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ryehouses · 1 year

Note

What is your favorite Boba POV you’ve written? (and can we read it too?)

hello hello! thanks for stopping by!

that's a hard question, lol. i'm not very good at picking favorites! this below is one of my top five, though ;)

set during chapter 16, "tingaanur," while din and boba are having their little wrestling match. cw for the usual stuff, including grown men wrestling, some blood and the quintessential mandalorian ability to both gain and sublimate feelings through emotionally-charged physical violence.

in which boba realizes that he wasn’t quite prepared for this, honestly.

Boba had half-expected Din to turn him down, when Boba’d offered Din a good fight instead of what it was that Din had really wanted.

Din had come back from Mos Entha jumpy and upset, teeth bared like an anooba about to bite. Mos Entha, Boba’d gathered, hadn’t gone well, though from what Din had said he’d managed to keep Lady Valarian from killing him, which was an achievement. Valarian was a stubborn old gutkurr, set in her ways and suspicious of outsiders, and she had no reason to like Boba or anybody working for Boba. That was why Boba’d sent Kasyyk along after Din to help Din out, if he’d needed it, even though Din hadn’t been in Mos Entha on Boba’s business.

Din had gone to Mos Entha to look for other Mandalorians. For his clan, he’d said.

He didn’t find them.

Din had come back to the palace wound up so tightly that Boba’d been half-worried that Din would crack in two down the middle, ripping himself apart. Din carried his tension tight, high in his shoulders, and looking at him standing there at the edge of Boba’s room – at the edge of the desert – had made Boba’s own shoulders ache in sympathy.

It had been easy enough to pull Din away from the edge. Underneath all of the anooba growls and bristling beskar Din was obliging enough, at least with Boba. He trusted Boba enough now to listen to him, and so far he’d been willing to let Boba manage him.

I didn’t know if he’d agree to fight or not, though.

Honestly, Boba’d been hoping for a calmer night. His own day had been long – though not as long as Din’s, since Din had been all the way out in Mos Entha, on the other side of the Great Dune Sea – and his left knee’d been aching all day. Boba liked to blame the ache on the sarlacc, but the truth was that that knee had bothered Boba for twenty years, and it ached fiercely in the chill of a desert night.

Boba set the ache aside. Din had finally asked for something that he wanted, which was a small miracle, considering how stubborn he was, and Boba intended to give it to him. So far getting Din Djarin to admit that he wanted or needed something had been a bit like trying to pull a rancor’s teeth while the rancor was still awake. Boba was determined to reward this particular bit of honesty.

Din hadn’t asked for a fight, though. He’d asked Boba to hit him. Boba wasn’t sure that any of that would be on the table tonight, not with Din as tightly-wound as he was, but a little pain, a little distraction – Boba could give him that.

A fight’d go over better than a flogging, I think.

Din was clearly struggling with something. Boba liked to think that he knew Din pretty well, by now – Din’d fallen asleep on Boba often enough – and he could see the way that what had happened in Mos Entha was eating at Din.

He said that he’d failed, Boba thought, straightening up and surveying his handiwork. He had painted an aza’gad ring on the floor in green armor paint. Boba was pretty sure that he’d gotten the size right. In his days with the Spotted Anooba, Boba’d drawn a fair few aza’gad rings, always willing to fight to prove his place.

It was a good thing that Boba didn’t bother keeping much furniture around up here. The bed was on the other side of the pillar and Boba’s workspace was a bit beyond that. He had plenty of open floor space. He was half-tempted to go off in search of some kind of padding – Tuskens fought on sand, which was a bit more forgiving that the hard sandstone floor – but didn’t know where he’d find some at this hour of the night, and knew that if he went looking for a rug or six, Fennec would hear about it and laugh at Boba in the morning.

I’ve got bacta, Boba thought. That ought to take care of any bruises.

A few bruises might help Din, anyway. He was fighting something inside his head. When Boba had asked him what had happened in Mos Entha, Din had said that he’d failed. His clan had been in Mos Entha but they’d left in a hurry, and Din was worried that they were in trouble.

Boba had tried to help Din figure out what to do, but some kind of frantic, furious energy still twitched through Din’s jaw. Words hadn’t been enough. A plan of attack, of how to go about locating his missing clan, hadn’t been enough.

Maybe a few bruises will be, Boba thought. He hoped that it would be enough, anyway. Boba wanted to help Din out. To give him what he needed to sleep through the night, so Din'd be fresh and strong in the morning, clear-headed.

Happy.

Boba paused to examine that thought. The desire to give Din what he wanted – what he needed – wasn’t new, not really. Boba was too old to learn new things about himself; he’d known about this part of himself for a long time.

He wanted to help Din out. Din’s bleak tone – his anger, his desperation – when he’d come back from Mos Entha had bothered Boba. The bleak look on Din’s face had cut Boba like a knife.

Troubled, Boba left the circle of wet paint and went about the business of shedding his armor. Once he’d gotten all of that off and set aside, he peeled off his kute, too, and all of his draped Tusken robes. The robes themselves were light enough and easy to move in, but Boba didn’t want to give Din an extra handhold. Knowing Din, he’d probably try to strangle Boba with any loose fabric he could get his dangerous Mandalorian hands on.

Boba settled for a loose pair of fabric pants, then padded back over to the aza’gad ring just in time to catch the turbolift as it chimed softly and opened, letting Din pad back out into Boba’s rooms.

He looks steady enough, Boba thought, looking Din up and down again. Like Boba, Din’d shed his armor and his stiff flightsuit, opting for a similar set of loose fabric clothes. He looked softer like this, outside of his armor. Not gentle, exactly, because Din moved like a fighter no matter what he was wearing, but less like the edges of him would cut Boba to pieces if Boba didn’t move carefully.

Din saw Boba as he came out of the turbolift, and Din paused. His eyes flickered over the room, took in the aza’gad ring, the night sky, Boba himself. His eyes lingered on a few of Boba’s scars.

Boba half-smiled. He’d had so many scars for so long that he barely noticed them any more, but Boba knew that he looked rather like a lightning-scarred cedru tree. Sarlacc acid had left webbed scars across his shoulders, his head, the backs of his hands, and hard living out in the wider galaxy had left Boba with blaster scars, knife scars, burn scars, claw marks.

Din caught Boba watching him back and flushed, the tips of his ears redding. He looked away.

Boba smiled again, hoping to set Din more at ease. He didn’t mind Din looking. “The life of a bounty hunter, eh?” he said.

Din had plenty of scars of his own. Boba’d been surprised to see them, the first time he had. Din had been wide-eyed then too, he remembered. Wary, but willing to listen. To learn. Din’s body was a patchwork of scars just like Boba’s was, even though Din had grown up with a clan and Boba hadn’t.

Bounty hunting was hard and dangerous, though, and anyone who’d been in the business long enough collected scars. Boba would’ve thought that a proper clan would’ve taken better care of one of its warriors, like the little pods of clones had always tried to take care of each other on Kamino, but Boba didn’t know very much about Mandalorian clans, not really.

“Could tell you about them some time, if you want,” Boba said, meaning his scars. He laid a hand over a long, wide patch of white-scarred skin just above his hip. Boba’d gotten it falling off a speeder on Nar Shaddaa; he’d hit the ground with enough force and speed to grate all of the skin off there, and the wound hadn’t healed cleanly.

Din had a similar scar on one elbow, if Boba remembered right.

“We could trade,” Boba offered. “I’m sure you’ve got a few stories of your own.”

Din snorted, but some of his discomfort faded. “I do,” he admitted. He made no move to step closer.

Still skittish, then, Boba thought. He sighed. “Well?” he prompted, aiming for gentle. “Ready?”

Din hated to be coddled – or to even think that he was being coddled, regardless of Boba’s intentions – and a hardness crossed his face, a bit of the fierce bounty hunter, the beroya, coming into Din’s eyes.

Halfway to glaring, Din tugged his shirt off artlessly and tossed it to the side, like Boba’d thrown a verd knife down at his feet in challenge instead of just asking him if he was ready to start the match or not.

Boba suppressed a smile. Affection twitched through him. He was getting used to that; something about Din just made Boba fond of him, and the fondness was only deepening as Boa and Din got to know each other a little better.

No point in teasing him now, Boba thought. Over the last few weeks he’d found that it was fun to tease Din, but Boba’d rather fluster Din in the middle of the ring, when being flustered might get Din to trip or drop his guard.

Unlikely, Boba thought. Djarin was good in the ring. The first time Boba’d coaxed Din to spar, Din’d fought like back-alley brawler from some dark underbelly on Coruscant or Corellia. It was good that they’d be wrestling on stone – Boba wouldn’t put it past Din to toss sand in Boba’s eyes, if he thought it’d give him an advantage.

Still, Boba could hope. He deliberately smothered the curl of affection in his chest and said, instead of teasing, “You look better.”

Din did. The first time Boba had seen him without his armor on, Din had been pale and stretched thin, lean as an anooba coming out of high summer, when food was scarce and the desert terrible and harsh.

A few weeks of Ushib’s cooking had filled Din back out some. He looked every inch the fighter now, strong and steady on his feet. Boba’s blood began to hum, anticipation rising.

This should be fun, he thought.

“Ushib’s cooking’s done you some good, looks like. How’re you feeling?” Boba asked. He knew that Din was still tense. Djarin carried stress in the set of his jaw. His eyes were still pinched with worry.

But Din just shrugged and looked Boba up and down, eyes skipping over most of Boba’s scars, no doubt looking for any obvious weaknesses that he could exploit in the ring.

Boba approved, and shifted to make sure that he wasn’t favoring his old, sore knee where Din could see him do it.

“Didn’t get into any trouble in Mos Entha?” Boba pressed, looking Din over for any sign of a new or especially-tender injury that Boba should avoid. Din still had a faint bruise across his side where A’Shek had walloped him in the desert – Boba’d met the business end of A’Shek’s gaderffii more than a few times, and was very familiar with how deep those bruises went – but Boba didn’t see anything that was red or raw or bleeding.

“None that I had to fight my way out of,” Din said evasively. Boba snorted.

“So you’ve got some energy to burn,” he said, trying to figure out how much effort he was going to have to put into the ring. He hadn’t wrestled or grappled with Din before, but their spar in the training room above the kitchens had been fast-paced and ferocious. Anticipation built.

Din nodded in answer, his fingers flexing restlessly. Some of the frantic edge he’d had coming back in had finally faded, shifted over into sharp-eyed focus. Smooth muscle moved underneath a faded tattoo spanning one of Djarin’s shoulders.

Boba let himself grin, the fight rising in him, moving his weight around to loosen his limbs. Din, just as ready to brawl as Boba, stepped carefully over the line of still-wet paint and inspected the makeshift aza’gad ring. Boba followed, the urge to tackle Din from behind – to sweep his legs out, and to follow him to the floor – burning brightly in his belly, but Boba wrestled it back.

Rules first, he thought, and prompted Din with the same question. He rolled his shoulders out, determined to banish the tension that always built there after a day in heavy armor.

I already said ‘no biting,’ Boba thought, watching Din. But I’m curious to see what else he came up with.

As Boba watched him, Din’s eyes sharpened further. His gaze was clear and all of his attention was focused on Boba. Boba ignored the way that holding Din’s focus made him want to show off like a pylat bird, preening feathers to catch the light.

“No maiming,” Din replied, repeating what Boba’d said earlier. “No serious injury, either. We both need to be in fighting shape.”

Given that Fennec had caught wind of a small Hutt force creeping out in the sands yesterday, Din had the right idea. Boba inclined his head, though a wave of amusement – of affection, not the first Boba’d felt looking at Din Djarin, and probably not the last, either – swept through him.

“That it?” Boba asked, keeping his tone light. No biting, no maiming, no serious injury. Most other fighters that Boba knew would be scrambling to add rules about going for the groin or the face, rules about pins or illegal holds.

But not Din.

Another wave of affection pushed its way through Boba’s chest. Djar’ika’s got some shereshoy, that’s for sure, he thought.

Din shrugged. “Unless you thought of anything else?”

Boba grinned, showing Din all of his teeth.

