his bread into the offending sauce and smiled his most charming smile at their host, who was glancing over his shoulder surreptitiously to observe Obi-Wan’s response to the spicy delicacy.

           “I know. I’ve eaten Qui-Gon’s cooking too.”

           A wistful shadow passed over Obi-Wan’s handsome countenance, and they gripped each other’s hands under the table.

           “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I miss him too. He promised to visit soon.”

           “No doubt the Council is keeping him busy.”

           Though she hadn’t managed to get him to talk about it, she suspected that there were moments when Obi-Wan felt miserably homesick, not just for his former Master, but all his friends and mentors and for the community of the Jedi Temple. This was not the time to try to discuss it, though. “Just don’t let the Minister goad you into gulping the tihaar,” she warned, changing the subject and trying to distract him from falling into introspective melancholy.

           “Don’t think I can stomach it?”

           “No, I just hate the stuff, and I don’t want to taste it on you later.”

           “Fair enough,” he replied, laughing softly and squeezing her hand before releasing it.

           Perhaps not that much later, depending on how long etiquette demanded they remain at the Minister’s gala. She and Obi-Wan had been husband and wife for a few months now, and the touch of his hand and light of a smile in his eyes still made her heart quicken – as she happily suspected they always would.

           The Minister stood from his table, raising his arms to announce his intention to address the guests. The room quieted as everyone put down their flatware to listen attentively.

           “Before dessert is served, I wonder if the Duchess would be so kind as to grace our company with the performance of a traditional dance.”

           The orchestra struck up the opening measures of a familiar tune, and Satine’s heart sank.

           Ruusaanyc Riduur, the Worthy Partner.

           She hated this dance. She remembered learning it as a girl, practicing with her sister until they knew the complex steps by heart. But the childhood memories were overshadowed by the few times she had been asked to dance it publicly with a would-be suitor, under her father’s watchful gaze. The young warriors who’d courted her in those not-so-distant days had been ambitious, vicious men, interested only in clan alliances and winning her father’s favor. And after her father’s death…

           For a moment, the orchestra seemed to thin to a badly tuned mandoviol drunkenly meandering through the notes, the elegant hall to dim to the ramshackle camp where she’d once been held prisoner by a warlord with aspirations bigger than his arsenal, a boy no older than herself, stinking of tihaar as he held her by the chin.

           You might be dar’manda, but you’re almost pretty enough for it not to matter. Bet your clan would be grateful if I’d lower myself to marry you.

           Satine tried to banish the unpleasant memory as well as the sickening one of the Protectors’ retaliation when they had rescued her shortly thereafter. She took a deep breath, rallying her wits to counter the Minister’s latest onslaught of social warfare.

           “Perhaps,” he pressed, taking advantage of her brief silence, “if your consort is not familiar with the steps, I might find you another partner.”

           Before she could voice her outrage at the suggestion that a married woman perform this particular dance at an official function with anyone but her own spouse, Obi-Wan stood, grasping her hand and leading her from the table to the open floor at the center of the hall.

           For a moment she thought he was leading her out, refusing to put up with further insult – the implication was plain, that if her consort did not participate in the traditional dance, he was not a worthy partner – but he stopped in front of the Minister’s table.

           “Don’t try to bluff your way through this,” she warned quietly, a heavy knot of dread in her stomach. Performing it badly might be worse than refusing to participate.

           “I won’t,” he promised, the hint of a dimple creasing his cheek. “Trust me.”

           Of course, she always did.

           And he might’ve been a little stiff and nervous, held her hands a little too tightly, but he trod the steps precisely, even catching the subtle shift in the way they clasped their hands to indicate that the dancers were vowed to each other rather than merely courting.

           “How…” she breathed in wonderment when he briefly grasped her close.

           “In the usual way. Took lessons.” He broke his concentration a moment to favor her with a smile, and she cursed his dimples for almost making her trip. “I’d hoped to surprise you under rather better circumstances.”

           “I didn’t know you could dance at all,” she confessed.

           “How do you suppose they start teaching us saber forms in the Temple? Let a bunch of toddlers loose with laser swords?”

           “When you put it like that…”

           More couples began to fill the floor, and Obi-Wan relaxed a little as they were no longer the center of attention.

           Satine took a moment to admire him, graceful and lithe as he gained confidence in the movements of the dance. Most days he wore his simplified version of the Royal Guard’s uniform, but she’d managed to coax him into a few bits of finery for the occasion – please don’t make it easier for them to pretend to mistake you for my bodyguard this time. He looked very dashing in a tunic of fine-spun silk instead of his preferred coarse linen, with a smart half cape over one shoulder, a pair of bright silver vambraces, and a wide belt of intricately tooled leather.

           She was also feeling rather grateful for his cool temper under the current trying circumstances. Her Mandalorian disposition was apt to spit fire when delivered insults and slights. He tolerated them with such grace that it left her enemies baffled most of the time. He had a way of making them aware that he was on to their game and refusing to engage in it. She knew some of them were foolish enough to doubt his courage, but the wiser ones never did; if a Mandalorian worth his beskar knew anything at all, it was how to size up a fellow warrior.

           And that was the final irony of her choice of a husband: she’s sworn she’d never marry a warrior, and yet here he was. He might not wear the beskar’gam, he certainly didn’t share certain hard-headed Mando perspectives, and she knew that he abhorred violence in his heart, but he still dealt it out with skill and cunning when he had no other choice. Her eyes went to the lightsaber at his belt, and she thought of the would-be assassin he’d apprehended mere weeks ago, now in custody on Coruscant waiting for his trial. Someday, she hoped, that last resort would stop being necessary quite so often.

           The music slowed to a halt, and Obi-Wan brought her hand to his lips, bestowing a light, courtly kiss on her knuckles as he met her gaze. He could be difficult to read sometimes, so she always felt a swell of affection when he let her see his heart in his eyes: his eagerness to please and impress her, his unabashed devotion, and the ember-glow of his desire, no doubt brightly mirrored in her own eyes. They would both be very glad indeed to leave the party.

           “I’m sorry your plan was spoiled,” she said, smiling at the charming thought of him plotting a romantic setting for her, with music and dancing.

           “You were surprised,” he conceded, grinning.

           “Very pleasantly. I admit it’s not a favorite of mine, so perhaps it’s better this way,” she said, lacing their fingers together as they headed back to their table. The crowd on the dance floor was moving slowly, a particularly large man Satine recognized as one of the Minister’s aides blocking their path. He glanced over his shoulder at them, and turned to give her a polite nod.

           “Dal’alor.[i]”

           Apparently someone had been serving the tihaar already, judging from the fumes on his breath and his odd choice of the rather archaic Mando’a translation of her title. She decided not to take issue with the way his slurred speech had shifted dal towards dar –“former” – changing the honorific into a rather ominious threat of deposition. However, it did put her on edge.

           “Gar veriduur redalur jate,[ii]” he continued.