Boba had thought of something else. It wasn’t a rule and he told Din as much, but Boba was learning more about Din every day, and he thought that Din would probably like this. That it’d give Din the challenge he was craving, that it would pull his mind away from Mos Entha and his missing clan, and fix his attention here instead.

“I’ve got an idea,” Boba said.

Din froze. Something – hunger, hope – flashed across his face and his dark eyes met Boba’s. Din didn’t look Boba in the eye all that often, too used to the barrier that his helmet gave him, but when he did the connection that snapped between Din and Boba was always alive, crackling like lightning in the summer sky. It crackled between them now. Din understood what Boba was offering him.

Boba wasn’t used to being understood without effort, but he didn’t mind that Din could do it. It made things like this easier to manage.

“I’m listening,” Din said, hoarsely. Boba’s grin broadened.

Not many men were brave enough to stare Boba down when he smiled at them like this, the way he smiled when his bloodlust was rising, when the thrill of a good, hard fight was beginning to thunder in Boba’s blood. But Din was brave enough. He didn’t look away.

“I’ve been thinking,” Boba said, watching Din carefully, “about what you wanted.”

He knew that he didn’t have to clarify what he was talking about. The naked hunger that crossed Din’s face told Boba that Din hadn’t forgotten.

“About… hitting me?” Din asked. His voice was softer outside of his helmet.

“If you want me to,” said Boba easily, studying Din again. Din’s body was looser now, some of his tight, terrible tension bled out by just the promise of a good fight. As long as Din kept that tension at bay, Boba didn’t have too many reservations about the possibility of a session of some kind tonight.

I’m not gonna flog him, Boba thought. Not like I did before. Even if the wrestling managed to wring Din out, that kind of intense session could still go bad. Din was so karking stubborn that he’d be able to take a bit of a beating, if he really wanted to, but a hard session –

No. That’s off the table for tonight.

“I was thinking,” Boba continued, enjoying the full force of Din’s attention. Din turned to Boba like a mala’ayy turned up towards the light of Tatooine’s three moons. Boba’d never been a vain man, not really – it was hard to be vain with a nose that had been broken as often as Boba’s had – but he liked the attention anyway, because he knew that Din was honest about it.

“If you win,” Boba said, “you can decide what you want to happen next. If you want me to flog you after we’re done here, I can do that. Within reason,” he added, to make sure that Din knew there’d be a limit on anything that happened tonight.

Din took a flogging well. Really well, if Boba were being honest. The thought of getting to watch Din take hit after hit, to watch him struggle to hold still, to hear those bitten-off sounds of pain again made a different, darker kind of heat rise in Boba’s blood.

But Boba wasn’t going to hurt Din tonight.

Not much, at least.

“The same rules will apply,” he said. “Nothing serious, no matter how much you want it. I don’t think you’re up for it tonight.” Din flashed his teeth a little, pulling a face. He hated to feel like he was being coddled unless he’d been hurt first – after those first few sessions, Din had cuddled up to Boba like a tame tooka and had sleepily protested any time Boba’d shifted away. He had a skin-hunger to him, Din, but he wouldn’t let Boba touch him with gentleness unless Boba hurt him first.

That was hardly the strangest thing about Din Djarin, but it was something that stuck to Boba like a burr underneath his armor, prickling and close.

Din didn’t puff up like an offended loth-cat or protest, though. He grimaced, clearly disagreeing with Boba’s words, but he didn’t try to argue. Din didn’t say anything for a second, then five, then ten, moonlight filtering in across the room and dappling the aza’gad ring.

Boba waited, pleased that Din was showing some patience. That was good. That meant that his head was a little clearer than it had been.

“And if you win?” Din’s voice was strong, but still hoarse. Fierce desire shone in his eyes.

Boba shrugged and got into a proper stance. “That’s for me to decide, isn’t it?” he said.

Now I can tease him. Din and Boba were both in the ring now. Flustering Din now would give Boba an advantage, and he intended to press every advantage that he had.

“If you’re so sure that you’ll lose, we can skip the formalities,” Boba added.

Din huffed and rolled his eyes. He slid into a ready stance too, crouched forward on the balls of his feet, the muscles in his shoulders flexing, and watched Boba.

He’s trying to figure me out, Boba thought, recognizing the sharp gleam in Din’s eyes. Din was a smart fighter. He was comparing the two of them, looking for weaknesses, trying to decide what to do. How to win.

Din was taller than Boba and probably faster too, especially without his armor. Boba knew that he had Din beat if it came to a contest of raw strength, but Din was still a dangerous fighter, and pinning him was going to be a challenge.

Boba shifted his weight again, excited now, the promise of a good fight singing in his veins. He was just about ready, and it looked like Din was ready too. Boba pulled in a deep, slow breath to steady himself.

Alright, he thought, planning to go for Din’s right side, where his arm had been broken by that darktrooper and his grip would be the weakest. Ready –

But Boba didn’t get to count them down and start the spar; before Boba could open his mouth and plan his first move, Din lunged, fast and hard, for Boba’s own right side. Boba swore, leaping sideways just in time to avoid getting tackled, and took a few steps back to put more room between himself and Din.

It was a close call. Din’s hand brushed Boba’s side as he passed, the rough, calloused skin of Din’s fingertips grazing Boba’s ribs. Heat sparked at the touch.

Boba dodged him, though, and Din overshot, though he recovered quickly and pivoted to follow Boba. His eyes flashed and he showed Boba a smile that was all teeth. Boba laughed. He liked that expression much more than the one Din had been wearing when Boba had come up here and found Din staring out over the desert. The ghul was gone. Din was ready for a fight.

“I didn’t even say ‘go’ yet, you menace,” Boba said, still chuckling. Din had plenty of courage. Gett’se, the word was. Boba resolved to teach it to Din later. “Where’s your sportsmanship?”

Din snorted, nose wrinkling like Boba’d called him something impolite. “I want to win,” he said.

A helpless sort of affection bloomed behind Boba’s ribs.

Mandalorians, he thought. Usually the word was a bitten-off curse, but it was harder for Boba to feel the same sort of hot disdain towards Din that he usually held on the rare occasions when Boba’d been forced to interact with Mandalorians. Any ideas that Boba might’ve had about Din being like the rest had evaporated on Tython. With Din, Mandalorian wasn’t a curse.

“Fine,” said Boba, laying out the rest of the rules quickly before Din could jump him again. “First one pinned – and I mean really pinned – loses. You can tap out by hitting the floor three times or by calling ‘yield.’ Ya’sta. If you go out of the ring, you also lose. Got it?”

“Got it,” said Din, and then he did lunge for Boba again, pressing his advantage shamelessly. This time he managed to catch Boba, grabbing Boba by the arm, but Boba’s stance was rooted and it wasn’t hard to shake Din off. This early in the match, Boba didn’t want to burn through all of his energy grappling when he could dodge or avoid an attack instead. Boba shook Din away and then backed up, aware of where the edge of the aza’gad circle was.

“What,” Din said, a challenge bright in his tone. “There’s no word in Mandalorian for ‘I give up?’”

“Mando’a,” Boba said, correcting Din on instinct. Boba didn’t have much of the language, but he knew enough to know what it was called. Din mirrored Boba, backing off, shaking his hand out.

That arm does bother him, Boba thought, narrowing his eyes.

“And no,” Boba continued. He didn’t want to be a sitting bantha, so he started to move, pacing slowly around the inner edge of the aza’gad ring. “There’s ‘pel,’ which can mean ‘soft’ or ‘yielding,’ but that’s about it.”

Mandalorians weren’t big on surrender. Even Boba knew that.

Din mirrored Boba again, circling from the opposite side of the ring, his eyes glittering in the bright silver light. He looked nothing like he had just twenty minutes ago, when he’d been bleak and angry and anxious. Now Din was fierce and confident, his attention fixed on Boba, and anticipation thrummed hotly in Boba’s blood.

Alright, Boba thought. He’s had the first two tries. Now it’s my turn.

“You ever hear of Ubardian oil wrestling?” Boba asked. Ubardian oil wrestling was a fairly obscure sport, but Din knew some very obscure things. While he talked, Boba feinted, probing for weaknesses in Din’s defense. Din eeled gracefully away.

“No,” Din said.

Boba grinned. “Participants strip down to a ceremonial loincloth,” Boba explained. He flexed, rolling his shoulders to show off his strength, because he’d caught Djarin looking at him before.

Din, perhaps predictably, flushed red.

“And fighters are covered in Maridunish oil,” Boba continued. He’d only ever seen an Ubardian oil wrestling match once, as a much younger man traveling through the galaxy before he’d gotten comfortable and set in his ways on Tatooine. At the time Boba’d been more focused on his target, but he’d appreciated the way the wrestlers had moved nonetheless, the strength in their arms, their grace, the way their bodies had shone in the light.

Din’s flush deepened, his eyes on the smooth muscles in Boba’s shoulders, his biceps, his broad chest.

Got you, Boba thought, amused. Din wasn’t the only one who could cheat. He lunged again, just like Din had, but Din skipped back and bared his teeth.

“I have seen a naked man before, Fett,” he growled. Din coiled up like a spit viper, ready to strike.

“That blush you’ve got on could’ve fooled me,” Boba returned, mostly just to see that pretty flush coloring Din’s face deepen. When Din was embarrassed – which was often, Boba was finding – Din blushed down his throat, down his chest to his nipples. His ears went red.

Another steady beat of affection went through Boba’s chest, tangling with the adrenaline still burning there.

“You know how you win a bout of Ubardian oil wrestling?” Boba asked. He should probably stop teasing Din like this, but he liked seeing Din blush and the lives they lived were often hard and thankless, and Boba’d decided in the sarlacc’s belly, acid eating at his face and his hands, that if he was going to live, he was going to karking enjoy it, and do what made him happy.

“I bet you’re going to tell me,” Din grouched, and then Boba realized that he’d left himself open just as Din rushed him a third time. Boba was able to avoid Din’s hands, but Din swept his foot out and yanked on Boba’s ankle and tried to overbalance him.

It worked.

“Kark,” Boba grunted, more out of surprise than pain, and fought to keep his footing. He managed it for just a moment, but then Djarin, shameless and fearless in equal measure, came at Boba again, and this time he dropped a shoulder and caught Boba in the chest.

That blow did hurt. Boba went with it and fell backwards, Din coming down with him, and wheezed for breath when he hit the ground. Red and white light blurred at the edges of Boba’s vision.

They grappled on the floor for a few frantic seconds, Din trying to pin Boba down, but Boba had seen Ubardian oil wrestling before, had cut his teeth on fights like this one, first in the Republic’s custody on RepJud and then later, when Boba’d been young enough and wild enough to think himself invincible and the clink he could win in the fighting pits had been worth the bruises and bloody noses.

Boba wasn’t invincible and he knew that now, but he was smarter than he’d been back in those days, and he knew how to shake off a pin.

Most of Din’s weight had fallen on top of Boba. Boba let out a breath and planted both of his feet against the floor, then shoved up with all of the strength that he could muster.

Din was plenty strong, but he wasn’t quite as strong as Boba. Din yelped and pitched over, losing his grip. Boba shot back up to his feet, his sore knee protesting, and made to try and pin Din back, but Din managed to get an arm up to block any hold that Boba’d planned to put him in, and fought against Boba wordlessly for several long seconds.

It’d been a long time since Boba had been able to fight like this. Tuskens as a rule weren’t fond of wrestling or grappling, and in the days before the sarlacc Boba had been too busy to head off-planet and find somebody he could tussle with. He hadn’t dared to indulge himself like this when Jabba had ruled.

But Jabba was dead in the sands and Boba was here, alive, pitting his strength against Din’s, and Boba’s whole body sang with it.

If I can just pin him, Boba thought. Din put either a boot or a knee into Boba’s ribs, winning a hiss of pain. Boba couldn’t tell which it was, not like this, and Boba decided to put a stop to that before Din could try and kick him away again. He hooked a hand underneath one of Din’s knees and pulled, getting the limb out of his way. Din struggled to free himself, but he couldn’t break Boba’s grip.