           Satine froze.

           It wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard be’jetii veriduur – Jedi’s whore – flung at her before, but she hadn’t been expecting such crass invective in this ostensibly civilized setting, least of all under the guise of a compliment.

           “Perhaps your Mando’a is rusty,” he said, feigning surprise at her outraged expression. “I said your young husband dances well.”

           Another subtle shift in pronunciation, vaar to ver, plausible given his drunken state, but a stretch. Nor was simply “young” a very accurate translation of vaar, carrying more of an implication of wanting size and maturity, as evidenced by the way the man was looming over Obi-Wan with a rather unpleasant smile.

           “You did not,” she spat back.

           “Vaar, I may be,” Obi-Wan replied, assessing the man coolly, “but wise enough to know it’s not always a disadvantage.”

           Satine let out a slow breath. Rely on Obi-Wan to handle the situation with diplomacy.

           “Unlike inebriation, which generally is,” he added.

           Also rely on Obi-Wan to be too damn glib for his own good. She squeezed his hand and rolled her eyes.

           But then, perhaps Obi-Wan had read the situation correctly, as the jibe seemed to shift the big man’s drunken state to good humor rather than belligerence.

           “They said you were mir’sheb.” He landed a playful punch on Obi-Wan’s shoulder with one large hand. True enough, though Satine wouldn’t have put it in quite those terms – the linguistic connection between quick-wittedness and the anatomical region where the Mand’alor met the throne, as it were, had always mystified her.

           “More like mesh’sheb[iii],” someone muttered in passing. Satine spun in the direction of the voice, but the floor was clearing out, making it impossible to tell who had delivered the rather crass compliment - also not untrue, Satine had to admit, and patently obvious given the tailored fit of his trousers.

           “Did you follow all that?” she asked Obi-Wan as he pulled out her chair for her back at their table.

           “I think so. Vague threat to your sovereignty, calling me your prostitute – which is a change, I suppose we can give him points for that – backpedaling and saying he meant to call me puny, and finally that I am apparently known to be a smart-ass, to use the Basic vernacular.” He ticked off the items on his fingers.

           “Oh, did you miss that last anonymous expression of admiration?”

           “Your admiration is the only sort that interests me,” he countered, grinning.

           “Consider it bestowed.”

           “Likewise. In all things, my love,” he told her sweetly, kissing her hand again.

           “I’m looking forward to expressing it more emphatically.”

           “I’m not sure how much emphasis this particular setting can tolerate.”

           “I daresay not much. Do you suppose we can leave yet?”

           “You’d know better than I.”

           By now, the guests were milling around the dessert tables and the wait staff was distributing alcohol freely.

           “Let’s risk it,” Satine said decidedly, running her fingertips over the back of his hand. “We’ve made more daring escapes.”

           “Better wait for the Royal Guards to make it to the dessert table, at least, or I won’t hear the end of it,” he advised with an apologetic, lop-sided smile.

           “An acceptable concession.”

           Fortunately, there was not much that would keep the Royal Guards from uj cake, so the retinue was contentedly stuffed with the beloved confection and ready to leave in short order.

           While many in the government and the population at large remained dubious about her husband, it comforted Satine that Obi-Wan had at least found his footing with the group of Protectors who formed the Royal Guard. Juvenile as it seemed, after he’d shown them all up in swordplay and marksmanship, it had taken finding a martial art at which at least some of them could trounce him – Mandalorian kick-boxing – before they softened towards him. The captain had carefully reassigned anyone who was really hostile due to old prejudices, and those remaining formed a tight-knit group that treated Obi-Wan with respect and a kind of fondness. Despite leaving the Order, he was still jetii, but he was their jetii. These days, they didn’t insult him any less, but it was done in much better humor.

           “A goddamned piece of cake is not so much to ask, after all, is it?” the captain inquired, helmet not quite concealing his amused expression.

           “We waited,” Satine protested. They must have been making quite a habit of leaving events early if this was an ongoing source of ribbing.

           “Never mind the captain,” his lieutenant chimed in, holding the heavy door to the hangar. “When cake is involved, he thinks with his stomach and forgets what it means to be young and in love and think with your…”

           Obi-Wan cleared his throat loudly and cast a stern glance at the guard.

           “Your heart,” he concluded defensively.

           “No doubt with the sweet looks they’ve been casting at each other all night, uj cake seems bland by comparison,” the captain agreed.

           Satine felt her cheeks go a little hot at the guards’ teasing and glanced appreciatively at the adorable blush painted across Obi-Wan’s face as well. Even at the risk of further commentary, she couldn’t resist leaning close to press a kiss against his cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his flushed skin against her lips. The guards’ chuckles were not too high a price to pay for their security, and though Obi-Wan had certainly proven himself an able bodyguard on countless occasions, there were times that she required his undivided attention.

           One of which was fast approaching, as the guards boarded their starfighters and she and Obi-Wan made their way to their shuttle. It would be a long journey back to Sundari at sublight speed, as the two habitable sister planets in the Mandalore system were at far points in their orbits and intrasystem hyperspace jumps were needlessly risky.

           Obi-Wan headed for the shuttle cockpit, but she wrapped her arms around him from behind, tugging him back into the passengers’ quarters. He stumbled back against the bulkhead, resting his hands lightly at her elbows while she nuzzled eager kisses along his neck and jaw.

           “At least let me set the autopilot,” he pleaded with a breathless laugh.

           “That’s probably for the best,” she agreed reluctantly.

           He started to draw away, and then he caught her glance, his eyes bright and his dimpled smile affectionate. Shaking his head a little, he stepped close again to cup her cheek in his hand and kiss her, soft, lingering, and tasting sweetly of familiar spices, until her knees were weak. He broke the kiss too soon, tearing himself away to go attend to the shuttle controls, and she sank down onto the soft couch to catch her breath. The shuttle lifted from the ground, and Satine caught a glimpse of the familiar constellations of the world where she was born through the viewport. Nothing about Kalevala had felt like home for a long time, but perhaps some lingering sense of nostalgia brought the tune of the old folksong, Ruusaanyc Riduur, back into her mind. And this time, she didn’t think of being forced to dance to it with suitors she despised or enemies she feared, but choosing to dance with her own worthy partner. Their life together was like the dance, careful steps around unseen obstacles and the loving support of each other’s hands. There were words to the song, but she only recalled them in snatches – return to my arms… together, we are home. She was singing it softly, without words, by the time Obi-Wan returned to hers, and he joined her, sitting beside her on the couch and clasping their hands together in the particular attitude of the dance. She felt the vibration of his sweet, clear voice in his chest, his breath on her hair as he pulled her against him, resting his other hand at her waist.

           “I thought you didn’t like it,” he pointed out, kissing her temple as she finished the last phrase of music in a soft hum.

           “I changed my mind,” she declared, tugging him into a kiss, slow and deep, as the music replayed in her mind.

           Together, we are home.

 *     *     *     *     *

[i] I put this together from “dala”/woman and “alor”/ruler to be something like “milady”, “queen”, etc.

 [ii] I’m sure the grammar is a nightmare here, but I don’t know how to conjugate verbs in Mando’a. Literally “Your hired-spouse dance good”, but the speaker is very drunk, so…

 [iii] Won’t find this one in the Mando’a dictionary either, smooshed together from related words as “possessing a pleasing posterior” more or less.

#Satine Kryze #Obi Wan Kenobi #Obi Wan/Satine #obitine #I wrote a thing #Star Wars AU #long post

[cinvhetinordo]

Redemption

[10:07] Jorval Ordo traveled far from the frigid wastes of shogun to the lush forests of Onderon. Equally worthy for a warrior's mettle, but in very different ways. The chieftain ventured into the clan's establishment, his Dathomiri lance in tow - alive with the soft humming of the electricity that coursed through it. His arrival was heralded by heavy foot falls against the wooden floors. It was alive with activity - banter and fights happened with regularity though he paid them little mind. Alor'ad stood out from the crowd and he approached her. "Su'cuy, ner Alor'ad."  He greeted in a low, gutural sound, eventually standing before her though his gaze appeared to be more occupied by the selection of alcohols behind the counter.

[10:13] Nicci Ordo had just arrived herself, finally returning from her trip to Nar Shaddaa.  She herself was preoccupied with a myriad of thoughts as a result of the new information she had discovered.  She had only just sat down, deep in thought, when Jorval walked through the door and addressed her.  This was surprising.  She had felt a tension around him and she was rarely addressed much.  "Su'cuy," she grunted.  She too was gazing at the many choices of alcohols behind the bar.  Though she was known to be drunk quite often, today was the first time she had felt she needed one.  "Oh I sent that...Grat'ua Alor to you a while back to see about housing up with Ordo.  Did he ever send you a comm?"

[10:21] Jorval Ordo rolled his shoulders. He likewise enjoyed filling up on alcohol, mainly for the brawls that often followed the inhibition. "Hm." He grunted at her inquiry, "He found me on Shogun. He sought to fight together 'as equals.' He growled in reply.  "He denied a house in that wretched gathering but favors one now. Confusing change of heart." He gestured to the bartender and called out: "Two Narcoleths. My tab." Ordering for Nicci as well as himself. Narcoleth was the strongest produced within Mandalorian space, and it was his favorite. "Come." He growled as he made his way toward one of the tables, "I need to speak with you."

[10:25] Nicci Ordo scowled.  She never really liked people ordering for her.  But at least he got her a narcoleth instead of netra'gal, for it was also her favorite.  The bartender pulled out a bottle and poured her glass, but instead of taking the glass she just grabbed the bottle and followed him to the table.  She pulled her helmet off so she could actually drink it, setting it on the table surface and looked at him, albeit with slight wary.  "Lek?" she asked.  She was not at that meeting, but it didn't matter.  Only end results mattered.

[10:37] Jorval Ordo unsealed his helmet, but didn't pry it from his head entirely. Instead he merely pulled it up so that his scarred features were visible. A slight smirk became visible when she took the whole bottle, even giving a slight nod of approval. Still, his expression quickly turned hard as it usually was. His arms crossed over his plated chest and a moment of silence ensued. The stubborn warlord found it difficult to confide, to share his thoughts. He turned most others away, and mutilated those foolish enough to insist. Still, if there was anyone he deemed worthy of speaking to - it was the only other Mando'ad he saw as his equal. "I have made bad decisions." He growled in admittance. "I have fought alongside Kyrt'sade. I have killed many... some deserving. Others not. I know you only yield Ordo to me because of how I use my fists, not my mind. As I stand now I am unworthy of my grandfather's legacy... But I would see that change." He said, perhaps relinquishing as many words as he has ever said in a single

[10:37] Jorval Ordo: sentence. A finger on his cybernetic hand - the hand that Nicci herself took - pointed in her direction. "I need your help you achieve this. Your are wiser than I am. Tell me - How do I gain redemption?"

[10:49] Nicci Ordo almost choked on the narcoleth.  She paused for a long moment, the bottle still held upright to her lips, liquid suspended in time as he spoke.  She took a long drag from it with much swallowing, before she slowly set it down, wiping her mouth on the back of her gauntlet.  It was several moments before she spoke, his words having caught her entirely off-guard.  She wanted to think on this carefully, to give the respectful answer a question like that deserved.  She exhaled heavily, then replied, "The first step toward redemption is to...acknowledge one's past mistakes.  The stubborn...never learn anything.  Your words now are...unexpected.  But they inspire hope in my heart.  You come to me asking how you may seek redemption, but you have already taken the first step yourself.  The rest will be up to your actions, reflected in the way you lead this clan into its future.  But more than that.  Our people's numbers have grown small, and we have done that to ourselves.  Disagreement over what it is to be

[10:49] Nicci Ordo  mandalorian, killing each other over philosophy.  I have come to believe it will drive us to extinction.  I still hold to my beliefs as mando'ad but, have come to respect others beliefs as mando'ade as long as it does not dishonor the resol'nare.  It is my opinion that, if you show not just our clan, but our people as a whole, that you care to see us thrive once again, it can erase your kyr'tsad past.  There is no guide datapad on how to live.  We will all make mistakes.  It is what we do with those mistakes that define who we are.  Who are you?"

[10:58] Jorval Ordo himself reached out for the bottle once she had finished, tilting his head back and taking a hearty gulp of it before setting it back hard on the table. All this while listening carefully to every word she had to say. He rolled his shoulders at the revelations. Nicci, a Mandalorian of few words like himself, likewise surprised him with such a speech. The notion of showing 'all others' outside his clan his intentions brought about a light scowl. Jorval did not like other clans. He was not as tolerant as she was, but he was also younger. "These other clans speak our language and wear the armor, but that is where our similiarities end. They take pride in being mercenaries and boot licks, lying to themselves by calling it 'honorable war.' I have nothing in common with these Mando'ade..." Her last question though, he answered promptly - "I am Jorval Kad, Alor be'Aliit Ordo. And I want to be worthy of that title."

[11:10] Nicci Ordo smirked a little. "That may be true.  But we do not all have to be similar, to be children of Mandalore.  They are all men and women who follow the resol'nare, who went through their trials and wear the armor.  They are not aruetiise, they are one of us.  They are our people, and they come in many sizes, shapes, colors, and personalities.  While I abhor the mercenary way of life, in the past our efforts to show them -our- ideals has gotten us nowhere.  We have been called kyr'tsad by the ignorant.  But in thinking on it, can we blame them, when our approach was to call them boot-licks and liars?  I have learned that words can have greater effect than fists at times, and bring about only a closed mind.  We cannot fight our enemies if we are fighting among ourselves.  We will never again have a Mand'alor if he will be killed due to a long line of challengers who disagree with every ounce of his beliefs, no matter what the beliefs are.  If you speak with these other vod, and actually take the time to learn w

[11:10] Nicci Ordo  they believe as they do, you may find you have more in common than you think, you just execute your plans differently." she responded to his first statements.  To his last, she said.  "And what does Jorval Kad want for Aliit Ordo?  What does he want of himself?"