Got him, Boba thought. He looked down at Din and saw that Din’s pretty blush had faded.

“So,” Boba said, missing it already, panting a little now, exertion burning in his arm, his chest. Din tried to wrench away again and nearly managed it. “About Ubardian oil wrestling.”

Boba changed his grip. He leaned down over Din, close enough that Boba heard Din’s breath catch in his throat, that he saw the hunger in his eyes, sweet as summer rain even as Din bared his teeth and kept trying to pull himself free. Boba shifted his hand, moving from Din’s knee to his thigh, feeling the strength gathered there, the tension, and Din went still all at once.

“You win a bout of Ubardian oil wrestling,” Boba said, watching Din swallow, his eyes wide, “by getting the best… grip on your opponent and forcing his belly towards the sky.”

Din understood all at once, that pretty flush coming back, his mouth parting in surprise. Din stared at Boba for a split second, tense as a terecon, and then he surrendered, the fight going out of him all at once.

This – the moment that Din stopped fighting so karking hard, that he gave in – was one of Boba’s favorites. He liked it almost as much as the fight itself, as much as he liked wielding the flogger while Din’s shoulders shook and flexed or the way Din liked to curl up against Boba afterwards.

Din dropped his head back, showing Boba the long line of his throat, and Boba couldn’t help but lean closer. The urge to press his mouth to the pulse fluttering there – to nip at Din’s jaw, even though Boba’d been the one to say that there would be no biting tonight – surged in Boba’s belly.

Then Din shifted again, and Boba too late realized that Din hadn’t actually said that he yielded. He’d only been playing at defeat, relaxing against Boba so that Boba dropped his guard, and Boba would’ve been impressed, almost, if he hadn’t seen Din rear his head back, the gleam of battle bright as a star in his eyes, and surge forward in a mirshmure’cya.

Really, Boba shouldn’t have been surprised. Any Mandalorian worth their besk knew how to make good use of a headbutt, and Din’d had a thin, silvery scar between his eyes for as long as Boba’d known him. Boba should have seen the attack coming.

As it was, he had a split second to jerk his head back, which he did, so Din didn’t break Boba’s nose. Instead he smashed his forehead as hard as he could against Boba’s chin.

The world went white, for just a moment. Pain burst behind Boba’s eyes and he bit off a shout, catching his tongue in the process. Boba tasted blood. His ears rang and he lost his grip on Din, flinching back reflexively.

Din Djarin, Boba thought, blinking white out of his eyes, blood running down his chin, has a hard karking head, doesn’t he?

Din didn’t immediately try to rush Boba, though, so Boba shifted further back, balancing on his heels, and shook his head again to clear it. When his vision came back, he saw that Din had scrambled away, crouched down like a krayt in a canyon ready to strike. He was bleeding too, from a thin gash across his forehead, and blood trickled down the side of his face and gave Din a fearsome, wild look.

Din’s eyes were wild too. He was looking at Boba and his eyes flashed in the dark, bright as beskar. A strange feeling had lodged itself behind Boba’s ribs, stuck in his chest like a knife. Boba wanted to bare his teeth right back. He wanted to lick the blood off of Din’s face.

“Alright,” Boba said, wiping his chin. He could feel a bruise forming there already, hot and throbbing in time with Boba’s heart. “Fair enough,” he said, giving Din a little victory. Din’d earned it; it took gett’se to pull off a move like that, but Din hadn’t even hesitated. “I should’ve seen that one coming. Good hit.”

Din smiled. Not one of the quick, half-certain little smiles he’d given Boba before, not one of the amused glances Boba’d sometimes caught Din giving him out of the corner of his eye, but a real, true smile, wide and happy and bright.

Boba’s heart stumbled. He froze. That strange feeling in him shivered, and then like a night-blooming flower opened wide.

Oh, he thought, recognizing the strange feeling in his chest for what it was, no.

#ast asks #ast 'verse pov tag #boba: i have normal feelings about din djarin #din: *tries to break boba's nose*#boba: oh. huh.

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poibynt · 11 months

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Here’s a real quick snippet of a bobadin fic im working on bc why not.

This was really pushing the line. He was shifting the sand they stood on. But sand was always shifting, Tatooine was a place of change. Slow change, often. Jabba’s reign had been long and terrible. It had felt as implacable as the stars, the sky. Pressing down on Mos Entha and out across Tatooine. But Jabba was killed by a princess, aided by a Jedi, with the chains he had used to bind her. Then Boba had crawled from the desert, surviving something none in recorded history had survived, to dethrone Fortuna. Change had slumbered far out in the dune sea before charging through the heart of the planet. Slowly, and then all at once. Fantastical, a heat wave soaked mysticism. Tatooine was also a place of fairy tail.

Boba had not been immune to either, and the twin forces had swept through his life with a force that could reroute rivers. Din knew Tatooine as well as Boba did, knew its truths. Perhaps here, in a palace that was currently a dead man who crawled back out of the desert’s, that used to be the palace of a glutinous hut, the villain of all children's tales, had once been the place where some long ago order of monks decided to forsake all earthly attachments, in the heart of this shifting fantasy, Din could let himself set aside how he thought the world should speak to him. How he expected to speak. Perhaps he could accept, at least this night, being swept into a nonsensical and achingly direct world. Din could blame it on Tatooine. Stranger things had happened here. Boba didn’t mind, he wouldn’t entirely be wrong. The planet had rooted itself within Boba’s very being, slowly at first and then all at once.

#bobadin #boba Fett #din Djarin #Star wars fic #Tatooine my beloved #my writing #I don’t think I need a tag for this fic specifically

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likethetrench · 1 year

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chapter 15 - echoy'la ( 1:10:25 )

in which Din and Kasyyk investigate in Mos Entha. feat. seventeen (17) instances of the word 'besalisk,' very few of which I managed on the first try, and twenty-four (24) clips of wookiee sounds.

#podfic #podfic by marianas #a simple thing #ast pod

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angelrider13 · 3 years

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A Barren Sea of Sun-Bleached Bones

Sooooooo this is something that I’ve been thinking about off and on for a while now and given that I’ve had literally nothing better to do at work because everything has gone cuckoo bananapuffs, have some rambles! (*pokes @hamelin-born because it sounds like you’re also having a rough time lately and could use a pick me up*)

When Thalassa wakes up in a desert with twin suns beating down on her, her first thought is ‘this might as well happen’. Her second thought is ‘why the fuck is this happening?”

(Titan, brother, why would you do this to me? When did I wrong you???)

She has no idea where she is and eventually she succumbs to the heat. When she wates, she finds herself in the care of a woman who introduces herself as Shmi Skywalker and explains that her husband, Cliegg Lars, found her unconscious in the desert.

She’s in Star Wars. On Tatooine of all places. Because of course she is. In her first life, Thalassa wasn’t overly familiar with story - she’d seen the first 6 movies, a few episodes of the various cartoons here and there, but she knows that there is a wider knowledge base that she never looked twice at and is therefore missing.

What she does know is this: Tatooine is run by slavers.

Tatooine is a slave planet and everyone knows but no one cares enough to stop it.

Well then.

Thalassa settles in and recovers and gets to know her rescuers. With Shmi married to Cliegg (happily so and by her own choice, Thalassa checked), it’s clear that the timeline is somewhere between Episodes 1 and 2. Something she doesn’t particularly care about much aside from the fact that it means war has not broken out. Yet. Meaning that larger entities will not yet be putting much effort into winning the Hutt’s favor - which in turn means that no one will be looking to closely at the Outer Rim desert planet. Or that, if they do, they will look the other way. As always.

So Thalassa stays and watches and explores and learns. She helps around the homestead, walks through the cities. She makes note of who owns slaves and who doesn’t. She observes any slave quarters she comes across. She grows close with Shmi and Cliegg ad teases young Owen about his budding romance with Beru.

And sometimes, she just walks out into the desert and disappears for days, weeks.

There are echoes, you see, all round the desert. A song on the wind, screams in the shifting sands. Tatooine wasn’t always a Desert. Many, many, many, moons ago, it was a Sea. And that is not something easily forgotten. Deserts aren’t so different after all - their shifting sands hide treasures as easily as waves and their memories stretch just as long.

It is for this reason that Thalassa has lasted as long as she had. In another life, perhaps this planet could have been Hers. In this life, it is the echoes of that past that sustain her when she is so far from her own Sea.

Shmi frets over her whenever se returns from these wanderings for Thalassa’s skin is perpetually dry and cracked, splitting open whenever she so much as twitches. Her hair is bleached and brittle and the sands have carved deep lines into her face. (She hasn’t dared changing shapes since she arrived - she suspects she would simply fall apart if she tried.) Shmi continues to rub salves into her skin and Cliegg tries to caution her against further trips, to at least make them shorter, to take more water, something.

And Thalassa smiles because they care, but their little moisture farm would never produce enough water to sustain her. Besides, she can’t stop yet.

“I’m searching for something,” she says.

“What?” Cliegg asks as Shmi bandages her arms, worry shinning in their eyes.

Thalassa smiles wistfully. “A memory.”

She finds it eventually. It takes her two years of looking and waiting and listening, but Thalassa finds the heart of the memory, of the Sea. The entrance could have been great once. A temple, perhaps. Or a palace. Or probably none of those things and something else entirely. But is was something once. Something grand. Now it is little more than weathered stone - nothing other than a natural formation if one doesn’t know how to look. It’s a maze of caverns deep underground and Thalassa can see were once great arches and painted tiles and etched columns. The echoes that were only faint whispers on the wind are stronger here - louder, firmer, solid. Real. She can see what once was and what now is. What was once a vast Sea is not little more than a well. A small pool no longer deep or large enough to flow through underground riverbeds.

There is still enough water for Thalassa to submerge herself completely. The water is soothing against her dry, cracked skin - an ancient, dying Sea welcoming one of its own. Thalassa opens herself to this strange-familiar Sea, lets it see all of her and in turn it grants Thalassa the same.

Tatooine was once a water planet - vast and deep and blue. But time marches on and things change as they always do. The slightest of shifts in the chemical makeup of the atmosphere, the gravitational axis tilting a single degree to the left. Small hings. Little things. But a single change is always enough and Tatooine began to dry up until it became as it is today. Thalassa can feel the boundless rage of this dying Sea at the state of its domain today. Not so much the state of its waters - change is what it is and there is no escaping it - but the state its people. Because Seas, regardless of time and place and origin, are the same. Seas are free. And Tatooine has been chained and branded and bound for so long that its people have forgotten any other way to be.

But the Sea remembers.

The Desert remembers.

And it rages at this slight, at this betrayal, at this abomination that has been allowed to fester at among its people so long unchecked.

Very well, Thalassa promises, The infection will be cut out.

Tatooine’s Sea is grateful and offers what is left of its dying depths to the liberation of its children.

Thalassa’s skin knits together, the ever present rash in her throat fades, the dryness in her lungs vanishes. She takes stock, considers, and changes. Scales, claws, a tail. It feels good. The water is not deep enough, vast enough for Leviathan, but she changes anyway, filling the cavern with her massive form. She stretches and twists and basks in her ability to be once more. She changes. Again and again and again. An old woman bent with age, a young boy with scraped knees, a Zabrak male, an elderly Rodian, a Twi’liek woman, a Jawa just because she can. It has been so long. Tatooine’s Sea is laughing at her, she can tell, but she doesn’t mind.

The Desert greets her when she finally emerges, its voice a twin of the Sea’s, different that what she is used to but no less welcome. It reminds her of her stone brother.

Thalassa returns to the Lars-Skywalker homestead and Shmi is already pulling out medical supplies before she registers the shine of Thalassa’s hair, the unblemished skin of her face.

“It was a gift,” she explains when Shmi strips her down anyway and runs her hands over smooth skin she swears was falling apart only a week ago.

Thalassa lets them fuss for two days before she wanders off again. She made a promise after all and she’s had time to observe. She knows who is rotten and who is not. The Hutts for one. The most obvious blight. But to cut them out so soon, so quickly, without any plan or safety net would do Tatooine children no favors. One day. But not yet. She must start small. She knows where to go first.