[11:21] Jorval Ordo took another swig of the bottle as she continued to advise him. As the Alor'ad she was doing precisely what she needed to do. He was silent whilst she spoke, hearing out every word with caution. His eye twitched when she spoke of accepting the other clans as brethren, but that was merely his own stubbornness. Even now, he managed to power through it and find reason in the notion. A simple grunt and nod would be all he offered in terms of agreement to the terms. it would be a hard path, but he could see himself coming to respect the others. It was her latter inquiry that weighed the heaviest on him, however. A small pause ensued before he answered, "For Ordo to be the mightiest of the clans. I want Mando'ade and aruetiise alike to know our name. For Mando'ade to respect it, and for aruetiise the tremble at it. I would see us be larger than Skirata, and to remain a family through every war. As for myself..." He shrugged, "If I do not die a glorious death, then I hope to remain worthy. Have a family, and

[11:21] Jorval Ordo: bear children to pass this on to."

[11:29] Nicci Ordo actually smiled a little.  "Those are noble ambitions.  In order to be given respect, one must be willing to show respect.  I believe if you can do that, then that is a reachable goal.  Sometimes our greatest challenges are the ones we give ourselves, within our hearts.  Your biggest obstacle is your stubbornness.  You must beat it in submission and take control over it, not let it control you.  I did not believe you could do it before.  Now I think you are ready to.  If Ordo can show they respect the way of life of the other clans then we will be respected among them.  Our battle prowess will be enough to make aruetiise tremble before us.  And our clan will grow, and we will be a name recognized once again.  And when that happens, we will be in a position to lead by example.  Others will be more open to listening, and we may yet be able to convince our people that the mercenary way of life is but a pale glimmer of the glory we could be after."

[11:36] Jorval Ordo paused somewhat to process the information, taking a last swig of the bottle before offering Nicci a light nod. "vor'e, Alor'ad." He growled before pulling his helmet back down over his head and sealing it in place. He rose from his seat and gathered his lance, offering another nod her way. "The bottle is on me. One day soon, we ought to have a drinking competition." He said with a rough chuckle. "But until then, you have my comm, should you need anything. It is time Ordo grew into a family."

[11:43] Nicci Ordo smirked, "We own the bar, ner Alor.  The bottle is on the clan when we do inventory.  I drink half the stock anyway," she burped.  "You would lose that contest at least," she smirked.  "I will use your comm more often.  Might have a couple new people coming in.  I will let you know."

[11:45] Jorval Ordo then left like a boss

[ncfan-1]

When We Weren’t Enemies

Peace was something elusive for them both, difficult to grasp and easy to lose, but even for them, it could be found from time to time. A moment in the chidhood of Satine and Bo-Katan Kryze.

-----------------------

Since we know approximately nothing about the Kryze sibling who was Korkie’s parent, said sibling is Dame Not Appearing In This Fic. Also, regarding the age gap between Satine and Bo-Katan. I’ve seen statements that seem to imply that the two are either twins, or at least very close in age, but looking at the two of them, it seems to me that even though they have both physically stressful occupations, and Satine has the occupation that would arguably be more psychologically stressful, Satine still looks much older than Bo-Katan, even accounting for that. Hence the six-year age difference I went with in this fic.

------------------------

Tonight, there was no light to pierce the dark but the stars, the waning moons, the winking little lights in the watchtowers, and the faint glow on the southwestern horizon—the nearest town, about fifteen klicks away. Tonight, there was no noise but the wind rushing unimpeded over seemingly endless stretches of treeless, sandy grasslands, and the sea booming against the rocks and the base of the cliffs. Her father had gotten a message confirming the cease-fire (Our victory, sir; the heads of the other clans will swear fealty in Sundari) a week ago, but the news had not felt real to Satine until she had climbed up out of her home, and stood in this dark, quiet night. She’d not been out at night before often, but often enough to know the signs of night battles, and the silence spoke of peace.

Bo-Katan had said she wanted to see the stars. Since Bo-Katan never did anything by halves, she’d not related this request to her older sister, or to any of her teachers, nor even to a guardsman. With all the confidence of an eight-year-old child who either did not realize or did not care that her father still worked late into the night, she’d gone into his office and asked the man himself. Satine knew—she was there, delivering a status report that had just come in from one of the guard stations on the borders of their lands.

And without so much as looking up from his reports, their father had said that she could—but only if Satine agreed to go with her, and if the two of them would not pass beyond the perimeter of the watchtowers.

Their father managed not to notice the glare Satine shot at him, which was a disappointment, for she had been refining it for the better part of two years now. It was the same glare their mother had turned on him when he had agreed to let his mother’s kin foster his second daughter: Why did you make this decision without consulting me first?! I don’t care if they wanted a favor before they would formally ally themselves with us; she’s my daughter too! Even Satine’s father had wilted under the force of that glare, and Satine had been modifying it to work for someone who did not have endless reserves of maternal wrath to draw upon. But neither Satine nor Bo-Katan had seen their sister for a little over two years—nor their mother, for that matter, as she had felt her second child needed to have at least one of her parents with her. And Satine just couldn’t bear to…

She really should have just said ‘no.’ Bo-Katan had pulled a muscle during combat training and was walking with a slight but noticeable limp, even if she tried so stubbornly to hide it. It was late, they both needed their rest, and Bo-Katan probably needed to check in with the medical droid again before going to bed. But really, Satine just couldn’t bear to…

“Of course,” and after Satine went and pulled a blanket off of her bed, they were climbing the stone steps out of their home, and into the chilly, windy night. Sleep would have to wait until a later time, it seemed.

Satine knew about the cease-fire; truly, she did. She’d heard the message firsthand, more than once; first the private confirmation, next the public one that had inspired deafening cheers and the uncorking of more than a few bottles. She knew the signs of a quiet night, and she knew full well that the household had been in a flurry of packing for days now; her room was down to a bed, a chair, and a blaster and a vibroblade. But still, her first instinct upon going outside, even with all of this in mind, and the watchtowers and a taste of smoke-free air, was still to scan her surroundings with narrowed eyes, forgetting even to wince as a chill wind cut right through her. Realizing that nothing was out of place made her feel more tired than it ought to have.

“We can’t stay out here for long,” she said to Bo-Katan, smiling down at her younger sister in such a way that only a few were guaranteed to spot the strain in it. “We both have to get up early tomorrow. And stay close to me.”