There is a man who live in Mos Entha with a dozen slaves to his name. Thalassa does not claim knowledge of all the races this universe has to offer, but she knows children when she sees them. All of them are young. All of them are pleasing to the eye. All of them are dressed in little more than scraps of sheer cloth.

The man dies that night.

In the morning, Thalassa returns to Shmi and Cliegg with a dozen children of various races peeking out from behind her legs.

“She was like you,” Thalassa tells the children of Shmi before she ushers Cliegg out of the room when Shmi pulls out a scanner and Beru starts setting up medical supplies.

(Thalassa has seen the scar on Shmi’s hip. She knows what used to live under Shmi’s skin.)

Cliegg sets up rooms for the kids without protest and the farm gains a dozen helpers. Owen is a gruff, but protective, older brother. Shmi and Beru are both gentle and patient even when the children finally feel secure enough to start testing boundaries and act out.

This is how it starts.

Thalassa cannot bring everyone back to the homestead, of course. But she’s watched. She knows. Slaves are never content to be slaves. And here they are survivors born of both the Desert and the Sea. They will find a way. Secret languages. hidden paths, safe houses. Thalassa does not have to be a member of their community to know.

Slavers start disappearing. The smugglers, the mercenaries, the masters. No one dealing in the trade of sentient beings is safe.

Shmi finally confronts her about it he third time she brings home a group to be de-chipped. Shmi would never turn them away - that’s not in her nature - and Thalassa has provided them with enough funds for the extra mouths (The Desert and the Sea both have their secrets and guard treasures well from outsiders. But not from on of their own.), but she does wonder what, exactly, her friend thinks she’s doing.

“Tatooine used to be a Sea,” Thalassa says when she asks as she looks out in the desert. “Do you know what a Sea is?”

Shmi may have lived in a desert all her life, but she is not stupid and she is a little indignant that Thalassa thinks she might be. “A large body of water,” she answers, keeping the frown out of her voice and off her face.

Thalassa smiles. “You’re not wrong. Most people would agree with you. But I asked what a Sea was, not how to describe it.”

Shmi blinks, thrown by the direction this entire conversation has taken.

“A Sea,” Thalassa continues without looking away from the vast stretch of sand, “is freedom.”

Oh, Shmi thinks.

“Tatooine used to be a Sea,” Thalassa says again, “And such a thing leaves echoes. A Desert is not so different, after all. They are no place for chains and brands and chips.” Thalassa spits the last word as if it is the most vile poison and Shmi wonders if she truly understands what such a life is like to hate it so.

“There is a Sea inside of me,” Thalassa says, turning to look at Shmi with glowing gold eyes, “And it is raging at the way your Sea and Desert have been bound. The have been screaming for so long, Shmi, so long. I will free them even if I have to cut down every slaver myself.”

Shmi believes her. Not only that, but she believe Thalassa ca do it. Her friend has always been an odd one. Human in appearance, but never quite right. Something easy to pass off in a universe such as theirs. But the way she seems to whither in the desert is like nothing Shmi has ever seen. The cracks that once carved themselves into Thalassa’s flesh - and still do whenever she ventures out too far for too long - had never seemed as simple as a reaction to the body’s lack of water or exposure to heat. And then one day Thalassa healed. She healed and she stated wearing different skins. Shmi has heard people start calling her Quyllur of the Many Faces. They have stories about beings like her - whispers passed down in he dark of night while huddled together for warmth. Thalassa does not know these stories. She does not know their language or culture or history. She is something different. But she is something similar enough.

Thalassa cleans Tatooine of filth one slaver at a time. None of them can quite figure out why they are being hunted, only that they are. Some try to flee or buy protection. Some even petition the Hutts fir help. But Thalassa is an ancient, death-touched Sea with a pair of twins - a Desert full of screaming winds and barren Sea full of sun-bleached bones - at her back. She can be patient. Water goes where it will and Death come for all in the end. Thalassa will get her way.

It happens slowly, quietly, but it happens.

Most people don’t notice at first because they aren’t looking. Who pays attention to slaves after all? That is their first mistake. A slaver should always pay attention and never be comforatable - a slave is never content to be a slave. All it takes is a single moment, a single detail, a single second. But people who assume they have all the power never think like that. And it is always, always, their downfall.

The slaves are freed.

The masters are killed.

No one notices.

And then the first Hutt dies.

#sweat tears or the sea au #ffxv x sw #a barren sea of sun bleached bones verse #ffxv #star wars #elri writes #I HAD AN IDEA #and to the surprise of no one it got long #mentions of slavery and associated themes #shmi doesn't die because i fucking said so #thalassa rescues her asap #and she doesn't slaughter everyone to do it #but she does kill everyone who hurt shmi #because shmi is HERS #idk when anyone figures out what's happening on tatooine #probs not until anakin comes looking for his mom #but then war happens to no one has time to pay attention to that!#and then the republic comes to get jabba's support #with their slaver army #but WHOOPS jabba's dead and no one is happy about the slave army #thalassa: WHY IS THERE SO MUCH SLAVERY IN THIS DAMN UNIVERSE #thalassa rolling up her sleeve: I HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING MYSELF AROUND HERE #on another note how would the jedi react to thalassa's glowy gold eyes #fairly certain there would be a lot of stab first ask questions later

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serlymurly · 6 years

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A RANT ABOUT CHARACTERS, CREATION, AND THE PROCESS OF BEING INSANE

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Let’s have a rant. A good, old fashioned rant about something that’s been nagging at my mind. First, paint the scene;

It’s 6 in the morning. The sun is rising outside. The love of my life is asleep in bed, our cat is in a box lined with a fuzzy blanket that I could have draped around my shoulders because frankly, it’s a bit cold. We have no creamer, and I think coffee wouldn’t help this headache that’s pounding away at my skull - and I have four people talking in my head.

Did I lose you yet? Probably not. It’s pretty straight forward. First - the puppy nailed to the wall. Four people talking in my head, what? Well - technically, I think they’re all me. But on a different level, only two of them are me. Got it?

One of me is going on about how this is all, in fact, a terrible idea and that to post any of this is to admit to a certain kind of insanity that I really shouldn’t be admitting to. This isn’t normal, on any level; I’ve never heard people talk about it, and the only person that I’m aware is actually on point with how I do things in writing is asleep.

The other part of me really wants banana bread, and frankly, I can’t fault that. Can you? Of course you fucking can’t, unless you’re allergic to bananas. Fuck yeah, banana bread.

Then, there’s the other two. One is a face that people who follow me are familiar with; James Oaklen. Don’t know who he is? Probably not! I’ll talk about him later. And he’s having a lovely conversation with this newest creation, this newest part of my intracranial house - Aeslen. But I won’t talk about her. Not yet.

So, yes. Four people. All adamantly talking their points, all actively going on and doing their own thing; existing in some level on a scene that I’ve always had in my head. Let’s explain that bit, shall we? Sorry this is disjointed - again, no coffee.

Flash back I don’t know how many years, and I was a young, young boy. I barely had any understanding of how to type; I’d never played a game outside of Banjo-Kazooie and Super Mario 64, games that required a controller.

I will spare the dirty details, but life at home was not perfect. There was yelling; there was hitting, there was strife, and a family that was slowly tearing itself apart. I could see the writing on the wall when I was 7, that’s how bad it was. So - my mom decides it’s a good idea to introduce me to this game she plays.

A game called Ultima Online.

And holy crap, that was amazing! I spent hours doing nothing of any importance on her computer, on our shitty internet in that crappy home in Ohio, just exploring this world with a character that I had created with my own two hands in a whole other world. This was a concept that I had never experienced; this was a new and exciting frontier for me. I named him Krill because that’s a COOL name and it sounds COOL. I gave him flaming red hair, I made him a paladin, and I spent hours just trying to kill skeletons in a really easy area at the start of the game because I kept forgetting how to fight things.

And then, one day, everything changed. UO, it turns out, maybe just the server I was on - had a very active community of this thing called ‘Role Players’. Weird, right? People who actively played out their characters as real, living things - in this world. Personalities, histories, everything. I stumbled on them by accident when I got lost in the big castle in the main town of the game.

There, at the time, was a bunch of high-end guilds. One was the Orcs (it was just people with orc masks on, but they pretended to be orcs and they rocked at it). There was the Highlanders (they wore kilts and I REALLY WANTED TO BE ONE). There was a merchant guild, and - all these other guilds I feel bad not remembering. And I was just this little seven-year old kid with a character named Krill with flaming red hair that walks into the middle of this big, IC meeting they were having. Imagine them responding to me with actual respect?

Imagine them actually… explaining what they were doing? With respect? I was so awestruck, I asked if I could play. They made me door guard. Boy, LET ME TELL YOU, I took that job so seriously. I stood just outside the meeting and I could see all their little talk, all while making sure nobody entered without permission. I was so hyped.

That, that stuck with me. Okay? Remember that. The idea - the concept that they had presented to me, this way that you could live another life through a digital form. That stuck with me.

But - well, things change. People. Lives. I never really got into the RP scene on that game; I wandered around and pretended to be part of things, but it was mostly them politely recognising me and letting me watch them do stuff. I only had an hour each day online, so it just - wasn’t enough. Eventually, my mom stopped paying for her UO account due to issues. So - back to the nintendo and other things.

Flash forward. Divorce imminent between the two parents. The world is collapsing around us children. My sisters are massive assholes, my brother and I feel like we’re alone together in a sea. So… in a desperate attempt to keep his spirits up, I introduce him to the concept. “Let’s pretend to be Link and go slay invisible monsters!”

Stupid, right? So we pick up sticks and start staying as far away from our house as we could. We’d talk about all the things we were fighting, we’d hit each other with ‘swords’, we’d drag our local friends into it! We just - disassociated. I think for him, it was mostly the swinging the sticks that was interesting; always fighting, always smacking things. But for me? I was using my mind to, you know. Envision such grandiose and wondrous things for us to be fighting! I was imagining landscapes, unspeakable monsters, and the type of person that I would be!

That evolved. Stuff happened again. We moved from where we’d been living to a new environment; Michigan. I like Michigan, don’t get me wrong; fucking love it there. But, well - we were young. I didn’t know anyone, and it was 5th grade. And then - more stuff happened.

I won’t go into nitty details, but one of my sister’s had a major incident occur. This lead to the family being put under more strain, which eventually finally snapped the cord. Grandparents died. One suddenly, one from cancer shortly after. A nasty, nasty divorce that left me feeling horrible. I was convinced that I could have stopped it - all of it. I was convinced that I should have; since I wanted to be that big hero, remember? Since I wanted to shoulder all the burdens.

I took it upon myself to never show any problems outwardly, after that point. I just smiled and acted silly and nobody really paid me much mind. “Oh, he’s always fine!” It’s about this time I got into (GASP) UO again. Freeservers, this time; technically, I think that was illegal, but who cares. I got deep into it; I made my first *real* RP character, who was of course a massive dork. Leone, a grey elf ranger that ate lemons - because I’d convinced *myself* that if you ate enough lemons, you could spit caustic spit? I don’t know, I was weird.

Leone would be my staple character for a long time. So long, in fact, that I began to wonder - as maybe we all do - where he stopped and I began. Sure, he was an elf with magic and grey skin - but personality wise, I felt he was a lot like me!

Then I learned that was a cardinal sin of roleplay. Apparently, you should never - EVER - make a character like yourself. You become too attached - which I did. You become too personally involved - which I did.

Games change, years move on. I went to SWG, I played a new character - Stodosmo Oci (horrible name I know). He was a security officer at a hospital! It was great. I loved it. It was a long, boring time of just sitting and watching doctors RP it out with patients in Mos Entha. And then.. I don’t know. Things. Again.

Went from there to WoW. Technically, I’d been in WoW since Vanilla - but the lore had never struck me as interesting enough to roleplay in seriously until just before BC released. I had a series of characters there, all sharing the same last name; Rodetan. Eventually, as Wrath came to a close, I decided to consolidate them into one large family tree.

WoW’s timeline sucks. That’s all you need to know about that.