Unfortunately, Bo-Katan happened to be one of those people who knew Satine well enough to spot the strain in her smile. Her pale, smooth brow suddenly gained a few furrows, and her eyes, their color washed out to gray in Kalevala under night, narrowed. “I know, Satine.” There was something happening with her mouth that wasn’t quite a scowl, but clearly felt it had the right to become one if it didn’t like the way things were going. “I don’t want to look forever. Just for a while.”

“I know,” Satine replied, and when she smiled again, she turned her face away from her sister.

They found a lump in the earth a-ways out from the very top level of their home (the only one that opened to sky); just an oversized lump of soil and sand and grass, plus a couple of inconveniently-placed rocks, but it was large enough to provide shelter from the wind if you leaned up against it, facing the right direction.

Satine knew people who would have said that, having gone out into the cold night, it was her and her sister’s responsibility now to simply weather out the cold. However, Satine believed in staying healthy before she believed in things like that, and that meant warding off the cold. The blanket she had hastily yanked off of her bed was meant to fully envelop a fourteen-year-old lying stretched out in bed, so it had no trouble enveloping a fourteen-year-old and an eight-year-old together if they were sitting up and not lying stretched out. True, with one end of the blanket wrapped around Satine’s left shoulder, only the top of Bo-Katan’s head was left exposed, the blanket had to be held open for the younger to be able to see, and from a distance, most wouldn’t have noticed Bo-Katan was there at all, but that was primarily because Bo-Katan’s coppery hair was nearly identical in shade to the blanket. The blanket did its job, at least; it trapped heat under its folds, and shielded against what little gusts of wind found their way to this side of the lump of earth.

Satine could barely guess if the roaring in her ears was the wind, the sea a couple of klicks away, or her own blood. So this was over, was it? How long would that even last? She’d heard ‘The war is over’ twice before in her life, and inevitably, warriors would starting shooting their blasters again a few months later. Smoke would fill the skies of Kalevala, she would have to go underground again, and her world would shrink, little by little, both in terms of area and—people.

She couldn’t remember why this war, or either of the other ones fought in her lifetime, had started. No one had ever told Satine the reason why, and she was afraid to ask, if only because she feared that whomever she asked would look at her in vague confusion, shrug, and answer, “I don’t know. It’s not important.” Certainly, no one around her seemed to care much about why the clans fought one another.

We’re Mandalorians, Satine thought wearily. We don’t need much of a reason to fight one another. We don’t need much of a reason to hurt one another, kill each other’s children, make peace, and then start the whole miserable cycle all over again. Her right hand curled open and closed under the blanket, remembering the phantom pressure of a small hand on the palm, that which would never come again.

Lately, though, she had been thinking about reasons. She’d been thinking about them quite a lot, to the point where ‘thinking’ was translating into arguments with her father, who thought his heir would have done better to ‘think’ about something more productive. But Satine couldn’t control the tracks her mind walked down, and had no intention of trying. She was a child of Mandalore, and though her heart might not hunger for battle, a warrior’s perseverance was something she could manage with ease. If Satine was to be any kind of chieftain who deserved the title, she would have to think long and hard about reasons.

Satine’s gaze turned slowly to Bo-Katan. For once, Bo-Katan, typically hyper-aware of scrutiny, seemed blind to her sister’s eyes on her. Instead, her face was turned towards the (thankfully clear) sky, her eyes fixed upon the stars. Something of the near-constant tension in her muscles had relaxed minutely. Bo-Katan had learned the lessons of carefulness and carelessness just as Satine had, and Satine wouldn’t say she looked at ease, but in this light with that expression, Bo-Katan looked almost… soft.

As incongruous a term that seemed for either of these Kryze daughters.

But the stars had held an undeniable appeal for Bo-Katan since her earliest days, and perhaps she simply forgot where she was, who she was, when she looked at them. (Satine recalled stories of people who loved the stars too dearly, and tried to forget.) Or it could be the simple pleasure of being outside, Satine allowed. Bo-Katan had been born into war, and they had endured war after war together. Bo-Katan had spent half of her life underground, going months at a time without seeing sun or moons or even sky. The number of years was lower for Satine, but even she had felt the undeniable restlessness of being confined in a place where the air was close and still and growing increasingly stale. Never knowing when it would be safe to come out, or if she was simply going to die down there. It made every breath of fresh air a joy and a relief, even if there was smoke and gas to make your lungs scream.

For her sister’s sake, Satine hoped that this would be the last war—for a while. The state of affairs being what it was, she knew that it was too much to hope for that war would not come again in their lifetimes. War was the shadow that dogged the steps of the Mandalorian people, and that faithful shadow would always be there, clinging to their heels. The embers of old grievances would be fanned back to full blaze, new grievances would spark an inferno, or maybe the clans would truly fight one another for no reason at all. For that to change, something else would have to change.

(It was an odd thing to come from the mouth of a fourteen-year-old, but Satine felt old. She felt old in her muscles and her bones, though her youthful mind had no trouble conjuring a teenager’s energy. There was precious little fire left in her—there might not have been much to start with—and she wondered, sometimes, what it would take to get it burning bright again.)

“How many are there?” Bo-Katan asked suddenly, her gaze still fixed upon the stars.

Jolted out of her winding thoughts, Satine couldn’t find a voice to answer. Bo-Katan wrinkled her nose at her and said, peevishly, “The stars, Satine. How many are there?” How tired are you? clung to the underside of the spoken words.

Satine leaned down a little, careful not to dislodge the blanket. “Well,” she said carefully, “I don’t know the exact figure. No doubt someone has recorded the number of stars in known space; we could check once we’ve gone back inside. However…” Satine smiled a little wistfully. “…When we look out at the night sky, we aren’t just seeing stars in known space. We’re also seeing the other planets in the system. We’re seeing stars from beyond the edges of the star charts, galaxies so far away that to the naked eye, they appear as nothing more than a single star.”

And what possibilities they had, those distant stars, those far-flung galaxies. There they were, undefined, their futures fluid and capable of changing in the blink of an eye instead of the toil of a lifetime.

But Bo-Katan had latched on to ‘places’ more than ‘stars’ or ‘galaxies.’ “Father’s said we’re moving. No one’s told me where.” Frustration bled into her thin voice.

Satine bit back the first explanation that entered her mind: no one had told Bo-Katan ‘where to’ because even with the cease-fire, they were all holding their breath, waiting for hostilities to erupt again. “Our house won this war, Bo-Katan,” Satine told her gently. “That means that Father now rules over all the clans. We are relocating to Mandalore so that he can do so more effectively.”

“The homeworld?!” Bo-Katan exclaimed, and there was a bright, welling excitement in her that Satine hadn’t heard since their father had decided she was old enough to begin combat training. “We’re really going there?”

They had been raised to revere the homeworld their ancestors broke as much as any Mandalorians. Satine herself was only beginning to grasp the hypocrisy she would later believe inherent in anyone who could claim to love a place and then proceed to poison it. For now, she smiled and nodded. “Yes.  We’ll be ready to leave before the mouth is out.”