Who remembers the early days of WRA? Alliance-side, there was a guild called ‘Stormwind’s Army’. Yes, it was just another military RP guild. Yes, we did a lot of patrolling and policing. It was fun, though; my character rose from an unwashed bum to chief recruitment officer. And then - drama happened. The guild split. I followed the ‘rebels’, and we formed the Vanguard of the Alliance (VotA). That was also fun.

Anyways, I’m sparing you all the nitty-gritty details - but this is where the story, once more, becomes interesting. After so long, VotA eventually fell apart. We all went our separate ways, and eventually three of the officers let me know that they’re still RPing in-game with this new group - Blood of Arathor, I think it was called. I’m asked if I want to join them. I say - sure, but not on the character I’d been using.

At the time, I was - kind of embarrassed of that character. I still am. He’s my best success story, yes, but he felt - I don’t know. Too close to me, in some ways that I won’t get into. So I thought - why not make a NEW character?!

OH BOY.

But there was a problem. And this is what most of this rant was building up to.

I had to build a new character.

From scratch.

Alright, that doesn’t sound so bad, does it? - Except somewhere along the line of creating him - he came alive. In designing him, in creating his personality - I suddenly found that I was physically talking to myself - and in my mind, this quiet man was responding. James Oaklen, Knight of Stromgarde, was telling me about himself.

His goals. His life. His loves. His interests. All about himself; his world. How he felt about certain foods, how he felt about everything.

At the time - I had very, very acute problems in the real world. I was taking drugs, drinking heavily, I was obnoxiously depressed to the point of being borderline suicidal - and… well, this happened. What did it mean?

Don’t answer that. It’s not a real question, because it doesn’t matter.

I accepted that he was who he was - and he’s become one of my favorite recurring personalities in my characters. And he’s not the only one, anymore. At some point, this - new way of creation, this way to create characters that exist in my own mind - just, settled in.

So.. I wanted to document how it works. Sort of. Maybe you at home can replicate it?

I start by closing my eyes. I think about what races there are to choose from, what classes or skillsets; and then I just… start to see a person. Whoa, weird, huh? Just an outline. A faint outline.

So, we reach out with our mind, and we call to them; and they slowly come forward. We get an imprint, a basic idea for what they look like, in our minds. So - we go to the creator and we try to do that. As close as possible.

Then we look at the character. Scars; how did they get them? Each scar is a story in itself, and as you look - they begin to tell you about each one. As if just explaining casually. James has a scar along his neck, which he earned when he almost died defending his Lady - something that he constantly thinks about as a time that he failed.

Or, other big features? James - again, using him as an example - has a large, bushy black moustache. It’s his family’s staple, a sign of their masculinity and proof that an Oaklen has come of age.

And so on. Then, by the time we get to the point where we have to name them, they’ve already told us the most important things. We don’t just have a vague outline in our little mind shack; now, we have a PERSON. And the name? Well… That’s a limitation of the system, baby. Pick something as close to what resembles the name they called themselves, and stick to it.

I could go into more depth. I could go into the process of creating a video where I create a character, but - well, why? It’s just this vague idea that I want to get across right now. I really doubt anyone will read this five-to-seven page long spiel all the way through. But it’s just - interesting, to me. It constantly is there, this - process, these characters, these people. And not just them; worlds come just as easily. Is that the product of an over-active imagination from a man that was desperately seeking to avoid reality and paint a better fiction for himself to sit in? Probably.

But… I don’t know. When it boils down to it, I just let it happen. I get ideas in my head all the time for wondrous worlds, characters and things - but the most agonizing problem is that they can never seem to translate into text or print. I can’t paint worth a damn, I can barely draw - and the one medium I have for escape, Roleplay, is something that I barely do anymore.

So - how do I make it stop? Do I want to make it stop? Should I? How do I harness this? How do I focus it into something specific?

If you made it this far, congratulations. I don’t know how to end it, so I’m just tagging all the mmo’s I’ve ever played or remember playing for giggles. Kudos if you get all of them!

#uo #wow #ffixv #wildstar #swg #coh #cov #co #eq #eq2 #DAOC #Horizons #Rift #Neverwinter #NWN #NWN2 #do nwn count as mmos? I like to think they do #Probably missing some #rant

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selenium-drive · 3 years

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Stay Gold Chapter 2: The Search

Words: 6.8k

Series rating: Explicit

The thrill of the dogfight between the Mandalorian and the unfortunate bounty hunter who tried to cross paths with him, had worn off for The Child. The poor shape of both mutilated engines that were hanging on by a thread didn't make for the smoothest landing. It was very possible that once the engines were shut off this time, it would take much more work to get them started up once again. A simple flick of the emergency power switch would be useless at this point.

The beskar clad bounty hunter collected the now still and sleeping infant before laying it down on the cot. The Mandalorian stepped back slowly, eyeing The Child while it stirred peacefully in its sleep. It stilled once more, somehow nestling comfortably in the haggard, poor excuse of a cushioned mattress. The hunter quietly made his exit down the ship's ramp, setting off to find someone who would be able to provide adequate maintenance to the Razor Crest.

Three small approaching shadow figures caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He instinctively drew his blaster from his side and fired off warning shots in the direction he heard the multiple sets of footsteps emitting from. The electronic shrieks and metal feet pit pats of scattering pit droids hitting the desert floor caused the Mandalorian to cease fire. It was a bit of an overreaction on his part, but with his profession and newly acclaimed wanted status, it was more of an instinctual response. The screech of an angry woman sending threatening shouts his way however, was an illicit reaction well deserved.

"You damage one of my droids, you pay for it!" A slim figured, curly hair woman sauntered out of her office, hands balled into fists at her side. The large dusty windows looking into the landing bay made it easy for someone watching, to know full well it was a Mandalorian that was causing all the ruckus. Most people would cower in fear or scramble in the other direction at the sight of one of the legendary warriors. The fact that a tiny woman such as herself, bravely stomped over to the towering offender while chastising him loudly, caught him off guard.

"Just keep them away from my ship," Mando warned monotonously. The woman pushed past him, obnoxiously banging on every metal panel of the ship that looked out of the ordinary. She reluctantly agreed to making the repairs, but Mando knew her price was too steep and his pockets too empty. There was no other choice but to settle down for a bit on Tattooine and add finding work to his list of tasks to complete while he was there. He would wander from cantina to cantina if it meant finding a decent paying job. That would even give him the opportunity to ask around about the woman he was searching for. If things went smoothly, which they typically haven't been lately, he would succeeded in killing two birds with one stone.

"I'll get you your money," the bounty hunter promised. A Mandalorian's word was true. They abided by their promises and it was in their nature, no, culture to be dependable. Peli Motto, on the other hand, wasn't having it. Mandalorian or not, she was too no nonsense of a woman to give a damn about who or what you said you were. She frowned and rolled her eyes.

"I've heard that before." With a flick of her hand, she waved the other man off dismissively.

"Wait," his deep voice radiating through his helmets modulator stopped her from beginning her repairs. "I need to ask you a few questions. I'm...looking for someone."

Peli scoffed. "Why does that not surprise me? You know you're being a little demanding here, Mando. Depending on what you ask is gonna cost you more if you're not careful."

Mando suppressed a exasperated sigh. Instead, he turned his gaze back towards the battered Crest. "I'm looking for a woman."

"Well good luck finding one who will put up with you," Peli snorted.

"No," Mando corrected himself sternly, "that's not what I meant. I was told she would be on Tattooine. I don't know where and I don't have much to go by." Peli stared hard at him, waiting for him to further elaborate on who exactly he needed to find. "All I know is that she has black hair. She hides her face. Her eyes are-"

"Golden," Peli interrupted. Mando's head jerked back into her direction. His helmet tilted a bit to the side out of surpise that she possibly knew who he spoke of. "Yeah, I know who she is. Well, kinda. Don't know her name, don't think anyone does..." Peli trailed off, looking down at the pale desert floor with her eyebrows creased together. It was her turn now to stew over her words before she continued talking. Mando waited, surprisingly patient while she continued muttering softly to herself. Eventually, Peli lifted her hands up to him apologeticly after ending her long-winded, self-discussion. "Yeah, I've heard of her! Last I heard she's in Mos Entha. Not horribly far from here but it'll be a pain of a walk. That, or I can let you rent something for a price."

Once more, Mando kept his irritated groan strictly internal. Having a bit more actually reliable information to go by was a breathe of fresh air, something that didn't come too often. Still, he didn't care for the fact that Peli was trying to milk him for every credit he didn't yet have.

_________

It was much harder for Mando to keep a lower profile amongst the more populated city of Mos Entha. Portions if the street were bustling with commotion coming from the various spaced out marketplaces and traders. He could barely hear himself think over the aggressively bartering Jawas looking for their next high paying trade deal with merchandise that was more than likely not theirs. His fist involuntary clenched at the recollection of finding his ship torn apart and stripped by the pack of tiny annoying thieves, just days ago. They had the audacity to make him bargain for his own parts of the Crest. Luckily, Kuiil came through and helped him restore his ship to its state of normalcy and then some.

Mando got somewhat of a break from the overwhelming, deafening chatter erupting from the dense clusters of people. Every corner he turned, people would catch a glimpse of his shining armor and part out of his way quietly and effortlessly. Once he was out if sight, the echo of numerous voices picked right up back where it left off. Being around this many people in a more densely populated area than he currently liked, put the bounty hunter on edge. If he was to find this person, it had to be soon.

He wormed his way through the streets of Mos Entha and into one of the less crowded nearby cantinas. Once again, one by one everyone in the room fell silent once they turned to see who joined them. A few left, leaving their already paid for drinks behind, not even taking one last sip before slipping out the door once the Mandalorian passed them by. A few shrank defensively in their seats, praying to miraculously go unnoticed by the life form scanner embedded in Mando's visor. The bartender froze completely when he realized he was the unfortunate prey locked onto by the hunter's stoic, unreadable gaze.

Mando meant no harm, but of course no one else knew that. He effortlessly slid himself onto one of the barstools, slipping a hand into one of his pockets. The bartender's breath hitched and he let out a small tremor of fear. His posture relaxed some when Mando placed his hand on top of the counter then slowly removed it, leaving a what few handful of credits he did still have, in its place.

"I'm looking for someone," he began softly. His voice was just above a whisper, the modulator barely able to pick it up. It was just loud enough for the bartender to hear thanks to the stillness of the cantina. "I've heard she's here, in Mos Entha. A woman with black hair and golden eyes." Mando finished his sentence by pushing the credits in the other man's direction in attempt to entice him to speak.

The cantina employee didn't dare take the currency quite yet out of fear of angering the Mandalorian seated at his bar. "Y-yes. I know who you speak of," he croaked. "She's a-a mechanic at a hanger not f-f-far from here. B-but that's all I k-know. Promise." The man's voice cracked at the word "promise". Mando knew he was telling the truth. There was so much fear lacing those last two syllables that it was pitiful. He placed another credit on the table with the others, still maintaining eye contact with the poor soul who was subjected to his interrogation.

"Do you know her name?" He asked firmly. The bartender remained quiet. Mando doubted he knew seeing how no one else did around here. The bartender shook a bit more violently this time out of fear for telling the bounty hunter what he didn't want to hear: the word "no". Sensing his hesitation and out of a signal that it was okay to continue, Mando slipped one more credit on the countertop for the compliant man.

"N-not her real n-name. Around here, w-we all just call her...T-Tajana." Mando stared wordlessly in the direction of the bartender. He wasn't even necessarily watching him, rather just starting off while he pieced all the information together. After a few seconds for the hunter but what felt like an eternity to his prey, Mando said thank you and walked out of the cantina.

He looked around at the surrounding buildings, trying to see which one was the closest spaceport. From behind the protection of his cold, steel helmet, his eyes locked onto a massive, dome shaped tower.