Meanwhile, she was trying not to think about impending language lessons. Their parents had always insisted they be well-educated in this regard, but Satine had gotten wind of a need for them to put aside Kalevalan Mando’a in favor of Sundari Standard. The people would expect this of them, her father had said, with the easy confidence of a man who could already switch between the two dialects as easily as he could breathe. Sundari Standard sounded like it was missing about half the alphabet, and even more like it was being spoken by someone with a life-threatening head cold. But the more she looked at certain documents that had been sent here from Sundari, the more Satine realized that she wasn’t going to understand half of what anyone there said to her unless she learned their dialect.

(She could already guess what future difficulties would arise. There would be times when stress would overwhelm her and she would slip back into the cradle tongue—her Huttese tutor had warned her that unless she maintained stringent control over her emotions, this was almost certain to happen at least once. She would hear a word exclusive to Sundari Standard and not understand. Grammatical errors born from the slight differences in verb conjugation; they would make her look childish and immature. Times when words would form in her heart and her tongue would simply—fail her.

The one good thing, Satine suspected, was that she would be able to curse in her home dialect without anyone from Sundari understanding a word of it.)

“The stars will be different, won’t they?” Bo-Katan’s voice was flat as the broad side of a kitchen knife, with no inflection beyond that of dull, begrudging acceptance. “The constellations, too.”

Satine nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

What she hadn’t told Bo-Katan yet, what she suspected no one had told Bo-Katan yet, was that it wasn’t just the stars and constellations that would be different over Mandalore. Part of Satine’s duties entailed monitoring her sister’s history lessons, so unless Bo-Katan was receiving information from a source other than her history tutor, Satine knew exactly what she did and did not know of Mandalorian history.

What Bo-Katan knew was that centuries of warfare had rendered Mandalore completely unlivable outside of its cities. There had been treaties hammered out that specified certain weapons to be banned by use during clan wars, and it was a sign of how truly desperate the situation had become that every house and all the clans had assented. However, these treaties would come too late for Mandalore (And too late for shattered Concord Dawn, for that matter).

Outside of greenhouses, noting grew on the surface of Mandalore anymore. Every non-sapient animal species indigenous to the planet was either extinct now, or destined for extinction within a few decades, even if they were exported to worlds with healthy ecosystems. The polar ice caps were gone, melted away long ago. The rivers were either dried up, leaving their dry beds behind to scar the surface of the planet further, or were so thoroughly poisoned as to make mere skin contact unsafe. Whole mountain ranges had been leveled, though some still remained, greatly diminished. Now, the surface of Mandalore was coated only with pale sand that had soaked up so much radiation that, on its own, would take millennia to dissipate. The wind carried nothing but dust and the whispered laments of centuries of ghosts. Step out into it without proper protection, and it wouldn’t be too long before you began to sicken.

What Bo-Katan likely did not know, unless she was playing her cards very close to her chest indeed, was how anyone managed to survive on poisoned Mandalore. What Bo-Katan likely did not know was that the people of Mandalore, those who lived on the homeworld, could only survive by doming their cities, sheltering them under tons of metal and air filters that required near-constant maintenance. It was understandable that Bo-Katan did not know; the combination of this shelter being necessary for survival and the excesses that had made it a necessity in the first place were considered a great enough embarrassment that the information was not widely disseminated. Outsiders who had not been to Mandalore rarely knew about it, and even Mandalorians who had not been to Mandalore were not entirely guaranteed to be in the know.

But living in Sundari would be a kind of going back to living underground. That which cut them off from sky, sun, moons and stars would be metal and not earth, but they would still be cut off. Oh, they could still find a place where they could see the stars and constellations. In place of the broken shield, the spider-flower, the blind singer of Kalevala, they would see the mythosaur, the basilisk, the Taung mask of Mandalore, but they would have to venture to the very edge of the dome to see them. It was not a short walk, but a trip that Satine was told could take close to an hour—an hour just to go see the stars. They would have to venture to the edge of a toxic desert just to see the stars and the sky, look under night upon the world their ancestors poisoned.

Why does everything always feel so fragile? Satine wondered wearily, trying her best to ignore her sister’s curious eyes, at least for the moment. During the wars, they had lived in what was essentially a glorified bunker, the sky denied to them for months at a time. Living under a metal dome in Sundari did not sound so different, though what they needed protection from was not bombs or blaster fire, but the very planet itself. But in Sundari, if there was an attack, or if the air filtration system failed, or if something else happened… Well. Evacuating across a Kalevalan warzone was its own special kind of hair-raising, but at least on Kalevala, evacuees did not have to worry about growing sick from the soil they trod upon.

How many times have our people found themselves on the very brink of oblivion, and never realized they were hurtling towards it until one foot found empty air instead of ground? We’ll fight each other into extinction and jaundiced memory if something does not change. The great weight of history was not exactly on Satine’s side, and still, she thought, Something must change.

Satine did eventually have to break the silence that had fallen between herself and her sister. There was something expectant, verging on impatient, crawling over Bo-Katan’s face, and that was as obvious a cue as Satine had ever seen. As such, she sighed slightly, and inclined her head. “Bo-Katan, I need you to listen to me. Things are going to be very… different for us now. Some things, easier; others, much more difficult. Certainly, things will never be the same.

“One day, if nothing happens—“ If Father is not deposed, if I do not die before him, if blood-hunger does not prove the death of us all “—I shall be Duchess of Mandalore. You might be my advisor, the captain of my guards.” My heir, if you outlive our sister, and I have no children of my own. Satine smiled without joy. “They say the war is over, but where we are going, another kind of war has been raging for centuries, and I doubt the warriors in that arena even noticed the cease-fire. There, wars are fought with words, with favors owed and extracted, with smiles and backtalk and blackmail. We will both have to be just as careful there as we would on any battlefield.”

Bo-Katan nodded. To Satine’s surprise—though maybe she shouldn’t have been so surprised—her sister did not seem to have any trouble with the information she’d just been given. “Because we’re children?”

“Yes, that’s right. People will look at us and assume that because we are children, we are easily tricked, easily lied to. We will have to prove them wrong, and I don’t think it will be easy, but…” Satine smiled again, and this time, she could find some semblance of a smile’s sentiments to infuse it with. “Nothing worthwhile ever is. ‘The work that lasts forever is the work of a lifetime, not a day.’”

That was one of their mother’s favorite quotations, from the work of a philosopher whose bones had been dry dust during the rule of the Old Republic. Supposedly, he had published many books and treatises, but only one had survived to the present day. Satine had to restrain herself from pointing out the irony of this whenever her mother quoted that line.

And… and Satine did not think she would tell her sister about her and their father’s arguments. She would not tell Bo-Katan about ‘reasons’, not yet. There would be time enough for that when they were both a little older. They had both been brought up with the warrior ethos; Satine knew better than to expect that her eight-year-old sister would prove flexible enough in mind to think about ‘reasons’, to criticize, speculate, and maybe, just maybe—

“Satine.”