He quickly strode towards the gigantic structure, pushing past anyone who dared stand in his way. It was still light outside but the end of the day would be drawing near shortly. Although his mind was set on finding the person Kuiil spoke of, he didn't dare forget the small green infant who was, hopefully, still sleeping peacefully on the Crest. He couldn't risk going back to check on The Child and then returning the next day to continue his search. Word would travel fast of a Mandalorian snooping around on Tattooine. That, and there must be some reason why this person doesn't show their face, some reason why they don't reveal their name. If there is by some chance a bounty on her, Mando didn't want to risk her catching wind that he was looking for her. He had come so far and couldn't mess it all up now. For all that it's worth, he hoped listening to Kuiil would be worth it. He had a strong trust in the man's intuition even though they had only known each other for a short while. The faith Mando had in the moisture farmer and the desperate need for another crew member, fueled the Mandalorian to keep at his search.

_________

The streets of Tattooine seemed especially loud today. The various market stands drew in large crowds of people, and a certain golden eyed female could hear the roar of the bustling crowd from the landing bay of which she worked. Clusters of sparks and heat blossomed from the burning metal situated in her delicate hands, glowing bright red and white under her touch. Wisps of smoke bounced off her aviator like goggles that protected her honey amber eyes, and tried to snake its way through the fibers of a black scarf that obscured the lower half of her face.

She set town her tools and dusted off her gloved fingertips on the baggy thighs of her maintenance uniform. Peeling off the gloves one by one, she set them in her back pocket and sighed. Although it seemed busy beyond the walls of her work station, it was a rather slow day today with not much work to be done. It was a bit of a cooler day today on Tattooine, which isn't saying much, but that still didn't stop a few beads of sweat from forming on her golden, caramel skin. She lifted her goggles back to their usual resting spot on the top of her head, then reached back to tighten her long, black ponytail. Her work for the day was almost complete; just a few wires to be arranged and pieced back together with a bit of soldering here and there. She was knowledgeable in the field of spacecraft maintenance, something she picked up on during her stay on Arvala-7.

The girl approached her workbench casually and began to stuff some of her unused tools into a small duffle bag. Her movements slowed when it dawned on her that it seemed...quiet. Rather uncomfortably quiet for how loud it was just a second ago. It was if all the chatter of the patrons outside had stopped all at once. She was just about to poke her head around the entrance to her landing bay when the she was interrupted by the rapid thumping noise of hasty footsteps rounding the corner.

The man in charge of the entire ship docking station appeared before her, crouched over and out of breath. "It looks like a bounty hunter heading is here," her employer whispered harshly. "A Mandalorian. Stay out of his way. I'll tell the others." He scampered off, making his way to the surrounding docks warning them of the same approaching threat. It's not that he cared about the wellbeing of his employees, not by a long shot. Some of his hires had questionable histories but their labor was cheap and fruitful. It would be a pain to replace them with how much business was brought in. He was mearly giving a fair warning to anyone who needed to bolt if they had to. Best to lose an employee for a day or two while they hid than lose them forever in custody.

There was no use in finishing the final repairs to the ship she was assigned to fix today. The amount of work left to be done was minimal. She didn't know for sure if she was wanted or who the Mandalorian was actually after. The fear of the repercussions of certain occurrences in the past leading up to her settling down in Mos Espa, made her realize it was best to hide. There was a reason why she hid her name and face from the public.

A few of her fellow workers had the same idea of fleeing. She followed the sound of their bounding footsteps that raced out into the streets. Some ran so fast that the air was thick in some spots from the amount of powdery dirt their boots had kicked up. She herself was quick, but the second of hesitation she had in the bay on whether or not to leave proved to be one second too long in her escape.

Her sprint came to a sudden halt. It was as if the air around her grew thick and heavy in a split second. Every muscle in her body told her to keep going, but every ounce of her instinct told her that would be a foolish decision to do so. The looming heaviness in the air caused her breathe to catch in her throat; every hair on her arm stood straight up.

"You there," a heavily modulated baritone broke out from the intense silence, "turn around."

It was a man's voice. It was unfamiliar to her, but also very hard and demanding. She sensed no hostility in his tone but something told her not to push him. She knew very little about Mandalorians, but had heard some impressive stories about their kind over the years. There was a reason why people panicked when one came near.

Every fiber of her being was torn between complying and running. She said nothing. The blood pumped so hard in her ears that it was nearly deafening, yet she could still make out the subtle clattering of beskar shifting behind her. The Mandalorian was growing impatient quickly from her lack of response. Before she could open her mouth to speak, he did so for her.

"An Ugnaught from Arvala-7 sent me. Perhaps you know who I speak of." The girl worriedly jerked her head in the direction of the intruder staring her down.

"Is he okay?" Her voice was strong and clear with a strong hint of concern underlying her words. If she was afraid, she did a damn good job of hiding it. A bit of relief washed over the Mandalorian at the sure confirmation that this is who he was searching for.

"Yes," he said bluntly. "He generously helped me locate a bounty and-"

"So you are a bounty hunter," she spat. She was small in stature, even more so in comparison to the intimidating man standing several feet away from her. "What do you want with me?" Her fingers twitched in the direction of her calf where unbeknownst to Mando, a sheathed dagger rested soundly in her boot. Her sudden aura of hostility and subtle movement dared not go unnoticed by the keen eye of the Mandalorian. His gloved hand instinctively darted a just a hair closer towards to his blaster, hesitating just over the handle resting on his side.

"I'm not here to collect you," he said calmly. "I'm here strictly for business purposes." The tension in the small woman's frame subsided a minuscule amount. She turned around completely to finally stare down the man who dared bring all this chaos to Tattooine. Not like it was the most peaceful planet to begin with, but it was still a bit better than some.

"If you wanted repairs, you should’ve brought your ship to my docking station just like every body else," she said boldly. Her striking honey colored irises scanned the blackened T-shaped visor of Mando's helmet, tinged with annoyance and still brewing with malice from his intrusion.

"I'm not here for your handiwork," he retorted. "There are other duties I'm seeking a crew member for, one of which I would like to address with you in private."

She crossed her arms and mounted her feet sternly in place. "If you have anything to tell me you can say it here. You've already scared the others off. And why me? Why not anyone else or Kuiil himself?"

"He didn't wish to live a life of servitude." Mando said coldly. His patience was running out and this girl was a bit too stubborn for his own liking. He had to return to The Child soon and didn't want to waste time with nonsensical bickering.

"What makes you think I do? I've done my fair share of time and I won't speak more of this," she hissed.

Mando stood still as could be. There was no getting through to her but with his face, or rather helmet, being known all throughout the galaxy as a wanted man, there wasn't a large selection of people he could choose from when it came to who he would trust to watch over The Child and maintain the Razor Crest. He wasn't even sure if he could trust this argumentative girl before him, but Kuiil's word was strong. He gave it one more shot.

"Kuiil said I could trust you but that it would be hard for you to trust in someone else. I'm not exactly asking you to," Mando began calmly. He paused to gauge her reaction and sighed when the scorned expression in her eyes didn't falter. "Listen, I need someone to help pilot my ship on occasion, along with doing any repairs as needed. I also...need someone to watch my foundling when I'm not around."

That seemed to melt the iciness of her stare. "You have a child?" She asked softly.

"Yes. He needs to be protected at all costs. I can even offer you the same." The girl appeared as if she was about to cut him off once more but a raised gloved hand from the bounty hunter silenced her. "I know there's a reason why you hide your face and why no one on this planet, not even Kuiil himself, knows your real name. You panicked when you heard a bounty hunter was here, even if you won't admit it, you did. So again, I'm offering you all of this along with generous pay."

Mando waited a good while for her to answer, but to no avail. Another surge of annoyance bubbled in his chest at him wasting his time on such a stubborn soul. He could have found a job and made the credits needed to pay Peli by now. Instead, he went through the trouble of tracking down this infuriating woman just to be ignored in the end.

Mando clenched his fists. "I need to know your answer soon. Repairs are being done to my ship in Mos Eisley. Once those are completed, I'll be leaving Tattooine." Even as he turned to make his leave, the woman said nothing.

His thin, torn cape made a sharp crack in the air from his sudden movement. He could feel her piercing stare on his back the entire walk out of the docking station, but she still remained quiet.

Mando grudgingly made his way back to Mos Eisley. It was the most unsuccessful day for him a quite a while. He hated leaving empty handed. He didn't even remember the last time he didn't complete a job successfully, even though finding the girl wasn't exactly a "job" per say. In the meantime, he had to find work. Doing something he was good at would make the day that much better, but it was getting late. As much as it pained him to stay stationary in one city for too long, he had no other option.

When he got back to the hanger, Peli was nowhere to be found. The suns on Tattooine were beginning to set, painting the sky in glorious rich hues of red, yellow, orange, and gold.

Gold.

Mando's mind flashed back to the woman that caused him a great deal of annoyance and inconvenience all afternoon. He let out a long, repressed sigh before retiring in the hull of his cherished gunship. He sorted through some of his belongings to look for something edible yet too pathetic to call "a meal". His supplies were running low, his ship was still a wreck, his pockets were empty, and he was just...tired.

Mando collected what bits of food he had, rationing out a tiny amount for himself and most of it for The Child. He opened the sliding door to his cramped sleeping quarters, gazing down at the tiny, sleeping foundling nestled up on the worn down mattress. He didn't want to admit it to himself, but the uneasiness he was feeling was that of feeling overwhelmed. It made him feel sick, weak, and pathetic.

Mandalorians weren't supposed to feel this way. This wasn't the first hardship of his life, nor would it be the last. The negative thoughts swirling in his mind began to dissipate when The Child stirred and glimpsed up at his caretaker. With a small coo and a smile revealing his tiny nubby teeth, Mando felt more at ease. He was doing all of this for the one little creature in front of him. That's all that mattered to him now. A new day meant for a new chance to make things better.

The Mandalorian woke later than usual due to a night of a whining, restless infant waking him up off and on. The Child had worn himself out late into the night and still slept heavily even when Mando prepared to depart the Crest for the day. Walking down the ramp leading outside, Mando caught a glimpse of Peli through the dirt coated office window. He shook his head when he noticed she was busy gambling away with her droids rather than doing anything productive. Already he was starting his day off annoyed again. He was planning on spending his time looking for work to cover the rather generous amount of credits he was to pay Peli for the repairs. The sight of her casually lazing around in return, irritated him so.

Venturing into the streets of Mos Eisley, Mando stepped inside the first open cantina he saw. It wasn't overly crowded, much to his liking. He gathered the same response he always does when he's in public; everyone stares, some flee, everyone's quiet.

"Hey, droid," Mando called out. "I'm a hunter. I'm looking for some work." The animatronic bartender cocked its head towards the bounty hunter.

"Unfortunately, the Bounty Guild no longer operates from Tatooine."

"I'm not looking for Guild work," Mando responded.

"I am afraid that does not improve your situation. At least by my calculation," the droid deadpanned.

Dank Farrik. Looks like his luck wasn't improving much more than from yesterday's.

"Think again, tin can."

The Mandalorian turned around slowly. He made eye contact, as much as he could through his visor, with a younger gentleman dressed in obviously new and unused bounty hunting attire. Both of his feet were resting up on the tabletop in an annoying, self-absorbed manner. His boots were relatively polished and dirt free, giving more of a glowing indication that he was green behind the ears in the world of hunting.

"If you're looking for work, have a seat, my friend. Name's Toro. Toro Calican."

The two men conversed not so quietly about a bounty Mando would be lending his assistance on. Unbeknownst to the pair, lurking several feet away and flush with the cantina wall, was the raven haired girl that so easily got under Mando's skin the day before. She eavesdropped as much as she could, catching bits and pieces of just who the target was and where she might be located.

Calican's ignorance was becoming too much for Mando to take seriously. When the scraping of a chair coming from their table echoed through the barren cantina, Tajana quickly retreated outside. No-one came after her once she slithered outside, the bright mid-day sun shining on her sun-kissed, tan skin. There was a metallic, smash sound coming from just before the doorway that made her jump slightly. Calican was the first to make his way out; the other bounty hunter wouldn't be far behind.

Mando slowly stepped foot out into the streets of Tattooine. His flawless beskar armor radiated the sunlight back into the eyes of anyone who dared look his way. He turned his head to look back in the direction from whence he came, failing to notice the woman he spent all day yesterday searching for.

"So what's our first job, Mando?"

Mando jerked back, his blaster drawn from his side in a few milliseconds. He pointed the weapon in the direction he heard his name come from.