Satine’s gaze had drifted away from Bo-Katan. When she looked back, she saw that her sister had stuck one hand out of the blanket, palm up, and that she was wearing what was perhaps the most serious look on her face that Satine had ever seen. “’We fear no toil,’” Bo-Katan intoned, her high, piping voice a strange thing to give to such old words. “’We fear no hardship as long as we are true to each other, true to ourselves.’”

It took Satine’s mind a moment to respond, to process. They had never said these words before; they were old words, and children seldom had purpose for them. But her heart began to pound arrhythmically in her chest, a slightly breathless smile stole over her face, and she tried to quell the ache in her heart when she felt how mismatched their hands were in size, as she laid her palm down on top of her sister’s.

“’We shall fear no shadow,’” they said together, “’and be cowed by no lies. We know our own hearts, and we know that our hearts are true. Any challenge you set before us, we accept with joy, for the future belongs to us, and we will shape it as we deem best.’”

It was as good a benediction as any for a new life.

#Star Wars: The Clone Wars #Fanfic #Star Wars #Satine Kryze #Bo-Katan Kryze #I've wanted to write a little about their childhood #About the before #As in 'before Bo-Katan joined Death Watch and she and Satine became political adversaries' #For a while now #So getting some inspiration was nice

[cienie-isengardu]

Mandalorians and thrones

I’ve already talked about the funny implication about Darksaber created by New Canon sources. The other hilariously ironic detail comes from the symbolism of the throne.

Duchess Satine has one

as Countess Ursa Wren

and even Princess Bo-Katan

all of those thrones were a symbol of their leadership (political position) and weren't on screen shared with other Mandalorians (of lower status than them).

Then we have Boba Fett’s throne - and mind you, I didn’t watch the Book of Boba Fett beside premiere episode and few scenes here and there, so my knowledge may be wrong in regard to this specific show, but on the teaser in The Mandalorian he did visually sorta “share” it with Fennec Shand.

Then we have Pre Vizsla who in “A Friend in Need” had his special chair (symbolic throne)

that during the talk with Maul was A) not used by Pre to highlight his leadership between Mandalorians and B) other warrior was sitting there like it was nothing 

(or at least I assume it was the same chair due to specific shape)

And I find it ironic and hilarious, as all women have connection to aristocracy judging by their titles alone (duchess, countess and princess) and did not share their thrones on screen with their subordinates as far as I can remember. Meanwhile both Boba and Pre belong to famous Mandalorian families (Fett name itself dates back to at least Mandalorian Wars from ~4.000 years ago while Vizsla clan is said to be one of the oldest clans) but none of them has or use aristocratic titles AND shared their “thrones” with their subordinates. Boba more in the visual/symbolic way which suggests his relationship with Fennec is less formal than of “king” and those beneath him. Pre Vizsla on another hand had no reaction to one of his men sitting on “throne” what implies this is pretty normal occurrence in Death Watch camp?

And even though Pre didn’t visually (or physically) share the acquired Satine’s throne with other Mandalorians, the Death Watch seemed to have a “council meeting” straight after Vizsla gained control of Mandalore. Before Maul challenged Pre, the Mandalorians sit almost in circle (which usually create the feeling of “round table”, a sense of equality between the ”leader” and subordinates)

in similar fashion as New Mandalorian Ruling Council's chairs were seen in the same episode.

There is a chance that Death Watch just used the chairs as they were already here when Pre forced Satine to abdicate. Either way, he did not remove the symbolic objects of “shared” power/equality. Interestingly, the members of the New Mandalorian Council did not have the same arrangement when they debated at current situation on Mandalore in previous season, highlighting the feeling that Satine was the central (dominant) person in the meeting while the chairs in “circle” were seen just before she was arrested by Death Watch.

This may be just the matter of perspective used by creators, but though the chairs were presented like in the picture below

  -- it seems the New Mandalorian Council’s chairs were put then more in the same line before Satine’s throne (the Mandalorians did not face each other but sit more arm to arm if you get what I mean?) than in a circle as Death Watch did?

Another interesting implication coming from those “throne” scenes in regard to Boba and Pre is that the moment we see them on a real trone, they share it on spot (Boba with Fennyc) or at least visually share their power by having the “war council” (chairs arrangement in almost circle) straight after gaining the control (Pre on Mandalore). And yes, Satine too was shown to counsel the situation with other New Mandalorian high-ranked officials, but after passing time. She debuted in season two but TCW showed the Council meeting in season three. In meanwhile her political activity (S02E13) focused on gaining allies for neutrality in war looked like this:

Her, in center, sitting in a special place while the potential allies all standing around in clear power imbalance between Duchess and others. In contrast, when Pre was making an alliance with Maul, he invited the Sith to the table, offered tea and in general created the feeling of some sort of equality instead of talking to him from the throne (the special seat already occupied by some Mandalorian?).

 What in itself adds a nice nuance to Pre character and in general to the repeating patterns of Mandalorian women sitting on thrones as a symbol of their position AND connection to aristocracy while Pre and Boba A) lack such bloodties, B) doesn’t care for such titles and C) visually at least the animated and TV show imply they are either willing to share the power (within their own group) or just doesn’t care for thrones as a symbols (thus are okay if some of their trusted men casually will sit on special seat/ on the backrest.

Thinking more about it, the Armorer share with Pre this trait to talk with people (her subordinates/allies) on more equal ground, like by sitting with Din at the same table when he seeks her wisdom or judgment

Dunno how much of this was intentional on creators’ part and how much it is just a coincidence but I guess that is what happens when you try to make barbarian-like Mandalorians more medieval and put any pressure on aristocratic blood ties. Those who don’t use them or don’t care at all in the source material (like Pre and Boba and the Armorer) will stand out more.

(Not to say that Ursa or Bo-Katan care in any special manner about their titles as both are very skilled warriors and strong leaders. I just find it unusual how source material highlight their connection to aristocracy via titles and thrones while Pre has none and doesn’t care to get one)

#star wars #mandalorians #new canon mandalorians #pre vizsla #bo katan #satine kryze #boba fett #the armorer #i'm still trying to figure out the new canon mandalorian culture #i will stand forever by the feeling mandalorians have the barbarian tribes feeling about them #so i don't like much the medieval stuff like houses and thrones and all aristocracy bullshit #but i really feel like i should finish the old meta about pre and satine #in the context how they deal with potential allies #i totally hate the way satine tries to gain allies lol

[cienie-isengardu]

Satine and Pre: Personal Ships

Previous parts: political & social position < • > Wealth: clothes < • > paintings seen in their residences < • > living conditions < • >

This time I’m gonna talk about two very different ships - Satine’s Coronet (Luxury spaceliner):

and Pre’s Gauntlet (Kom’rk Class Fighter/Transporter)

Starting from the beginning, building ships & vehicles seems to be thriving industry of Mandalore System, what I assume is one of main income for New Mandalorian society. 