"T-Tajana." He flinched at the way his voice came through the modulator; there was a bit of an uncharacteristic startled undertone that was very much unlike the skilled bounty hunter.

Standing in the shade to the side of the cantina door stood the woman from Mos Entha. Though her expression was mostly hidden, she frowned into her scarf at the disdain for the name the townsfolk gave her. Had it not been for her honey golden eyes and signature black scarf, Mando would barely have recognized her.

Her attire wasn't that of a dirtier maintenance uniform anymore. The only things remotely similar to how he first saw her included her black hair that was now tied into a messy bun with her goggles still resting on the top of her head like before, and she still had on the scarf that covered her neck to just below her eyes.

She eased herself off the cantina's wall, slowing making her way to walk in front of the Mandalorian with her hands up to show she meant no harm. He lowered his blaster some, but paused before putting it back in its holster when his eyes caught a glimpse of what appeared to be two sheathed daggers resting across the small of her back, and a blaster of her own resting on the outside of her thigh. She turned to face him, her piercing eyes staring right into his helmet's solid black visor.

"You can put down the blaster, Mando. I'm not here to hurt you, if that's what your wondering. I'm just here to take you up on your offer, albeit a little late." The bounty hunter stood still as could be, not moving a single muscle. She couldn't even see his chest rising or falling as he waited on baited breath for her to explain her sneaking up on him. Breaking his silence, Mando spoke up with his usual harsh and straightforward tone.

"How did you find me?" he demanded. Tajana scoffed and crossed her arms.

"You do know you aren't the most inconspicuous person walking around here, right? It's quite easy to find a Mandalorian in a haystack around these parts."

Mando bit his tongue once more. She wasn't wrong, which was another reason why he needed to finish his job with Toro quickly and leave Tattooine. She took his silence as a means to continue.

"I overheard your conversation with the novice hunter. I want in."

"Absolutely not," he said a little too quickly. "I can't have you getting in my way or slowing me down. I don't even know how much I can trust you."

Her eyes narrowed, that intense flicker of anger further intensifying the amber speckles in her stare. "You don't trust me, yet you offered to hire me to watch after your child? Can you explain that backwards logic to me?"

Mando slipped his blaster back into its holster. His temper was rising and he was on the verge of shooting something if he wasn't careful. "Kuiil gave me his word that you were a trustworthy option when it came to looking for a crew member. I'll give him the benefit of the doubt because I have much faith in the man's judge of character. What I don't trust, is your strength or decision making when it comes to battle."

Tajana relaxed some, closing her eyes and letting out a soft sigh. When they reopened, the smoldering hostility in her gaze was extinguished and when she spoke, her voice was much softer. "Then let this be my trial run for you. Let me show you I can defend your foundling when you aren't around, and that I can hold my own just fine."

Mando shook his head. "Not with this job. The target is too dangerous."

"I'm aware who you're after," Tajana countered. "It's Fennec Shand. If you're allowing some wanna be Guild member with no experience to join in on your hunt, then why not me? You'll definitely need my help."

He remained silent.

"I would appreciate some feedback here," Tajana remarked.

"I'm thinking."

"Don't hurt yourself, Mando."

Maker this woman knew how to get under his skin. He clenched his fists at his side for the umpteenth time since they crossed paths. "Fine! Fine. But if I feel you're any bit unsuitable for this hunt, if you get in my way at all, my offer for you is off the table."

_________

"Come, this way." Mando and his new partner made their way towards the dusty hanger where the Crest sat dormant. The repairs were coming along nicely, even nearly finished. There were a few fine tunings that Peli had to work on; small tasks that would’ve been completed had it not been for the no droid rule.

With a few touches of the controls on his gauntlet, Mando lowered the hatch leading into the aircraft. He took a few strides up the ramp, finally pausing when he noticed he didn't hear any footsteps following beside him. He whipped his head around, staring impatiently at the slightly younger woman that was supposed to be accompanying him. She stood there at the base of the ramp, glancing around at the newly refurbished exterior of the Razor Crest.

"So this is your ship, huh?" She asked, running a small gloved hand over the sand coated steel.

"Yes," he answered shortly. Tajana removed her hand, following up the steps to join the brooding hunk of beskar that stared her down.

"I've never seen one of these before. Looks like she's still holding up, even after the beating I'm assuming you put her through that landed you here? You should know older things require more care, Mando."

Again, Mando was silent. "Old" is a phrase he's heard numerous times that people used to refer to his ship. Granted, it was still much better than the "piece of junk" or "horribly outdated" he commonly heard. It didn't necessarily hurt his feelings when people degraded his ship, but it was still his home people were talking down on. The Crest was sturdy. Reliable even. It did the job and welcomed him back when he was done with his own. He didn't have the luxury of using a ship just as means to travel. It's where he lived. Mando didn't mind her word of choice to describe the Crest. A lot of memories and feelings of stability tend to come from things that have been around for a while. "Old" was just fine.

"Maintenance is part of what I'm hiring you for," he spoke up after a minute. "The other part is for watching the foundling."

When they made their way around the inside of the Crest, Tajana continued to take in her surroundings. She took note of where everything appeared to be: the entrance to the cockpit, an arsenal cabinet, the carbon freezing chamb-

The heavy thudding of footsteps caught her attention before she could map out the rest of the gunship. The metal flooring vibrated intensely when a charging Mandalorian rushed towards the exit. The smaller female was immensely caught off guard and did her best to step back out of his way. Mando's impenetrable armor slammed into her side, not so graciously knocking her against the hard gunship interior walls. She balanced herself and regained her composure from the bounty hunter's spontaneous freak out. Nursing her shoulder and arm, her attention was directed towards distant shouting back in the direction of the hanger's office.

Tajana pushed herself off the wall and cautiously staggered down the ramp with one hand resting on her blaster. She perked up upon hearing a woman screeching angrily at some poor soul. "You woke it up! Do you have any idea how long it took me to get it to sleep?"

"Give him to me," Mando growled. The iciness and hard tone in his words made a small shiver travel down Tajana's spine.

Peli saw right through his cold exterior. "Not so fast! You can't just leave a child all alone like that. You know, you've got an awful lot to learn about raising a young one."

"I'm well aware," Mando barked. "That's why I hired her." Without even looking, he jerked his head back towards the entrance of the Crest. Peli, still clutching the Child tightly, stood on her tiptoes to try to catch a glimpse over the Mandalorian's broad shoulders. She locked eyes with the girl making her way towards all the commotion. Turning her attention back to Mando, she grinned.

"Ah okay Mando! I see you finally found the girl you were looking so hard for." The bounty hunter went rigid.

There was a brief silence beginning to settle in the air before Peli began explaining the progress she made as far as repairs goes. Tajana tuned her out and instead, she focused her attention on the tiny creature wrapped in a brown burlap sack that was tucked in Peli's arms. She could make out large green ears, a wrinkly little forehead, and two big black eyes that stared right back at her with all the curiosity in the world.

"...You got a job, didn't you? You know it's costing me a lot of money to keep these droids even powered up." The last part of Peli's one sided conversation snatched her attention back to the adults in the room.

Tajana glared up at the taller man, golden eyes ignited by anger once again. "Did you hire me when you can't even afford the repairs on your ship?"

Mando loomed over her in a threatening fashion, yet the hostile girl didn't back down. "My current financial status is only temporary," he said in a low voice. "This job will pay a hefty sum, and there will be more to follow. I'm a man of my word. Don't doubt me."

There was a subtle annunciation towards the end of his warning. Mandalorians were some of the most dependable people in the galaxy. It always rubbed Mando the wrong way when someone dared to question the honestly of his word. The bounty hunter stared down at her for a few more seconds, just to make sure he got his point across before walking away from the trio.

"Calican should be here by now. Get a move on if you're still coming," he called out.

Tajana still had her feet firmly in place. She cast a glare over her shoulder at the receding figure of the Mandalorian.

"Don't let him boss you around," Peli said sternly. "Underneath all that shiny armor, he's still just a man." With a small nod, Tajana followed after Mando towards the doorway leading into Peli's hanger.

Mando stood silently as always next to two speeder bikes, one that had a younger, relatively handsome man perched on its seat already. He turned his attention to the approaching woman, giving her a not so subtle once over up and down. Tajana's eyes narrowed slightly. When she overheard the conversation between the two men earlier that afternoon, she knew Calican sounded like an arrogant prick from how high and mighty he presented himself. She only got a slight glimpse of him in Mos Eisley. Looking at him up close, she solidified the idea in her head that yes, he really was a tool.

"Well look here Mando, you got a lady friend tagging along?" Tajana bit her tongue and fought back an exasperated eye roll.

Mando circled the two run down speeder bikes, giving them a good look as well. Calican took Mando's lack of response and lackadaisical attitude towards the bikes as an insult. "Whaddya expect? This ain't Corellia."

Peli walked out carrying the Child to catch a glimpse of what the bounty hunter's were planning. Calican acknowledged her presence and nodded towards her before looking back at the Mandalorian.

"In case you didn't notice, we only have two speeders. Either someone has to stay, or your friend has to ride with me." He surveyed Mando's reaction with a sense of haughtiness. Once again, the lack of feedback from the hunter made Calican speak up in his place. "Looks like that settles it," Calican smiled. He scooted forward some and looked back at the golden eyed girl who still was staring daggers at him, if not more-so now. "Hop on and hold tight."

Tajana stood in place defiantly. "What makes you think I'm riding with you?"

Calican shifted in his seat nervously. "Well you can't ride with Mando. His armor weighs the speeder down enough."

Tajana stared him down even harder. "What are you insinuating, boy?"

Calican twitched more under the murderous intent in her gaze. "I just...I didn't mean it that...way." His voice was wavering and he looked over at Mando for help, a bit of fear nestled in his brown eyes.

Mando kept staring ahead at the endless sea of powdery sand dunes. His modulator didn't pick up on the small snort that he made under the heaviness of his helmet and on the outside, he still appeared as stoic as could be.

Tajana proceeded to mount the younger man's speeder, sitting down roughly on the small space behind his back. There was barely any room on the seat for the two of them on the typically one person vehicle. Calican jumped when he felt her arms tightly grip around his waist, more in a threatening fashion than for her safety. The sudden movement made the already slightly unstable speeder wobble under the weight shift.

“If you kill us, I’ll fucking end you,” Tajana warned darkly.

#the mandalorian #mando #mando x oc #mandalorian fanfic #star wars #din djarin #din djarin x oc #stay gold #star wars fanfiction #pedro pascal #din x oc

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d3ngar · 7 years

Text

I don’t really know if this is something anyone cares about but I’m running a Star Wars RPG campaign, and this is what I have written for the first arc! Fair warning: it’s quite a long read. But the first session went well and I’m optimistic!

PART I: IMPERIAL ENTANGLEMENTS

OPENING CRAWL:

It is a period of unrest in the galaxy. With the rise of EMPEROR PALPATINE'S New Order, oppression and corruption are rampant throughout the stars, and countless beings are forced to make due in their difficult lives under the yoke of the GALACTIC EMPIRE.

While the REBEL ALLIANCE fights to restore peace and justice to the galaxy, their war creates discord. Through this discord, certain individuals are able to prosper. Mercenaries, smugglers, bounty hunters, and colonists make their way in the Outer Rim, where the reach of the Empire is more restrained.

After stealing a ship called the KRAYT FANG and blasting their way out of Mos Shuuta on the planet TATOOINE, one group of fringers looks to earn their fortune on the Imperial factory world of DRUCKENWELL....

SETTING: Druckenwell, in the capital city of Il Avali. Shortly (a few weeks) before the Battle of Endor. Druckenwell is an Imperial-held planet that is significant because of the BlasTech manufacturing plant found there. The city of Il Avali is like most other large cities in the Mid Rim. Generally safe, but with a seedy underbelly if one feels so inclined to look for it. However, there’s a sizable Imperial presence on the planet, which makes trafficking illicit materials very difficult. The main streets are very wide to accommodate foot traffic and landspeeders, while airspeeders move in carefully-organized lanes higher up amongst the skyscrapers. Il Avali is organized into multiple different districts. Like many cities, the outskirts of the city are mostly residential. There is little of importance out here, so the crime in these areas is mainly petty burglary. Unless the party wants to rob some innocent factory worker, they probably won’t spend much time here. However, it’s possible that there is some info to be found here that can’t be found anywhere else. The north side of the city is where the Il Avali spaceport is located, so it’s appropriately referred to as the Spaceport district. BlasTech wants the city to put on a good face for any Imperial visitors it may receive, so the main streets leaving this district are lined with some of the nicer stores and restaurants in the city. Bright holosigns and displays attempt to lure in travelers that have more than a bit of weight in their credit pouches, and they usually succeed. Despite the noise from the ships constantly coming and going, members of the Druckenwell elite spend most of their time away from home in this district. However, just below the surface, the Spaceport surface hides many of the shady cantinas and dark alleys that one tends to associate with spaceports. On the east side of the city, the party will find the Industrial District of Il Avali. This is the lifeblood of the city, and it’s where the BlasTech factory is located. However, it’s also the most polluted district, and the air is always filled with smog. The ground is dirty, and on some streets, empty crates and barrels and debris litters the ground. The city has a fairly robust hover train system, and many of those trains end up in the Industrial District. The trains are usually populated either by factory employees on their way to or from work, materials heading to the factories, or finished products heading back to the spaceport to be shipped off to distant planets. As a result, the trains usually smell of grease and sweat. Some factories are rather rough places to work. However, since the trains are almost entirely automated, they’re reliable, and they aren’t always that hard to sneak onto for free.

The southwest side of the city is unofficially referred to as the Alien Quarter. It lies between the Industrial and Market districts, having all the problems of both and the benefits of neither. While not an officially recognized district, it’s where a vast majority of Il Avali’s nonhuman population resides in glorified slums. Druckenwell is an Imperial-held planet, after all. There are apartments that are little more than tenements, a few cantinas and spice dens, and constant crime on the streets. Along the main streets, there are street vendors selling all manner of different foods and products from hundreds of worlds. There’s also yelling. Lots of yelling. However, the underbelly of the town is basically based here, so this is the best place to hunt for information. It’s dirty, crowded, and smelly, but for many people, it’s home. Though they’d probably leave if they could. Despite this, most residents are very kind and empathetic to all types of beings, which makes the Empire’s oppression of them even more reprehensible.

The west side of the city is where most businesses and restaurants are located. It’s fairly clean and safe, but things still get a little rough down towards the Alien Quarter. There isn’t much to say about this area. The shops sell what Ioma sells, and the people don’t know anything useful. It’s very crowded, though, so there are opportunities to disappear into large groups of people.

We meet the group in orbit over Druckenwell, having just entered the system. They’re still outside the flow of traffic bound for the city, so they’ll need to request permission to dock as well as avoid getting in trouble with the Imperial patrols (read: TIE fighters, Golan-IIIs, and varying shapes and sizes of frigates).

OBJECTIVE: Meet with the “crooked” Imperial that’s trying to make money selling arms on the side. Once they establish contact and work out a plan, the party needs to steal the blaster shipment and get it to Tatooine with all possible speed. This buyer tends to be a little impatient. Originally, Roshana had been in contact with Trex to handle this job, but seeing as how he’s no longer in possession of his ship, the party has been contacted to take over.

DETAILS: By looking through the logs of the Krayt Fang, the party has learned that an anonymous moderately-ranking Imperial officer, Roshana Vey, supervises production at the BlasTech plant in Il Avali on Druckenwell. Vey has pulled some strings and moved some shipments around to free up an entire order of blaster rifles of all shapes and sizes that they plan to sell off. The officer already has a buyer lined up in Mos Entha on Tatooine, so the job is on a bit of a tight schedule. The group has just landed on Druckenwell, about a day before they’re supposed to go meet this mysterious officer.

PLAYER TASKS/PLOT POINTS:

Meet up with the officer to arrange the details of the job. All communications in Il Avali are heavily monitored, so everything needs to be arranged in person. Vey has set the meeting at an upscale cantina known as the Lux Lounge in the spaceport district.

The Imperial wants them to pick the shipment up directly from the factory, but is unable to provide disguises.

Once the plan is made, everything needs to be prepared. Players (might) need:

A speeder truck to get the blasters back to the Fang

A plan to retrieve and extract the weapons shipment

Some decent equipment in case things go wrong

Otherwise, just let them explore!

NPCs:

Roshana Vey - our crooked Imperial officer. She’s got black hair, pale skin, and narrow eyes. She’s never been particularly powerful within the Imperial military (middle of her class at the Caridan academy, average service record), so she’s decided to use her low level of notoriety to make some money stealing from the Empire. She ranks relatively highly in the shipping department at the plant, so she thinks she’ll be able to move things around in such a way that will allow her to sell the weapons on the black market while remaining undetected by her superiors. She reaches out to one of the players in the party and asks for a meeting with the team in order to put her plan into action. Of course, she doesn’t really have a plan. She just knows that she’ll be able to have the blasters where the team needs them when they’re ready to pick them up. She’ll direct them to the Alien Quarter to find information that will help them plan this heist. However, if she is discovered at any point, she will turn on the party, even if it means giving them up while they’re still in the facility.

Leyhek Kapuna - A green-skinned Twi’lek with one normal, greenish-brown eye, and one that is milky white with some sort of injury. The skin surrounding that eye displays some heavy pockmark-like scarring, suggesting some kind of accident (or torture). He’s a small-time spice dealer that hangs out in the dark back alleys and seedy cantinas that dot Il Avali. He may have something that he needs taken care of, and the party might be the ones to do that for him. If he’s satisfied with their work, he’ll sell some of his “specialty” items to the players. These items could prove useful in trying to carry out Vey’s plan, or one of their own.

Items he might have:

Poisons

Electronic lock breaker

Slicer gear

Comm scrambler

Various types of spice, death sticks, etc.

Location: an alcove in an alley behind a meat processing plant on the Industrial edge of the alien quarter

Side quest: Rough up some thugs that owe him some money. According to Leyhek, this group has recently come into possession of a small number of Imperial uniforms, which could be used as disguises for getting into the BlasTech factory. The thugs are located in a run-down apartment on the fifth floor of a building in the Alien Quarter.

These thugs are in the employ of Varja Kuyinh, the local Arkanian crime lord. Small time, but still dangerous. This won’t come up until the party tries to leave the planet. She will lead her henchpeople on an assault on the team right before they get to the Krayt Fang, which might draw some Imperial attention. If they escape, I don’t think she’ll let them go that easily.

Ioma Radoon - the Ithorian owner of Ioma’s Emporium. Her size can make her seem rather intimidating, but she’s actually one of the kindest beings in the galaxy. However, her kindness should not be mistaken for friendliness with the Empire. Her prices are fair, and she’ll even give discounts to people that help her out in various ways. Always wears a bright yellow jumpsuit for some reason. Her son, Luda, works for her in the shop. He’s quiet, but kind like his mother.

Location: inside her store

Just a general store where players can buy pretty much anything that isn’t rare/black market.

Because of her straight nature, she doesn’t know much about the underworld of Il Avali, and can’t help the players much in that regard.

Side quest: Track down a speeder full of medical supplies that was bound for her shop. If the players find it successfully, she’ll share some supplies with them and give them a discount on other purchases (of most items), as well as let them have use of the speeder to do with what they will, as long as they return it mostly in one piece.

Unaw Tharn - Bith owner/bartender of The Thirsty Gizka, a run down, yet comfortable, cantina in the Alien Quarter. It’s generally a quiet place, and Unaw is a good person to go to for information. He’s the type that knows a little about a lot of things, so he certainly won’t be giving away any major secrets. His lips aren’t the loosest, however, and he responds more positively to nonhumans.

No side quests, but is able to give some useful info

Knows where to find all of these other NPCs, except Roshana

PLACES:

The Lux Lounge - this is where the group was told to meet the anonymous Imperial. It’s a VERY upscale lounge, and the group will probably get a few weird looks. It’s dimly lit, and there’s a stage on the far wall where a local singer is performing, a bar on the left wall, and the rest of the medium-large room is taken up with tables. It’s fairly crowded, but there are some free tables (Vey is at a table in the far right corner next to the stage). As the group walks in, everyone in their immediate vicinity turns their head towards the door with looks of disgust, but the team gets the impression that these (almost entirely human) patrons are used to spaceport riffraff wandering in. Seiji and Niduma especially get some very weird looks. The bartender will refuse to serve them, but the bouncers won’t move to throw them out if they don’t cause any trouble. If they do, Roshana will find them outside and be furious. But the conversation will continue from there.

Possible encounters:

If the group causes trouble, the bouncers will throw them out. They’re Herglics, so don’t fuck with them.

If the group gets violent, there are plenty of Imperial Army troopers that patrol the streets and will definitely hear any kind of commotion and get involved. A group of three will show up, and if the group hasn’t vacated by then, a group of four.

If this happens, Roshana will contact them through the Krayt Fang’s comm.

Ioma’s Emporium - a fairly small, but very well-stocked general store on the Alien Quarter edge of the commercial district (think Ollivander’s from HP). It’s cramped, but somehow cozy as well. Ioma and Luda have a little bit of everything, and sell most any non-black market/non-weaponry/non-rare item the party wants to buy. The walls are lined with all different manner of electronics and knickknacks, and it doesn’t look like they could stock anything else if they tried. There’s a counter as you walk in, and a door behind that counter that opens to reveal the staircase that goes to the Ithorians’ upstairs apartment. The apartment is very basic and contains little more than appliances and necessities. (I certainly hope no one tries to come up here.)

The Thirsty Gizka - a large cantina in the Alien Quarter. It’s generally pretty quiet, but there are some rougher types that lurk in the shadowy areas, so the party could get into trouble. It’s dimly lit with brightly-colored signs and the soft glow of holovid displays showing various types of sports from around the galaxy. The displays are mounted on pillars around the space. It has a circular bar in the middle of the room, with tables on the same level as it spread out throughout the. There is also a slightly-raised tier of booths that go around the outside of the circular room.

Possible encounters:

A group of three Aqualish thugs, if the group provokes them enough. One will bump into a party member as they’re leaving the bar after talking to Unaw.

The Apartment with Varja’s Thugs - pretty much what you’d expect. It’s a dingy, dimly-lit three-room apartment. It opens into a medium-sized main room with a bed in the corner, and a couch facing a holo display on the far wall. To the left is a small kitchen, and a refresher is off to the right.

Possible encounters:

Three street toughs. These are Varja’s thugs, and they’re in possession of some Imperial uniforms that the party can use to sneak into the BlasTech facility. These uniforms will need to be “liberated,” and the best way to do that is probably to kill all of the thugs. However, if word gets back to Varja, there’s gonna be some problems later on. However, the disguises come with access keycards that can give the party basic access to the factory.

The BlasTech Facility - here it is. The big score. This is a fairly sprawling complex with very tight security. There are many buildings, but only three of any real importance: the admin office (where Roshana will be), the main factory building (which is HUGE; four stories tall), and the shipping/receiving warehouse, which is where our party will need to get. Luckily for them, the Empire does lots of civilian contracting (under close Imperial watch, of course) to move their equipment around Il Avali in order to minimize the attention being drawn to it, so as long as the group has at least one member in disguise with a keycard, they’ll be able to access the shipping warehouse with their speeder truck. However, getting elsewhere in the facility will require some degree of social engineering. Outright combat will almost definitely get the group killed, as there are many, many Imperial Army troopers, as well as legit stormtroopers that patrol the area. In reality, the pickup should be fairly uneventful.

Possible encounters:

Two squads of four Imperial Army troopers. If the group is discovered inside the facility, this will be the first response team. However, if the group takes more than ten rounds to win/vacate the area, then the next group of Imps moves in…

...a squad of four Imperial Stormtroopers. These guys hit like tanks, so the party will want to get out before they show up. Make sure to give them some kind of warning so they know that their shit will get rocked.

#writing #star wars #rpg #star wars rpg #roleplaying game #tabletop #expanded universe #eu #fantasy flight

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