Coronet itself is an interesting ship, not only due to its wealth, but also its role. Let’s look what The Clone Wars: Incredible Vehicles (TCW:IV) tells about Satine’s luxury ship.

Coronet is one-of-a-kind model built by Kalevala Spaceworks - once again, Satine’s personal wealth / position is backed up by her native planet.

It’s hard to tell who really invented (initiated) building such expansive ship (Mandalore’s ruler herself? Kalevala Spaceworks, as a gift for new duchess? Someone’s else?) but luxury alone wasn’t the reason for such project. Coronet is a showcase for Mandalorian engineering AND proof that New Mandalorians left their violent past behind (about that more information soon). Thus the ship is a tool of Satine’s ideology / propaganda. And is used in her political work:

What was also pointed out in TCW: New Battlefronts:

Beside the role in Satine’s politics, Coronet also serves as luxury starcruiser, carrying out different types of travelers (from the richer officials & tourists to the ones seeking cheap passage) and goods during its travel between Mandalore System/Sektor to Core Worlds, like Coruscant.

The quality and size of the rooms varied depending on the wealth of traveler. From the layout of the ship and TCW animated series we know that on Coronet, Satine has Royal Suites and Throne Room

that for sure look much richer, more colorful than the cheaper rooms like the one shared by Anakin and Obi-Wan (who as Jedi, refused to take room for VIPs)

Satine can’t complain about lack of luxury during her travel. To be fair, the whole interior of the ship intended for passengers looks beautiful, with rich details that are made of the best things from all Mandalorian worlds:

The luxury for all passengers has its hidden meaning as well. The Coroner is a tool for political meetings no less as a tool to popularize the pacifist New Mandalorians as a better culture, detached from the predecessors' crimes. The trips of Coroner are as much about transport and trade as they are about changing people’s mind about Mandalore System/Sector and giving them a chance to see Mandalorian worlds - and its beauty & wealth - for themselves.

Here comes an intrigue part - the ship is presented in sources as luxury vessel that belongs to Duchess of Mandalore. There is little information how planning Coronet’s trips worked and how often those happened or how those were related to Satine’s political activity. I mean, the ship is a private property of the ruler, yet it is used for good of common people (both native of Mandalore System/Sektor and outsiders). I’m not sure if during Clone Wars era we heard about other royal vessel used like that. BUT!

Luxury travel alone can’t pay the operating expenses of a liner the size of the Coronet. The great ship’s lower decks are mostly for cargo [...].

I’m seriously intrigued WHO GET THE IDEA OF MAKING SUCH LUXURY SHIP THAT IS SO EXPENSIVE TO MAINTAIN? To the point that not even selling tickets for travel from Core Worlds to Mandalore System/Sektor is enough and the vessel must be used as container ship at the same times?

Like, I get that this is practical thing to do, to combine useful with pleasure and all, but I kinda get the feeling the Kalevala Spaceworks and/or Duchess or whoever came up with the idea may not think it over really. Coronet is supposed to be a showcase for Mandalorian engineering and new face of Mandalorian culture under pacifist ruler. Sharing vessel with common people by duchess was intended from the start or did it became a necessity when cost of maintaining turned out to be too expensive? Also, who paid for the production of ship and who is paying now for its maintaining? How much (if even) it burdens the state budget or Satine’s own wealth? Could the cost be reason why Coronet is one-of-a-kind model? Was it so unprofitable to produce more or didn’t Kaleva Spaceworks want to undermine the ruler's prestige?

On one hand, the Coronet belongs to Duchess, and plays political role in Satine’s attempts to gain allies, at least during Clone Wars. On another It also carry different types of travelers and goods (transport and trade) and plays a role in propagation the more friendly image of Mandalorian people in the Core Worlds.

Frankly, the last part may be one of reason why Pre despise so much Satine’s rule and thinks she “tarnishes” the name of Mandalorian by making Mandalore the “cheap entertainment” for boredom people of Core Worlds.

In contrast, the Gauntlet and similar Kom’rk Class Fighters/Transporters used by Death Watch, according to TCW: IV were build in secret by rogue elements within MandalMotors:

Those ships, including Pre’s own, were made for fight and transport, what means the main focus was the practicality, not luxury. Kom’rk Fighters were relative small but maneuverability and could carry around 28 people (4 crewmembers + 24 armored Death Watch troopers). Pre’s own ship didn’t stand out from other crafts.

We may only wonder how the rogue elements within MandalMotors managed to make at least three Kom’rk Fighters with armament in secret and who paid for those. Most likely Pre’s high social & political status helped with that, but as a spy working undercover he couldn’t do everything alone, right?

Like I said before, there is not much information who get the idea to made such luxury spaceship like Coroner thus I don’t cross out the chance that Coronet may be a “gift” from Kalevala (or Kalevala Spaceworks) for the new ruler. What could make an interesting parallel to Pre’s Gauntlet & Kom’rk Fighters, who also happens to be a gift from Death Watch’s supporters working in secret.

The Gauntlet (and other two Kom’rk Fighters) were important part of Death Watch’s daily life. Used as transport, air cover and part of camps, it served all warriors the same. We don’t have much informations how much maintaining Gauntlet alone costed, but at the same time, the show alone did not mention that Death Watch have problems with that. And fuel, machine maintenance or repair for sure cost something and Pre was most likely cut off from his potential bank accounts.

Despite the differences, both ships were a tools in Pre and Satine’s private crusades - against New Mandalorians or against violence and brutal past.

The names of ships alone speak a lot about their owners too. Coronet is a term for small or relatively simple crown, especially as worn by lesser royalty. The title of Duchess is related to aristocracy yet in terms of royalty, Duchess is lesser to status of Queen. Coronet then may have double meaning, on one hand the wealth of ship speaks for Satine’s own prestige & social status, on another the special ship is the best example of Kalevala’s technology achievement - a way to “crown” the pacifist (better) culture of New Mandalorian

In contrast, Gauntlet is related to fight. According to dictionary, the world alone represents part of armor (“a glove worn with medieval armor to protect the hand”) or an open challenge (as to combat, when used in phrases like “throw down the gauntlet”) or a severe trial (ordeal). All three fit Pre’s characterization & role in story, from wearing armor & respecting old ways to challenging Satine’s pacifist rule and actually going through trial(s) from season 2 (surviving failure(s), fighting with Maul for control over Mandalore/DW).

There is also once again the symbolism of light and darkness. Coronet is all about luxury and beauty (good / light), built as offical vessel, while Gauntlet was made in secret (in the “darkness”) and used for fight (war).

#star wars #pre vizsla #satine kryze #satine and pre #my analysis #my meta #mandalorian culture #mandalorians #she is from death watch #Next part is gonna be most likely about guards and servants #then the last info about their respective wealth #and i can finally get to the less material aspects of their characters